This is a work of fiction.  The SEAAA Agency, the town of Seabell and its police department, as well as all the    characters in the book are fictitious.  Any resemblance to  actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  The names, events, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.  The tragedy of the holocaust in Cambodia from 1975-1979 is a matter of history.  During that period an estimated 1.7 million people died under the reign of Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge.  For ease of  reading, the words in Khmer are phonetically spelled.

     Is This the Way to Bliss?
               Chapter 1
       
      I could tell by Detective Jack Patrewski's expression that he considered me a nuisance.  Or as my good friend C.J. would say, "A pure pain in the patootie."  I almost walked out of the police station.   Patrewski swivelled in his chair, sliding close enough so that I could clearly see the fine network of red veins edging the whites of his eyes.  His thin face had prominent cheekbones, probably an imprint from a Polish progenitor.  The detective's lips were full, and his face, the color of fresh-turned earth in the spring, reflected his African-American ancestry.   He came to the point fast.  "Mrs. O'Hern.  Let's get something straight.  I didn't ask for you, and I don't need your help."
     "And I don't especially want to be here," I replied.  "I came because Sovath Sovang from the Southeast Asian Assistance Agency asked me.   Hahn Ly, the man who was killed, was a long time employee with the SEAAA agency.  She said the police needed an American liaison with the Cambodian community.  Maybe I'm not the best choice.  But I'm willing to try."  I stared at the detective with as much belligerence as I could muster.
      The look didn't come easy.  Early on, my mother had instilled in me that conformity was a virtue.  Then married to John, I had made being pleasant at all times into an art form.
      So here I was sitting across from a grumpy cop realizing that old habits don't die; they just come to life when least wanted.
      C.J., who is fond of reading Joseph Campbell, says that my adventures since John died  have been a way to "find my bliss."  Maybe so.  But looking around, I didn't think my bliss lay in the clutter of file folders and butterscotch candy wrappers strewn on a homicide detective's desk.
      The phone rang and Patrewski brusquely answered it.  As he listened, he sorted through the papers on his desk, found an unlit cigar and jammed it in the corner of his mouth.  Finally, he muttered, "Okay."  He hung up and jerked his head toward the door.  "The captain wants to see us."  He laid the cigar on the edge of a candy dish and said in a more conciliatory tone, "Will you come?"
      When we walked in, Captain Gillworth's smile was as polished as the brass nameplate on his desk.  Seated in front of him was a small Asian man who didn't turn around until the captain began introductions.   "Mr. Nor Sang, this is Homicide Detective Patrewski, who will lead the investigation.  Mrs. O'Hern is another public-spirited citizen who will be helping us."
      Sang pushed his chair back slowly, and stood.  He salaamed, hands together, thumbs almost touching his chin.  Patrewski returned the greeting with a polite nod.  Then Sang turned toward me and bowed, hands together again.  On his right hand, he had two large moles that looked inflamed.
      At five-foot seven, I was slightly taller than the Cambodian and larger in frame.  The physical difference shifted dominance from Sang to me.  I knew that culturally he would find that hard to accept.  Raising my hands in the same respectful gesture of introduction, I said, "Som joom reap sou."   I am very honored to meet you.  I was careful not to look at him directly.   He replied in Cambodian, but I only understood the "Or koon" or thank you part.  My skill at speaking Khmer was limited to a few polite phrases.
      The captain smiled again, lots of white teeth flashing,  "Good, good.  Please take a seat."
      Sang sat, his face creasing into an equally toothy smile.  His eyes, though, held no warmth.  Staring into them was like shining a light into a black pit: nothing reflecting back.  Tingling began at the base of my spine and my stomach knotted.  The stirring as I thought of it, was the first I had felt since John's death.  Grandmother Kate had explained that the gift, as she called it, had been passed down from her side of the family and usually warned of nearby danger.
      But I was out of practice paying attention to the signal.  And as with a riffling breeze that comes and goes, my uneasiness left.  I turned my attention back to the captain.
      He said, "Mr. Sang, the police department and mayor want the Cambodian community to know that we will solve the Ly family homicides and bring the persons who did this to justice."
      Sang inclined his head.
      The captain glanced at the open file in front of him.  "You have been sent by the Cambodian temple as a representative for your people.  We're pleased to have you assist us  contacting families and providing interpretation.  Although you do understand, if we make any arrests, court-assigned translators will have to be used."  He added, "We  have legal procedures we must follow."
      Sang responded with a gravity to match the lieutenant's.  "Yes, I help many of my people who are uneducated and speak little English.  They had bad experiences in Cambodia and do not trust government or police."
      When he spoke, the visceral nudging began again.  Though his statement was true enough on the surface, I sensed that his offer was probably self-serving.  From my experience, most Cambodians who had promoted themselves as leaders of Seabell's Khmer community had also corrupted their influence for personal gain.
      Which would be understandable--if they were still living in Cambodia.
Phourim Nath, the youth worker at SEAAA, had told me that bribery and payoffs had been the way things were done in his former homeland.  Phourim was my unofficial teacher on Cambodian or Khmer culture.  He had explained how his family had once paid extra to get help for his sick grandmother at a free government clinic.  The bribe had gone to a middle man who knew the clinic's admitting clerk who in turn demanded her own payoff.  Spreading his hands apart, Phourim had said,  "We pay or grandmother maybe die."
      My distrust of Sang grew when he said with self-importance, "I am educated.  The poor Cambodians cannot understand American culture. They need me to explain."   
     Captain Gillworth beamed.  "Thank you, Mr. Sang.  The Seabell Police Department appreciates your offer."  He flashed another brilliant smile at me.  He said,  "Now, Mrs. O'Hern, I understand you're a consultant working with the agency where one of the victims was employed."
      I gave him enough background to establish my credibility.  "Yes.  I've been doing staff  training and program assessments with SEAAA for three years, and before that, I did volunteer work in the Cambodian community."  Hoping to loosen up the captain, I smiled and added,  "The name is Bridget, or Bridg, if you prefer."
      He ignored my attempt to lighten up, and said formally, "I am sure we will have good results with both of you citizens available to Detective Patrewski."
      Sang's expression didn't change, not even an eye blink.  But, I sensed his reaction to the lieutenant's unintended slight.  Sang had lost face.  The captain had made the two of us equal in value to the police.
      Quickly, I said,  "Of course, because Mr. Sang is so respected and trusted, you will come to him first.  Maybe after that I can help with small pieces of information."
      "Of course," Gillworth echoed.  He stood up and said,  "Detective Patrewski is the lead investigator on the case, and he will be your contact.  While his partner is recovering from surgery, I've assigned Detective Morales to work with him.  Unfortunately, she couldn't be here this morning.  She's finishing an important assignment for the mayor."   
      I peeked at Patrewski who didn't look impressed.
      Gillworth came around his desk and shook hands with Sang and me.  Showing us to the door, he said, "Thank you for your public spirit. The police and community working together can make a difference."
      Patrewski led us back to his cubicle where the three of us passed out business cards.  Sang started to leave, then stopped.  Glancing at the detective, he spoke as if embarrassed but compelled.  "Detective Patrewski, my people have suffered much prejudice in America between the races."  Sang paused, and his eyes flicked over the detective's face.  "We hope you will catch the gang that killed the Lys."
      Patrewski's expression remained as bland as the wall behind him.  "Bullets don't care about color.  And race doesn't matter when you're dead.  We'll find the shooter."
      Tilting his head in acknowledgment, Sang bowed.  When he turned to leave, I saw a thin smile of satisfaction on his face.
      After Sang left, Patrewski clenched his jaw muscles, obviously angry at Sang's parting words.  Making a visible effort to relax, Patrewski picked up his cigar from the candy dish.  He stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth and chomped down, probably wishing it was Sang's neck.
      To distract him, I asked,  "What did he mean by gang?"
      "There's some thinking the AZ gang was involved."
      "That's a bad Asian gang, isn't it?" I asked.
      "Yeah.  What do you know about gangs?"
      "I've worked with the youth council where Hahn Ly worked.  If kids like you, they talk about what's going on in their lives."
      Patrewski shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth.  I looked at the No Smoking sign on the wall.  He shrugged.  "I don't light up.  I'm kicking the habit, but it's tough.  The patches don't work.  The candy's just a crutch."
I smiled sympathetically.  "Did it appear like a gang killing to you?  The news reported that the Lys were killed in their home."
      "It's too soon to know.  They were each shot in the head with a nine millimeter.  It's a handgun anybody could steal or buy."
      "I don't remember any mention of a gang connection. Why did Sang think there was one?"
      "Good question," he said.  "I'd like to know the answer." 
      Patrewski leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the armrests.  His desk was a messy contrast to his clothes: a starched shirt in a color slightly paler than the candy wrappers' yellow, and a tie that looked like the Bill Blass one I bought for my son-in-law last Christmas.  Patrewski seemed a man of interesting contradictions.
      The detective squinted as if he were reviewing some internal document seen only by him, then reaching into a stack of files, he pulled out a folder and flipped it open.  He tossed over a black and white photo.  "Ever see a crime scene before?"
      I looked down and saw Hahn Ly and his wife lying on their backs on a rug. Their arms and legs were sprawled out from their bodies.  The camera had caught them at an angle so that I could see a small hole in the center of each forehead.  Dark patches and matter that must have been blood and brain tissue spattered the area around their heads.  I glanced up.  Patrewski's face gave no clue as to what he expected from me.  Perhaps he thought the grisly scene would send me running out the door.  I looked one more time at the picture.  What a cruel end for them after surviving the Khmer Rouge times.
I handed the photo back.  "I don't think I could ever get used to seeing human life needlessly wasted."
      Patrewski stared at the folder in his hands.  "Neither can I.  That's why I'm a cop." 
      We sat back in our chairs and studied each other for a moment.  I asked,      "Why did you show me that photo?  It's not normal police procedure, is it?"
He stuck the glossy into its folder.  "No.  But I've got a funny feeling---"
Which made two of us.
      Smiling, I said, "Are you speaking from experience or a bad lunch?"
      "Trust me.  I know the difference.  I've been at this too long."
      Patrewski worked the cigar to the other side of his mouth and asked,  "What do you think of Sang?"
      I thought through my answer before speaking.   Phourim had impressed upon me over and over that nothing said in confidence remained a secret in the Khmer community.  The Cambodian people had a communication system that predated cyberspace for velocity and speed and was just as invisible.  He had cautioned,  "Never say anything that can be twisted against you."  I wondered if that held true even inside Seabell's police station.
      I said, "If you're looking for a leader in the Cambodian community, then you might want to search for more than the first volunteer who shows up--including me.  It's rare for one person to be able to speak for all the different Cambodian factions.  And there are many.  Political and otherwise."
     I added.  "If you want to get a quick fix on the culture, try reading Khmer fables.  There's one similar to the story of Little Red Riding Hood and the big, bad wolf.  Only in the fable the wolf's a tiger.  The lesson's the same."
Patrewski blinked.  Struck incredulous, I gathered. 
      Talking fairy tales to make an oblique point hadn't been the way to impress him.  He probably wanted to throw me out, but couldn't because of his boss's orders.  Yet, I thought I could help him.  Patrewski might not have a color problem-- but as with Sang, many Cambodians would.  With a black cop conducting the investigation, they would be polite but not forthcoming.  And having only Sang as a liaison was no guarantee that the truth would come out.
      Patrewski eyeballed me for a moment.  "Do 'these fables' have one about choosing the lesser of two evils?" he asked.
      Before I could answer, he stared over my shoulder and said, "I thought you were a no show."
      I turned around in my chair, and Patrewski introduced me to Detective Morales who was standing in the cubicle's entrance. 
      Consuelo Morales appraised me from deep-set, dark eyes when we shook hands.  And I assessed her, too.  She was shorter and stockier than I with better curves in the right places, though her tailored jacket and neat slacks streamlined them.  She also seemed intense--and young to be a detective, maybe thirty.
      She said, "Sorry, about missing the meeting.  How did it go?".
      "Okay."  He gestured toward me.  "The captain has assigned Mrs. O'Hern to work with us in the Cambodian community."
      She looked at me with renewed interest.  "Do you speak Cambodian?" she asked.
      "Just a few words."
      "Oh.  Did you know the Lys then?"
      "Hahn Ly, but not his wife.  I did some training with him at the agency."
      "Do you live in Seabell?"
      "No.  Actually, near Chehalis."
      Morales said, "Hmm."   Apparently feeling I had nothing more to offer, she added, "Well . . . it's nice to have met you."
      She smiled briefly before turning to Patrewski.  Patting the briefcase by her side, she said, "I had to pick up some papers for the mayor.  As soon as I deliver them, I'll be back."
      "Take your time," he said, straightening the files in front of him.
      "I won't be more than forty minutes."
      "That's okay."
      Morales swivelled from Patrewski to me then back.  "We can hook up as soon as I return," she said.
      "Sure," he answered.
      Morales waited, as if hoping he would pin down a time.  When he didn't, she frowned and started to say something.  Instead, she shot me a look.
I took the cue and stood up.  Including both detectives with a glance, I said,           "I have to be going. You have my card.  Call me if I can help."
      Leaving the police station, I thought that Patrewski's choices of the lesser evil to work with had broadened.  Judging by his cool reception, he had three to pick from: Sang, his new partner, Morales, and me.