Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

directly to the hut, I could see a case for someone concealing herself in the bushes and leaping out on an unsuspecting abbot. That’s when I decided to tell him about the photographs. Not that I’d downloaded them, but that Arny and I had seen them. We sat in the shade of a particularly tall bush and I hoped that my description of the crime might point the finger away from my sweet, love-struck nun.
    “You still think she did it?” I asked.
    “Well, if I was one of those modern, hi-so techno yuppie police superstars from Bangkok, I’d probably put all this information together and say, ‘Yes, she’s the common denominator’,” he said. “And I’d stop looking. But if I was an old, retired traffic policeman with not a single commendation or service ribbon to his name, I’d probably do this.”
    And with that he headed off into the overgrown woodland straight ahead of us. He was fit for his age. It was all I could do to keep up with him. The branches he pushed past whipped back into my face and the ground was thick with roots and nasty nettles that bit my ankles. I doubted any other creature had entered this jungle since the dinosaurs. But some thirty meters from the perimeter fence, Granddad Jah and the vegetation stopped dead. I ran into his back. Before us was a red dirt track cut through the undergrowth. It was common enough down here where locals planted cash crops where they could and dug out trails through the jungle for access. The way was heavily rutted with what looked like truck tire and motorcycle tracks. Granddad Jah looked left and right but didn’t step out onto the dirt.
    “All right,” he said. “It’s narrow. If, for whatever reason, I was to stop here in a car, I’d know some local farmer might need to get past to plant his palms or collect his berries, so I’d pull over as tight onto the verge as I could. About…there.”
    He was pointing to a grassy area ten meters ahead. We picked our way along the edge of the wood, being careful not to step on the track, and stopped at the rough patch of weeds.
    “What if he came on a motorcycle?” I asked.
    He contemplated that possibility.
    “Then we’re buggered,” he said. “But let’s go with the black Benz theory for now and see where that takes us. Ready?”
    “OK. He parks here,” I said. “He cuts through the jungle, kills the abbot, for whatever reason, then comes back to…Wait! Look at this.”
    I crouched down to get a better look. A cigarette butt in the grass. It was tipped and imported, not the type of thing Maprao locals would smoke. Granddad Jah knelt beside me and found another, then one more. We didn’t touch them.
    “Three cigarette ends,” he said. “Now that’s either totally irrelevant or really significant. If the latter, it changes the theory completely.”
    “It does?”
    “Certainly. It either means our killer was so cool and collected that he felt he could get away with having a leisurely smoke or three, either before or after the murder…”
    “…or he had an accomplice waiting in the car,” I added.
    “Sometimes, Jimm,” he said, with one of his almost smiles, “I think you’re wasted as a girl.”
    I held my tongue. In his mind it might have even been a compliment.
    “You think that was good?” I said. “How about this? You’ve got a whacking great Mercedes Benz on a little dirt track and somehow you’ve got to get it out again. Sooner than reverse all the way back to the road, you keep going till you find somewhere to turn around so you’re facing the right direction for the getaway.”
    He really smiled this time and squeezed my hand. I don’t remember him touching me since primary school.
    “And that,” he said confidently, “is where we’ll find our perfect car tracks. Good girl.”
    We hurried along the edge of the trail. There was one break in the tree line but the ditch there would have made it impossible to drive in. Then, around the next bend, we came upon forensic heaven 101. Sand, and one perfect M of tire marks, in and out. Forgetting myself briefly, I raised my hand for Granddad Jah to high-five me. He had no idea what I was doing and glared at me until my hand was back at my side.
    ♦
    That was the morning’s work, and now we sat waiting for Lieutenant Chompu at the empty Northeastern Seaside Restaurant. Opposite, local tourists paid thirty baht to set off firecrackers in honor of the Prince of Chumphon, father of the Thai navy, part-time magician. This would