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.