by Wiley Brooks
“Yes. Red Honda. He got it right before he move. He pay me to let him keep it in the hall.”
Bo told the manager that they had a photo of the Yusof they were looking for, but that the picture was about ten years old. He showed it to Mr. Heah.
“Yeah. That Yusof. He not look Malay but is. He look more like you,” Heah said nodding to Mason, “but darker. Nice hair. He very nice. Yusof in trouble?” he asked.
“We’re just trying to find him to ask him some questions,” Bo answered.
“He was good tenant,” Heah said. “Always pay rent on time. Friendly. Not loud. Best thing – he put satellite tv on roof! He said if I let him do it, he would run cable to me, too. When he leave, he let me keep it! Said he wouldn’t need it where he was going.”
Bo asked if Yusof had a job.
“I don’t think so. He was around days and nights. But he pay rent on time every month, so I not ask questions.”
“How about friends? Did he have any friends?”
“He nice guy. But I not see any friends. He quiet. No visitors. Good tenant.”
Heah said that Yusof told him an uncle in the US had died and left him some money.
“I thought maybe he move to America.”
Bo thanked Mr. Heah and they walked back outside. Bo told the other officers they could go, that the suspect no longer lived there.
Mason and Bo returned to Bo’s car. They sat there for a bit, then Mason raised a question.
“So, he started killin’ American girls two and a half years ago, but he didn’t have a job before that, accordin’ to his landlord. Yet, he paid his rent on time and bought a motorcycle. How was he supportin’ himself?”
“We’re thinking of him as a serial killer,” Bo said. “But maybe we should be thinking of him as a thief first.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “What does that get us?”
“Actually, maybe a lot,” Bo said. “The most common thing that young thieves do is snatch purses from tourists. My guess is that he was living off the cash and anything that he could pawn from the purses. Then, one day he realized that maybe the credit cards and other stuff might have value, too. He just didn’t know how to convert it to cash. He might have asked around and eventually found the right kind of fence. The number of fences in Penang who can move passports, credit cards and the like is a small number.”
“So, if we find the fence, he’ll lead us to our guy.”
“Maybe. Worth a shot.”
Bo drove Mason back to the hotel. He said he was going to talk with detectives in the robbery unit.
“I want to see if any of the purse-snatching victims gave descriptions that could have been Yusof,” he said. “Then we can see what was stolen and that might point us to specific fences. I know little about who fences what, but I’d bet some of the robbery guys do.”
“I’m gonna go cruise around Batu Ferringhi,” Mason said. “In all my trips here, I’ve never been to the beach. I wanna get a feel for it. My bet is that Joey or Yusof is still livin’ there.”
The two parted at Mason’s hotel. Mason told Bo he’d call him later in the day to see if either of them had turned anything up.
Mason got in his rental car and headed to Batu Ferringhi. He had little of a plan. He needed to soak it in and then try to think as Joey might. If he could see the place through Joey’s eyes, he might be able to narrow down where Joey might be living, Mason thought. He knew it was a long shot, but so was stopping in that one restaurant and getting his first real lead.
The first things Mason noticed about Batu Ferringhi were that it was cleaner and quieter than George Town. The palm trees were swaying gently, revealing a cooling breeze off the water. There were a few high-rise resorts along the beach itself. A scattering of various shops and cafes lined the one main road that paralleled the beach.
Back from the main road opposite the beach were residential areas. There were modest individual houses, which you never saw in George Town, and apartment buildings. The apartments were mostly newer construction, but also the occasional older, wooden structure.
He had hoped that he could find Joey by looking for satellite dishes. But Batu Ferringhi was a much nicer place than Joey’s old George Town neighborhood. Satellite dishes adorned the roofs of most of the apartment buildings. His back-up plan was to look for a red Honda motorcycle. Again, though, motorcycles were fairly common.
Mason debated with himself what he should do. He had no easy options. Was it worth parking the car and going door to door? He wished he had taken the time to learn to speak Bahasa Malay. As languages go, it’s a simple one to pick up. But he never had reason to learn it. If he were going to knock on doors, he had to hope that most would be answered by English-speakers.
He developed a plan. The first thing he would do is look at the mailboxes at each apartment building he approached. Some offered tenants names, but just as many were just mailbox numbers. If there were a way to get behind the boxes, he would do that because sometimes a mail carrier would put a tenant’s name on the opening. Unfortunately, that access to the back side of the mailboxes didn’t happen often.
The buildings themselves were mostly two- and three-story structures. He decided that he would only knock on ground floor doors, unless he was not able to reach anyone in a ground-floor unit. In that case, he’d go to the next floor. He’d continue until he’d spoken with at least one person in each building.
Mason would always smile and say he was looking for a friend he’d met on the beach. He called him Yusof, not Joey, because he felt certain that the young man would be going by his Malaysian name here. He wouldn’t show the old photo of Yusof but would tell the person that Yosef looked a little white but was a Malay. Then he’d add that the fellow he was looking for spoke English like an American and had a red Honda motorcycle.
It was a long, tiring task. Even in the slightly cooler climate, he was sweating and could feel himself growing frustrated. By mid-afternoon, he decided to take a break and grab a late lunch. Afterwards, he’d call Bo to see if the Penang detective had made any progress.
He found a nice little café on the beach with a distinctively Western menu. After he finished his spinach salad with roasted chicken on top and a cold beer, he walked to a nearby hotel. He gave the desk clerk ten ringgits to use a house phone. He called Bo and told him what he had been doing.
“Has to be done,” Bo said. “We know that he probably lives there somewhere. Someone is bound to recognize him. He doesn’t speak or look like they do. And we know that as recently as a month ago he still had the red Honda.”
“So, have you found out anything?” Mason asked.
“One of the guys said there were descriptions of a purse-snatcher a few years ago that could have been Yusof. He said I should speak with Detective Dahari. I’m waiting for him to come back in. Why don’t I call you at the hotel later.”
“Okay. I’ll talk with you later, then. Maybe we can grab a drink.”
“I can’t tonight. I have to get home. We have a school thing. But I can tell you what I find out over the phone and we can talk about what we should do tomorrow.”
Mason hung up, walked out to his car and drove back to his hotel.
“I got some good info from Dahari,” Bo told Mason over the phone later that evening. “Tourists always report it to police when their purse is stolen. Dahari said there were many that appeared to be done by a fellow, right age, and victims couldn’t say, for sure, that he was a Malaysian.”
“With a good sketch you’d think they would have snagged his butt. Why didn’t they?”
“He slowed down,” Bo said. “He’d been doing a grab every week or two that they knew of, then less than one a month. Here’s the kicker, though, about the time you and I know to be the first murder, he stopped completely.”
“Our guy, for sure.”
“Yeah. And here’s a useful piece. Dahari said that early on a good Samaritan would usually find the purse and turn it in along with passports and cr
edit cards and stuff. Then when he started slowing down it stopped.”
“That’s when Joey found out those things were worth a lot.”
“Probably. Dahari said it was probably when our guy connected with a fence who could move financial and identity items.”
“Did he have names?”
“Yeah. He said there are maybe five fences that could do it. He said they’re smart guys. Rarely screw up.”
“Names?”
“Yes. Four Malays and a Thai Malay.”
“It’s the Thai,” Mason said. “The passports went to Bangkok.”
“Could be. He’s a good place to start. I’ll call on him in the morning. Do you want to come with me?”
“I’d like to, but I’m gonna head back to Batu Ferringhi to knock on apartment doors.”
“I’ll be back at the station by one,” Bo said. “Call me then and I’ll tell you what I find out. If anything.”
“Will do.”
“And Mason, maybe you should take something to help you sleep. You look really tired, man.”
“I know.”
“Something going on? I’ve never seen you look like this, my friend. The investigation is going so well. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah. It’s not the investigation.”
“I’m here for you, buddy, if you want to talk about it. You and I go back a long way.”
“Thanks, Bo. I’m not there yet.”
Day 15
Mason slept through the night. It felt great, Maybe, just maybe, the nightmares were behind him.
By 9 a.m., he was back in Batu Ferringhi. He picked up where he left off, reading names when they were available on mailboxes and knocking on doors.
Knock knock. Nothing. Knock knock. Nothing. He just kept telling himself that as much as he hated canvassing this way, there was a decent chance he’d come across someone who knew Joey. At about ten-forty-five, he got a break.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I’m tryin’ to find a friend I met on the beach the other day,” he said with a smile to a middle-aged woman who answered what felt like the hundredth door he had knocked on that morning. “Perhaps you know where he lives. He’s Malay but looks kind of white. He speaks English like me, an American. Do you know him?”
“Yusof?”
“Yes ma’am, Yusof!” he said with a broad smile.
“He drive red motorcycle.”
“Yes, that’s right! Do you know where he lives?”
“No.”
Mason looked confused. “But you know him. Right?”
“He eat at my husband’s restaurant.”
She told him where the restaurant was located and that her husband’s name was Malik.
“You go ask Malik,” she said. “Yusof regular customer.”
Mason hurried back to his car. It was too early to call Bo, so he drove straight to the restaurant. When he got there, it was well before anyone would have shown up for lunch. He walked in and saw a middle-aged man in the kitchen.
“Pardon me, sir. Are you Malik?” Mason asked.
“Yes. I am Malik. Who are you?”
“My name is Mason. I’m lookin’ for a friend and your wife told me that he eats here often. His name is Yusof.”
“Yes. Yusof is a customer. You say you are a friend?”
“Yes sir. Do you know where he is?”
“No. He comes here three or four times a week, but not for more than a week now. He travels every few months and I don’t see him then.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No. Nearby, but not so close that he walks here. He always comes on his motorcycle.”
“Would anyone else know where he lives?”
“You say you are a friend? If you are a friend, why don’t you know where he lives. Yusof never comes here with a friend.”
“Yes sir. Sorry I didn’t make it clear. I’m a friend from the beach. When he rides up or leaves, do you know which direction he goes on the highway?”
“He always comes and goes from the west.”
“Thank you kindly, Malik. If you see him before me, tell him Mason said hello.”
He didn’t mean it, of course. But it didn’t matter because Malik would certainly tell Joey the next time he walked in anyway. He’d know, then, that someone was on to him.
Mason got back in his car and headed west. He figured that Joey might walk at most a half mile. But he always came on his motorcycle, so he was likely at least that far away. The more he headed west, the less density he saw. At a little under a half mile, he turned left off the main road. The street that paralleled the main road was lined with apartments. He drove it looking for a red Honda.
He continued on for about a mile more, then headed back to the main highway and then turned back toward the center of Batu Ferringhi. He decided, though, to go straight to the police station to talk with Bo face to face.
Bo was sitting at his desk waiting for Mason to call when his intercom told him that there was a Mason Ray in the lobby to see him. He grabbed a file and headed out to meet Mason.
“Let’s go get lunch,” Bo told Mason as he approached him. As he got closer, he said in a softer voice, “I don’t want to talk about this here.”
Mason’s car was parked right outside, so they jumped in and Bo directed him to a place that served barbecue brisket. In the car, Mason started the conversation.
“I found someone who knows him. The fellow runs a restaurant. Joey comes in three or four times a week when he is around. Hasn’t seen him, though, in nearly a week.”
“Do you think that means he’s away?”
“Likely.”
“Damn. You think he’s going to kill another girl.”
“Damned if I know. It doesn’t fit, though? He spaces the murders five or six months apart and then slam, bam, thank ya ma’am does two in one week, then heads out for a third right away? I’m not buyin’ it. He’s changin’ things. He has somethin’ new in mind.”
“Or he’s just taking a trip.”
“Maybe. But it feels different. Did you find out anything in your meetin’ with that Thai guy?”
“I think he knows Yusof,” Bo said. “Claims he doesn’t, but when I pulled out the sketch and mentioned Yusof’s name an assistant standing a few feet away nearly shit a brick. He literally flinched. Not the fence, though. Cool as can be.”
“Did you say why you were lookin’ for Joey?”
“I was vague. I said it was part of an ongoing investigation.”
Bo shared some of the background information he had gathered on the fence. His name is William Chirathivat. Everyone calls him Big Willie. “The guy is huge,” Bo said. “He must weigh four hundred pounds.” Officially, he runs a tailor shop in George Town. Three generations of Chirathivats at that location.
“But guess what?” Bo asked, then answered himself. “Descendants of a crime family in Bangkok.”
“Hot damn! That would explain how the passports ended up bein’ used in Bangkok.”
“The Chirathivats are a shadow of what they once were. Dahari said they used to have family operations in cities throughout Southeast Asia, but only a few remain. They were suspected of trafficking rare art and antiquities, but nothing could ever be proved.”
“What’s next with him?”
“I have one of my best men sitting on the shop. His instruction is to tail Big Willie whenever he leaves.”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Mason said, “He’s gonna tell Joey to get out while the gettin’s good. He won’t wait. He’ll try to do it today.”
“Almost certainly.”
“I’ll be at the hotel. Call me the moment anythin’ happens.”
The phone in Mason’s room rang at three-ten. “He’s on the move,” Bo said. “Looks like he might be on his way to Batu Ferringhi.”
“Let’s go,” Mason said. “Pick me up lickety split.”
The plainclothes officer Bo had following Big Willie radioed that he was entering Batu Ferringhi.
Bo told him not to lose the Thai. They needed to find the apartment.
“Try to get pictures, but don’t let him see you,” Bo added.
Twenty minutes later, the radio squawked again.
“Detective Jun, the subject has stopped outside an apartment building on the western outskirts of town. He’s approaching a unit on the ground floor.”
“Pictures,” Bo said.
“Yes. I’m getting them,” the sergeant said. “He’s knocking. Knocking again. Looks like no one is home. He’s pulling an envelope from his pocket. Looking around now. He’s sliding the envelope under the door. Walking away now. I need to slide down in the seat to make sure he doesn’t see me.”
“Good job, sergeant. You can let him leave. Meet us on the main road. We’re about ten minutes away.”
When they arrived, the sergeant led them back to the apartment.
“How do we do this?” Mason asked. “In America we’d need a search warrant.”
“This isn’t America, my friend. Let’s find the manager.”
It took them about five minutes to find the manager, Mr. Chew. He said he hadn’t seen Yusof in a couple days but added that he couldn’t say for sure that Yusof wasn’t home.
“Let’s go check,” Bo said.
The manager balked. “I don’t know if I should do that,” he said.
“Listen, you either let us in or face the prospect of impeding an investigation of an international fugitive. Why do you think this gentleman from the American Central Intelligence Agency is here?”
The manager looked startled. He stared briefly at Mason with newfound recognition, then grabbed his master key and led them to Joey’s door.
“Unlock it but stay outside. This might be a crime scene and we don’t want you contaminating it.”
He did as he was told.
“Sergeant, please stay here with Mr. Chew,” Bo said. “Mr. Chew,” he continued looking at the manager. “Not a word.”
The first thing they saw when they opened the door was the red Honda parked against the wall next to the door. Otherwise, it was a tasteful apartment that could easily belong to a professional employee of a major company.
