The email did nothing but intrigue me.

Red flags went up with me. I did some research. The e-mailer had used the name "Mei Hua"….the exact opposite pronunciation of "Wah Mee." Furthermore, Mei Hua was a female Chinese name—translated it meant "beautiful flower." And the e-mail was signed by "The Last Bell Ringer." Moreover, the e-mail address (which I won't disclose here) included "wah mee" in it. Kind of creepy. And why was this person "allowing" me to meet and acquire a piece of Wah Mee history?"

Who the hell was this person, anyway?

I decided to go along with it….

Dear Mei Hua:

A very interesting story. Thank you for writing and filling me in on this detail. I would be interested in seeing—and possibly acquiring—the doorbell.

Let me know when you return from Florida and we can arrange a time.

—Todd

I continued working on the book. Mei Hua and I continued playing "e-mail tag." I played it straight. I kept her up to date on the progress of the book: Interviews with cops, attorneys, and investigators; a bite from a publisher interested in the book. Mei Hua, in turn, told me she was traveling: visiting many places in China; looking forward to picking up the doorbell from her storage place in Florida. We remained in contact for more than a year.

Then we lost touch.

I e-mailed her a couple times.

Nothing.

No response.

Shortly after the first chapter of my book was published in Asian Focus, I received another e-mail from her. It had been nearly a year:

Dear Todd,

I'm back. I just came back from China and stopped in Florida over the holidays. Now I'm in Seattle and I brought the [doorbell] and some local newspaper articles from my warehouse in Florida. I have read all of the chapters on your Wah Mee website and appreciate the tremendous work you have done to tell this legendary story. I can meet you some day next week after Tuesday to hand over the goods. You know where. Afterwards I would like to treat you to lunch at [a] nearby appropriately named dim sum restaurant, so choose a time between 12 and 2.

Sincerely,

The Last Bell Ringer

I received the e-mail in January. I had a reading at the library in February. I invited Mei Hua to attend. She didn't show. The next day, another e-mail; she insisted on meeting me in Maynard Alley—outside the Wah Mee Club. I ran the e-mails past a couple friends back east—one who investigated missing persons cases and spent some time working at the Cook County District Attorneys Office. Red flags went up with her, too. She basically told me to be afraid. Be very afraid.

My life was horribly dull. Any possibility of spicing things up was appealing to me. I had nothing to lose. I had no wife, no kids, no real family, very few friends, no mortgage, no car payment—nada! And, as a friend pointed out to me, if I got into some sort of trouble, at least my book would sell well. I hurriedly e-mailed Mei Hua:

How does this Friday, 19 February 1999, at 12:30 sound to you...? Meet at the Wah Mee....? (on the 16-year anniversary of the murders, no doubt).

Let me know...—Todd

Less than twenty-four hours later, a reply:

Sounds good to me! Lunch is on me! See you at the Wah Mee!

—The Last Bell Ringer

I got an e-mail from a friend—an investigator at the King County Medical Examiner's Office. He was fully versed on Mei Hua's e-mails. We were supposed to meet for dinner and a beer. He wrote:

Let's shoot for next Friday.

That is unless you become part of the history of [Chinatown]. I can see it now….

Headline: "Body of Wah Mee Historian Found Dead in Five Dumpsters along Canton Alley; Identification pending collection of all the parts! Medical Examiner called it the worst case of Suicide he has ever seen!"

Have a happy day Todd! I have a clean tray and sheet waiting for you.

—Jerry

Friday, 19 February 1999. The sixteen-year anniversary of the Wah Mee murders.

I spent the morning making phone calls. In early-February 1999, an article appeared in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer: "Willie Mak, FBI Wrangle Over Files." The whole thing was a mess. The Prosecutor's Office was trying to re-instate the Death Penalty against Mak (which was overturned in 1991). Mak's attorneys claimed that the FBI was withholding information from its investigation. United States District Court Judge Coughenour was preparing a judgment summary on the matter. King County Superior Court Judge Inveen was waiting for the District Court's decision; she was to preside over the re-sentencing trial, but things were stalled because of the Willie Mak/FBI haggling. I was supposed to cover the mess for Asian Focus.

I started making phone calls. I left a phone message at the Prosecutor's office. I left a phone message with Judge Inveen's clerk. I left a phone message for Judge Coughenour's clerk. Phone rang. It was Judge Inveen's clerk. They were stalled—waiting for direction from Judge Coughenour. They were given the case back in 1991, but the case was moved to the District Court. "We're in kind of idling mode right now," the clerk told me. Phone call from Judge Coughenour's clerk. No summary judgement has been made. I was told to check back periodically. While on the phone with Coughenour's clerk, the Prosecutor's Office left a message on the answering machine. I didn't have time to call him back. It was late-morning and I was out the door, riding Metro to Chinatown.

I stopped off at a flower shop in Chinatown. Each year, on the anniversary of the murders, I head down to the Club and place flowers outside the padlocked doors. It isn't sappy. It isn't emotional. Many people in Chinatown have forgotten about the murders. Not me. I've never come across a story as layered and compelling as Wah Mee. It has opened many doors for my writing career. It's the least I can do. I paid for the flowers and headed west along South King Street. It was 12:00 noon. I was filled with nervous energy. I saw the Bush Hotel, the NP Hotel, King Street Station, Hong Kong Kitchen—so much history in only a dozen square blocks. I snuck inside a Chinese grocery store and there I saw it: The Seattle Times with a front- page story on the Wah Mee anniversary. A photo of Willie Mak in red prison coveralls, sitting in court. The headline: "Legal Quagmire Lets Wah Mee Killer Dodge Death Penalty." I plopped down my fifty cents and scanned the article. I left the grocery store. I tucked the newspaper in my bag. It was 12:15. I was headed toward the Wah Mee when I heard what sounded, at first, to be gunshots. They were actually firecrackers. Some young boys were huddled beneath a Chinese dragon, dancing to the beat of a drum and scaring spirits from a Herbalist storefront on South King Street. It was, after all, Chinese New Year. I stopped on South King Street, watching the festivities. I had some time to kill.

Ten minutes later, I headed toward the Wah Mee. I passed Tai Tung restaurant—where Tony Ng and Ben Ng were reportedly spotted eating dinner shortly before the murders—and saw an article I wrote for Asian Focus on a news rack inside the restaurant. Front-page fodder. It was truly bizarre. I turned down Maynard Alley and immediately spotted the Club's façade.

The alley was empty.

I placed the flowers on the mat outside the doors. I stared at the Club's doors—the padlocks in particular. I recalled a story an investigator once told me: "The padlocks on the doors are the same padlocks that police officers placed there a few days after the murders. No one's been in the place since the murders." I stepped back, standing in the middle of the alley, and replayed the events in my mind. I imagined Wai Chin staggering out of the Club, pushing the doors open and limping up the alley, blood pouring from his throat and staining the mat outside the doors. I remembered a crime-scene photograph I had seen; drops of blood literally leaving a trail from the Club up the alley and onto South King Street. I imagined the three men fleeing the Club in haste, blood on their hands, thousands of dollars in their hands. I looked up at the apartments above and across the alley. I remembered a story that Seattle Times photographer Matt McVay once relayed. Hours after the murders, McVay heard a police radio call that there were many people dead in Chinatown. He raced to the scene, only to find that the alley had been cordoned off. Reporters were banned from the scene. McVay was resourceful. He entered an adjacent apartment building, directly across the alley from the Wah Mee, and began knocking on doors. An old man let him inside and McVay, hanging out the apartment window, snapped the first photos of the Wah Mee victims, in body bags, being carried out of the Club. It was an amazing story.

Mei Hua was nowhere in sight. It was 12:30. I snuck into Liem's pet store next door to the Club. I looked at fish and turtle doves and snakes and live chickens. I checked my pager for the time—12:35. I left Liem's and walked around the block. I turned down the alley again, headed toward the Wah Mee.

Mei Hua was in the doorway, waiting for me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

Mei Hua was neither Chinese nor female. Rather, Mei Hua was a thirty-something-year-old male dressed in a fleece jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes. A bag hung from his shoulder and he was holding the doorbell to the Wah Mee—encased in a wooden frame.

"My name's Scott," he said, smiling. He offered his hand and I shook it with reservation. "I was worried," he continued. "I came down this alley about ten minutes earlier, and there was a cop car. I thought you had gotten a police escort." That was impossible. The cops didn't like me. I was writing about the Wah Mee Club and Seattle's "tolerance policy" and corrupt cops. I chuckled slightly at the thought of a police escort.

Scott paused a moment, and we stared at the Club. The doors were covered in a thick grime, the glass blocks filthy and weathered. "I've got something for you," Scott continued. He reached into his bag and pulled out various news clippings from the crime. Then he handed me the doorbell to the Wah Mee. It seemed silly—it was, after all, simply a doorbell—but it was such an important piece of history. I was overwhelmed. It was neatly encased and in perfect condition. I pressed the button several times. I glanced at the spot on the wall where the doorbell was once housed. I thought of all the people who had pressed the same doorbell: Japanese-American writer John Okada; politician and restaurateur Ruby Chow; the three thugs charged for the massacre— Tony Ng, Benjamin Ng, and Willie Mak; corrupt cops on the take when Seattle's "tolerance policy" was in full force; the thirteen victims who died at the Club; and Wai Chin—the sole survivor of the worst massacre in Seattle history. All of these people had pressed the doorbell, requesting entrance into one of Seattle's oldest speakeasies.

It was simply overwhelming to me.

I handed Scott a packet of newspaper articles that I had written recently: an article from The Washington Free Press, an article from The Seattle Scroll, and several articles from Asian Focus. We headed off to lunch at Top Gun restaurant. "That's the appropriately named restaurant," Scott told me, referring to his earlier e-mails. We crossed South King Street. Top Gun. Thirteen people dead at the Wah Mee, and I was going to eat lunch at Top Gun.

We ate dim sum. Scott told me his story. He studied Chinese at the UW in the early-1980s. He had always frequented Chinatown during that time, but never knew of the Wah Mee. When the massacre occurred, he was immediately intrigued. "I had been going down to Chinatown for so long, but never knew about the Wah Mee. I couldn't believe that this could have happened, and I didn't know about the Wah Mee Club." So he went down to the Club the day after the murders. There was no one around. He removed the doorbell from the Club. "Man, I was the talk of my college dorm. Everyone knew I had the doorbell to the Wah Mee, and they all came by to see it. It was amazing."

We discussed Wah Mee.

He asked me if I thought the Death Penalty would be re-instated against Willie Mak.

I had my doubts.

He said he read my book with much interest. He appreciated the fact that I went beyond the crime itself and delved into the history of the Club and Seattle's "tolerance policy" and the simple fact that, well, I had done my homework. I was flattered.

I asked him if he really traveled between the United States and China. He said he did. He had an apartment in Hong Kong and his parents lived in Florida—where the doorbell and newsclippings had been in storage. He worked for a company in Hong Kong. He knew Cantonese, and flirted with the waitresses during our lunch. I was amused. "I want you to have the doorbell. No one else quite understands Wah Mee," Scott explained. "My girlfriend thinks I'm crazy because I'm interested in it. My parents don't care about it. But you are really interested in the case and have done all this work. I want you to have it."

We finished lunch and left the restaurant. South King Street was bustling. I held the doorbell in my hand. The news clippings were in my bag. He offered me a ride home. He said he was leaving for China by the end of March and really had no desire to return to Seattle. I thanked him for the doorbell and the news clippings. I had no idea if we would meet up again. We shook hands.

On the answering machine at home were more phone messages. This time, they were all from friends—not prosecutors or judges or law clerks. Did I see the article in today's Seattle Times? Of course I did. But I had a feeling that, after my meeting with "The Last Bell Ringer," I had a much bigger story, one that the Times couldn't touch.

This story originally appeared as a serialized feature in Asian Focus newspaper