T here was a knock at the door. “Come in!” called a gruff and manly voice.
“Hello, good morning, Mr. Haider!” said a pale young man as he walked in. He stuck out his hand toward the person he addressed, but it was only met with a quizzical look.

“So you’re the new kid, eh?” observed the obese 55-year-old man, sitting behind a desk cluttered with newspapers.

“Yes, sir! Usama Shaikh, sir!” He said, pulling back his hand. “I’m here for my first assignment. Before that, sir, let me just say that it’s an honor working for Sun News—”

Sajid Haider had already skimmed through his résumé, knew about the extended internship at The New York Times, the degree from Columbia University, the return to Pakistan. He wasn’t interested in giving him an opportunity to make a speech about his patriotism.

“Go to the North Nazimabad Police Station,” interrupted Haider. “Dig up anything you can about the Mustafa Zaidi murder.”

“Err… Sir, didn’t Sun News wrap up that story a month ago?” Usama asked.
“Do you have a problem with your first assignment?” countered Haider, without changing his tone.

“No, sir! I’ll go right away, sir!”
Haider saw Usama leave, the door closing behind him. He put his spectacles down and rubbed his round, wrinkled face. He knew what the kid didn’t know: his source was always on the mark.

Usama walked into the station and was surprised at the bustle of activity that surrounded him. He wondered if something had happened. Curious, he asked the man leading him to the S.H.O.’s room if something was wrong.
The constable snorted and said, “Nothing’s wrong. We have a new inspector and he’s already making our lives hell. He’s making everyone search for old files and God knows what. Like we don’t have anything else to do.”

He turned and left after directing Usama to his destination. The S.H.O. sounded promising, he thought, and entered, stopping short almost immediately.

“Ahmad Ali, is that you?” he asked uncertainly.
The man seated at the table looked up from the thick file he had been reading.

“Usama? Usama Shaikh?”
“Yeah,” said Usama and grinned. “Imagine running into you after all these years. And that too in a police station!”
Ahmad Ali laughed. “Are you visiting or … ?”

“I got my degree, worked there for a bit, and then decided to come back.”
“You’re back in your old place on Ameer Khusro Road?”

“Nah. I decided to rent an apartment near my parents’ home. I’ve gotten too used to the independence. Besides, it’s great – I can drop in any time, and just when my grandmother starts giving me an earful about the dangers of riding a motorbike, I make a graceful exit.”

“Good old Usama,” Ahmad smiled. “So what brings you here?”
“I’ve recently joined Sun News, and my editor wants to me reinvestigate a murder,” Usama replied, plainly.

“Really? Which murder?”
“Some kid by the name of Mustafa Zaidi. He was killed last month.”
Ahmad Ali whistled. “Looks like we’re both working on the same case.”

“That’s great, then. So, tell me, what are you up to?” Usama opened his notepad, began scribbling.

He was obsessing over the news he had heard on T.V. last night. Out on his morning run, the reporter’s words flashed across his mind again: Police have re-opened investigation of the Mustafa Zaidi murder. He still hadn’t gotten over his initial shocked reaction. It had been such a clean job, what did they want to reinvestigate for? They should have forgotten that worthless kid by now. Who would want to waste time trying to find out who had killed him?
He was certain they didn’t have fingerprints or any other identifying information. They would have found it last month, had he been careless enough to leave any. But he hadn’t been careless. He was always careful. No one could catch him. He was perfect and more intelligent than the wimpy and dumb men in the police. And they couldn’t find anything from a cold murder scene. He relaxed and his legs slowed down to a rhythmic walk. There was the clue. They wouldn’t find any evidence since it was impossible.
No doubt, they would find some petty criminal innocent of murder and hang him for Mustafa’s murder. He smiled. They were pitiable if they thought that they could better him. Reassured, he began strolling towards home.