The Butcher of Casablanca: A Detective Hanash Crime Novel by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

Author:Abdelilah Hamdouchi
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Police Procedural, Fiction, Cultural Heritage, International Crime & Mystery, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9789774169687
Publisher: American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2020-04-27T21:00:00+00:00

9

NO ONE APART FROM HANASH and the guys from forensics were allowed in the room. Hanash stood guard at the door while the forensics team dusted for prints, examined the paint and stains on the walls, and combed the room for other evidence. The forensic graphologist trained his flashlight on a page in the notebook that Hanash had found beneath the mattress. It contained minuscule impressions of words that matched those in the letter addressed to the police.

“We have some hard evidence here!” Hanash exclaimed triumphantly. “This is the notebook the killer’s letter was written in! You can see the letters embossed on one of the pages. You can even make out some of the words. He had pressed too hard with the pen, as you said.” He paused suddenly and then murmured, “That means he wrote the letter before tearing the leaf out of the notebook.”

He suddenly blanched and felt his stomach knot. The security guard of this building must be the killer. He had just stood face to face with him a couple of hours ago. Images of that young man’s face, his pat response about the carpenter taking the cartons, and the abrupt way he disappeared down the corridor flashed though his mind. No, thought Hanash as he wrestled with his self-recriminations, that guy is not deranged or demented. He’s an extremely intelligent young man. He would have certainly seen Hanash on TV and recognized him, and he had the presence of mind to remain calm and play the naive and humble building guard. He’d had the ability to make their conversation seem of no concern to him, and hadn’t betrayed the slightest degree of discomfort or confusion.

Hanash could have kicked himself. He and Hamid were the butt of that charade. Hanash could still picture the man’s face, inches away from his own. The guy had no resemblance to the type of maniac who could have committed all those horrible murders. He seemed like an ordinary kid, no different from other young men his age. Nothing whatsoever in his appearance aroused fear or suspicion.

A crowd of gawkers had begun to collect in front of the building. The police ringed the building in order to keep pedestrians away. A short, obese man in a djellaba pushed his way through the crowd. The skewed Andalusian tarboosh on his head and his quivering jowls added to his clownish appearance. When the police prevented him from passing through the cordon, he thumped himself on his chest and protested loudly, “I own this building. Let me through.”

Just then the chief of police’s car drew up. The guards rushed forward to clear a passage for him, shoving the landlord aside in the process. They snapped to attention and raised their hands to their foreheads in a military salute.

The landlord shouted, “What’s happening in my building? Would somebody please tell me what’s going on!”

Hanash greeted Commander Mohammed Alami at the main door of the building. In a voice strained from fatigue he said, “The guy who worked as a security guard at this building .

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