Killed at the Whim of a Hat

“Have you contacted VW Thailand?” I asked.

“They’re in Bangkok,” said the constable, as if that were reason enough not to try. Long-distance phone calls. Funny accents. Reports to fill out. Hassle. They might as well have been contacting Rio de Janeiro. I told them I’d see if I could get through.

“And that brings us to the bodies,” said the constable, flipping to his second sheet. “As there were no organs to examine, no flesh, no brain matter or stomach contents, the army pathologist in Prajuab could only say with any certainty that these were one male and one female. He wasn’t even sure how old they were. There were no visible traumas and, therefore, there was no obvious cause of death. But the head of the national forensic pathology institute is due down there in a few days and she might have a look.” He closed the file.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Don’t you think it’s fascinating that they can tell the difference between male and female just from the bones?” Lieutenant Chompu said. “And they weren’t even connected.”

“You don’t watch a lot of television, do you?” I suggested.

“Lots. Why?” he replied. “How would that help?”

Right. The countryside. All Thai soap operas and game shows. Deprived of those rich satellite helpings of crime scene investigations. These people didn’t realize you could tell a man’s age, nationality, religion, belt size and sexual orientation from the bar of soap he washed with that morning. We had two complete skeletons and we couldn’t tell squat. Where was Kathy Reichs when you needed her?

“There was a label found among the surviving shreds of clothing,” said Yai, hopefully. “It said, ‘Made in India’.”

I remembered a suicide case in Chiang Rai a couple of years earlier when a foreigner was identified as Italian because he had his name in his shirt: Signore Armani.

“Labels can be misleading,” I said.

“Of course, you’re right,” said the lieutenant. “Has any of this been any help to you at all?”

“No.”

“Would you like to come and see the van now it’s uncovered?” he asked. “I could drive you.”

I had follow-ups to do for three newspapers and I had nothing to tell them. I held little hope that the fully excavated VW would offer up anywhere near enough insights to fill a column. Newspapers recognized fluff when they saw it and, as a country reporter, my offerings would be scrutinized very closely by the evil editors. I’d barely make it off the inside back page. I was dead again.

Lieutenant Chompu stopped off in the little officer’s room to freshen up and I was just about to walk out into the car park when I heard the booming voice of Major Mana. I ducked back behind a pillar.

“I wasn’t expecting you back today, sir,” said Sergeant Phoom in his usual jolly tone.

“Here is the last place I want to be, given what’s just happened,” said the major.

“Something serious, sir?”

From my nook between the pillars with a cardboard SAFE DRIVING accident cut-out blocking most of me, I was able to see the major walk to the desk, lean close to the sergeant, and whisper something. I couldn’t hear what he said but I noticed the sergeant reel backward as if he’d been slapped. This was a secret I wanted to know. I waited for the major to race up the stairs three at a time and I strolled over to the desk.

“Have you heard?” I asked.

“Heard what?” asked Sergeant Phoom, still pale from receiving the news.

“Oh, sorry. I thought the major would have told you by now.”

“Well…that depends.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’m allowed to share it with you if Major Mana hasn’t said anything.”

I turned and headed for the car park but I could hear his mind ticking over behind me.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with” — and he lowered his voice — “the abbot?”

“See? You do know.” I smiled. “You’re just playing with me.” I walked back to his desk.

“Terrible thing, isn’t it?” he said.

“I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you.”

“We go three years with barely a punch on the nose and then, bang, two cases in the one day.”

My heart turned a little but I had to be careful now. I didn’t want to alienate one of my new friends at my local station but I had some fishing to do.

“What do you think happened?” I asked, leaning across his desk.

“Now, wait,” he said. “How do you know about it?”

“Sergeant Phoom,” I said, with my most sincere face attached, “I’m a reporter for national newspapers.”

“But there’s supposed to be a news blackout.”

“Never underestimate the power of the press. Come on, what’s your theory?”

I could hear Chompu speaking upstairs. My time was running out.

“Well, I don’t have many facts,” he confessed.

“But?”

I seemed to hover there for an inordinately long time before:

“But the stabbing to death of an abbot suggests a personal conflict to me.”

An abbot got stabbed? Holy mackerel. I was suddenly in the crime capital of the Eastern Seaboard. I was so excited I wanted to pee. Look out Pulitzer prize. I made a mental wai to the abbot for my disrespect. One last cast of the net.

“But wait, it’s out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?” I tried.

“Not at all. Wat Feuang Fa is just on our side of road four-three-six. That’s the border. Anything on the other side is handled by Lang Suan.”

Chompu came tripping down the stairs and I pulled in my net. I had everything I needed. The lieutenant was shaking his hands in front of him. I took him for the type who didn’t trust communal hand towels.

“Ready?” he asked.

The VW visit had lost a certain amount of piquancy for me in the past few minutes but it would have been suspicious for me to cry off.

“And willing,” I said.

Old Mel was sitting on the back fence of his plantation wondering where all the peace and quiet had gone. He was admiring the water spraying from the heads of a dozen sprinklers. The blue PVC pipe upon which they perched snaked between the palms until it reached a sturdy Chinese pump. This in turn drew water from a newly dug pond at the center of which stood a rusty but surprisingly intact VW Kombi van.

“Good morning, Mel,” said Lieutenant Chompu.

“Morning,” said Mel.

The old man remembered me from the previous day’s dig. He briefly slapped his hands together in response to my wai. I imagine he’d read my news report that morning, which largely ignored the thirty-minute interview he’d given me on Saturday.

“Your well is surely the envy of the province.” Chompu smiled. “Such an attractive centerpiece.”

“Right,” laughed Mel. “Until the rust kills all my palms.”

“Nonsense,” said the policeman. “All that iron. They’ll flourish. You watch.”

The old man had been in a hurry to get his sprinklers working. I looked around at the plantation. Deep ditches ran between the rows of palms all the way from the road to about twenty meters from the back fence. Each contained a shallow trough of water. It was a confusing layout. One that didn’t make sense.

“Koon Mel,” I said (selecting the polite ‘Mr.’ over the less-than-polite ‘Old’), “can you tell me why the ditches don’t extend all the way to the rear fence?”

“Ah,” said Mel. “We dug the ditches fifteen years ago. I was a lot fitter then. Me and my brothers dug them by hand. None of that mechanized backhoe stuff. Everyone was still planting coconut palms back then. Only a few of us had the foresight to see the future of palm oil. Now everyone’s cutting down their coconut trees and planting palms. We were the pathfinders.”

“So, why…?” I pushed.