Another Man's Moccasins

“We’ve got the best medical care in Southeast Asia only five minutes away, so hold on and shut the hell up.” Baranski shifted into third, and the jeep slipped from the traffic and followed its headlights into the glowing dawn at the edge of the war-torn town.

“How are you feeling? ”

He smiled and shrugged. “Rather foolish, actually. That, and I have a headache.”

“I bet you do.” I sat in the mauve-colored chair Durant Memorial provided for visitors and took off my hat, placing it on Tuyen’s metal case at my boots. Santiago Saizarbitoria stood by the door and, like all good flies on the wall, was doing his best to remain inconspicuous. “I hope you’re feeling up to answering some questions.”

“Oh, yes.” He used the electric control to push himself further up on the bed and pulled a pillow down lower. “They’re keeping me here overnight for observation, but other than the headache, I feel fine.”

“That was quite a hit you took.”

“I’ve had worse.” He glanced at the floor. “Is that my case?”

“Yes, it is. I was thinking that you might like to have it.”

“Thank you.”

We were both aware that I was making no attempt at giving it to him. “Mr. Tuyen, are you sure you don’t have any idea who might’ve attacked you?”

He looked up. “None whatsoever.”

“Were you visited by anyone today? I mean before the attack? ”

He didn’t hesitate in responding. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

He waited for a moment, perhaps weighing the old adage that when law enforcement officials ask questions, they usually know the answers. He looked down at his hands. “There was someone who came to visit me early this morning.”

“And who was that?”

His eyes returned to mine. “The bartender.”

“Phillip Maynard? ”

“Yes.”

I leaned in, placing my elbows on my knees and casually flipping my hat around by the brim. “Do you mind telling me why you lied to me just now? ”

“He wanted more money, and I didn’t want to get him into trouble. It was a bad thing I did, paying him to be silent, and I did not wish to make the same mistake again.”

“Mr. Tuyen, that’s twice that you’ve dissembled when I’ve asked you a direct question. I’m going to advise you in the strongest terms, no matter what the circumstances, to not do it again.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry, I . . .”

“What did he say?”

He seemed startled at my abruptness.

"He...he said that he could make my life difficult unless I gave him more money.”

“Difficult in what way? ”

“The conversation didn’t go much further than that. I told him that if he threatened me again, I would contact you.”

I looked into my hat, knowing full well that none of the answers to my questions were there. “But you didn’t. You didn’t tell me about Maynard’s visit, his attempts at extortion, or anything.” It was quiet, and we all listened to the thrum of the air-conditioning. “Did it ever occur to you that Phillip Maynard might’ve been the one who killed your granddaughter and that withholding this kind of evidence could be seen as an obstruction of justice? ”

“I’m very sorry.”

I looked at the worn label in the hatband of my hat and then back up to Tuyen’s face. “Maynard left? ”

“Yes.”

“How?”

The questioning look returned. “I’m afraid I don’t...”

“When he left, how did he leave, on a pogo stick?”

“On his motorcycle.” I continued to watch him and could just see the little bits of anger at the corners of his mouth. “He came and left on his motorcycle.”

I nodded. “Mr. Tuyen, were you struck once or twice in your motel room?”

“I believe once, but I could be wrong.”

“Mr. Tuyen, I’m getting really tired of your inexactitude.”

He clutched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Sheriff, my granddaughter is dead. . . .”

“Mr. Tuyen, you have yet to provide me with any documentation proving that she was your granddaughter.”

He took a breath but kept his eyes shut. “You don’t believe that . . .”

“I’m not sure exactly what I believe, but you’re not making it any easier for me.” I stood, placed my hat back on my head, and picked up his case. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for a birth certificate, either Vietnamese or American.”

He started to interrupt. “Sheriff, surely you understand the red tape involved.”

“Papers such as baptismal, school records, or anything that will lead me to believe that Ho Thi was your granddaughter.” I continued to hold the case, and we were both very aware of it. “Now, you can provide me with this information or I can contact the probate courts in California and have a deputy from the Orange County Sheriff ’s Department expedite the information.”

He looked up at me and then spoke slowly. “Ho Thi was not adopted; she was my blood granddaughter.”

“Then I’ll have them contact the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Sacramento.”

He nodded, and his lips tightened. “Sheriff, I did not expect to find Ho Thi dead. Any and all of her official papers, including a visa and birth documentation, are in the safe in my office, back in Los Angeles.”