Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

suicide was on automatic feed to her Web site, and its popularity on YouTube was unprecedented. Mikata had no intention of being taken alive. With her chest-mounted cameras and her spectacular orange hat, she was dispatched by jet-propelled hang-glider to the top platform of the Tokyo Tower, the world’s tallest orange structure. There, she gave a heartrending but virtually incomprehensible speech and flung herself over the parapet. Viewers were able to make out the strains of ‘Killing Me Softly’, in Japanese, as she somersaulted through the air. But, as both the still and video cameras were destroyed as she bounced off the overhanging observation deck, her actual death was not recorded, which would have been a major disappointment to her fans. However, live coverage or not, Mika Mikata’s death had been as colorful as her murders.
    My articles on the investigation and subsequent discovery of the killer were very well received. I even had a spread in Matichon Weekly magazine. I had offers of full-time positions I would have been a fool to pass up. I received personal calls from managing editors at newspapers that made the Mail look like a rag. Oh, I considered them. I had sleepless nights. On numerous occasions, I dialed all but the last digit of their phone numbers. But…well, we had a business to run. Our sleeping province, momentarily awoken with a kiss from the angel of death, had decided to press the snooze button and go back to sleep again. I spent less time scouring the newspapers and more time gutting mackerel. With the absence of intrigue, I was able to put more time and effort into our resort. The shop attendance had rocketed to an average of seven customers per day. With Gaew’s help, Arny had almost doubled the room occupancy from one per five-day period to one-point-seven by the simple addition of a sign: LAST BED AND FOOD FOR 100 KMS. It wasn’t exactly true, or rather it was an outright lie, but any travelers silly enough to find themselves on these back roads late at night were unlikely to sue us later. Arny had also written to Lonely Planet for inclusion in their 2010 edition. It was a bit like me writing to Mr. Pulitzer asking if I might put my name on his list, but I admired my brother’s spirit.
    And me? I cooked. I began what one day might be called a garden. And I fed the dogs. Yes, that was a plural. Sticky Rice pulled through. He woke up one day like a born-again canine with the kick of a small cow and has hardly dared to go back into that sleep world since. I assume my ankle was the first thing he saw when he came around because he follows it so closely I have to wipe snot off my leg after each trip through the yard. It’s rather pathetic but endearing and, I confess, I might have found myself cuddling him from time to time but only while he’s in rehab. Gogo continues to glare at me with disdain and maintains her orbit.
    What else have I been doing? Nothing, I suppose. Oh, yes. I did come up with a solution for the mystery of the interred VW. The world would never hear of it and the story didn’t even warrant a follow-up in Thai Rat . Readers have short attention spans and the effort of retelling the tale was beyond the editors. But my inner diva has started to write it into a screenplay for Clint. It’ll be a sensation. Although the police had given up on the case, I was determined to keep it alive. I’d done all the flow charts and brainstorms and reviewed all the evidence and I found myself up against a brick wall. There was only one thing I knew for sure: that the couple in the interred VW were not the couple who had been asked to give evidence against Tan Sugit. There was, however, a very impressive list of things I didn’t know. I didn’t know where the first VW had disappeared to after its brief stay in the police parking lot, who rented the second VW and where they went, how evil Auntie Chainawat was involved and why she sold that strip of land to Old Mel, how the VW got itself buried, or anything else. Because, to tell the truth, at that stage I knew nothing. I can’t say it didn’t worry me but I’d literally run out of avenues to pursue. Sissi had searched the Internet and delved into the private briefs of one or two senior policemen but she’d come up with nothing relevant. I could have left it there, I suppose, but for the memory of the driver and his girlfriend sitting calmly in their seats. There were families somewhere ever wondering what had become of