### Chapter 10
The sound of hammers striking, echoes, cranes, levers, apprentices covered in oil and dirt, and masters calling out, “Hand me the eleven and twelve...”
The hustle and bustle of the industrial site had begun early in the morning. Ömer entered the site, holding a piece of paper with a name and address written on it. Since he didn’t know how to drive, he never really had a reason to come to the industrial area. Everything here was unfamiliar to him, so he observed every detail carefully. The shop he passed seemed to be a body shop. Two people were working on a car with a damaged bumper. He approached them.
“Hello.”
“Hello, how can I help?” said the man who straightened up from his bent position. He tried to wipe the paint off his hands with a rag, but it didn’t seem like it would come off easily.
“I was looking for Master Faysal. Do you know where his shop is?” asked Ömer, examining the man. He had large, calloused hands, and his face was darkened from the heat and hard work. Thin mustaches sat like lines above his thin lips. One eye was squinted, and the left side of his mouth was turned up. The sun behind Ömer was probably obstructing his view. Satisfied with the cleanliness of his hands, the man threw the rag to the ground.
“You don’t even have a car. What do you want with Master Faysal?”
“It’s nothing important. A friend’s car broke down, and I’m here for that,” Ömer said. He was both irritated by these people’s curiosity and admired their camaraderie.
“Walk straight ahead, turn right after three shops. His shop is the second one from the corner.”
“Thanks,” said Ömer, and he started walking. He wondered if the man would have given him directions if he had told him he was a police officer. Every shop was bustling with activity, and the large number of workers in some shops caught his attention. When he reached the indicated shop, he stopped and examined it from the outside before entering. It was covered in sheet metal, just like the others. He could hear the workers inside. One side of the large iron door was open. He walked up to the open door and called out.
“Master Faysal!”
Everyone fell silent, recognizing a voice different from their usual noise. Three teenagers, somewhere between childhood and youth, came out from under a car. One long leg was still under the vehicle.
“Yes?” asked one of the boys. A thin boy with oil stains on his pale skin approached Ömer. “What do you want with the master?”
“I need to talk to him about something. Where is he?” Ömer said. The boy, trying to appear older, couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“Master! Someone’s calling for you,” the boy shouted, turning his head back.
Long legs moved and slid out from under the car. Ömer carefully observed the man. As the man stood up, Ömer looked him up and down. He was nearly two meters tall, with a massive build resembling a tree trunk. His long beard seemed to blend into his hair. Within the mass of hair, his eyes shone like black diamonds. He wiped his large hands on a rag and extended his hand to Ömer.
“Welcome. What can I do for you?”
Ömer lightly shook and released the greasy hand. He wasn’t disgusted by the dirt he knew was from hard work, but he didn’t want oil on his own hands.
“You’re Faysal Bülbül, right?”
“Yes,” Faysal said, but his surprised expression didn’t escape Ömer’s notice.
“I’m here to talk about the orphanage you stayed in twenty years ago. I’m Inspector Ömer.”
Faysal looked around. The three boys were watching their master and Ömer. It wasn’t a topic Faysal wanted to be asked about after all these years.
“Kids, get back to work. One of you, bring two teas to the office,” he said, gesturing for Ömer to follow him.
“Let’s talk inside, Inspector,” he said, leading the way.
They entered through a small door opening into the workspace cluttered with tools and equipment. The first things Ömer noticed were two old couches. An old desk was pushed against the wall, with a picture of Atatürk and the national flag hanging above it.
Faysal indicated for Ömer to sit on one of the couches. Ömer sat gingerly. Faysal sat a bit further away but on the same couch. They were sitting side by side this way.
“I hadn’t heard anything about the orphanage for years. Why are you thinking about it now, Inspector?”
Faysal’s tone was more questioning than angry. Ömer felt strange. Until yesterday, he hadn’t even known about the orphanage.
“I learned about what happened yesterday. I don’t know what went on in the past. I understand if you’re angry. I read the files. The case was closed before everything was clear. That’s why I’m here.”
Faysal looked at him with hope. There was a flicker of light in his eyes, the light of hope.
“Did you reopen the case?”
Ömer didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t decide to reopen the case on his own.
“Not yet, but if I gather enough information, we might.”
“What do you want to know? I’ll tell you. I stayed there for years and was there during the fire.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. Because you lived through the fire. I want information about Hüsrev.”
Faysal’s face paled. The hope that had just lit up in his eyes was replaced by a shadow of fear.
“Hüsrev must be dead. That’s what we heard,” Faysal said, his voice shaky. Ömer couldn’t tell if it actually trembled or if he just thought it did. It was surprising to see the massive man in front of him scared.
“Yes, the report says he died, but a recent murder made us think. Do you know someone named Muhsin?”
Faysal’s emotions were shifting rapidly. Each question seemed to bring an old memory to light.
“Muhsin Baba, he was our orphanage director’s husband. What happened to him?”
"He was murdered," Ömer said, staring straight into Faysal’s eyes. Even the slightest expression could be a sign during interviews with witnesses.
Faysal's head bowed in sorrow, and for a while, he stared at a single point without blinking.
"I was barely seven years old when I came to the orphanage. Mother Zehra found me on the street. My mother had died, and my father remarried. My stepmother was a real witch. She’d send me off to work under the guise of sending me to school. My father would leave for work at dawn and return late at night. I barely remembered seeing him because my stepmother would put me to bed early. One day, while heading to work, I met Mother Zehra. She asked if I had anyone. I said no. Why, you might ask? I wouldn’t have an answer. Childish thoughts, I just said no."
Ömer listened intently to the man whose voice was barely more than a murmur. The size of a person wasn't proof of the strength of their spirit. The man before him was clearly wounded.
"She took me by the hand and brought me to the orphanage. I loved it at first; there were so many children like me. There was food; I wouldn't be starved because I couldn't earn money. The first few years were good. Occasionally, the older kids would bully and beat us, but when Hüsrev came, we missed those days."
"Was Hüsrev really that bad?"
Faysal looked at Ömer's face for a few seconds before lowering his head again.
"I don't want to describe what kind of person he was. Just know that he was a sick, vile creature. We never called him Hüsrev, and we certainly never called him brother or uncle. His name was always 'the guard'. During the day, he seemed ordinary, but at night, the nightmare began. He would walk down the corridor, click, click, click... Every step was a nightmare descending upon us. We'd say, 'Turn off the lights,' and we'd get into our beds. He would quietly open the door and..."
"And what?" Ömer asked, dreading the answer.
Faysal wiped a tear from his eye with the back of his hand, hiding it from Ömer.
"Every night, he would take one of us."
Faysal fell silent, and so did Ömer. A period of silence settled between them.
"Did he take you?" Ömer asked after a while. Faysal looked up at him.
"I lived with it for four years, a whole four years. Do you think he could have skipped me?"
Ömer understood. He understood and hated Hüsrev.
"The fire, how did it start?" Changing the subject seemed best. Asking what Hüsrev did when he took them was pointless. He already knew the answer.
"That night was very strange. Muhsin Baba and Mother Zehra had an accident while returning home; they came back to the orphanage at night. We were relieved because the guard wouldn't touch us when Mother Zehra was there. I was in one of the rooms on the top floor. We slept without worry. I must have slept deeply to make up for all the nights we slept on edge because I woke up to the sound of a fire. The other children had also woken up. We all went out into the corridor. You couldn't see anything because of the smoke, and we started crying, even the older kids."
He laughed at this part. "There was Cenk, the guard's sidekick. The guard never touched him, and if a child annoyed him, he'd have Cenk and his gang beat us. They had just beaten poor Samet last."
He stopped, having heard the quiet knock on the door. One of the boys from earlier entered the room with tea in his hands.
"Here you go, Master," he said, placing the tea on the small table between the couch and the chair.
"Thanks, Cemal. Get back to work now," Faysal said, and the boy left with a smile. Ömer had heard the love and compassion in Faysal’s voice.
"Even he cried. That fearless and strong-looking boy cried for his mother. The fear of death, it surpasses every other fear. While we thought we were going to die, we saw Muhsin Baba. He told us to go downstairs. We hurried down. Our eyes burned from the smoke, and we couldn't breathe. The lower floor was on fire, and the stairs had collapsed. The heat from the flames was intense. Muhsin Baba broke the window. He told us to jump. He said we would either die by burning or by jumping; we jumped, all of us."
"And those downstairs?" Ömer asked, his heart aching.
"They all died. Mother Zehra, and the others."
"Did the ones who jumped survive?"
"We didn't die, yes. We were injured, our arms, legs, heads, but we didn’t die." He sobbed. Returning to the past and remembering that moment wasn't easy for him.
"I still hear the screams in my ears, begging us to save them. They come to my dreams every night. Their bodies in flames, I see the little ones the most. Dozens of children, all around seven or eight years old, all screaming together; 'We are burning.' I can't stand it!"
The giant man was crying, sobbing uncontrollably. He had his head in his hands. Ömer got up and walked to the window to avoid looking at him. His eyes were full. Knowing was one thing, hearing was another, but living it was something entirely different. He didn't know how one could endure such pain.
"They said the guard also died, but I never believed it. I'd bet my life that he started the fire. If he's alive, find him, Inspector. Find him and put an end to this aged pain!"
As Ömer left Faysal and exited the industrial site, he had only one thing on his mind: finding Hüsrev. He had already decided his next destination. Once he left the site, he hailed a taxi. He pulled out the list from his pocket when he sat in the back seat and found the name Cenk Solak, then read the address to the driver. If Hüsrev had survived the fire and needed help, he might have gone to the kids he had enlisted. Even if he hadn't, Cenk might know something about him.
As soon as he got out of the taxi, he knew he was in a dangerous place. This neighborhood was a gathering place for city gangs, and there were incidents almost every day. The police sirens in the distance indicated there was yet another incident. He watched the patrol cars passing by, with a few arrested people sitting in the back seats. He looked at Cenk’s address again. The street number and house number were listed, but nothing stayed in place in this neighborhood. He turned down a random alley. The houses were in ruins, most windows were shattered. Who knew which gang had caused a ruckus?
Based on what Faysal had told him, Ömer understood that Cenk was still as deep in trouble as he had been as a child. It was impossible to walk quietly because of the tin cans he kept kicking. The houses were silent, but Ömer knew that the gang members were already informing each other about the police officer in their neighborhood.
Gangs didn’t usually clash with the police. They had their own rules and codes, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t take precautions. He stopped dead in his tracks when a growling gray dog suddenly appeared from an alley. The animal, baring its sharp teeth, didn’t seem friendly. He swallowed; running was not an option, trying to pet it would surely get him bitten. He slowly took a step back, hoping he could retreat without provoking it. He had a gun, but using it on an animal would be a last resort.
As he stepped back, the dog approached step by step. Sweat broke out on Ömer’s forehead. "If only I could get out of this alley!" he thought. He had taken barely twenty steps when he felt something hard against his back.
“What’s a plainclothes cop doing in our neighborhood?” said a threatening voice. The dog stopped growling as soon as it saw the man behind Ömer.
“I’m here to see Cenk Solak, I have no business with you,” Ömer said, his voice steady. He had been a cop for years; he wouldn’t be intimidated by a couple of thugs.
“What does a plainclothes cop want with Cenk?” said the voice behind him, mocking. Ömer didn’t need to see his face to recognize the tone.
“Tell him I brought a message from the guard,” Ömer said, his lip curling in a smirk. The pressure of the hard object on his back eased; the man must have been pulling out his phone because soon Ömer heard him speaking.
“Boss, there’s a cop here saying he brought a message from the guard,” the man said.
“Okay, boss, we’re coming,” he said and hung up. He nudged Ömer with the hard object. “Move it.”
Ömer could have taken the man down in one swift move, but that wasn’t his goal. He wanted to see Cenk, not cause a scene. They turned into the alley the dog had come from. The place was filled with garbage and filth, and a foul smell permeated the air. Burning tires in another alley had darkened the sky, and the smell of burning rubber was everywhere. Soot rained down on them.
They continued walking through the garbage-strewn street. The dog followed them, no longer aggressive. “Stop!” the man said, and Ömer stopped. They stood in the middle of the street for a
while, then a door of one of the dilapidated houses opened. Two men came out and grabbed Ömer by his arms.
“You can go,” said the shorter of the two, and the man who had brought Ömer left without Ömer seeing his face. The shorter man said, “Walk,” and pulled Ömer toward the house.
Ömer complied without protest. Internally, he was seething, but he would call a truce until he got what he came for. The first step into the house greeted him with stifling air. The place was filled with smoke, possibly from cigarettes or marijuana. Ömer hoped it was cigarettes. Marijuana smoke could get him high, which was the last thing he needed among these wolves.
He was dragged down a narrow corridor. The wooden floor creaked under his feet. The yellowed walls had darkened and were peeling in places. They dragged him to a room at the end of the corridor and shoved him inside. Ömer stumbled but quickly regained his balance. This room was likely the source of the house’s smoke. Ömer struggled not to cough. The scratchiness in his throat made it hard.
Through the haze of the dimly lit, smoke-filled room, he could barely make out a figure sitting in the shadows.
“You’re the first cop to come looking for me. To what do I owe this honor?”
Ömer looked at the figure, his stance straightening as he folded his arms across his chest. He stood tall and confident. His athletic build was imposing.
“You owe it to the guard, Cenk Solak,” he said.
The figure slowly stood up, revealing a build as solid as Ömer’s.
“Leave us, boys!” he said to his men.
The tall and short men exchanged glances but left the room without a word. The slightly open door let some of the smoke out. As Cenk approached Ömer, he said, “The guard died years ago. How could he have sent a message?”
Ömer stepped forward too. They met in the middle of the room.
“You and I both know he didn’t die. Cut the crap and tell me where he is.”
Now he could clearly see Cenk’s face. His eyes were small and slightly slanted. His round, small nose gave his face a babyish look, but his thick beard covered that up. Long hair covered his ears.
“It’s been twenty years since the fire, Inspector. I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him on the street, and you’re asking me where he is.”
"So, you do know he's alive!" Ömer stared at his target like a hunter closing in on his prey. Cenk remained silent, not giving an inch. They were nose to nose, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. One of them would come out victorious from this room.
"I didn't say that, Inspector."
"Four hundred ninety-three people, calling them people is wrong, children; died in that fire, Cenk. The fire you survived, where you cried out in fear, they perished. Who set the orphanage on fire?"
"How would I know!" he shouted, more in frustration at the reminder of the truth than in anger.
"I was a kid too, I was scared too. I didn't see the guard that night, I don't know."
"You sided with him, you beat up the other kids on his orders, you can't convince me he never told you anything!" Ömer’s voice rose to match Cenk’s.
"I did it to survive, to avoid getting beaten. Yes, I beat them, yes, I did whatever he said because if I didn’t, someone else would have and I would have been the one getting beaten. Am I the guilty one?"
"People try to justify their mistakes with various excuses, Cenk. That’s what you’re doing. You could have been like the other kids, the innocent ones. Now, you have a chance to close the book on your past and lighten the burden on your conscience. This is your chance, don’t waste it. Tell me where the guard is."
"I don’t know, I told you!"
The words came out like a hiss between his teeth. His face was flushed, his entire body tense.
Ömer took a step back, now he could see not just Cenk’s eyes but his entire face clearly.
"But you know he’s alive!"
"I don’t know, they told us he died!"
A dark shadow of fear passed over Cenk’s eyes. He was lying, and Ömer knew it. Ömer uncrossed his arms and put his hands in his pockets.
"Fine, you know what? I’ve reopened the case. I can have you arrested for arson, you’re the only suspect I have. The guard is dead anyway, right?"
Cenk tried to gauge whether Ömer was serious or bluffing. Ömer’s face was a mask, not showing the slightest hint of emotion. His cold, steady demeanor was enough to unsettle Cenk.
"I didn’t do it, everyone knows that. I have over a hundred witnesses."
Cenk’s explanation seemed directed more at himself. His mind was so muddled that the past had become a blur. He hadn’t thought about the orphanage or the guard for years. He had thrown his past away like old clothes in a trash can. Ömer’s visit today was like a déjà vu for him, bringing back memories that his mind was now vomiting up.
"None of your so-called witnesses like you, they hate you. Your old friends will be no different. You’re finished, Cenk."
Cenk’s face went pale, he knew Ömer was right. None of them would say Cenk was innocent. Who would forgive him when they had a chance to settle old scores? He swallowed hard.
"You can’t prove it," he said, but then a light bulb went off in his head. He smiled slightly, his eyes shining with hope. "Muhsin Baba, he’ll tell the truth. We were in the room when he came to get us. He’ll tell the truth for sure."
Ömer looked at the desperate man searching for an escape with pity. How clueless he was. He was still that naïve boy who thought he was something special.
"Cenk," Ömer whispered his name and moved his face closer to Cenk's. They were nose to nose again, and Ömer brought his mouth near his ear.
"Muhsin is dead. The guard killed him," he whispered. Cenk exhaled as if a weight had been lifted off his chest.
"Oh God!" he said, almost pleadingly. He felt his knees start to buckle. The trauma he was experiencing was clear to Ömer.
"He might have plans to kill all of you one by one, of course, but I’m sure he won’t touch you. After all, you’re the chosen one. Maybe you even helped him kill Muhsin. That makes perfect sense to me."
Every word Ömer spoke sent Cenk through a range of emotions. The guard had returned, and on top of that, this cop was now a thorn in his side.
"Maybe it wasn’t him, why would someone kill their own brother?" he managed to say, his voice dry and cracked.
In that moment, Ömer realized that Cenk knew the guard better than he had thought.
"So, you know they were brothers. I was right in my assumption."
Cenk felt himself sinking further with every word he spoke. Every word was being plucked and twisted by this inspector. He had never felt so cornered.
"He called him brother, that’s how I know. He didn’t tell me," he said, struggling to find a way out of the situation.
"Stop trying, Cenk. You can't escape me. Tell me what you know."
"I don’t know, I really haven’t seen him since the fire."
Ömer was almost convinced that Cenk was telling the truth. He would play his last card and end this here. His instincts had never failed him before, and they told him Cenk knew something.
"Alright, if that’s how you want it. But know this, before I even leave here, the teams will be at your door. The guard and that stuff you’re smoking will get you locked up, Cenk," he said, winking. Hands in his pockets, he turned his back on Cenk and walked to the door. Cenk was just staring after him when his phone rang. He hurriedly answered it, listened, and hung up without saying a word. Ömer had just reached the door and was about to leave when Cenk called out, "Wait! I have something to tell you."
Ömer, certain Cenk couldn't see him, grinned victoriously. He stopped, still facing away, his voice firm, "Speak," and turned to face Cenk.
Cenk sat back down in the chair he had been in when Ömer arrived. It was time to lift the veil of his memories.
"We jumped out of the window. Muhsin Baba and a bunch of other kids were there. I sprained my ankle, others broke or hurt various parts of their bodies. It was pouring rain, and we were crying non-stop. I could hear the voices of the kids still in the orphanage, screaming for help. It was a horrific moment, and I regretted everything. Siding with the guard and what I did to the kids seemed so pointless and unnecessary, but I only realized that because I was afraid of dying. My face and eyes were covered in soot as I hobbled to the other side of the building. The fire was still raging, even though the rain hadn't stopped. I thought maybe I could save someone. When I got to the kitchen side, I saw the windows explode and saw him come out. He was on fire. I ran towards him, but getting close was impossible. He was spinning, falling to the ground, and getting back up. If it weren’t for the rain, he would have burned alive, but the rain put out the fire. He was completely blackened, his hair burnt off, and his face; his clothes were burnt. I shouted for help. He looked at me, put his finger to his lips as if to say ‘be quiet,’ and ran into the woods. I didn’t tell anyone I saw him."
"Did you ever see him again?"
"No, never. We were all sent to different orphanages afterwards, and I didn’t see the other kids again."
Cenk fell silent, and so did Ömer. It was the end of words, of the past and the pain. As Faysal had said, there was only one guilty person: the guard.
As Ömer walked through the filthy streets of the neighborhood, Cenk sat with his head in his hands, thinking. Something else had happened that night, but he couldn’t quite remember.
When Ömer left the neighborhood, he headed toward the patrol car waiting on the corner. The uniformed officers inside were about to step out when Ömer signaled them to stay put. He approached the car. The young officers had come here at Ömer’s call and had been waiting for over an hour. With the satisfaction of a plan well executed, Ömer leaned his hand on the car roof and bent down to look inside through the open window.
"Thanks, guys. There’s no problem, you can leave," he said and walked away. Ömer had anticipated what would happen the moment the dog had appeared. Trusting his instincts, he had found time to text Ali İhsan with the address and to surround the neighborhood.
The afternoon call to prayer had passed. Ömer thought of calling Ali İhsan but decided against it. He could share the details later. Ali İhsan had been on duty for hours and was likely heading home; Ömer didn’t want to tire him out. He would continue based on his instincts and a gut feeling that had never led him astray.
Adnan’s trip to Diyarbakır was a stroke of luck for Ömer. He had worked with his superior for two years and knew from day one that Adnan wouldn’t solve this case. Ömer himself had never encountered such a convoluted case before, but with a bit of logic, some research, and intuition, there was no case that couldn’t be cracked. For Ömer, there was no perfect crime. The key was finding the right clue, and he was confident he had found it
.
He had covered quite a distance when he passed a shop selling electronic devices and decided to go in. Despite its small size, the shop seemed to have everything. He pushed open the glass door and was greeted by a young man in his twenties with gelled-up hair, a goatee, ripped jeans, and a lean but muscular build.
"Welcome, how can I help you?"
"Hello," Ömer said, examining the items displayed on the shelves.
"How can I assist you? What are you looking for?"
Ömer looked out the window for a moment as if he had forgotten something outside and ran his hand through his wavy hair.
"Actually, I need a small keypad phone. My mom’s phone broke, and she can’t use a touchscreen. Do you have one of those old-style phones that fit in your palm?"
The young man smiled, pleased to be able to meet a customer’s needs.
"Of course, we have those. We have everything you might need," he said, disappearing among the shelves. After a few minutes of searching, he found what he was looking for and returned to Ömer with a small, packaged phone.
"Here, will this do?"
Ömer took the phone, removed it from its packaging, and inspected it. He tested the keypad.
"This will work. My mom can use this," he said, handing the phone back to the young man.
The young salesman was about to repackage the phone for sale when Ömer said, “Don’t bother packaging it,” and added, “How much?”
“One hundred and fifty lira.”
Ömer took out his wallet, grabbed his credit card, and paid. Before leaving the shop, he took out his SIM card from his current phone and inserted it into the new one. Noticing the young salesman’s curious gaze, he smiled and said, “I need to save all the numbers for my mom. Otherwise, she’ll have my head.” The salesman smiled back as Ömer exited the shop. He saved a number into the phone and then put it in his back pocket. Now that this task was done, he could focus on his main objective with a clear mind.
Realizing that he urgently needed a car to reach his next destination, he hailed a passing yellow taxi. The hopeful taxi driver stopped and picked up his passenger.
“Welcome, where are we headed, sir?” he asked politely.
“To Şehla Village,” Ömer said, leaning back in the seat. The driver smiled; that village was quite far, and the fare would be good.
After an hour and a half of driving, with the sun setting into a reddish hue, they arrived at the village. The journey had been silent between the driver and Ömer. Ömer quickly paid the driver and started walking down the familiar path. As he walked through the streets, the driver turned back the way he had come.
Ömer moved quickly along the cobblestone streets, feeling a sense of urgency. Something from his previous visit to the house was nagging at him. There was something he had seen but not fully registered. He hurried to the old house with the open door. The streets were empty once again. "Is everyone in this neighborhood old?" he wondered.
Unlike his first visit, he entered the house with familiarity. It was getting dark, and the interior of the house was quite dim. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. His vision improved immediately.
The house was just as it had been on his previous visit. He went upstairs to Hüsrev’s room to take another look. If he could figure out what was bothering him, he could stop wasting time. In the flashlight's beam, he scanned the room again. Everything looked the same. He bent down to examine the papers on the floor. He neatly stacked the old newspapers to one side. He looked through the books, flipping through the pages rapidly. He shook them to see if anything fell out. There was nothing. He sighed deeply and sat down, resting his aching knees. He didn't care about the dust and dirt at this point. He ran the flashlight over the papers repeatedly and fixed the light on some bold letters that caught his eye.
ORPHANAGE FIRE ENDS IN TRAGEDY
“Of course,” he muttered with regret. He had seen the headline before but hadn’t paid attention because he hadn’t known about the fire then. Now, adrenaline surged through him. The guard had returned here after the fire. He quickly checked the newspaper’s date. September 21, 1999.
“You set out that night, somehow got a newspaper, and came here. Did you recover here, or did you go somewhere else? If you did go somewhere else, where? If you managed to take care of yourself, your injuries weren’t too severe. You treated yourself.”
The mess in the bedroom came to mind. Excitedly, he stood up and moved to the bedroom with creaking floorboards. The flashlight illuminated the scattered clothes. He picked up each item, inspecting it. Alongside large men’s clothing, there were women’s clothes. He tossed each piece onto the bed, his excitement making his chest rise and fall rapidly. The guard must have returned here years later and left his trace. Cenk had said his clothes had burned. Shirts, pants, blouses, skirts, nightgowns... As he threw each piece onto the bed, he saw it. Among the pile were charred fabric fragments. Carefully, he lifted a piece with two fingers and examined it under the flashlight.
It looked like pants. He set it down and picked up another piece. “This is a shirt,” he mumbled. As he put it down, he heard a sound. “Drip.” He held his breath, waiting for the sound to repeat. “Drip.” It was coming from downstairs. He remembered hearing the sound on his previous visit. “The kitchen,” he thought. He exhaled and walked downstairs, his shadow on the wall resembling a specter. He descended the stairs carefully, one step at a time. The evening hours had passed, and it was now nine o’clock. Time had flown by unnoticed. When he reached the kitchen, he waited to hear the sound again. A knot of unease grew in his chest.
Part of him hoped his instincts were wrong, while another part hoped they were right. As time passed, a faint fear began to creep into his heart.
“Drip.”
He heard the sound again and understood where it was coming from. He put his phone between his teeth. Holding it this way was difficult, but he couldn’t move the object with one hand. He wrapped his arms around the refrigerator and pulled it towards him. Wedged between the wall and the stove, the refrigerator couldn’t budge sideways. He grunted and groaned as he moved the heavy fridge, and suddenly it slid easily. With the pressure he had been applying, he stumbled backwards when it gave way. He managed to catch himself before falling. His heart pounded. Even though he hadn’t fallen, the experience was unnerving. He took the phone from his mouth and wiped his hand on his pants. He moved into the newly opened space behind the fridge and waited.
“Drip.”
He heard the sound more clearly now. He made a fist and knocked on the wall, smiling half-heartedly. As he had guessed, the wall behind was hollow. He shone the flashlight on the wall and noticed a detail he had missed before. This part of the wall was covered with wallpaper matching the wall color. The parts he had thought were peeling paint were actually torn wallpaper. “Let’s see what you’re hiding,” he said, finding an edge and pulling the paper off. The old paper came away easily, revealing a door behind it. By the time he had finished peeling the paper, he was tired. He took two deep breaths and pushed the door. It didn’t budge. Frustrated, he gathered all his strength, turned sideways, and rammed it with his shoulder. The door gave way, and Ömer tumbled forward. As he fell, his phone slipped from his hand and skittered away. After tumbling down three or four steps, he found himself on a wet floor. The place reeked of mold and rotting wood; it was the house's basement. Cursing, Ömer pushed himself up with his hands. His arms, legs, and head throbbed with pain. He was grateful the floor was dirt, or his injuries would have been worse. He cautiously walked towards the faint light of his fallen phone and picked it up. Seeing the cracked screen made him curse again.
“That’s what happens when you think you’re a battering ram, Ömer,” he muttered, shining the light around the basement. In the beam, he saw a pile on the ground. Accompanied by the drip, drip sound, he slowly approached the heap, afraid to breathe. After ten short steps, he saw the pile clearly.
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed, stunned. The touch on his shoulder made him jump and shout, “Oh, God!” He turned to see an elderly neighbor woman looking at him.
“What are you doing here so late, my child?” she asked, her eyes examining him.
“What are you doing here, auntie? You scared me. You shouldn’t be here. Get out,” he said, pulling her away from the pile.
Ignoring his words, she took two steps forward and said, “What is that over there?” heading towards the heap, driving Ömer mad.
“Auntie, what are you doing? Stop, for God’s sake!”
Ömer grabbed her arm and pulled, but she had already seen enough.
“Are those bones? Human bones?” she asked.
“Auntie, that’s none of your business. Get out!” Finally, he did what he didn’t want to do and shouted. The elderly woman paused, clearly unused to her curiosity being thwarted.
“Is it Şakir who died, or Sinan?” Ömer’s frayed nerves were reaching their limits.
“Auntie, I said get out! I’ll arrest you!” he threatened.
The elderly woman blinked and lowered her head.
“What do you want from a poor old woman like me, son? What did I say or do?” Her tearful voice and complaint made Ömer regret shouting. Yelling at an elderly woman was not his style, but the situation’s complexity had influenced his behavior.
“Auntie, this is a crime scene. If you leave any evidence here, they’ll blame you. I’m trying to protect you.”
“Woe is me!” she cried, ignoring his threats. She knelt and held her head in her hands. “To think I might end up in jail at this age! Oh, where should I go!” she wailed. Ömer watched her in dismay, asking, “What was my sin?” He didn’t know what to do. Extending his hand, he said, “Come on, auntie, let me take you home. No one’s going to put you in jail.”
Her crying stopped as quickly as it had started. She stood up without taking Ömer’s hand.
“You said they’d blame me, why are you deceiving people?”
“La havle...” Ömer muttered, grabbing her shoulder. “Walk,
auntie, let’s go to your house,” he said, pushing her towards the door.
“Okay, let’s go, but you didn’t say whose bones those were.”
Ömer was close to tearing his hair out. The elderly woman was curious and stubborn.
“I can’t do a DNA test with my eyes yet, how should I know?” he said angrily. He didn’t want to guess.
“Ha?” she asked. “What test?”
“DNA test, auntie. They do it to identify the dead.”
As he argued with the woman, he also pushed her out of the house. They left the basement and reached the front door. “Go home, auntie, and don’t come out!” Ömer said. The woman leaned against the door frame, resting her head on her hand.
Before Ömer could react, she said, “Oh, I’m dizzy. My blood pressure must be up. Something’s happening to me,” and slumped to the ground. Ömer bent down and felt her forehead. No fever.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” he said, reaching for his phone.
“No need, son, take me home. My medicine will make me better,” she replied. Ömer helped her up and supported her as they walked under the moonlight.
“Diabetes, high blood pressure, heart issues; I’ve got it all. Old age, you know, can’t handle the excitement anymore,” she said.
Alright, let’s make this story pop for young girls!
---
“You're really curious, huh?” Ömer thought to himself. Out loud, he said, “Normal, auntie. My mom's like that too.”
“Oh, so your mom is alive, how nice that she has a son like you. I have an ungrateful one, never calls or visits. The house is falling apart, the roof is leaking. When my late husband was here, he would fix everything. This boy is nothing like his father.”
With the old lady chattering nonstop, they reached the house about twenty meters away. The door was already open, and she pushed it wider. Ömer took off his shoes, and he was surprised when the woman walked in without removing hers. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have taken mine off either,” he thought, missing part of what she was saying.
“It’s been over a year since he last came. I even waited for him during the holiday, but he didn’t come…”
“He’ll come, auntie, he’ll come,” Ömer said, helping her sit on the couch. The house was the same model as Muhsin’s, but only the kitchen light was on, giving the living room a dim, twilight feel. The smell of dampness was unmistakable.
“These houses were built by the local lord back in the day. They’re all the same. A living room and a kitchen downstairs, four rooms and a bathroom upstairs. They squeezed the toilet under the stairs. The lord was a good man, helped build these houses after a flood. My husband inherited this place from his father. That’s why it’s so old.”
“Now that I know the history of the houses, where are the medicines, auntie? I’ll give them to you and then I need to go.”
“Oh,” she said, looking at Ömer. “In the kitchen, in the drawer. There’s an insulin shot too, please bring that.”
“Sure, auntie,” Ömer said, studying her face in the dim light. He hadn’t really looked at her face when he first came. He wondered if she had all those wrinkles back then. She must be really old, he thought as he walked to the kitchen. When he got there, he noticed a pile of dust on the brown wooden table, a spider web on the door frame, and a rusty sink. He opened the drawers one by one. In the fourth drawer, he found a bag of medicines. The insulin shot was right next to it. As he grabbed them and turned to leave, he remembered he hadn’t gotten any water. He turned back, reached for a glass on the shelf, and grabbed one of the dusty ones. He washed it thoroughly at the sink. “She’s got the gift of gab, but can’t keep the place clean. How does she live in all this mess?” he muttered to himself, then grabbed some water and left the kitchen. The woman was still sitting where he left her, with one leg tucked under her and the other stretched out.
As he handed her the medicine bag and the shot, his eyes fell on her shoes again. He swallowed hard. She took the shot and the medicine from his hand and reached for the water with her other hand. Overwhelmed by the horror of his realization, Ömer whispered, “Guard…”
Before he could hit the floor, he heard the old woman say, “Nice to meet you, Officer Ömer.”
~