The Rat Catchers' Olympics

by Colin Cotterill

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We have no idea,” said Daeng. “Sorry to drag you out of the film. We thought this might be serious.”

  “They haven’t told me anything,” said Roger, who was starting to look as if he might lose control of his bladder at any second. The Soviets were standing together mumbling like extras in a low-budget stage production. Nobody seemed prepared to step into the spotlight.

  “I don’t like this,” said Suvan, the old general. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Finally the door opened and a middle-aged man with a greying Elvis hairstyle entered with some haste. He was dressed like a high-school teacher in jacket and stay-press slacks and a sizeable gut hung over his belt. He looked around at the Lao and smiled. If it was meant to put everyone at ease, it didn’t work.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said in heavily accented English and sat down at the only desk in the room. Everyone else sat on folding chairs and benches. He opened a file. “I’m afraid we have a serious problem,” he said, switching to Russian. He looked up from the papers in front of him. “I should be hearing a translation by now.”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Who is the interpreter into Lao?”

  Again nobody spoke. One of the large Soviets pointed at Roger.

  “Him,” he said.

  “Boy,” said Elvis. “Do your job.”

  “Yes, comrade,” said Roger. His voice eked from the back of his throat sounding like that of a young girl and he stammered his translation.

  “As I say, there has been a very serious incident,” said Elvis. “It involves one of your citizens. I am Senior Detective Volkov from the Moscow Criminal Investigation Department, which perhaps will tell you how serious this matter is. Over there we have Comrade Sokolov of the KGB, and Comrade Mihylov of the Foreign Ministry. There has been a murder committed by a Lao citizen who is a member of your Olympic squad.”

  Siri and his team did their utmost to look surprised. Each of them had a favorite candidate for the assassin role. Apparently the hit had been successful but the killer had not made a clean getaway. It was shameful for the Lao squad but at least they’d learn who the murderer was. Siri saw it as a positive that the Red Army had adopted the Lao shooters because they’d have the power to make the incident go away. The killer would be sacrificed but it wouldn’t become an international incident. He just found it a little surprising that there were no military officers in the room.

  “Before eleven p.m. last night,” said Elvis, “one of your boxers, Maensai Khamdeng, murdered a young Russian woman in an apartment in Khamovniki District.”

  Elvis waited for a response but the Lao were too stunned to react. Maen—Mr. Conceited himself—had lost his cool and killed one of his beauties. What a mess that would be.

  “How do you know?” asked Civilai.

  Elvis looked up to see where the question was coming from. He replied to the translation.

  “A neighbor saw Mr. Maensai arrive with the woman at nine p.m. yesterday,” he said. “The doorman witnessed him leave hurriedly a little before eleven p.m. He was suspicious and went upstairs and found the door to her apartment ajar. Inside he found the victim dead in the living room.”

  “The weapon?” Daeng asked.

  “No weapon has been found,” said Elvis, “but there were multiple stab wounds to the stomach. In fact, the details of the police inquiry are not relevant to this meeting. Of course every effort will be made to document our findings in the report that will be sent to your government. But I’m sure you’ll agree that this is very embarrassing for your nation.”

  “Very, very embarrassing,” said General Suvan. “I must offer you our most sincere apologies.”

  “It is also uncomfortable for us,” Elvis continued, “as you are one of a few socialist countries and we invited you personally to the Games. We are not saying that justice will not be done in this case. A murder is a murder. But we are prepared to keep the matter between you and ourselves. We may be able to extradite the killer to your country to be dealt with according to your laws. But we see no reason why the press should be notified.”

  “That’s most kind of—” General Suvan began.

  “So, you’ve decided Maensai did it, then?” said Siri.

  Elvis looked at the questioner. “Who’s he?” he asked.

  “The team doctor,” said Roger.

  “Is that so?” said Elvis. “Well, being a doctor I doubt he knows that much about police matters. All that I can say is that the evidence against your boxer is overwhelming.”

  “Where is he?” asked Daeng.

  Again, Elvis asked for the identity of the speaker.

  “The team doctor’s wife,” said Roger.

  “Then tell her he’s at a secure location and that she doesn’t need to concern herself about his nutrition.”

  “That’s not good enough,” said Civilai. “A suspect has rights, even a foreigner in the Soviet Union. He must be allowed representation. He has the right to give his version of events. I insist I see him.”

  “He’s the team manager,” said Roger.

  “But not a lawyer,” said Elvis.

  “Actually, he is,” said Roger, who had memorized the CVs of everyone in the Lao squad.

  “Some toilet paper degree from his country?” said Elvis.

  “A degree in law from the Sorbonne,” said Roger.

  Elvis smiled his doubt but Civilai stared coolly back at him.

  “Then congratulations,” said Elvis. “You may see your client.”

  Before Civilai’s scheduled meeting with Maen, the think tank put its heads together at the Nebesa Milk Nook.

  “What do we know?” asked Daeng.

  “He’s a conceited son of a bitch,” said Dtui.

  “He has the looks and the charm to carry it off,” said Daeng.

  “But not the language,” said Siri.

  “So unless he got really lucky and found a girl who studied at the same unwanted languages faculty as Roger, this relationship was based on hand-signals and lust,” said Daeng.

  “Are Russian women really that shallow?” asked Dtui.

  “Being Russian’s irrelevant,” said Daeng. “There’s romance and there’s sex. Western women are more prepared to pursue the latter for the thrill of it. More like men, in other words.”

  Siri looked at his wife. He didn’t need to ask why she knew such a thing. There were no secrets between them about her spying days and the sacrifices she made for her country. And she’d never lied to him about her sexual cravings at that time or beyond.

  “So then the theory is that a local girl meets a handsome Asian boxer, an Olympic competitor, and she wants to sample his wares,” said Civilai.

  “Delicately put,” said Siri.

  “So she takes him home.”

  “That’s relevant,” said Siri. “It happened at her apartment. What kind of girl has an apartment in Moscow without a granny and ten relatives living with her?”

  “She might have been a competitor,” said Dtui. “He’d been boasting about meeting a blonde athlete in the village the day before.”

  “Then we need to know where the Soviet athletes are staying and whether they were given individual accommodation,” said Daeng. “If not there might be roommates.”

  “And the knife,” said Siri. “The doorman saw Maen leave in a hurry. Was he carrying a knife?”

  “I doubt someone like Maen would have the foresight to remove the murder weapon,” said Dtui.

  “If not, where did it go?” said Siri. “And was there blood on him?”

  “And how did he get back to the village?” said Daeng.

  After Civilai had left, Daeng thought about that whole stream-of-consciousness brainstorming session. Many questions had been asked but one had not. Nobody had thought it necessary for
Civilai to ask Maen whether he was guilty. They all assumed he was not. Maen was unpleasant and vain but he was a lowland Lao representing his country. They all knew in their hearts that the boy was innocent.

  Phosy had precious little time from his busy caseload to visit Noo the forest monk but Mr. Geung would come by police headquarters every day to update him.

  “Still un-un-unconscious,” he said.

  Either from his dealings with Dr. Siri, or from the codes of Down syndrome that nobody had yet been able to decipher, Mr. Geung had become spiritually aware. He could feel other people’s pain, and love and insincerity. But he couldn’t express them. He knew that Comrade Noo was dying, but not from his injuries. He knew the monk had lost something, but the concept of faith was too abstract. So he told Phosy that Noo had lost his feet and couldn’t stand up. He should tell Comrade Siri as soon as possible. It made perfect sense to Geung but none at all to Phosy.

  The inspector had no resources to look for Noo’s feet and he was struggling to find a safe way to communicate with Moscow. In his final telex, Civilai had written directly,

  “Half the planet has access to our telexes. No more secrets.”

  This left the inspector cast away from his support group. It was a pity considering he had such good news to pass on. Thonglai, the father of Manoi, had offered rewards to any of the Lao in Moscow for information leading to proven threats against his son’s life. The old man knew there were dangers.

  “No snippet of information can be too small,” he’d said. “Nothing is without value.”

  To emphasize this he’d assured Phosy that his role as coordinator would not be forgotten. Any charity or personal projects he cared to nominate would be generously supported.

  He’d added, “Phosy, like me, you are a father. I care for all my sons as much as you do your daughter. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to them. But one of my boys is set to achieve prominence. I cannot emphasize how great our country might become under the guidance of patriots returning from study overseas. My boy in Moscow loves his country but there are those who see him as a threat to outside concerns. He is fearless, which puts him in even more danger. I need ears and eyes everywhere. I am afraid, Phosy. I’m afraid as a father who might lose a son but even more afraid as a Lao who might lose a great commander. Work with me, Phosy. We will be of benefit to each other.”

  Phosy had driven his Vespa back into the city. Had it been a Harley Davison he would have gunned the engine and kicked up dust onto the roadside vendors. But it was a Vespa and Italian scooters didn’t lend themselves too keenly to wrath. Instead he’d clenched the handle grips so tightly they’d changed shape. It wasn’t just the money. The bastard could buy an Olympic team, change history, realign the planets with his damned money.

  “You’re a father,” he’d said, not as paternal bonding but as a warning. What Phosy heard loud and clear were the words, “You take the money or your daughter has an accident.” Phosy had met his kind before and he wasn’t likely to lose control in front of the great entrepreneur. He still had deals to negotiate.

  “I’m having trouble contacting my people in Moscow,” he’d said. “The international phone line in . . .”

  “Say no more,” said Thonglai, and Phosy had said no more. The next day a team of telephone engineers had arrived at his office and put in a direct line.

  “No operator,” said the engineer. “Perfectly secure.”

  Now all Phosy needed was a way to confound the secret listeners at the perfectly secure service.

  “He’s in a bad way,” said Civilai. “It took forever to get to see him.”

  It was late evening. The village was still buzzing from the news that a Hollywood movie star had accepted the Republican nomination to run for the U.S. presidency. Russian seers predicted that this was just the beginning of nature’s vengeance for the American boycott of the Olympics.

  “Have they harmed him?” Daeng asked.

  “No bruises I could see,” said Civilai, “but you wouldn’t recognize him from the arrogant boy we learned to dislike as far back as the pre-Games. They’ve put the fear of hell in him. He can’t understand anyone or make himself understood. The guards treat him like a wild beast who violated their little sisters.”

  “Okay, so what’s his version of events?” asked Siri.

  “He met the girl on day two,” said Civilai. “The day after the Opening Ceremony. She was a competitor. She showed him the athletics pictogram on her nametag. She used sign language to say she was a javelin thrower. She was wandering around the village after breakfast and they smiled at each other and somehow they agreed to meet in the evening. They were driven to an apartment building.”

  “Games car?” Daeng asked.

  “Taxi,” said Civilai.

  “Did he remember where the building was?” asked Siri.

  “He’s a fighter from the jungle,” said Civilai. “One concrete mountain’s the same as the next. He said when they arrived they had to walk up the stairs.”

  “How many floors?” asked Siri.

  “Five, and hers was at the top. On the way up, a neighbor came out of her apartment and ranted. He said it was as if she’d been waiting behind her door for the girl to come back. The neighbor yelled. The girl yelled.”

  “It wasn’t a Games dormitory?” said Dtui.

  “Old, old building, he said. Just a run-down apartment. The girl lived there alone,” said Civilai. “There were no signs of family. No photos or old-people souvenirs. There was only one bedroom that was barely decorated.”

  “Did he notice anything in the bathroom?” asked Daeng. “Other toothbrush? Medicine?”

  “I don’t know,” said Civilai. “Who’d ask questions like that?”

  “Someone who wanted to solve a crime,” said Siri. “Any detail might be vital.”

  “Well, excuse me for not cramming a thorough interrogation into half an hour,” said Civilai.

  “Keep going,” said Daeng.

  “They did their thing in the bedroom,” he said.

  “Any social niceties?” asked Siri. “No foreplay? Glass of wine? Music?”

  “From the front door to the bed,” said Civilai. “She seemed to be in a hurry for it. They made love but she wanted it violent, if you know what I mean.”

  “Discipline?” asked Daeng.

  “Just wanted him to knock her around a bit. She hit him and goaded him to hit her back. He wasn’t really into it, he said, but he made a few token slaps and it was all over. She turfed him out. It wasn’t what he was used to. He walked back down to the lobby. The downstairs neighbor didn’t put in an appearance. There was no doorman. Maen went to the street and realized he had no idea how to get back to the village. But he had his village ID. He flashed it at someone in a truck and the driver brought him home.”

  “And what about last night?” Siri asked.

  “Well, according to Maen, there was no last night. He said he met some North Korean gymnast yesterday evening, they went for a walk somewhere in the park, got drunk on vodka, screwed in the bushes and fell asleep.”

  “But that was the night of the murder,” said Dtui.

  “He claims he wasn’t there at the Russian’s apartment that evening.”

  “Then why do the police think he was?” asked Siri.

  “The downstairs woman claims to have seen him come back with her last night. The doorman said he saw him leave in a hurry an hour or so later.”

  “Why wasn’t there a doorman the night before?” asked Siri.

  “He’s a sort of superintendent,” said Civilai. “Does a bit of everything. The night before he was fixing a leaking pipe in one of the apartments, so he didn’t see Maen at all. He was still busy when the couple came back last night. But he saw Maen leave and identified him immediately from the photo the police showed him.”

  “Wait! What pho
to did they show him?” Dtui asked.

  “This is where the evidence starts to pile up against him,” said Civilai. “They found his ID card in the girl’s apartment on the night of the murder. They say he must have been in a hurry to get out of there and forgot it.”

  “But if he’s telling the truth he’d used his photo ID to get back to the village on Sunday night,” said Daeng.

  “So the only way it could have been in the apartment is if he really did go back with the Russian last night,” said Dtui.

  “And to make matters worse,” said Civilai, “the police located the North Korean gymnast and she’d been in bed with diarrhea all yesterday evening so there goes his alibi.”

  “Confirmation of that?”

  “North Korean team doctor,” said Civilai. “And when they showed her the photo the girl said she’d never met Maen and vehemently denied having sex with him. She said she was saving herself for Kim Il-Sung, the glorious leader.”

  “Aren’t we all?” said Daeng.

  “It doesn’t look good for the boxer,” said Dtui.

  “What do we do next?” Civilai asked.

  They downed their vodkas.

  “We have two avenues to pursue,” said Siri. “One is the fact he’d met the Russian girl in the village so she had to have a village ID. The security is tight here so she couldn’t have just walked in off the street. We’ve learned from experience that you can’t stroll twenty meters without someone snapping a photograph of you. I doubt the police will hand us a photo of the dead girl and it would help to know what she looked like. So we should check out the photographs from Sunday morning and see if we have the boxer and the javelin thrower together. We know roughly what time they met after breakfast and when they met again in the evening. We might get lucky.”

  “We need to go to the building where she was killed,” said Daeng.

  “That’s my second avenue,” said Siri.

  “And how do we find that?” said Civilai. “Maen couldn’t remember where it was.”