Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

frightened.”
    There was dead air on the iFurn line, then she said, “All right. Let me hear it.”
    I told her the lot: John, the awning detective, the poison, the early morning ninja show by Mair.
    “I have frightening visions of her wiping out anyone in Maprao who bought that particular brand of insect killer. And we’re talking hundreds.”
    “Hmm. Hickville genocide. Have there been any reports of a death?”
    “No.”
    “Then, good luck to her. She’s getting away with it. She still has the savvy to cover her tracks, and we always encouraged her to get a hobby.”
    “You think I’m being paranoid, don’t you?”
    “No. I think you’re a complete idiot. Mair’s a little odd. But you don’t go from dotty to wiping out half a community with rat poison. What I do think is that you’ve been down there in oogaboogaland long enough. It’s time to come home. I have a spare room and a whole cabinet of movies you haven’t seen. We can drink Absolut vodka and watch old Wagon Train episodes on Utorrent and stuff ourselves with chocolate.”
    I sighed. It did sound tempting. Almost a deal. But I had some unfinished business.
    “All right,” I said. “That’s close to being an option. But let me sort out all these murders first. Have you had any thoughts about my abbot slaying?”
    “I had a brainwave,” she said. “I’m a member of this Web site called Police Beat. It’s like Facebook but it’s for anyone with police connections. It’s mostly old cops, men, retired and active – unattractive police officers trawling for women with uniform fetishes. In fact, that’s why I joined. But it gets an interesting mixed clientele as well. Some female officers, public prosecutors, crime writers hoping for scraps, the odd hooker throwing in a discreet ad masked as a chat. But the fascinating thing is, it’s international. You get dialogues in bad English discussing law and swapping police techniques. I guess there are a lot of people out there who don’t realize what the site’s really about.
    “My site identity is Elena. I’m a Russian homicide detective who lost a leg in a gang fight. But I’m gorgeous, you see, and all those noble police officers are prepared to ignore my stub. You’d be surprised what information one-legged Elena can elicit. But, anyway, there’s this chat-room for discussing cases. So I mentioned our temple killing and the weird thing with the hat and I sent out a plea for any other hate/hat related stories.”
    “You mean, just in case there’s a worldwide serial killer who puts hats on his victims before he stabs them to death? Siss?”
    “You asked me to think outside the box.”
    “Not outside the planet.”
    “Fine. You don’t want my help then I won’t…”
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right. I mean, you’re absolutely right. So? Any luck?”
    “Not yet. I had an alcoholic ex-detective in southern California tell me in great detail about a performance artist who used to put party hats on roadkill and photograph them. She had an exhibition. That’s as close as we’ve come so far. But this is a huge network. It’ll take time.”
    “I trust you.”
    “You should.”
    “How’s the Web idol job?”
    “We have conflict.”
    “Already?”
    “They want me to post my picture – pre-work. Me in the raw.”
    “Naked?”
    “My Webcam would never forgive me for such a thing. No, they want me to show my actual, time-ravaged face. They say it would inspire the youth.”
    “Do they know your real name?”
    “No.”
    “So, do it.”
    “Are you mad? What if anyone recognized me?”
    “They’d send you an e-mail and ask how you’ve been, and you’d answer and that’s the last you’d hear from them. Internet reunions are fleeting and they tire fast. I’m serious. Do it.”
    “I’d sooner die.”

Fourteen
“ When I was coming up, it was a dangerous world, and you knew exactly who they were. It was us versus them, and it was clear who them was. Today we are not so sure who the they are, but we know they’re there .”
    —GEORGE W. BUSH, IOWA WESTERN COMMUNITY COLLEGE, JANUARY 21, 2000
    S ugit Suttirat, ex-minister of the environment, parked his cliché red Corvette opposite the Olympuss in the space saved for him with two plastic shower stools. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror .
    “ Not bad. Not bad at all .”
    Some might suggest it was his standing in society that made him so popular with the girls, but he knew there were those