“Now, up until this point the story I’ve told you is hardly remarkable. Bored rich man murders hapless poor man. Happens every day, believe me. What’s interesting comes next.”
Emre ran to the police station and on the way he purposely tore his clothes and scuffed his shoes. He showed up in front of the captain, who was startled from his nap to see the young man standing in his office, panting.
Emre explained he was nearly stabbed and had to defend himself from the booze-frenzied Kurd. Sobbing, he collapsed in a folding chair and covered his face with his hands.
Due process took its course. Emre showed up in court and put on a similiar performance, with Mr. Çağan showing up to testify, tearfully, to his son’s love of peace. Every man, woman and child in the room was wrapped around his finger. The evidence the prosecutor produced, solid though it was, might as well have been made of fairy dust as far as the jury was concerned.
So of course Emre wasn’t convicted. Actually he came out of it a hero.
But whatever Emre was trying to release by murdering that drunk didn’t make it out. It seemed like it would, but really it just poked out its slimy little head, looked around a bit, then receded back into Emre, digging itself in deeper.
I guess when you set out to do something, and you pull it off on the first try, it’s hard to stop there. For men with brains hard-wired for success like Mr. Emre Çağan Jr., it’s impossible.
So he goes out one night and he picks off a drifter sleeping on the beach. The cops had to have found the body eventually, but no one ever heard of it.
A month later it’s a beggar who hangs out by the exit to the old castle and bugs the tourists for their lira.
And so on.
Emre never changes his methods. You’d think a smart guy like that wouldn’t leave such an obvious clue, but then again maybe that’s how he thinks. Chokes them with a wire every time.
And he never takes a hit. Sure, he gets arrested. Guy’s been arrested dozens of times. They put him through the whole rigmarole and every time the whole town flocks to his side like gulls to a dead fish.
Find something that works, then stick with it. Choke a vagrant to death, get yourself scuffed up, play the victim. I don’t know whether he just thought his reputation was that good, or he thought his dad could buy him out of any trouble, or maybe he was just losing it.
But I’ll tell you what, it did work. Not for the reason Emre thought it would. The public let him off because he had become their representative. Their savior. Their strike back against all the Untouchables who spoil the views from their terraces, stink up their bus stations. The good hardworking citizens of Anamur hate those people, and simultaneously they hate themselves for hating them.
So when they acquit Emre they acquit themselves. And there’s one less flaw in their crystal lives.
Emre ran to the police station and on the way he purposely tore his clothes and scuffed his shoes. He showed up in front of the captain, who was startled from his nap to see the young man standing in his office, panting.
Emre explained he was nearly stabbed and had to defend himself from the booze-frenzied Kurd. Sobbing, he collapsed in a folding chair and covered his face with his hands.
Due process took its course. Emre showed up in court and put on a similiar performance, with Mr. Çağan showing up to testify, tearfully, to his son’s love of peace. Every man, woman and child in the room was wrapped around his finger. The evidence the prosecutor produced, solid though it was, might as well have been made of fairy dust as far as the jury was concerned.
So of course Emre wasn’t convicted. Actually he came out of it a hero.
But whatever Emre was trying to release by murdering that drunk didn’t make it out. It seemed like it would, but really it just poked out its slimy little head, looked around a bit, then receded back into Emre, digging itself in deeper.
I guess when you set out to do something, and you pull it off on the first try, it’s hard to stop there. For men with brains hard-wired for success like Mr. Emre Çağan Jr., it’s impossible.
So he goes out one night and he picks off a drifter sleeping on the beach. The cops had to have found the body eventually, but no one ever heard of it.
A month later it’s a beggar who hangs out by the exit to the old castle and bugs the tourists for their lira.
And so on.
Emre never changes his methods. You’d think a smart guy like that wouldn’t leave such an obvious clue, but then again maybe that’s how he thinks. Chokes them with a wire every time.
And he never takes a hit. Sure, he gets arrested. Guy’s been arrested dozens of times. They put him through the whole rigmarole and every time the whole town flocks to his side like gulls to a dead fish.
Find something that works, then stick with it. Choke a vagrant to death, get yourself scuffed up, play the victim. I don’t know whether he just thought his reputation was that good, or he thought his dad could buy him out of any trouble, or maybe he was just losing it.
But I’ll tell you what, it did work. Not for the reason Emre thought it would. The public let him off because he had become their representative. Their savior. Their strike back against all the Untouchables who spoil the views from their terraces, stink up their bus stations. The good hardworking citizens of Anamur hate those people, and simultaneously they hate themselves for hating them.
So when they acquit Emre they acquit themselves. And there’s one less flaw in their crystal lives.
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