by Sanchez, Bob
Sam arrived at work at 11:30. Wilkins and Fitchie had both signed out on the whiteboard.
He checked the number of the St. Bridgid’s rectory and dialed. The voice on the other end of the line was Father McClafferin’s booming brogue.
“Well, sure I do. We get them from the archdiocese. They’ve got some buyer who handles purchases for all of the local parishes.”
“Any place they can buy palm fronds locally?”
“The archdiocese gets them from Texas or Florida. You know, there isn’t much call for them except around Easter.”
At least Sam knew that no one walked into a local store and bought his murder weapon. He had to travel to get it, or maybe someone traveled to bring it to him. Most likely, one of the Battboys brought palm fronds from California. In that case, there wasn’t much point in pursuing local sources.
He called the Stockton Police on the West Coast. He introduced himself to Detective Garrels and waited several minutes while Garrels pulled out a file.
“Okay, I got it,” Garrels said. “I remember this Khem Chhap,” Garrels said. “One assault, no conviction. He tried to punch a guy’s lights out over some grudge from the refugee camps.”
“What do you mean, he tried?”
“Chhap was a frail fellow. Being treated for cancer, as I recall.”
“What was the victim’s name?”
“Nawath Lac. He eventually dropped the charges.”
Sam thanked Garrels and hung up the phone. He put in for a week’s vacation starting with the end of the day; meanwhile, he kept busy with paperwork and tried not to think about how he had let his family down. A photo of Viseth Kim’s body lay on Sam’s desk, underneath a cup of cold coffee. Best picture of the bastard he had ever seen. Maybe Wilkins was doing Sam a favor by taking him off the Chea and Kim killings, but certainly not on purpose. Wilkins never helped anybody without a good reason.
Sam snapped a pencil and threw it in the trash, then reached in his desk for the rest of the pencils. Then he snapped another one, a number 2.5 Dixon Oriole, destruction of municipal property, probably a misdemeanor, but it came apart with a satisfying crack, and Sam pictured his hands wringing Bin Chea’s neck.
Cancer. Snap.
Khem Chhap had cancer. Snap.
Maybe he was the one Viseth killed. Snap.
And maybe Bin Chea was still out there. Sam reached for another pencil, but they were all gone. He stood up, aware now that Colleen McGinnis was staring at him, and went into the men’s room to wash his face. Somehow he had to regain control of himself and get back to business.
Think. Who had called Sam at home last night, and what on earth did he hear? “Don’t. Please don’t.” The voice had sounded vaguely familiar, almost like Viseth crying from the bottom of a barrel. He’d heard pleas like that a dozen times at Little Mountain, but why would someone say those things to him? Maybe the call was just a prank by some sick Battboy. That made no sense at all, but he wasn’t going to put up with it. He called the telephone company and requested an unlisted number, effective as soon as possible. He would call Julie tonight, then tell her parents.
Sam thumbed through his address book for the number of The Asian Store; then he picked up the phone again and dialed.
“Mister Tip, this is detective Sambath Long. I am serious about the carry permit. Would you please visit me here at the station? The paperwork will take only a few minutes.”
Tip’s voice carried none of the traditional Cambodian politeness. “I don’t have time to get a carry permit. Forget it.”
“Do you have time to spend a year in jail, then? Please come now, so I can return your weapon.”
When Souvann Tip showed up fifteen minutes later, Sam ushered him to a swivel chair next to his desk.
“Thank you for your promptness, Mister Tip. I realize how busy you are. Last night you said the calls stopped, the ones you were getting in the middle of the night. What were they like?”
“Is this why you called me here? I told you already. I would pick up the phone and no one would say anything.”
“I called you because you absolutely need the carry permit. You didn’t get a dial tone?”
“No, just breathing. Like an obscene phone call.”
“Any noise in the background?”
“I don’t think so. It was very quiet.”
“Who do you think was calling you?”
“Bin Chea, or somebody calling for him. Nobody else had a reason to bother me.”
“Can you tell me anything about a man named Khem Chhap?”
“Him? I know the old fool. He was obsessed with the past, with blood grudges. He swore he would cut out Bin Chea’s liver and fry it for lunch, as Chea supposedly did to some boy. Chhap sounded like a foolish drunk, so I didn’t think much of his wild stories.
“I spoke to Bin once out of friendship, and let him know what Khem had told me. Bin said he didn’t know Khem but wanted to make his peace with him, and could I arrange for them to meet. Bin said that as soon as they met, Khem Chhap would realize his mistake. I’m not sure if they ever got together. Do you think Khem killed Bin?”
“I’m more interested in what you think,” Sam said.
The telephone rang. “Come see me right away,” Wilkins said.
“Excuse me for a minute, Mister Tip.” Sam went into Wilkins’ office.
“Shut the door behind you,” Wilkins said. Sam eased the door closed and resigned himself to breathing the same air as Wilkins.
Wilkins popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. “Who’s the guy with the sling?” he said.
“Souvann Tip from The Asian Store. Remember the fellow who was shot in a robbery?”
“Yeah. Didn’t tell us shit.”
“Now he’s talking. Says he owed money to Bin Chea, and he was getting harassed.”
“You trying to keep that case alive, I’ll kick your ass. Told you to let it go.”
“The Tip shooting isn’t closed, and the victim is giving me important information.”
“A hot dog gets a hot tip, right? Well, listen up, my boy. I’m more or less doing you a favor keeping quiet about you killing the punk.”
Sam took a deep breath and swallowed his resentment. “I didn’t kill anyone, Lieutenant.”
“Whatever. You and Fitchie dug into the files trying to make me look like a liar. So don’t try my patience. The Chea thing is history.”
Yeah, last week’s bloodbath. Happens all the time.
Sam went back to his desk, but Tip was gone. He’d left behind his signed request for a carry permit.
Blood pounded through Sam’s temples, and his muscles tightened like coiled springs. Illegitimi non carborundum, the plaque said; its marble back felt heavy in his hands. How far could he throw it, and how big a dent would it make in the wall? No, he shouldn’t be a fool. The marble might break, and he’d piss off the friends who gave the plaque to him. Stop, Sam. Stop and think before you--
He slammed the plaque on the coffee cup.
--do something irrational.
Viseth looked like a squashed bug, brown blood splattered across Sam’s desk, don’t let the bastards grind you down.
“What the hell’s going on?” Fitchie said.
“Swatting flies.”
Fitchie looked at the mess on Sam’s desk. “Damn. Next time ask for a fly swatter. Let’s take a ride. Get you some air, we can talk.”
While Sam sat in the car and waited for Fitchie, he imagined holding Bin Chea’s mouth open and pouring Khem Chhap’s ashes down his throat.
“I signed us both out,” Fitchie said. “Move over. You’re in no condition to drive.” Sam took a deep breath and slid over to the passenger side. Fitchie might have saved him from assaulting his boss.
They turned left onto Central Street and headed toward the park, where they walked in the shade of a red maple tree. Nearby, a woman watched her child play on a jungle gym.
“Sam, what’s your take on this Chea case? You must have a theory
.”
“My theory? I think Khem Chhap’s ashes are sitting on Mrs. Chea’s nightstand. She’ll file an insurance claim as soon as her grief subsides. The hospital wouldn’t release his records, but I didn’t see any medical bills in his mail. No prescription drugs in his cabinet. But we know from Katsios that the victim was dying from lung cancer. Chhap smoked menthols, the kind we found in Chea’s apartment.”
“Bottom line is Bin Chea’s still alive?”
“Yes, and Angka is still alive.”
“Angka being the organization.”
“Exactly. They’re trying to control the Asians in Lowell. When they left money in my car, they were trying to gain a friend in the police department.”
“You tell anybody this?”
“Who’d listen?” Sam asked.
“You didn’t, good. I think it’s time we did us a little more research. Why do I get the feeling the boss isn’t on our side?”
Fitchie looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. With two energetic boys in school and Ellie losing her fight with leukemia, how could he take the strain? “You have too much to worry about already,” Sam said.
“If you think Bin Chea faked his death, then I want to help you prove it. We have Wilkins’ word on the fingerprint results. Anybody takes Wilkins’ word on anything’s a damn fool.”
“If you’re up to it, help me look in the pit.”
“I looked once for the fingerprint results, but that place is a freaking mess.”
“So did I,” Sam said. “Tonight I’m looking again when the swing shift’s on duty. Can you give me a couple of hours?”
Fitchie could.
A search of the canal by a police diver turned up no murder weapon, and Katsios turned the bullets over to the police department. Sitting at his desk the next morning, Sam held a plastic bag containing the pair of slugs that Katsios had carved out of Viseth’s leg with minimum delicacy.
Sam would just as soon never watch an M.E. practice his craft. How could anyone stand to take a saw to a corpse? For all the bodies he’d seen, he never got used to them.
He held the telephone receiver to his ear. Gonzalez caught his attention and flashed him a thumbs-up sign. Sam nodded but listened to Katsios.
“He wasn’t killed with bullets or a knife,” Katsios said. “The neck wound is too ragged, and there were two or three pieces of plant matter still stuck to the trachea.”
“I’m betting it’s palm.”
“Botany’s not my specialty, and the samples are less than a centimeter each. My guess is you’re right. Kelley in the lab will let you know for sure.”
Sam thanked the M.E. and hung up. The ragged edge of a palm leaf. He tried hard not to admire this new killer for the mess he’d made of Viseth. A lot of trouble. Especially if you also had a gun.
When was the last time--? 1978 at Little Mountain. Some poor fellow was dragged off the bulldozer and lay on the ground screaming inside a circle of flies as a twelve-year-old boy cut slowly across his neck with a palm leaf. Sambath and his fellow workers witnessed what would happen to anyone who displeased Angka.
Sam drummed his fingers on the desk. An American wouldn’t murder someone this way. In too much of a hurry. Or a Cambodian either, when there were so many easier ways to put someone in the ground. Maybe the killer wanted to make Viseth’s death especially painful. This looked like the Khmer Rouge at work: Don’t just kill your victim, but savor his agony.
He tried to stay objective. Why would this person kill Viseth? Sam knew why he would, of course. Wilkins wasn’t wrong about that. But the logic of the timing seemed off. What could this murder have to do with the attack on Julie and Trish? Maybe nothing. The whole Mersey Street neighborhood was his friend, Viseth had said. Maybe one of them turned him into hamburger, what are friends for? No, too much coincidence. Why turn on him now?
And something else made no sense. He rolled his chair over to Fitchie’s desk.
“Fitchie, the FBI gets fingerprints for everyone who comes into this country. Why couldn’t they find a set of prints for Bin Chea?”
Fitchie shrugged. “They don’t keep them forever if the subject isn’t involved in a criminal case. And they misfile them, just like we do here.”
“Do we ever.”
“They possibly mislabel stuff. They have over ten million records, and they still aren’t computerized yet. So what are you getting at?”
“I want to be absolutely sure about what happened.”
“His old lady ID’d him. That’s usually enough.”
“Where are the FBI results?”
“In one of the file cabinets in the snake pit, where all that crap is kept.”
The snake pit. Eight hours in the records room had been one of Sam’s first assignments as a rookie. Nothing was in its right place. He’d shuffled folders, filed them, felt the mind-numbing boredom, and thought for a moment of quitting before he remembered that this was the easiest work he’d ever had. It was better than his first job in America, where he hauled heavy boxes in a factory; it was certainly better than spending fourteen hours a day up to his ankles in mud while leeches drank blood between his toes.
But filing wasn’t what cops were supposed to do, either. They were supposed to keep law and order in the streets, not in the file cabinets.
On that first day, he’d picked up a garter snake as it tried to slither between the back wall and the last cabinet. Wilkins Junior, someone called it. How it got there Sam didn’t know, but he carried the wriggling creature out to a safe spot behind a foundation shrub and out of range of Wilkins’ boot.
For a moment he’d felt like the old Sambath Long, the great hunter who once took on a python with a club. Head on, the way you deal with pythons. His trophy had hung around his neck as he strode into Little Mountain. For once, everyone ate.
The garter snake incident gave the filing room its nickname. Whenever Sam thought of the snake, he thought of Wilkins. Some things didn’t change: many of the real snakes still wore uniforms.
These days the pit was worse than ever. File folders were stacked in sliding piles on top of the cabinets, and papers lay everywhere: on top, between, behind, and sometimes even in the cabinets where they belonged. This room was the flat tire on the wheel of Sam’s progress.
“I already looked for it in there,” Sam said. “The pit’s a mess again since they laid off the file clerk. Who filed it?”
“The lieutenant.”
Wait a minute. Since when was Wilkins subbing as a file clerk? Why wouldn’t the prints be Chea’s? And if they weren’t, then whose were they? Whose wake had Sam really gone to? Courtney’s not dead, Trish had said. I switched. “Real estate prices are going up again, aren’t they?” Sam finally said.
“Around here, anyway.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Chea’s going to sell her property. Collect her insurance money. Move to a warmer climate.”
“Warmer than this?” Fitch’s face was red from the heat. “It’s eleventy-nine degrees out there.”
“I meant year round. California, maybe.”
“Thinking about moving out there yourself?”
“No, I’m not. California weather doesn’t change enough for me. They have a wet season and a dry season, just like where I came from.” Sam drummed his fingers on his chin and stared at Fitchie. “California would be a good place to start over, though.”
“For Chea’s old lady?”
“Maybe for both of them.”
Fitchie stared at Sam. “You suggesting Bin Chea’s alive?”
Wilkins stepped out of his office and headed out the door that led to the parking lot.
“When was the last time you saw Wilkins file anything?” Sam asked.
“I never have, but he said he’d do it this time. Where the hell did he stuff those records?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter. Can we get the FBI to re-send them to you?”
“I don’t know. We may have to resubmit the request. Want to take bets on whether you can
find a copy in the pit?”
Sam shook his head.
“We could try the direct approach,” Fitch said. “I’ll just ask him.” Fitch left to catch up with Wilkins and was back in a minute. “Told me the files are there in the pit and we should find ’em and stick ’em up our ass.”
The pit had twenty-eight file cabinets that were olive green, like swamp scum. They were aligned in three banks, with two narrow rows in between; in the middle were two rows back to back. File folders poked out of drawers that wouldn’t close. A’s were mixed with C’s, C’s with M’s, M’s with W’s--if anything was in its right place, that was just by lucky chance. The pit was where records went to die.
“No sense being logical about this,” Fitchie said. “Let’s forget the alphabet. You take that aisle and I’ll take this one. Never mind what a folder says, we’ll look inside every one.”
Fingerprint records and arrest records were arranged every way but logically. Filing according to best fit seemed like the approach to Sam; shove a folder into the first file drawer not already jam-packed. No one took responsibility for this mess. The two worked silently for hours, working their way through drawers. They worked methodically, lifting out hanging folders and checking for files that might have slid underneath the rest, checking every one. There was no time to arrange files in order as he went along, or he would never get home to sleep. Sam’s share of the search was fourteen cabinets, which included forty-two file drawers and who the hell knew how many folders inside?
“And let’s not forget--” Sam sneezed “--the stacks on top.”
Sam explored drawer after drawer, lifting out every folder, inspecting every slip of paper inside and unleashing dust motes that made his eyes water. The clock on the wall said ten forty-five. Maybe the FBI could send the results again. The file ought to have been there, so where was it? Maybe that idiot Wilkins really did throw it away.
They’d found nothing in the drawers. Sam reached for a stack of folders on top, maybe another fifteen minutes’ work. Papers slid out of the folders, and he carefully replaced them. There was only one stack left, and then they’d be through for the night. How would the people of Lowell feel, knowing that the public safety might depend on actually finding something in this place? What good was an army of officers writing reports if everything went under M for Miscellaneous?