Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

It strikes me as more than a coincidence they’d want to off-load a plot of land with dead bodies on it.”
    “Any idea how they got the van in the ground?”
    “The police are assuming it was a pit. Dig a big hole. Push the van in. Cover it up.”
    “But you don’t agree.”
    “No, but only because it doesn’t make sense. I saw the bodies as soon as they were dug out. The skeletons were seated like – all right, they were skeletons – but it was as if they were sitting there enjoying the drive. They weren’t tied or gagged. If you’re about to be dumped into a pit you panic, right? You try to fight your way out. You don’t just sit there and stare out the windscreen clutching the wheel. The girl had her hand on the driver’s thigh, damn it.”
    “That’s really poignant.”
    “So you get my point?”
    “Absolutely. It’s weird. They’d have to die calmly, drugs or gas or something. Probably dead when they were put in the van. Sounds like a very considerate killer.”
    “Or a psychopath.”
    “Do you know whether they’re foreigners or local?”
    “The forensic people didn’t want to hazard a guess. They said their stature was small but they’re waiting for the boss from Bangkok instead of making any wild predictions. Do you think it makes a difference?”
    “Sure. If they were Californian they might have just insisted on being buried with their favorite vehicle. They do stuff like that over there. I assume you don’t know how old they were?”
    “No, and I imagine we’re out of the loop down here. I don’t think anyone at the forensic lab would tell Pak Nam even if they did find that out.”
    “Where there’s a Web there’s a way.”
    “You won’t do anything too illegal, will you?”
    “If people are foolish enough to wander through darkest cyberspace with their pockets full, they deserve to get mugged. It’s a lawless wasteland out here.”
    “And you’re the queen of bandits.”
    “You’re too kind. Anything else I can do for you?”
    “I’m not sure. You got time for another story?” I told her about the abbot and his nun problem. The more I told her, the more I realized I didn’t have enough background on any of the main characters. I’d have to make another trip over there. I gave her what little information I had and she promised to help. I was hoping she’d be able to tell me why there was a press blackout on the case. I also ordered a copy of the Vinaya Pitaka , the Discipline Basket containing the 227 rules for monks. It outlined the rules and regulations that governed the dharma in Thailand. I didn’t want to have to compete for the printer with the game fiends at our local Internet shop so I asked if Sissi could get her Girl Friday to post it to me. “No problem,” she said.
    “Has your PA actually seen you or do you conduct all your business seated behind a red curtain?”
    “Now, now. No sarcasm. Kin and I have long chats.”
    “And she isn’t repulsed by the horror of you?”
    “She’s Burmese.” Burmese weren’t easily repulsed. They needed the money. I was glad my ex-brother had someone to talk to but it worried me that she no longer needed to get any air, polluted or otherwise.
    “We all miss you,” I said. “Why don’t you come down and stay with us?”
    “Right. Pol Pot’s blog from hell. ‘It’s great. Wish you were here. We could all shovel burning excrement together’.”
    I took that as a no.
    ♦
    Mair always insisted, once I’d fed the dogs, I had to take them for a walk along the beach. These are unchained, unfenced feral animals. I tried to argue with her that if they wanted an after-meal stroll to aid digestion, they’d do it with or without me. But she did the eyebrow thing and our morning and evening constitutionals became part of my routine. Me tramping through the soft sand with John throwing herself in front of me expecting constant tummy rubs, and Gogo twenty meters behind pretending she just happened to be walking in that direction anyway. It was a good time for putting ideas together. But on the Monday morning, John didn’t join us.
    Arny was rolling his log and I was up in the resort kitchen making breakfast. We both looked up to see Ba Nok, the noodle lady, walking along the sand toward us. In her arms was the body of John draped limp like a long linked chain. Around John’s mouth was foam as if she’d been interrupted cleaning her teeth but, of course, she hadn’t. She was dead. Ba Nok handed over the