are to your work.”
“I’ve always got time for you,” he said.
He meant it. We were childhood friends, grew up in the same neighbourhood. He’d protect me when we played out in the street. Later, we’d suck each other’s lips until they were swollen.
“How can I help you,” he asked.
I summed things up for him. I knew his department had nothing to do with the case, but I hoped he’d find a way to get access to the coroner’s report.
“You’ve got some interesting ideas,” he said. “You might be right on the trail. Our fellows thought of the same thing. They may even be investigating the brothers. Give me a second and I’ll find out.”
“What about the coroner’s report?” I asked.
“It’s finished,” he said. “I’ll send it to you.”
I’d have preferred him to suggest a policeman escort me to the forensic science building. I’d have liked to see the expression on the bottom molester’s face when I arrived with an official escort.
I told him what was on my mind.
“Don’t exaggerate, dear,” he said. “There’s no need to turn this into high drama.”
I gave him my number, and we agreed to meet as soon as possible. I hate waiting. It makes me tense. I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel like anything I start will end up half-done. Sitting and waiting only makes time pass even more slowly. Waiting is torture.
I decided to kill time on the computer. There are always files that need sorting, programs to be deleted. Or I could surf the net, chat, play cards at one of the game sites.
I’m a whiz at the PC. My computer is just right for me. The updates I’d added gave it an incredible performance.
I began with mindless scanning and compression tasks, first sorting through old dossiers. I found records dating back to the launch of our chat room. As I was about to delete them, I noticed the nick Jihad2000. He always ended with the formula bismillahirrahmanirrahim .
I got online and entered our “manly-girls” chat room. There was no sight of Jihad2000. He could be in other chat rooms. I found him by using a powerful search engine. In alphabetical order, he was in the following rooms: “Islam”, “Istanbul”, “Sex”, “Sweethearts” and “ Zurna ”. He is fast, and able to keep up with them all at once.
I asked for a private chat. He responded to my DCC request with the usual prayer formula. I asked for his help. That’s how we started. I also allowed him to float prayers and the slogans he had prepared earlier. When I told him another one of us had died, he flew into a rage.
>you’re all infidels! death is your salvation
heretics!
infidels who alter Allah’s work
you were born men, you live as women
death is your salvation
you too are an infidel
you too will die>
I didn’t understand. He was implying that some of us are immortal. I wrote:
He hadn’t yet begun writing in capital letters. Once his temperature had fallen, he asked what kind of help I wanted. I asked if he knew anything about the death of Yusuf-Gül.
They can’t be defiled
Those who do shall be punished>
I thought I caught his drift.
Abraham was tested in a fire
Joseph was cast into a well
The prophets’ names are sacred
Those who use their names
Must be worthy
The Koran lists 25 prophets
And so much else
Each people were sent a prophet
Adam, Noah, David, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed!
And then came the trademark big, angry letters:
He was no longer responding to me. He was off on a bender. He’d connected to the “manly-girls” room and was floating the same messages there.
I calculated that if I was quick I would be able to find his server information, or at least where he was connected. Just as I opened the appropriate monitor program
“I’ve always got time for you,” he said.
He meant it. We were childhood friends, grew up in the same neighbourhood. He’d protect me when we played out in the street. Later, we’d suck each other’s lips until they were swollen.
“How can I help you,” he asked.
I summed things up for him. I knew his department had nothing to do with the case, but I hoped he’d find a way to get access to the coroner’s report.
“You’ve got some interesting ideas,” he said. “You might be right on the trail. Our fellows thought of the same thing. They may even be investigating the brothers. Give me a second and I’ll find out.”
“What about the coroner’s report?” I asked.
“It’s finished,” he said. “I’ll send it to you.”
I’d have preferred him to suggest a policeman escort me to the forensic science building. I’d have liked to see the expression on the bottom molester’s face when I arrived with an official escort.
I told him what was on my mind.
“Don’t exaggerate, dear,” he said. “There’s no need to turn this into high drama.”
I gave him my number, and we agreed to meet as soon as possible. I hate waiting. It makes me tense. I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel like anything I start will end up half-done. Sitting and waiting only makes time pass even more slowly. Waiting is torture.
I decided to kill time on the computer. There are always files that need sorting, programs to be deleted. Or I could surf the net, chat, play cards at one of the game sites.
I’m a whiz at the PC. My computer is just right for me. The updates I’d added gave it an incredible performance.
I began with mindless scanning and compression tasks, first sorting through old dossiers. I found records dating back to the launch of our chat room. As I was about to delete them, I noticed the nick Jihad2000. He always ended with the formula bismillahirrahmanirrahim .
I got online and entered our “manly-girls” chat room. There was no sight of Jihad2000. He could be in other chat rooms. I found him by using a powerful search engine. In alphabetical order, he was in the following rooms: “Islam”, “Istanbul”, “Sex”, “Sweethearts” and “ Zurna ”. He is fast, and able to keep up with them all at once.
I asked for a private chat. He responded to my DCC request with the usual prayer formula. I asked for his help. That’s how we started. I also allowed him to float prayers and the slogans he had prepared earlier. When I told him another one of us had died, he flew into a rage.
>you’re all infidels! death is your salvation
heretics!
infidels who alter Allah’s work
you were born men, you live as women
death is your salvation
you too are an infidel
you too will die>
I didn’t understand. He was implying that some of us are immortal. I wrote:
He hadn’t yet begun writing in capital letters. Once his temperature had fallen, he asked what kind of help I wanted. I asked if he knew anything about the death of Yusuf-Gül.
They can’t be defiled
Those who do shall be punished>
I thought I caught his drift.
Abraham was tested in a fire
Joseph was cast into a well
The prophets’ names are sacred
Those who use their names
Must be worthy
The Koran lists 25 prophets
And so much else
Each people were sent a prophet
Adam, Noah, David, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed!
And then came the trademark big, angry letters:
He was no longer responding to me. He was off on a bender. He’d connected to the “manly-girls” room and was floating the same messages there.
I calculated that if I was quick I would be able to find his server information, or at least where he was connected. Just as I opened the appropriate monitor program
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