Death Stalks the Khmer
Chapter 1- Continued                          Return to previous page

      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.

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