The Secret of Hagia Sophia

He was surprised by the chaos that greeted him. A yellow plastic tape had been stretched across the wide sidewalk in front of the museum-church, marking the boundaries of what was now obviously a crime scene. Several official cars and two armored personnel carriers were blocking off one lane of the heavily traveled street. Parking control officers had put down flares to close that lane to east-west traffic. An ambulance was parked in front of the building, its dome lights flashing and its engine idling. Vehicles belonging to the Emergency Medical Technicians (EMTs) and the Medical Examiner (ME), were also there, back doors gaping open, crews waiting in the rain to provide emergency medical services to any survivors of whatever incident had taken place inside during the night, or to receive the bodies of any victims for transporting to the morgue. The official vehicles and the rain were causing a massive disruption for Istanbul’s morning commuters.
A half dozen uniformed officers and plain clothes crime scene investigators were milling about, entering and leaving the building through its wide-open front doors, all with serious looks on their faces. The yellow tape barred his access. Puzzled, he stopped at the tape and surveyed the scene. What’s the reason for all this? He wondered. He decided to approach one of the uniformed police officers. As he attempted to push his way through the gawkers, two men in civilian clothes turned and glared at him. “Davut Sharif?” Matt said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Dawson. You are back from Paris?” Davut’s voice was unsteady. He was unshaven, the rain had plastered his hair to his head, and there was a look of pain and bewilderment in his eyes.
“Yes. Late last night. What happened here?”
“There has been . . . an incident. A horrible one.” He shook his head as if struggling to comprehend the full enormity of what had happened, and then turned to his companion. “This is the American I have been talking about,” he said. “Basham’s friend, Matthew Dawson.” He turned back to Matt. “This is Istanbul’s Police Chief, Huseyin Capkin.” “Ah. So good to meet you, Mr. Dawson. Davut has been singing your praises for a week, and keeping us informed of your . . . doings,” Capkin said, extending his hand.
Matt shook Chief Capkin’s hand. “What has happened here?” He asked again.
“A break-in. An armed robbery, and a shooting,” Davut said. “My son has been shot.”
“Shot? Is he okay?”
“No. He is dead.”