CHAPTER FIVE
The silence was heavy, only broken by the low hum of the team car’s engine. Tarık sat next to the window, his forehead pressed against the glass. Buğra’s absence was a relief to him, but the screams of the mother still echoed in his ears. The body that had been transported by ambulance must have already reached the hospital. An autopsy would be conducted to determine the cause of death and search for evidence—fingerprints, a strand of hair, any DNA that could be gathered. Tarık couldn’t understand why these thoughts were in his mind, although he remembered hearing somewhere that DNA could even be obtained from dandruff. His eyelids, now free of tears, felt heavy. If he could just close his eyes, sleep, and wake up to find Buğra had returned.
“Who abducted him then, Adnan Bro? Could the people who kidnapped this child also have kidnapped Buğra?” Figen leaned forward between the front seats, bombarding Adnan with questions. Adnan, hands on the wheel, was processing Figen’s rapid-fire inquiries.
“Ozan was kidnapped before you arrived here. We’ve been searching for this boy for nearly fifteen days.”
“Yes, bro, I even remember seeing it on the news,” Figen recalled the news clip they had seen at the kebab shop.
“Let’s say it's the same person. Why would he kidnap Buğra without getting rid of Ozan first? And if he did, where would he keep two small boys hidden?”
“Maybe he has a basement, a storage space somewhere secluded where not two, but ten children could be hidden.”
“That’s possible, but then consider this: Buğra seemed to have gone willingly. The kidnapper must be someone who knew Ozan beforehand and somehow knew Buğra too. We should start there, good thinking, girl.”
Pleased with the brainstorming session with Adnan and proud of the praise, Figen then heard Ayhan interject, “Didn’t Ozan live in the center?”
“Yes, he lived in the center and went to the school there,” Adnan confirmed.
“So I’m curious, how are you going to find a connection? We’re talking about two kids who have never met, don’t attend the same school, don’t have a single point in common.”
“They do have one thing in common,” Tarık interrupted, catching everyone's attention—Adnan in the rear-view mirror, Süleyman turning around in the front seat, and both Ayhan and Figen turning their heads to him. “Their hair. Both Ozan and Buğra have blonde hair,” he added, resting his forehead against the window again. He needed to think, to figure this out.
“What kind of maniac kidnaps a child just because they have blonde hair?” Süleyman slammed his hand against the dashboard. Staying calm was already a challenge with his temper, and making logical deductions was getting increasingly difficult.
“So are we ruling out this man from the list of suspects?”
“We need to consider all possibilities,” Tarık insisted. Looking in the wrong place could cost his brother his life. Adnan, with the seriousness of a justice-driven man, agreed, “Of course not. We’ll sift through all possibilities and continue investigating.”
“What’s the point of investigating? Look, you couldn’t even save that boy,” Süleyman snapped, his nerves frayed.
“Uncle, please let’s not think about that possibility,” Figen pleaded, pressing the bridge of her nose with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. Her head was pounding. Arguing and blaming would only divert them further from reaching a conclusion. Süleyman and Tarık were likely to approach the situation emotionally, a common trap for families in all missing persons cases. Figen knew an objective perspective was needed.
“The fact that they were kidnapped because of their blonde hair suggests the kidnapper is obsessive. The abduction of Ozan narrows our list of suspects. The kidnapper must be local to have seen both boys. This fits the theory that it’s the same person. If it’s him, the blonde hair theory collapses into mere coincidence.”
As Figen laid out her deductions, they had arrived at the apartment. Adnan parked the car, and as they got out, they headed towards the apartment building. The difficult hours they had all endured were briefly forgotten as they entered the silent house. For Tarık, entering the quiet apartment felt somehow right. As soon as he stepped inside, he searched the shadows, a feeling inside him saying that the entire secret was hidden there.
“What if there’s another possibility? They could have been abducted by different people, and maybe that man didn’t kidnap Buğra. We should keep our options open by considering Ozan separately,” Figen suggested, leaning on the edge of the table and looking steadfastly at Ayhan, who seemed to be countering her deductions.
“Then it’s up to you, Tarık. Make
a list of everyone you’ve met or come into contact with since you arrived,” said Adnan, sitting back and listening to the youths.
“My team doesn’t even think this sharply,” he thought, now convinced that Figen had the most objective view.
“Figen is right, you make that list, Tarık. I’ll gather my team and talk to the residents of the apartment. Maybe someone saw or heard something,” Adnan said, standing up. Just as he was about to take a step forward, Tarık stopped him with a thought, “What if it was someone from the apartment? That would explain why we couldn’t see Buğra on the camera footage.”
“You’re actually right. It becoming more likely that it was someone from the apartment with the camera footage in mind. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“We searched the entire apartment and found no trace. It’s normal not to think of it when you find nothing.”
Figen had managed another logical explanation, while Ayhan gathered his thoughts.
“How many people here would Buğra open the door to?”
The question was directed at Tarık, who didn’t need to think much.
“Uncle Muhsin, Brother Hasan, and the cleaner. Those are the only three people Buğra knew.”
“I don’t think he’d open the door for the cleaner; he was scared of that man when we came back from shopping,” Figen commented. Adnan had already sat back down. Ayhan, tired of standing, pulled up a chair and sat down. Süleyman was listening intently to what the young people were saying.
“You might be right, he was scared of the cleaner, but if the cleaner told him a convincing lie, he might have opened the door. We can’t be sure,” Tarık suggested, knowing Buğra better than anyone else. Ayhan, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, looked like a statue of The Thinker.
“What if it’s someone else? What if someone told Buğra they were a neighbor and convinced him to go with them?”
Ayhan’s suggestion got Adnan back on his feet, shaking off the thought as if clearing his head, and placing one hand on his hip.
“There are dozens of possibilities, and if we think about it, dozens more could emerge. We can’t find Buğra just by talking about it. We need action,” he said and walked out without hesitation. As he opened the door and stepped outside, four pairs of eyes followed him, their looks confirming his point.
After Adnan left, the silence that fell was unbearable for Süleyman, who randomly grabbed a remote thrown nearby. He pressed the red button to turn on the TV. The room filled with the clanging sounds of swords from a classic Yeşil Çam movie featuring Cüneyt Arkın. Süleyman changed the channel, flipping through until he reached a news station.
Images of the ongoing war in Syria and its victims filled the screen.
“The never-ending misery of the Middle East,” he muttered. Tarık couldn’t understand his uncle's actions. He hadn’t joined the conversation, and now he was watching the news.
“They couldn’t kill Assad, look at the plight of these poor people.”
“Uncle, is that your only concern right now?” Tarık couldn’t help but speak out, his frustration evident.
“I have many concerns, nephew. I want to understand what drives such monsters. You saw that child. That monster sewed his lips shut as if he were a pair of pants or a bag, an inanimate, worthless being. Tell me, what kind of mindset thinks up, plots, and executes such a thing?”
Tarık was silent; Ayhan and Figen bowed their heads. No words could adequately explain the brutality they had witnessed.
“The mentality of the man who stabbed my parents numerous times is the same as that of the one who did this. Murderer, psychopath, sadist; call them what you will, these men are that. Assad’s bombing of his own people is driven by a lust for power. Power to him means killing. He’s a murderer of his own people, far more dangerous than the man who tortured that child. On the other hand, as we can see, no act of barbarity is without reason for those who commit it. Hitler’s goal was the Aryan race; I haven’t fully figured out Assad, but I can say it’s a thirst for power. That man’s goal was to restore the pride he felt had been wounded. This man must have his own reasons.”
Figen lifted her bowed head, listening intently to the words of the man she loved.
“Even serial killers have their reasons, as we’ve read and heard. You’re right about that. Unfortunately, they justify themselves in their brutality.” Tarık smiled faintly at his loved one, who shared his views.
“There are those who act without a purpose, though they are exceptions. Take the murder in the
army a few months ago, for instance. A man escaped from prison and killed someone. Imagine that—escaping from prison to commit murder. What kind of mindset does that?”
Ayhan’s words, laden with validity, prompted Tarık to new thoughts.
“To understand them, you’d need to be a psychologist, brother. I wish I’d studied psychology instead of linguistics,” Tarık lamented.
“My nephew Buğra will study it, hopefully,” Süleyman added. “We spent our lives chasing sheep and goats, tending fields and vineyards. When I see educated people, I look at them differently. I think, if they’re human, what are we? If we are human, what are they? I envy them, nephew. I’m proud of you because you’re studying. My other nephews are studying too, thank goodness. It’s not like it used to be back home. The importance of education is now understood by my people.”
Figen smiled at Süleyman’s earnestness.
“Uncle, believe me, you don’t need to be educated to be human. You say that, yet many educated people wouldn’t say ‘my people’; they’d say ‘I’. They become selfish, thinking they’re superior. Like Tarık said about the Aryan race, they start thinking of themselves as pureblooded and superior. Of course, this is only true for some. Others do justice to the education they’ve received, use their knowledge wisely. They say ‘my people,’ ‘my village,’ ‘my home,’ ‘my child.’ They think of themselves last. When such a leader comes to power, people become a nation. The land becomes a homeland. The flag waves for freedom. Unfortunately, we’re included in this. We choose our fields of study based on job prospects, thinking about which department has low KPSS scores, how many appointments are made from which profession, which career paths are promising. Ideology is almost gone because we need money to live.”
“You might be right, nephew. We also rear sheep and goats to live, to make money, not so people can eat meat and drink milk,” Süleyman stated in the simplest terms, eliciting smiles from the young people. Despite his age, over fifty, they recognized his capacity for understanding. The conversation, shifting from topic to topic, had eased their collective distress. For a few hours, at least, they had managed to distract their minds, which had benefited them all. Glancing at her watch, Figen stood up.
“I should be going,” she announced, prompting Ayhan, as if her twin, to stand as well.
“I’ll go too, brother. You and uncle should sleep and rest a bit. You’ve been through a lot since morning,” he said.