A Deadly Cambodian Crime Spree

by Shamini Flint

  He turned his attention back to his lunch. Sovann was quite right. It would be shocking to waste the food. On the other hand, he really, really didn’t think he could eat this cold fish soup. One thing was for sure, Mrs Singh might not have the grace or the delicately modulated voice of his erstwhile luncheon companion but she would never have expected him to swallow this stomach-churning lunch.

  Four

  Singh wandered towards the police headquarters at the tribunal site. It was in one of the – no surprise, pale-yellow – buildings on the outer perimeter of the compound. The buildings, which housed courtrooms, offices, media rooms and hostels, formed three sides of a rectangle around an empty grassy area. It must have once been used as a parade ground before the military turned the premises over to the ECCC. The grass was so dry that the inspector kicked up little puffs of dust as he walked.

  Looking around, Singh noted that policing on the premises was discreet, limited to a few friendly unarmed guards except for a machine-gun-toting fellow at the main entrance next to the metal detectors. It seemed inadequate considering the identity of the detainees. Just that morning he had read about some vigilante who was hunting down ex-Khmer Rouge. The death toll had reached ten and a hysterical editorial wanted to know why the police weren’t doing more. The restrained policing indicated a general distrust of the local coppers that exceeded the need for an overt police presence despite the threat.

  Singh pushed open the swing doors. He had been instructed to present his credentials and inform the Cambodian police that he was in town. It was the courteous thing to do. And ASEAN, with its policy of non-interference in the domestic affairs of fellow ASEAN nations, was always keen to be polite. The inspector had very strict instructions to keep his big sneaker-clad feet off any toes. For once the fat policeman was happy to comply.

  He wandered into the small air-conditioned anteroom, waved his letters of introduction at them and was immediately shown in to see Colonel Menhay. Such was the power of colourful letterheads. The colonel was smartly dressed in the green uniform of the Cambodian military police. He was a squat, powerful, harsh-featured man who wore large gold-rimmed Rayban dark glasses. The inspector hitched up his trousers. The Cambodian’s shoulder to stomach ratio was the exact opposite of his own. Indeed, Menhay looked more like an extra from a war movie about Vietnam than a policeman. However, when he spoke, the colonel sounded competent, his English almost accentless.

  “Welcome to Cambodia, Mr Singh.”

  Singh nodded his thanks.

  “You are attending the war crimes tribunal?”

  “Yes, but purely as an observer. I’m holding a watching brief to indicate ASEAN solidarity with Cambodia during these difficult times. I have no desire to get in your way in the execution of your duties.”

  Colonel Menhay nodded, apparently pleased rather than sceptical at this orotund politeness from his rotund counterpart. He walked around his desk, opened the door to his office and shouted something in Khmer. “We will have coffee together,” he explained.

  Singh nodded enthusiastically. He was especially pleased when the coffee arrived. It was hot, sweet and milky and more importantly, accompanied by two dry biscuits. For a man who had eschewed his fish soup at lunch, it was a welcome nibble. The colonel eyed him with curiosity and then pushed his own plate of biscuits over.

  “How are things going?” asked Singh. He had no real interest in Cambodian police work but he had to buy time to finish the biscuits.

  The colonel shrugged. “It is difficult to be a policeman in Cambodia. Our police and military force was formed through the merger of the militias of the different political entities. Sometimes, they forget that their first loyalty is to the country, not political parties. And then there is the corruption.” His eyes brightened and his short neck lengthened with interest. “I hear that in Singapore the police are not corrupt?”

  “For one thing, they are paid enough so there is less temptation,” explained Singh.

  “Our policemen, they get maybe just a few riel a month. Sometimes they work at night as bouncers or guards. Other times…well, you can guess.”

  Singh’s eyes widened. That was even less remuneration than he would have expected. No wonder graft was rife if the cops weren’t paid enough to make ends meet. Even he, a man of simple tastes, might have found the straight and narrow difficult if he was regularly deprived of his beer and curry, not to mention cigarettes, for lack of funds.

  His host’s expression had become steadily more gloomy, drooping jowls softening the edges of his square head. It had not been Singh’s intention or inclination to draw the man’s attention to the shortcomings of the Cambodian police force. He asked, changing the subject quickly, “How about here at the ECCC? What is your main security concern?”

  “Samrin!” snapped Menhay. “Someone might try to kill him.”

  “The accused has been a free man for thirty years. Why should they come for him now?”

  “It is the Cambodian way to wait for as long as necessary to exact revenge. Thirty days or thirty years, the desire for retribution stays fresh.”

  Singh remembered that many of the Khmer Rouge leaders had been in hiding or in safe areas, not in the open as they were now.

  The colonel was still speaking. “Sometimes months, sometimes years…if you have harmed someone in Cambodia, you can never feel safe. Your family will never be safe. These trials – they have opened many old wounds, brought back so many memories…I don’t know where it will end.”

  There was something in his voice that caused Singh to seek an answer in the other man’s carefully expressionless face. “Are you worried about the serial killings?”

  “I see that your reputation is well-deserved,” remarked the colonel, revealing for the first time that he had heard about the policeman from Singapore before this meeting.

  “I read about it in the newspapers,” confessed Singh.

  “An organised campaign – ex-Khmer Rouge are being targeted.”

  “How do you know? It could just be individual acts of revenge.”

  “The MO,” said the colonel.

  Singh smothered a smile. Even in Cambodia, cops talked like they watched too much CSI.

  “Single shots to the head – execution style,” continued Menhay. “That’s not the Cambodian way. Usually, revenge here is much messier. It is quite common for victims to be disembowelled, their livers cut out and cooked. Acid attacks are quite common here too. These murders have been clinical.”

  “Are you in charge of the investigation then?” Singh could not keep the note of surprise out of his voice. The small office did not look like the epicentre of a major criminal investigation.

  Menhay grimaced. “No – not since I was sent here to the tribunal. But I keep an eye on what’s going on at HQ.”

  Their eyes met and there was no need for further explanation. This policeman was champing at the bit because the policing action was going on elsewhere. Singh knew the feeling all too well.

  As if to emphasise his conclusion, the colonel said snidely, “There are murders to investigate but I’m playing security guard to a mass murderer.” His face brightened. “Still, maybe someone will try and kill Samrin.”

  “He must be an obvious target for your serial killer,” suggested the Sikh inspector.

  The colonel became serious again and parallel lines of worry filled the space between receding hairline and sparse eyebrows. Singh noticed for the first time that the other policeman had the round small ears perpendicular to the head that he had noticed on a number of Khmer already. It was a peculiar and distinctive genetic trait.

  “The killer seems to be picking easy targets – avoiding big names like the men we have locked up here.”

  “I read that there have been ten murders so far?”

  The colonel nodded in agreement.

  “But you’re sure the victims are all ex-Khmer Rouge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any other clues?”

  “
The murders have taken place on the weekend, usually within about fifty kilometres of Phnom Penh.”

  “So a killer with a day job in this town?”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  Singh smiled at the choice of words – this policeman had probably been sent on some policing course to the US and adopted the speech patterns. The inspector leaned back in the white plastic chair which strained to hold his weight without buckling. He asked, his interest piqued, “Have you spotted any other links between the victims?”

  The other man shook his head emphatically. “They have a few guys looking into the background of the victims – but nothing yet.”

  A policeman knocked on the door smartly and, upon a nod from the colonel, walked in and handed him a folded piece of paper. From the colonel’s expression, Singh had no difficulty in deducing that the news was not good.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “The death toll has just reached eleven.” Menhay’s words and a deep sigh were intermingled. “A farmer – shot in the head.”

  Singh adopted what he hoped was an expression of sympathy, checked the saucer to make sure the biscuits were finished, rose to his feet hurriedly and shook the other man’s hand. “Good luck with everything,” he said firmly and marched out of the police HQ. Biscuits or no biscuits, frisson of curiosity or not, the last thing he wanted to do was get involved in some dodgy Cambodian murder investigation.

  He stopped on the veranda and squinted at the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen and the sun was at its zenith. Beads of sweat popped out along his forehead and he mopped them up with a large handkerchief. He thought about what the policeman had told him – someone was bumping off Khmer Rouge cadres one by one. He cast his mind back to the newspapers that morning. All being said and done, he didn’t envy Menhay his job.

  A voice at his elbow demanded, “What were you doing? I was waiting for you outside the courtroom.”

  It was Chhean, addressing him in her usual brusque style. He remembered his lunch companion, Sovann. She was closer to the stereotype he had expected of Cambodian women, the demure beauty with downcast eyes, refined manners and gentle voice. The refugee orphanage that had raised this stocky young woman had certainly not sought to produce cookie-cutter Cambodians for public consumption. Mind you, there had been depths to Sovann that he could only guess at after such a brief acquaintance. It would be a mistake to treat any of these Cambodian women lightly – that much was certain.

  He reached for his cigarettes and answered her question cheerfully. “Just saying hello to your local cops.” He brushed the biscuit crumbs off the front of his shirt.

  “The police are all criminals,” she said dismissively.

  Singh raised an inquiring eyebrow and added a puff of grey smoke to the otherwise clear sky. They watched it ascend and then dissipate slowly into nothingness.

  Chhean added as an afterthought, “In Cambodia, I mean.”

  “Colonel Menhay seemed all right.” Singh had no real evidence of this one way or the other. But there was something about the squat man, his honesty about the vendetta killings or the problems within the Cambodian police force, that had given Singh a good opinion of him.

  “You’re just saying that because he gave you biscuits.”

  Singh looked at his companion admiringly. “You should be a policewoman,” he said. “That was a very good deduction based on, literally, a few crumbs of evidence.” Was there an irony in discussing corruption within the Cambodian police force when his goodwill could be purchased for a couple of stale biscuits? It was like they said – every man had his price. Singh had hoped that his would be a little higher, that’s all.

  “Actually,” Chhean admitted, ignoring Singh’s earlier compliment, “I have heard that the colonel is a good man. The UN asked for him – they are very concerned about the rumours of corruption around this tribunal. But with most policemen in Phnom Penh, it would be like asking the civet cat to guard the chicken coop.”

  Singh had read as much in her notes. Dozens of Cambodians associated with the trial – judges, lawyers, clerks – had come under suspicion of everything from outright graft to influence peddling. It was causing enormous ineffectual hand-wringing within the international community, especially amongst those nations who had donated funds for the setting up of the tribunal. As far as he was aware, ASEAN’s only contribution to date was his own presence – and he was not exactly worth his weight in gold.

  “Good man or not, he has a lot on his plate.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  Singh inhaled deeply, feeling the tobacco-laden breath fill his lungs. It felt good to smoke a cigarette hundreds of miles away from his wife, his doctor and Superintendent Chen. In fact, it felt good to be away from all of them, full stop. Chhean was looking at him expectantly, still waiting for his response. He said firmly, “That’s police business, young lady.”

  ♦

  They were back in the courtroom. Singh was not looking forward to the session but he was grateful for the air conditioning. He scratched his belly thoughtfully like a classical guitarist plucking at strings and leaned over to his companion. “What now?” he whispered audibly.

  Chhean scowled at him, eyebrows meeting in a V above her short nose. “Shhh!”

  Singh was aggravated. Her shushing him was more disruptive than his question. He was prevented from making a fuss by the ponderous announcement that the judges were making an entrance.

  They all stood as the judges walked into the room in single file and took their places on the dais. Singh tried morosely to put a number on the times he had dragged himself to his feet for the arrival of these so-called embodiments of justice. Still, this group had a lot on their plate. He didn’t for a second envy them their colourful robes and high-backed chairs. From what little he had seen, Cambodian society had as many layers as an onion and every time a layer was peeled back an odour attached to the fingers and the eyes began to smart. He smirked – perhaps that was taking the metaphor too far.

  There was much rustling and shuffling of papers, fiddling with microphones and important whispers behind palms as if the audience consisted of seasoned lip-readers. The next witness for the prosecution was announced. “Ta Ieng.” There was a hum of anticipation from the crowd.

  The tall man was so thin that he looked emaciated, half-starved. He reminded Singh of the hollow-cheeked pictures of Moslem men at Srebenica and the black-and-white grainy photos of survivors of the concentration camps of World War Two. It worried him that, although the Cambodian genocide had occurred on Singapore’s doorstep, he was more familiar with the images of massacres from far away.

  Despite his appearance, however, this man was not one of the good guys. He had been an executioner at Choeng Ek, one of those charged with killing prisoners trucked over from Tuol Sleng prison.

  “I had no choice,” Ta Ieng explained in a low voice. “I had to do what I was told.”

  Singh noted that his gaze remained focused on the ground beneath his feet – he did not look up at the presiding judge or the lawyer who was putting the questions to him in a clear voice that carried to the galleries.

  “Otherwise, he would have killed me.”

  “Who would have killed you?”

  Ta Ieng nodded quickly in the direction of Samrin, sitting rigid in the dock, and then let his chin sink back to his chest.

  “Let the record show that the witness has identified the accused,” intoned the lawyer.

  Was following orders to protect one’s own skin ever an excuse? It had been used as a defence by foot soldiers and lower ranks since the Nuremberg trials – I was only following orders, they would say, as if it was an excuse, absolution, a defence to unthinkable behaviour. What would he have done when presented with such a stark choice? Singh preferred to believe that he would not save his own life at the expense of another. He stared at the skinny man in the witness stand. He very much feared that this man would have said much the same thing if
he had been asked the question any time before he was put in that invidious position.

  “How do you know he would have killed you?” The lawyer was professional, his tone even, without any implication of judgment. Singh admired him for it. He was, even as an observer, struggling to maintain a sense of autonomy. He had no idea how the hordes that packed the public gallery felt. He had been told by Chhean that they were mostly survivors of that period, coming to find answers, closure, retribution. But this man was a witness, not a defendant. The multi-million-dollar war crimes court had no remit to try the lower ranks of the Khmer Rouge.

  The answer to the lawyer’s question came in a whisper from Ta Ieng. “It happened to others. If Samrin suspected that they were not committed to the revolution, he would arrest them and send them to Tuol Sleng prison. Soon they too would confess after the torture…that they were CIA agents, KGB, or worked for the Vietnamese, anything really.”

  “Did you believe their confessions?”

  He shrugged, one thin shoulder raised above the other, as if there was a misshapen coat hanger inside his shirt.

  Singh was not sure what the gesture indicated. That he hadn’t believed? More likely it meant that his own beliefs were irrelevant to the process or the outcome and it was naive to suggest otherwise.

  “Surely it would have been better to refuse to assist in the killings and take what punishment came to you?”

  “If I had refused, I would have been killed.” He bowed his head. “Maybe that was an acceptable price to pay.” He looked up and faced the lawyer squarely. “But you must understand that someone else would have done it. I would have saved no one – not one single person.”

  The inspector felt as if his earphones were clamped to his head like a vice. It was the strain of listening to Ta Ieng’s justifications. Was his decision to comply with the macabre instructions of his superiors that hard to understand when his refusal would have made no difference?