Confessions of a True Patriot (1)

Bob Choi

15 May 2010

“To understand the present and to hold any real hopes for the future, we all must first confront the past no matter how painful, distasteful or inconvenient that might be.”

Disclaimer: The following story is fictional. All names of persons and places are imaginary and any resemblance to real persons or places are purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: A Call to Constable Chan

August 23, 2007. Time 14:00. Constable Chan, a young officer in her late twenties, was on duty at the crime reporting desk of Wanchai Police Station. The phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID screen on the phone. It was blank. She found this odd since the phone was supposed to screen out all unidentified callers. This caller must have found a way to get around that. She picked up the phone–the recording device engaged automatically.

“Crime reporting desk, Wanchai Police Station. Please identify yourself,” she said in a clear, unhurried and well-rehearsed tone. She must have repeated this standard opening at least 50 times this morning alone.

“I want to report a crime–” a man replied, “but I'll only talk to your boss.”

“What do you mean, my boss?”

“The Commissioner of Police, Mr. Tang,” he sounded impatient.

“I'm sorry, sir. All calls will be handled according to procedures. Please let me have your name and...”

“No – you don't understand, young lady! What I have to report is way out of your league. You weren't even born at the time it happened. Your boss, Mr. Tang, will be very upset if he finds out it's you who refused to patch me through.”

“But I can't put you or anyone through to the Commissioner – I'm not authorized to do that! Now if you can tell me your name and what is it that you're reporting...”

“You're wasting my time,” he interrupted. “I'm only going to say this once, so listen up. Tell your boss that I'm the one who killed Lam Bun 40 years ago. I'm ready to make a full confession. If he's interested in solving the case, he must call me at 90123210 by 3 p.m. If he doesn't call within that time, I'll talk to the local newspapers. I'm sure they'll all be very happy to print my confession. Call me at 3 p.m.”

“What’s your name? At least tell me your name!”

“My name is Ah Lee.” Then he hung up.

Constable Chan stared at the phone for a whole minute, not knowing what to do. Lam Bun? Forty years ago? The man was right. I wasn't born until 1980. But I read about the bloody riots of '67. It was required reading at the Police Academy. Lam Bun, a commentator at Commercial Radio and his cousin were burned to death in Lam’s car. I can still remember seeing from the police archives the gruesome picture of the charred remains of the two victims. The coroner had to rely on dental records to establish their identities. There were no witnesses and no arrests were ever made regarding the case. Imagine if I were the one to bring in the murderer–but what if it was only a prank call or just someone who was plain crazy? I would become the laughing stock of the department, and I can forget about my next promotion! I need to talk to someone I can trust, someone who can protect me in case the shit hits the fan!

She picked up the phone, punched a department extension...

“Inspector Wong, this is Betty Chan at the reporting desk. Sir, I need to talk to you in person and in confidence. It's very important and it's urgent.” Inspector Wong was her uncle.

“Alright Betty, you sound very serious. I'm sending someone to relieve you. He should be there in a minute. Then you can come to my office.”

(August 24, 1967. Time 08:00. Lam Bun, who became a household name because of his highly popular nightly serial radio program–“Diary of the Husband in Charge”, stopped his VW Beetle in front of the road construction barricade. He was surprised because the barricade was not there the day before. Three young men who looked like the construction crew walked toward the car.

Lam Bun kept his eyes on them. He was a bit nervous because he was warned by his colleagues and family that the way he had been denouncing the rioters on the radio might put him in mortal danger. The car windows were rolled down because it did not have air-conditioning and it was a very hot day. The men were getting close. He thought of rolling up the window – but it was too late.

The first man produced a can that he had hidden behind his back and started splashing gasoline onto the driver, his passenger and all over the front seats. The second man lit a match and threw it into the driver's lap. The third man stood facing the car at a short distance, pointing a portable movie camera from his well-chosen vantage point. The camera was not part of their plan, but he felt it was important that someone keep real-life footage of their patriotic act. The assailants shouted repeatedly “Die, you colonial running dog, die!” as the two men burst into flames and screaming in a most horrible way that went on for almost 10 hellish seconds.

Then all was quiet except for the occasional crackling noises as the car frame expanded under the intense heat, and the sickening smell of burning hair, flesh and the plastic car interior that filled the air.)

[A note to the readers: This is the first chapter. The author is not sure if it should continue. Depending on the level of interest shown by the readers of this forum, this can also be the last chapter! So if you enjoy reading this opening chapter and would wish to see how the story unfolds, it is appreciated that you respond with some comments to indicate that you are indeed interested.]

-- To Be Continued --