The colonel stepped out of the room into the corridor and hurried through the side door that led to the outside. He needed to get out of that small room with its grisly contents – he was sick of violent, untimely death visited upon innocents. And yet, it was Cambodia’s destiny, it seemed, to be always steeped in blood.
The bright early morning sunshine on his face was warm and restored him slightly. He tried to think coherently, squinting against the glare. He had to decide the best way forward. In the daylight, he knew already that there could be no cover-up. Practically, the cleaning woman who had found the body and the guards she had notified – none of them could be silenced except with tactics that he refused to use. He remembered the quiet voice with which Cheah Huon had spoken the previous day as he sat upright in the witness box. Menhay would not think of the big picture, about justice for Cambodia as embodied in the war crimes tribunal. He would focus on justice for the man lying in the room with a knife buried in his chest. Huon deserved no less and Menhay could not do less. The policeman straightened his back and pulled back his shoulders. He whispered to an aide to inform the judges that the trial would have to be postponed that day – the whole compound was a crime scene.
Looking up, he caught a glimpse of a portly figure wandering towards the courtrooms. An instinct which he would later question and sometimes regret caused him to shout, “Inspector!”
♦
The fat man looked around in surprise – he had been cocooned in the anonymity that came of being in a strange country, enjoying the knowledge that he was far away from Superintendent Chen and his monthly ‘you’re a disgrace to the Force’ lectures. The loud yell pierced his isolation and caused him to stop and scan the horizon in puzzlement. He saw the colonel in the distance – what was his name? Menhay? The honest cop according to his difficult-to-please minder, Chhean, which probably meant that the fellow deserved a medal and a promotion. Why was he beckoning with such intensity?
He hoped the Cambodian wasn’t looking for some sort of ‘fellow copper’ bond like they had on the television. Two cops covering for each other, watching each others’ backs, falling for the same girl – he’d read the script but always been fairly sure that a cop-buddy would soon grow tiresome in real life. In this particular instance, it would probably end in a diplomatic incident. The Sikh detective sauntered towards the Cambodian policeman anyway. Perhaps there were more biscuits in the offing. His need was not quite so great that morning – he had been careful to ensure that he ate a massive breakfast: bacon and eggs washed down with lukewarm sweetened milky coffee. He had to prepare for the eventuality that the lunch menu hadn’t improved. He was determined not to go with Chhean on any more food forays for skewered stick insects either. Singh had always approved of the philosophy of camels, storing up victuals for when resources grew scarce. He grinned suddenly – perhaps his overhanging gut was his hump.
He noted absently that Colonel Menhay had not responded to his broad smile. Something was up. Perhaps a twelfth body had been found. Fat lot of good there was waving him over if that was the case. What did he know about Cambodian serial killers bumping off ex-Khmer Rouge? He, Singh, having listened to the testimony of victims of the Khmer Rouge, already felt sympathetic rather than censorious towards this unknown but efficient killer. He disapproved of murder on principle, of course. But those bastards had it coming to them.
As he got closer to the Cambodian policeman, Singh realised that the man was pale and agitated. He stared hard at Singh as if trying to will him over more quickly with the force of his gaze alone. The Sikh inspector quickened his step, feeling his thighs in their light-wool dark trousers chafe against each other.
“What’s the matter?” he asked as he got closer, subconsciously lowering his tone. Menhay had a furtive air, as if he was a keeper of secrets.
The other man didn’t answer. He beckoned to his tubby counterpart with an urgent gesture and led him into one of the outlying buildings on the premises. Looking round, Singh guessed that the rooms had been set up as hostels – clean, Spartan and not justifying the clandestine behaviour of Colonel Menhay.
He followed the policeman through a door but didn’t even have to look past him to know what lay within. The slightly protruding nostril hairs in his broad nose quivered slightly. He had picked up the scent, that familiar cloying rich odour that his years of experience on the Singapore murder squad had taught him to identify immediately. He pushed past Menhay. The other man was blocking his view and his way, perhaps having second thoughts about allowing another cop and a foreigner to boot onto his turf.
Singh stopped short in the doorway. He had smelt death, expected death and was now confronted with death, but he was still surprised. “Why in the world would anyone kill this guy?” he asked, pulling at an earlobe that protruded from under his tightly wrapped turban.
“What do you mean?” demanded Menhay.
“This place is crawling with people with enemies – Samrin, that chap who was a prison guard, I’ve forgotten his name – Ta Ieng? They’re still alive but someone killed the grave-digger?”
Moving closer, Singh noted that the man had been stabbed at point-blank range. He would have seen his killer, met him face to face. The knife hilt was still visible in his chest. The policeman shook his big head. In a way, Cheah Huon had been unlucky. It was not as easy to stab someone through the heart as popular literature suggested. The point of the blade was often deflected by the sternum resulting in a lung wound which, while potentially fatal, would not result in immediate death. There might have been time for Huon to call for help or crawl out of this small room so that he might have died in the open, with a view of the sky. But this killer had been determined or lucky, probably both, and the knife had penetrated the heart. If the metal was not buried in the dead man like a cork in a bottle of rich red wine, he would have bled profusely. As it was, except for a stain on the front of his white shirt – which looked like a red bloody mouth, decided Singh – there was not much blood on the victim, which meant not much blood on the murderer.
Singh knelt down next to the body, peering at the knife hilt. “Different MO from your serial killer.”
“Besides which this guy was hardly Khmer Rouge,” retorted Menhay.
“Nice gold chain,” remarked Singh, noticing a thick rope of gold that was visible around Cheah Huon’s neck. “I don’t think he was wearing that in court yesterday.”
“Cambodians often keep their savings in gold – they don’t trust the banks.”
Singh could see from the way he was shifting his weight from foot to foot that Colonel Menhay was feeling edgy. It was more than the presence of the dead man that was bothering him. His Cambodian counterpart had almost certainly seen more death than a detective from Singapore. Say what you liked about the rigidity of law enforcement and the sheer boringness of Singapore’s law-abiding citizens, they killed each other with less frequency than their ASEAN counterparts. Singh guessed that Menhay regretted summoning him. He didn’t really care, not when there was a dead body in the vicinity. The inspector peered at the knife hilt like a butterfly collector looking at an exotic sample under a pin. He could see that the handle, a black plastic grip with indentations for ease of grip, was smudged. “Might have prints,” he pointed out.
“I just pray to all the deities that we find some reason for this that has nothing to do with the tribunal!” exclaimed the colonel.
“Why? What’s the issue?” Singh squinted at his counterpart. It was too early in the morning for elliptical references.
“We finally hold a tribunal, thirty years after the killing fields, and a witness is murdered? Most Cambodians are still fearful – this will convince them that the Khmer Rouge still pulls the strings…”
“That doesn’t make sense. He’s already testified.”
“Do you think our people are going to think rationally? Besides, he was going to testify further today. Who knows what he might have said – whom he might have implicated?”
&
nbsp; “So you think this has something to do with the Khmer Rouge?”
“Who else?”
That was the question, certainly. The other question was what the hell was he doing in a small windowless room with a one-legged dead man and an unhappy Cambodian policeman? Curiosity had kept him here – the adrenaline charge of a fresh body distracting him from the realities. But this was well outside his remit. It was time to devise an exit strategy. Singh’s tone was abrupt. “Why did you call me in here? What do you want from me?”
“No idea – I saw you when I stepped out, remembered that you were Singapore’s top murder cop. Maybe I was hoping you would come in here, look around and tell me immediately who had done it!” Menhay managed a rueful smile at the end, exposing his teeth which were worn to stumps.
“I’m afraid I have absolutely no clue who did this,” confessed Singh.
Menhay slapped him on the back, an unexpected gesture of camaraderie.
“This is a Cambodian problem. We will find a solution.” Singh nodded in agreement but quietly hoped that this solution would not be thirty years in the making like the war crimes tribunal. This victim, Cheah Huon, had survived such horrors as would have destroyed a lesser man, and yet the fates had not been content to leave him alone. Singh glanced down at the dead man and there was pity in his dark eyes as he took in the dislodged wooden leg and the furrows of scars like a paddy field after harvest. It seemed that Huon had been killed in a place where it was still possible to get away with murder.
♦
Judge Sopheap was getting dressed. He laid his gown over a chair, brushing it with his hands to remove any lint and dust. He liked to look his best, to present a picture of Cambodian justice that was neat and well-kempt, even though he was not looking forward to the day’s trial at all. It was bad enough listening to the testimony of torturers and reading the statements of survivors, but he was also acutely aware that there were spies ensconced in the audience. He could imagine them, though he could not identify them, listening to every word, looking out for danger – making sure that he, Sopheap, was doing his job. Well, he had done his best for the boss, and he hoped they would realise that and leave him alone.
The original request to him had seemed so reasonable. He was being considered for the war crimes tribunal, a gruff voice had explained over the phone, despite his relative youth and lack of experience. After all, who in Cambodia had experience? Almost every professional, including lawyers, had been killed thirty years ago. Almost by definition, there were no elderly legal sages in the Cambodian judiciary.
I can make sure you make the bench, the caller had explained reassuringly. He knew the people who counted. Indeed, he was one of the people who counted. The judge had felt his hands turn clammy. The pounding of blood in his ears rendered the speaker almost inaudible. He took a deep quiet breath. He was being offered a chance to crown his career – he needed to grasp it with two greedy hands.
What do I have to do? He had injected a note of enthusiasm into his voice so that the caller could hear and understand his interest in the post.
Nothing at all, now, the man explained easily. During the trial, if there was any testimony that could prove an embarrassment, someone would ask him to steer the conversation in another direction – that was all. He had demanded to know who was on the phone – who was behind the offer. The question had provoked a giggle at the other end. He was much better off not knowing, the man had insisted, and something in his voice, an implied threat, had convinced Sopheap that the caller was right.
But it is important that I do my job if I’m selected, he had insisted.
Of course. The man sounded surprised and a little offended. His job was to preside over the trial of Samrin – they were just giving him an extra role, to limit any damage to the caller, the government and broader Cambodian society. As a patriot, he could have no objection to that? Sopheap had agreed at once, apologising for his unwarranted doubts.
And now look where he was – up to his neck in trouble and sinking further with every second. The irony was that, unlike so many Cambodian judges, he had never taken money to determine an outcome or changed his decision based on the status of a defendant. He had avoided the low-hanging bounty only to be tempted by robes as red as the rambutan fruit. He fingered the cloth. He had been shaking like a schoolboy with excitement when he had first been given the ceremonial robes of a judge of the ECCC. Now, if anyone ever found out about him, prison garments would be all that he wore for the rest of his life.
The peal of the telephone on his desk interrupted his train of thought. He picked it up nervously but the voice on the other end was full of good humour.
“Good work, Sopheap.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I admit it. I didn’t think you would have the guts. But you have surprised me – and made me very happy indeed.”
“I’m sorry but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Cheah Huon, of course. You have solved the problem once and for all. I heard he was stabbed with a kitchen knife.” There was a guffaw of laughter at the other end. “That was very clever of you to find a weapon on the premises.”
“Huon has been stabbed?”
“Why are you acting the innocent with me?”
Sopheap was holding the phone so tight that his fingers were cramping. He heard a gentle knock on the door and saw a note slipped under it. He walked over and opened it hurriedly. The trial had been postponed indefinitely – all the judges were asked to convene for a meeting with the police so that they could be briefed on recent events.
“Judge, are you there? Why aren’t you answering?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous…”
“I swear – I had nothing do to with the death of Cheah Huon.”
The other man replied in a knowing voice, “Ah, I understand…you do not wish to admit it even to me to protect yourself in case of trouble. You are right to be cautious – the walls have ears. And we all know that the Cambodian police have unpleasant ways of discovering information.”
Sopheap started to deny his involvement again but his voice petered out in the face of the other man’s iron-clad certainty.
“Understand this,” remarked the caller, “you have done a service to me and I will not forget. You have my thanks.”
The line was cut. Sopheap stared at the phone in silence. He noticed that he had crushed the note in his clenched fist. He looked at the glossy robes hanging on the back of his chair. He would have no need of them for the foreseeable future.
♦
“I’ll help if I can,” said Singh despite his earlier determination to avoid being embroiled in the murder investigation. He gave himself a mental kicking. What was the matter with him? He realised he felt sorry for Menhay. There was something about his isolation that appealed to the Sikh detective. It reminded him of his own leprous quality within the Singapore police. He remained a policeman under sufferance, his bosses always looking for an excuse to get rid of him. He suspected that deep down they feared someone whom they could not control, who valued a victim’s right to justice more than the rules and regulations of the Force. He grunted, causing Menhay to look at him in surprise. If he was being honest, it was just as likely the higher-ups couldn’t stand him because of his long lunches. He tucked him thumbs into his trouser band. The fact that he could substitute his belt with a hula-hoop probably didn’t reflect that well on the Singapore police force either. The Cambodian policeman on the other hand was the real thing – someone who came up against his peers and his superiors because he was determined to do the right thing despite being part of a largely corrupt police force. Only that morning the inspector had read about some military police big shot who had been acquitted, in a highly dubious decision that was being mocked by human rights groups, of throwing acid in the face of the husband of his young coerced lover. Singh reached for his packet of cigarettes. He disagreed with his bosses on process and proto
col, Menhay on results. He was not so lacking in self-awareness that he didn’t know which one of them was the real hero.
“I’m not sure what you can do,” replied Menhay. “Probably it would be better if you remain an ASEAN watching brief.”
His doubts were put on the backburner as a sharp knock on the open door drew their attention to the forensics team. As he pressed up against a wall to avoid getting in their way, the inspector noted with interest that they were unexpectedly professional. He said in a low tone, “These chaps seem to know what they’re doing.”
If Menhay was offended by the surprised note in his voice, he did not show it. Instead, he said regretfully, “We have had great need for forensics experts in Cambodia over the years. This team was trained overseas.”
Singh watched as they took photographs from every angle and started dusting the room for fingerprints. So far, they had refrained from examining the body.
“They’re waiting for the doctor,” explained the colonel.
On cue, a young man with slicked-back hair and a supercilious expression sauntered in. He looked around, thrust his hands deep into his pockets like a recalcitrant teenager and asked, “Who’s in charge?”
He spoke in English which surprised Singh.
Menhay stepped forward and barked, “Colonel Menhay.” It was a response but also a challenge.
The young man nodded and a lock of his over-long black hair tumbled across his forehead. He did not take his hands out of his pockets. Singh eyed him thoughtfully. Was he trying to offend the colonel or merely oblivious to the courtesy the older man expected? A vein throbbed on Menhay’s forehead like a worm just beneath the surface of the earth. He growled, “Who are you?”
A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree Page 8