Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

want to know?” asked the manager. He was still at the door. I wondered whether he planned to bolt for it.
    “Blissy Travel,” I said.
    He looked surprised.
    “What about it?”
    “You tell me.”
    He obviously didn’t know what to say. Didn’t work. New track.
    “You were the manager.”
    “Yeah. So?”
    “Couples would stop by to sign up for tours?”
    “Couples, singles, groups. That’s normal, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t know. Is it?”
    “Yes.”
    On TV it was always a lot easier. They’d answer a question with a question and the suspect would tie himself up in knots. Soon he’d be singing like a caged dove. Arny had a pale green tint to his cheeks. I didn’t know how long I had before he threw up behind the manager’s desk. So I got to the point.
    “Exactly how many couples did you kill, Koon Boondej?”
    “Just the one.”
    I admired, but was taken aback by, his honesty.
    “Look, I’ve done my time,” he said. “I’m setting out on a new life here. I’m not a threat to society. Can’t you just…” He looked at Arny. “Is he all right?”
    “The thought of extreme violence moves him,” I said.
    I pushed the wastepaper bin in front of my brother and he took himself and the bin off to the executive bathroom.
    “All right,” I said. I was suddenly feeling vulnerable but I spoke calmly to make the man think I was just as dangerous as Fang. “Just you and me now. I want to hear the whole story.”
    “You’re press, aren’t you?” he said.
    Busted again.
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, shit.”
    “But you aren’t my story. If you can point me in the right direction, your name doesn’t have to be mentioned at all.”
    So he told me about the couple he’d killed. After Blissy Travel collapsed, he’d run a boat trip out to the islands. One of the most popular cruises was to the caves of the nok nang an , the birds that built nests from their own spit. The trips were boozy and most of the tourists were sloshed by the time they arrived back at the dock. Boondej often missed the pier entirely. One day they went out to the cave, anchored a few hundred feet from the island in shallow water. The guests waded in to the caves, took pictures, waded back out and continued with the serious task of getting plastered. Boondej was a little more pickled than usual that day and he miscounted. One couple had gone deep into the cave and he left them there. The tide rose and they drowned. Culpable negligence. The husband was the son of a Scandinavian diplomat so Boondej served the whole eight-point-two-three meters.
    Actually I’d been hoping for something more fiendish. The Home Art Mega Store manager didn’t sound like the serial killing type. So I brought up the topic of VW vans.
    “I had two,” he said with pride. “I went down to Malaysia and got them secondhand. Hardly used. They were the only ones of their kind around then. I did a lot of business with them. They were all the go with backpackers in Europe. So when the hippies came over to Thailand they’d take the bus from Bangkok on their way to Ko Samui and pass right in front of my shop.”
    Arny, a few shades lighter, re-entered the room. He replaced the waste bin and lowered himself slowly into the seat.
    “Go on,” I said.
    “They, I mean the VWs, were on the road most of the time. They’d come back and, poof, the next day there’d be a new customer. I charged rental by the day. The customers paid for petrol. They’d invariably trip up one coast, then back down the other. Stop off in Chumphon and Ranong and Phuket, down to Krabi. I included a recommended itinerary in the cost of the rental with the names of guesthouses and resorts. But there were mattresses in the back of both vans so they could save money on accommodation if they liked. I tell you, if I’d been able to hang on to those vans I’d be a rich man today.”
    “What happened to them?”
    “Vanished.”
    “Beg your pardon?”
    “Disappeared, both of them. Within the space of a week.”
    “You reported them missing?”
    “Of course I did. They were my cash cows. I’d always hang on to the passports and ID cards of the customers and take a security deposit. Once the vans vanished I showed the IDs to the police. You know what they told me? Fakes. Fakes, all of them. Thais, I tell you. Can’t trust ‘em. I should have stuck with foreign backpackers.”
    “The vans were rented by Thais?”
    “The police told me there was a car theft gang sweeping through the