Bangkok Noir

The Sword Vasit Dejkunjorn

From the glass window Yuddha could see the blue BMW Series 5, parked in the roofed parking lot in front of his office. Yuddha was aware of his colleagues’ concealed suspicion. But he ignored it. After all, he was not the only police superintendent — full colonel — who owned an expensive European-made car. Another superintendent, his classmate from the Police Officer Academy, had bought a Mercedes. Yet another colonel owned a Lexus, Japanese-made but equally priced. To own and drive an expensive car is a dream of every police officer. Yuddha guessed that the other cars had been obtained by means not much different from his.

It had begun soon after his graduation from the Academy. He had been assigned to a police station in Bangkok. His responsibility was to interrogate suspects brought in by arresting officers and to submit interrogation reports to the superintendent, with recommendations that the suspects be charged or else released for insufficient evidence.

Yuddha learned quickly that his recommendation might change the suspect’s fate. With a few clicks of his notebook mouse, the suspect might be freed — or start his rough journey to the penitentiary. He learned too that every suspect was willing to pay for his freedom. Yuddha was no longer surprised when approached by some of his superiors who suggested, often with straight faces, that he fact-twist for the benefit of the superiors’ relatives or friends. At first he felt awkward and ashamed, but finally he gave in and jumped on the bandwagon.

Yuddha’s popularity-cum-notoriety grew steadily, proportionate to his wealth. He was recognized by superior officers, envied by colleagues and quietly feared by both the innocent and the crooks. To superior officers, Yuddha was always generous. He managed to appear, though uninvited, with appropriate, expensive gifts at police generals’ birthdays, New Year parties or wedding anniversaries. If there was a donation involved, his amount was always among the highest.

So when Yuddha’s name was submitted to the selection board, with long, elaborate, praising explanation by his commissioner, none of the board members objected or questioned the submission. At forty-two Yuddha became one the youngest police colonels and superintendents on the force. In the seniority list there had been over 100 names above his.

Yuddha progressed with his lucrative police work. He did not forget that criminal investigation and interrogation alone were not sufficient for his fame. To be hailed as a police idol, he would have to show that he was skilled too in crime suppression. The young superintendent consequently turned to the easiest prey: the petty thieves. His arrest records were impressively long. When an armed robber resisted arrest, Yuddha did not waste time negotiating. The robber was gunned down in a brief firefight. With the extrajudicial killing, Yuddha joined the prestigious class of police exterminators.

Yuddha’s trail of thought was interrupted by a middle-aged warrant officer’s entry. The noncommissioned officer did not stop to salute him but casually sat himself on a chair and said unceremoniously, “Sia Preeda has returned and wants to see you.” The article “Sia” is a Chinese word, indicating the man’s origin and his status in business. Yuddha had been expecting the return of the Sia. He nodded his head in acknowledgement. The warrant officer too knew the reason for the superintendent’s expectation. Expressionlessly, he rose and left the room.

While waiting, Yuddha recalled the incident that had led to the confrontation between him and Sia Preeda. The businessman had been involved in a car accident that resulted in the death of a motorcyclist. Such accidents are routine in Bangkok and no longer reported by the media. According to the crime scene investigator, the speeding motorcycle had crashed into Sia Preeda’s Mercedes. The businessman’s expensive car was heavily dented. The fault was obviously the dead motorcyclist’s. But technically, according to the Criminal Code, the driver of the Mercedes was to be arrested and charged for careless driving causing death.

Sia Preeda had accompanied his driver to the police station and requested bail for the unfortunate chauffeur. It was Friday afternoon. Unless the bail was quickly granted, the driver might have to spend the weekend in the police detention cell. The superintendent has the power to approve or deny bail. In this case the investigating officer had recommended that bail be granted.

For experienced but dishonest police officers, this was an ideal opportunity to make easy money. Yuddha flipped the pages of the investigator’s report, feigning reading. A few pages afterward, he looked up and told the businessman, “Looks like your driver was going a little fast.”

“Fast?” Sia Preeda and his driver were obviously shocked. “We were approaching a very busy intersection. The traffic was—”

“I am aware of the traffic condition.” The superintendent’s voice was raised and ice-cold. “It was congested, yes, but you were going beyond the speed limit, as the skid marks show. Incidentally, who was actually driving the car at the time of the accident?”

“Who?” Sia Preeda repeated the word in disbelief.

“What do you mean, who?”

“I was driving, sir,” the driver offered meekly.

“That remains to be seen,” the Colonel’s voice was offish. “In the meantime I am afraid we may have to hold both of you for additional questioning.”

“This is ridiculous!” the businessman nearly screamed. “I am going to call my lawyer.”

“After you have been charged,” the superintendent said in a toneless voice, “you may call anyone you like. But we have to seize your phone too. It’s an important piece of evidence.”

While Sia Preeda was speechlessly trying to control his temper, the young colonel pushed a button on his desk. The warrant officer entered the room, approached the desk and waited for the stern order.

“Book these two men as suspects in the accident case.”

The warrant officer knew exactly what he should do. He had done it many times before. Once outside, he told the businessman: “Sia, there is a way this can be settled without any complexity. You and your driver don’t have to be locked up, spend the night in the cell and go to court tomorrow.” The officer’s voice was soft and soothing. Sia Preeda lowered the hand holding the mobile phone. The warrant officer did not wait for a response but proceeded with his advice: “The superintendent is a contestant in the annual departmental programme for police station development. But he is short of funds. With some voluntary donations, the station can be renovated, the lawn mowed, the flagstaff repainted. Besides, donation means public support. The superintendent will earn additional points in the contest and have a better chance of winning.”

“Wh-what about the accident case?” The businessman was not convinced.

“Take my word. All you have to do is go back to the superintendent and offer a sum — er, donation — and everything will be all right. You will be freed, although your driver will have to be charged. But the investigating officer will conclude it was the fault of the dead motorcyclist. He will recommend that the driver be released on bail, and the charge will be dropped. Believe me, it’s routine.”

“But there’s still the prosecutor.” Sia Preeda showed he knew some legal procedures. “He may disagree with the investigating officer. And what about the motorcyclist’s family?”

“The prosecutor will agree.” The warrant officer’s raised voice indicated he was annoyed. “As for your Mercedes, it is insured, right? First-class? Will the insurance company not handle the matter for you?”

“How much should I offer for the... er, donation?” Sia Preeda asked the expected question.

He was shocked when given the amount. “Fifty thousand baht! I think I’ll call my lawyer.”

“Go ahead.” The warrant officer’s soft and soothing tone was gone. “I’ll take you to the investigating officer. He will charge the driver and charge you as an accomplice in the accident case. You and your driver will be detained and denied bail. I don’t know what the lawyer’s fee is, but in a case like yours I presume it won’t be low.”

The warrant officer waited while Sia Preeda was pondering an alternative. He was certain of the businessman’s next sentence. And he was right, as always.

“Okay, but I don’t have enough cash. I’ll have to write a cheque.”

“No cheque.” It was an order. “The superintendent does not accept cheques, only cash. There are two ATMs in front of the station, next door to the 7-Eleven.”

Five minutes later, Sia Preeda was back in the superintendent’s cozy office. He found the Colonel sitting comfortably on the padded leather chair, intensely watching an ongoing football match between two famous British teams.

“I... I understand, sir, that you are in the process of developing this police station to win a contest,” Sia Preeda’s wavering voice reflected his total submission. “I would like to help by making a — er, donation.”The superintendent turned around in his swiveling chair, smilingly facing the businessman, and responded in a friendly tone. “I appreciate your kind interest in the police business. As you must have already known, the police serve the public. But our budgetary capability is very limited. So public support like yours is always welcomed. We will never forget your kindness.”

Half an hour later, Sia Preeda found himself out of the police station in his Mercedes with the bailed driver. Leaving the premises, he spotted the shining blue BMW parked in the roofed garage under a sign that read “Superintendent.” The businessman could now guess where his donation would be going.

The young police colonel eyed the white envelope he had just accepted from Sia Preeda. Yuddha knew that, according to the Criminal Code, he had just made another offence of willfully accepting a bribe. If caught and proven guilty, he might be sentenced to serve years in a state penitentiary. But the superintendent was not worried. Sia Preeda was a wealthy businessman. In his business his profit must be huge, incomparable to the Colonel’s meagre salaries. It was a fair game in which no one was hurt. Yuddha believed he deserved the 50,000 baht he had just squeezed from Sia Preeda.

He opened the envelope and took 5,000 from the stack. As a usual practice, the amount would go to the warrant officer — his broker — for another service rendered.

Yuddha opened his Samsonite briefcase and threw in the envelope. The 45,000 baht would join the millions in the safe at his house. He never trusted the bank, although he maintained a modest account there, in case someone investigated.

The warrant officer entered the office without knocking, pocketed his earnings, deposited some mail on the desk and left. Yuddha looked at his watch and saw that it was close to six o’clock in the evening — time for dinner. His dinner date was a young, extremely attractive and extremely rich lady. Yuddha had been steadily courting the girl for a year and seriously planning to marry her. The wealthy girl, though openly affectionate, had been evading his engagement proposals. Yuddha did not want to miss the dinner or keep her waiting.

He rose, but a posted envelope on the desk caught his attention. The crude handwriting on the envelope looked familiar. Then Yuddha saw the name of the sender and the return address and recognized them. Slowly he sat down, opened the envelope and read the short, simple letter.

Yuddha felt as though he had been hit on the head with a mallet. He could not move. The superintendent stared at the letter and had a strange feeling that it was staring back at him, accusingly. Samarn was not his father. The superintendent’s parents had died in a road accident years before he finished high school. He had since been under the care of a poor uncle who lived from hand to mouth, with many mouths to feed, including Yuddha’s. The Police Officer Academy, for Yuddha, had been god-sent, as every cadet was given official status and pay that helped relieve his financial burden.

It was when Yuddha was in his second year at the Academy that he was sent, under a programme, to live like a stepson with a family in a rural province. The programme was designed for the cadet to familiarize himself with the rustic farmer’s life, and to demolish the traditional barrier that separates the police from the public. It was hoped that the experience would be imprinted on the cadet’s mind and memory so that, after his graduation and at the beginning of his police career, he would recall the hardship of his stepfamily and be understanding and sympathetic when serving the public.

Samarn’s family had been selected for Cadet Yuddha. The week of home stay had resulted in a strong bond between Yuddha the stepson and Samarn the stepfather and his family. Before Yuddha left the family to return to the Academy, Samarn gave his police stepson a bag of straw mushrooms as a going-away present. “Son,” Samarn had said, “you won’t be able to live on the low police pay. Grow the mushrooms and sell them. It will supplement your pay and enable you to maintain your integrity and be a good policeman.”

Samarn and his family were invited to witness the graduation ceremony. The man wept when he saw Yuddha kneeling down in front of the King, who presented Yuddha with a sword. The sword is symbolic but significant, as it marks the beginning of the long, hard road of police life.

After the graduation the bond between Yuddha and his stepfamily weakened and diminished. The ceremonial sword was kept in its scabbard, occasionally used together with white gloves when required.

Yuddha nearly jumped when his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the piercing sound of his cellular phone. It was the girl. The superintendent mumbled a weak excuse, telling his date he was tied up by an urgent, unexpected errand and would be with her shortly.

The young colonel was reaching for his briefcase when he was interrupted again by a voice. It was his very own voice. The words were familiar. It was a pledge uttered by all cadets in the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, following their admittance to the Academy. The voice came in loud and clear:

The words of the pledge still echoing in his ears, Yuddha turned toward the altar in his office. On it were Buddha’s images of various sizes, most of which had been purchased by him or given by well-wishers. Just below the altar stood his graduation sword in its gleaming scabbard. Absent-mindedly, the young colonel approached the altar and the sword. He grabbed the sword and gently pulled it out of the scabbard. Yuddha saw that the engraved blade was still shining despite the years that had passed. His thoughts returned to the graduation day: the moment before his name had been announced by the Commissioner of the Academy, the steps he had cautiously taken toward His Majesty the King and the sword he had accepted directly from the King’s hands.

The phone rang again. This time Yuddha did not hear it. The only thing he heard was the pledge he had solemnly made in the Temple of the Emerald Buddha.

At 20:00 hours, the duty officer knocked on the door of the superintendent’s office. He had not seen the superintendent leave and presumed the superior officer was still in the office. He knocked again. When there was no response, the officer decided to pull the door open and stepped inside.

The lifeless body of the superintendent was found lying face up on the carpeted floor. His eyes were wide open. The pool of blood under and around the body looked fresh. At the left side of Yuddha’s chest, about two thirds of the sword blade was visible. The rest was embedded in his chest. The grip was swaying a little, as though it had just been left there by somebody.

“Looks like suicide,” remarked the lieutenant colonel who headed the crime scene investigation team, after preliminary examination. “No sign of foul play.”

Later in the night, the medical examiner reported to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner a puzzling, disturbing finding: the sword bore no fingerprint, not even a smudge. It looked brand new, untouched and unused, ever.