In late January of 1983, Seattle homicide detectives contacted me and asked if I knew the whereabouts of a young Chinese individual named Benjamin Ng. A week earlier, two women had been murdered in their home on Beacon Hill. Someone had tied them up and wrapped duct tape around their heads, covering their mouths and noses. Both women had been shot once in the head. The house was ransacked but, according to news reports at the time, nothing stolen, leading members of the Chinese community to speculate that they were murdered because they had been able to identify their assailants. They believed that two men, Benjamin Ng and Kwan Fai “Willie” Mak had killed those two women. The day after homicide asked me to find Benjamin, I spotted him driving around Chinatown westbound on King Street in front of Tai Tung Restaurant. I stepped out from the sidewalk and stood in the middle of South King Street, blocking the path of Benjamin’s vehicle and displayed my detective’s badge. He stopped his vehicle. I yelled out, “Police officer, keep your hands on the steering wheel.” Detectives took him in for questioning but later released him due to lack of physical evidence.

A few days after that, Benjamin saw me in Chinatown and invited me to have dinner with him. As we sat at a table at the Atlas Café, he ordered clams with black bean sauce and a few other side dishes. We made idle talk for a while, then the topic changed. Benjamin attempted to convince me that he hadn’t killed the two old ladies on Beacon Hill and didn’t know anything about the murders. Homicide had clued me in that Benjamin’s vehicle, a GTO, had been purchased recently, so I asked him where he’d gotten the money. He gave me some bullshit story about gambling winnings, which I didn’t buy. A week or so later, I was having dinner by myself in a quiet, out-of-the-way restaurant in Chinatown, where I could enjoy my meal without being bothered by anyone. I sat back in the booth and sampled the hot pepper oil and yellow Chinese mustard. I always did that: a sip of cold beer, a scoop or two of the very hot pepper oil mixed with the Chinese mustard, then another sip of cold beer. That was my ritual as I waited for my food to arrive. Soon, the waiter brought over the rock cod I had ordered. Looked damn good. He returned to the kitchen and brought out the rest of my order: steamed lop chong, baby bok choi and, of course, steamed rice. You just can’t enjoy a Chinese meal without a bowl of steamed rice.

First, I ate the eyes of the rock cod; very good for your health, so they say. Next, I ate the cheeks of the fish. They’re located just in front of the gills – it’s the most tender part of the fish. After that, I ate the rest. I took my time and enjoyed it. Meal finished, I ordered a shot of warm brandy in a snifter and sat back. I was still enjoying my brandy when an elderly Chinese gentleman entered the restaurant. He walked toward me and stopped at my table. “Sifu,” he said, making a slight bow of respect toward me and then started in. “Very sorry. I don’t wish to interrupt your dinner, but there is something important that I must speak to you about.” I half stood and welcomed him to sit. He declined and remained standing.

“You know Ben Ng?” I nodded. “Yeah, I know him.” “We are ready to offer to you $25,000 if you can take care of Ben Ng for us.” I stayed calm, but my thoughts were racing. I thought, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Here I am sitting in a restaurant where I’ve just enjoyed a great meal. I now have a Chinese elder standing at my table, offering me $25,000 cash to “take care of Ben Ng.” Me, a white guy (but with a Chinese stepfather), being offered such a task. What an honor, really. I was blown away. I looked at the elder and replied, “Thank you, but I must think about your request. I’ll think about it and let you know soon.”

That said, the elder bowed slightly, turned around and exited the restaurant. A hit on Ben Ng. Me, kill Ben Ng. Sure, I could do it – no problem. I knew Ben Ng, and he knew me. All I’d have to do would be to go up to him next time I spotted him in Chinatown. Ben was in Chinatown every day. I’d just walk up to him as he was parking or getting into his vehicle. I’d ask him to show me what type of handgun he was carrying. (Benjamin always carried a handgun on his person.) He’d reluctantly take out his gun to show me. I’d immediately take out my own gun while yelling out, “Ben – drop your gun! Drop your gun!” I’d simply shoot him twice in the chest. I’d kill the little fucker right there on the spot, and I’d get away with it. I had always felt more comfortable with the Chinese community than the white community. Yes, I was white, but I have, for as long as I can remember, always seen myself as Chinese. But I was still a cop, and if something went wrong with me killing Benjamin, my life would be over. If found guilty, I would be sent to a federal penitentiary to serve a life sentence. Cops don’t fare well locked up and serving time among criminals. Criminals, perhaps, that I had arrested in the past. I was emotionally torn as I wanted more than anything else to help out the frightened Chinese community. For reasons unknown to me at the time, they were frightened of Benjamin Ng. I would later learn that Benjamin and some of his partners had been going around to numerous Chinatown gambling establishments demanding protection money. One night soon after, around 2 a.m., I received a call from one of the detectives working homicide, asking if I knew Benjamin’s whereabouts.