Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

beauty competitions and the Web audience votes for their favorite and it doesn’t matter that everyone knows you’re a dog underneath. It’s all about what you can do to give the impression that you’re glamorous. And they have the same thing for men: the hair, the zit removal, the corsets and the airbrushing and you end up with these darling Barbies and Kens dating each other on the Web.”
    “It sounds sad.”
    “It’s wonderful.”
    “It’s not real.”
    “It’s better than real. It’s totally honest. They all know they’re unattractive but they can live these lives as beautiful people.”
    It didn’t sound honest at all.
    “How do you fit into this?” I asked.
    “I know the geniuses who set up the site. They want me to be their style guru. I’ll be giving advice on how to dress, how to move, how to present themselves on Webcams.”
    “Are they paying you?”
    “You know how I’ve always wanted to give to charity but I could never find the right one? Well, this is it. I’ll be doing it pro bono.”
    “A very worthy cause.”
    And an appropriate choice of guru. Auntie Sissi encouraging an entire generation of empty people to pretend to be something they weren’t. The thought of it depressed me. After another twenty minutes I was able to wrestle the subject around to crime.
    “Sissi, do you have any moral objections to hacking into the DRA computer banks?”
    “That’s the Drug…Rehab…?”
    “Department of Religious Affairs.”
    “Oh, absolutely not.”
    I gave her an update of the Wat Feuang Fa case and told her what I needed to find out.
    “Any chance of getting back to me by tomorrow night?” I asked.
    “I tell you from experience, religious sites are so easy to hack I know monkeys that could get into their inner sanctums. They all believe they don’t need security ‘cause they’re protected by a Higher firewall. So, it’s all an agnostic’s playground. You want me to leave any mystic symbols to screw their minds up?”
    “No, just a simple smash and grab will be fine. Thanks.”
    When I hung up it was ten thirty, half an hour after my bedtime. I was just about to step into the shower, then stare forlornly at myself in the full-length mirror when my cell phone rang again. I’d forgotten to turn it off.
    “Hello?”
    “Little scribe? Are you awake?”
    “Chompu? What’s up? Are you lonely?”
    “Hardly. I’m surrounded by men in uniform.”
    “Are you fantasizing?”
    “Er, no. I’m on speaker phone. We were wondering if you could pop down to the station.”
    “What? Now?”
    “There’s been an incident.”

Ten
“… the storm clouds on the horizon were getting nearly directly overhead .”
    —GEORGE W. BUSH, WASHINGTON, D.C., MAY 11, 2001
    A rny and I arrived at Pak Nam police station at ten fifty. We had a long-standing arrangement whereby if ever I had to leave home after dark for anything that wasn’t a date (three in the past three years) he’d come with me. He pretends it’s because he’s worried about the truck getting stolen but I know if he didn’t come he’d stay awake all night worrying about me. Mair succeeded in making us all weird in our own ways but she also gave us a deep sense of loyalty. We walked up to reception and a sergeant, slightly crooked like a bamboo root, was sitting on a stool behind the counter. I’d never seen him before. He looked nervous.
    “I’m – ” I began, but he waved us through without saying anything.
    There were police everywhere that I didn’t recognize and I was starting to think the place had changed hands in a coup, but then I saw Constable Ma Dum hurry out of the meeting room. I called to him.
    “In there,” he said, looking twice at my bodyguard.
    We walked into a room that was crowded but not active. It was like half-time at a sporting event when the team was being thrashed to within an inch of its life. A few mumbled conversations ceased and all heads turned to look in our direction. I recognized the two detectives we’d seen at Wat Feuang Fa. Major Mana was there and Chompu and a dozen men in uniform, most of whom I didn’t know.
    “Well, this is an interesting turn of events,” said the taller of the two detectives. His hair was stiff and spiked like the bristles of a bottlebrush and his face looked as moistureless as the skin of a longan fruit. His partner was in poor shape but thought he could also get away with wearing tight jeans and a black T-shirt tucked into his belt. He