Crime Investigation

From letter dated March 8, 1993

I’ve been in the middle of a detective story—another in the long series of improbable situations that keeps my job more of an entertainment medium than routine work.

Mid-February the MV Repulse Bay arrived to load sugar. We were agents. Upon arrival, the captain sent deck hand Abdur Rahim (pronounced Rah-HEEM) ashore to see a doctor. After several visits and fairly exhaustive tests, Dr. Lizama brought his final medical report to the office for us to send out to the Master of the ship. He showed it to us and said that, while Rahim had various problems, some treatable, he could find no underlying cause for most of the complaints. Dr. Lizama diagnosed emotional/mental problems and suggested that Rahim be repatriated to Bangladesh.

The morning the Repulse Bay sailed, the captain sent Rahim ashore, with instructions to Alex to send him home to Chittagong, Bangladesh. Alex installed the man in El Centro, a modest, decent hotel, and I got busy trying to get reservations for him.

It was a discouraging job. Naturally, I tried to book him on Air France. There were scheduling problems, and no space was available. I kissed goodbye to anticipated commissions, and tried to book him through other travel agencies. Same report; no space. Ultimately I was able to confirm reservations on Air France. Poor Mr. Rahim came ashore on a Thursday, and the next week Friday was the earliest we could get him out.

 

Early on the Tuesday morning, the manager of Rahim’s hotel called to say that Rahim reported his room had been entered during the night, and that he had been robbed. She swore she did not believe him. I called the C.I.B. (Criminal Investigation Branch of the police) and arranged to meet an officer at the hotel.

El Centro is only three blocks from our office. Rahim was outside, waiting for me. He told me his story. The following is quoted from my written statement to the police:

Mr. Rahim was waiting outside the hotel and told me the basic outline of the alleged robbery. He said that he had watched TV until 11 o’clock Monday night, 1 March, then had gone to sleep. When he awakened at about 0600 on 2 March, he went into the bathroom to wash his face, then went to the closet to get his clothes to dress for breakfast. His trousers and shirt were missing from the rod where he had tossed them the night before and a hand bag was missing from the closet, he reported. His bedroom door was ajar. He looked out into the hall and saw his hand bag and some of his belongings, which had been inside it, lying in an untidy pile at the end of the corridor. He looked at them, he said, but did not touch them. He said that some pants, shirts, toiletries, and us$1,000 cash were missing. He went downstairs to the reception desk to report a robbery, he said.

Mr. Rahim and I went into the hotel and were invited into Ms. Castillo’s office. The matter was discussed; some questions were asked. None of Mr. Rahim’s replies differed from what he had told me.

The three of us went up to Mr. Rahim’s room. The officers from the C.I.B. arrived almost immediately and began their investigation.

Not one detective, but five—tall, solemn young men—arrived from the C.I.B. By the time the five of them, Rahim, and I wedged ourselves into his pleasant but small room, with Ms. Castillo, the manager, slumping in worried dejection by the door, there was barely breathing space. Each of the detectives poked around here and there; all asked questions.

Poor Mr. Rahim either did not understand them or could not make himself understood. I finally asked the detective whom I took to be the superior officer if he would like me to help interpret. I have had a lot of experience talking to seamen with limited English and have developed a technique of editing what I say down to First-Grade level. I re-word until I can see comprehension, speaking very slowly and clearly. Understanding replies is more of a problem, but again, I have had more experience with weird accents than most Belize detectives.

Rahim told the detectives that the $1,000 which had been stolen included $500 and $300 given to him by friends to take home to their families. He showed his recent monthly pay vouchers to prove that, while most of his wages were automatically transferred to his family, he drew some cash. On being questioned, he said that he could not be sure he had locked his hotel-room door.

The police brought the hand bag and its scattered contents back to the room and dumped them on Rahim’s unmade bed. The open, empty small money pouch, Rahim said, had contained both the U.S. dollars and various other foreign money. He seemed quite disturbed at losing six bars of Lux soap, saved from his monthly allotment on the ship. We all were willing to believe that he did not utilize all the soap given him, though he was not nearly as offensive as the doctor had reported his being on some visits.

Rahim complained bitterly that now all the clothes he had were the tee shirt and pants he was wearing, which he had retrieved from the pile in the hall. I asked him about clothes in the large, blue duffel bag that remained in the closet. He said there were none. Peculiar, I thought.

After a fairly brisk investigation and questioning, Rahim was invited to go down to the station to make a statement. Police statements here are taken down long-hand by a detective. Knowing how slow and laborious the statement-taking process is, I dreaded going through it with someone whose English was rudimentary.

 

We were lucky in drawing Detective Sergeant Rene Rhaburn for the ordeal. He is an attractive, astute young man. I again offered to help, and was co-opted enthusiastically. Rahim understood some of D.S. Rhaburn’s questions and could answer directly. More often it was a matter of my phrasing and rephrasing questions until he could understand, and then “translating” the garbled answer. From time to time I asked questions of my own, without any complaint from the detective.

Naturally, most questions began with the word what. After receiving some very strange replies, I realized that I could not use the word. Rahim understood what as white.

You try avoiding the word what in asking a series of questions about what was found, what was missing, what one did next, etc.

The interrogation went on for almost 2-1/2 hours. We spent ages trying to get descriptions of the missing clothes. Rahim was able to tell exactly how much foreign currency he had lost, to the U.S. dollar equivalent. He grew emotional about the loss of some shirts and a pair of pants, compared to his relative calm at losing us$1,000. The detective and I exchanged long, dead-pan glances regularly.

As the questioning proceeded, Rahim put his head down on the table, pleading a throbbing headache. I believed him; I was beginning to get one. He got up several times to walk out onto the veranda for some of the air that was blowing briskly through the open office.

I wanted to talk to D.S. Rhaburn alone, but realized that it would be highly inappropriate. He was the professional; let him do his job without any bright ideas from an eager septuagenarian.

At the end of the interrogation, D.S. Rhaburn took Rahim back to the hotel to begin the real on-site investigation. By this time it was 11:30 and I had been away the entire morning.

 

Back at the office, I answered a pile of telephone messages, then called the hotel manager about a further advance on Rahim’s extended lodging. She waffled a bit, saying it might not be necessary. The police had found us$970 in Rahim’s jacket pocket and had carted him off to jail. I was inordinately relieved, 1) that perhaps Rahim had not been robbed, and 2) that poor, dear Ms. Castillo would not get into trouble with her boss over the matter.

D.S. Rhaburn telephoned me early in the afternoon, asking me to turn in a statement. He said that half-way through the interrogation, long experience convinced him that Rahim was lying. He said he almost stopped right then, but reminded himself that our Bangladeshi might be telling the truth. I mentioned to the detective that I had wanted to talk to him privately.

Rhaburn replied, “I knew it,” adding, “We were doing pretty well at getting information back and forth without talking.”

He also thanked me for some of the questions I had inserted on my own initiative. He said they opened up a lot of doors that Rahim had kept closed.

 

In the afternoon, I took my written statement down to the C.I.B. Had another pleasant visit with my friendly detective. D.S. Rhaburn sent across to “the lockup” to get the key to Rahim’s hotel room so that I could pack up his belongings and take them to the office for safekeeping.

I quizzed the detective sternly about the lockup. Last time I saw it, it was a 12′ x 16′ cage with old fashioned iron bars reaching the high ceiling. It did not have even a bench. Eight or ten of the biggest, meanest men I ever have seen were prowling back and forth in it. I worried about my gentle Bangladeshi. Rhaburn assured me that prisoners were given food, water, and “facilities” (i.e., a bucket).

In reply to my question about taking things to Rahim, Rhaburn said he could not have shaving things, but that I should take his tooth brush and paste, soap, towel, and a sheet for him to wrap himself in at night. When Allan (from my office) and I packed up Rahim’s things later, I put aside his medicine, comb, toiletries, and some food he had left in the room. At home I added an old towel and sheet (a bit grudgingly after the problems the man had caused me), and delivered it all to the police station. Alex told me later that everything but the towel and sheet were stolen by cell mates as soon as they were delivered to Rahim.

 

Next morning Rahim telephoned me from the police station. “Why am I here?” he asked. “I am no trouble.”

Speaking slowly, in words of one syllable, I replied that he was a whole lot of trouble to the police and to me. He said he was not comfortable in the lockup. I asked coldly why he put himself there instead of staying in his air-conditioned room at El Centro watching TV. (Kindliness to Rahim was not at the top of my list that morning.) He claimed that the money the detectives found was his own money, separate from the $1,000 that was stolen.

Rahim started jabbering things I could not understand. He wanted me to get him out. I explained that I could not. He said that I (the ship’s agent) was no help. I said that either Mr. Scott (Alex) or I would meet him when he was taken before the magistrate. I am not at all sure that, at the end, I did not sort of hang up on him.

 

Our problems were not over. I was writing up Rahim’s Air France ticket when Alex returned to the office from a visit to police headquarters.

“Don’t bother with the ticket,” Alex warned. Seems the C.I.B. never transcribed D.S. Rhaburn’s report—so it had never been sent to the regular police—so they had never put Rahim on the magistrate’s calendar. Furthermore, the desk sergeant told Alex it was not at all definite that the magistrate would let Rahim go with just a fine instead of a jail term.

Here we sat with our hard-won plane reservations to Chittagong, Bangladesh, and an incarcerated passenger.

 

Alex took the Rahim matter out of my hands. He said I was too tender-hearted. I don’t know all the foolishness Alex went through with the police Wednesday afternoon, but just as our office was closing, we got a cryptic message from him telling us to take $100 to him at the magistrates’ court immediately. Neither Petty Cash nor I had it.

I walked briskly down to one of the few stores open on a Wednesday afternoon and arranged with the (highly amused) manager to cash a check. Then I hotfooted it down to the court. Finally found Alex. Gave him money. Asked if he wanted me to stay. Looked at his expression and left hurriedly.

When Rahim finally was brought in front of the magistrate, he started arguing. Alex furiously told him to shut up, plead guilty, and leave for home the next day, or go on with his foolishness and spend the next two weeks in the “—-house.” Alex said the police all laughed loudly at his berating of their prisoner. Rahim obeyed, reluctantly.

After he pleaded guilty to malicious mischief, Rahim was fined $50 and his us$970 was returned. Alex booked him into a nearby Chinese hotel, not nearly as comfortable as the air-conditioned El Centro.

Next morning Alex took Rahim out to the airport, checked him in for his flight to Miami, saw him through the security gate, and returned to the office with a sigh of relief. Alex returned half-convinced Rahim might have been telling the truth about the robbery.

I, too, had mixed thoughts. However, being there for the full performance, I judged from the man’s actions, as well as from his statements.

As for motive, it could have been no more complicated than his despair at the delay in getting a flight home—plus his obvious emotional instability.

Sadly, we will never know what was true.