I Shot the Buddha

by Colin Cotterill

  “And there you have it,” said Siri.

  “Motive,” said Daeng.

  “And a front-runner for chief suspect,” said Siri. “What do we know of the official son?”

  “He left the northeast to study in Bangkok when he was thirteen,” said Boh. “Came back very rarely as far as I can tell. I think you’d need a real private detective to trace his activities.”

  “Any photos of him?”

  “Not one. The nanny said there used to be photos around the house of Ananda as a child, but they just disappeared. She said the child grew very camera shy as he got older.”

  “So the trail of the wronged brother has gone cold,” said Daeng.

  “Almost,” said Boh.

  “What a man,” said Siri. “In less than twenty hours you’ve gathered more information than the average policeman collects in a year. I have no idea why everybody calls you mad.”

  Daeng kicked her husband’s foot.

  “It’s a mystery to me, too,” said Boh.

  “So the trail is not cold,” said Daeng.

  “Not exactly,” said Boh. “The last news the father received about his legitimate son was in a letter from a friend of the family, a police general in Bangkok who said he’d been contacted by young Ananda to provide a reference to accompany his application to enroll in the police academy.”

  “So Ananda’s a policeman,” said Daeng.

  16

  Error of Judgment

  “Daeng, there are probably a million policemen in Thailand,” said Siri.

  They were walking back along the jungle shortcut with Ugly beside them. There was a new happy fairyland atmosphere in the woods now. Even the lost spirits had time to smell the flowers.

  “Siri, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” said Daeng. “There’s only one policeman directly linked with the arrest and killing of Abbot Rayron in custody. He lives within a half-hour drive from the village. He has the same build and Chinese features as the abbot and a crew cut. Why are you defending him?”

  “Because you’re attacking him enough for the both of us. Once I’ve whittled our list of suspects down to one, I’ll go all out to prove Captain Gumron’s guilt.”

  “Oh, you have a list? I didn’t realize. How many men are there on that list, may I ask?”

  “Every man in the village,” said Siri, “starting with the headman’s son.”

  “Siri, Lim’s missing heir was educated to college level. Brought up in a fine home. The headman’s son peels scabs off his knees and eats them.”

  “Villains go to great lengths to disguise their identities, Daeng. Let’s not rush into this. A good detective eliminates suspects one by one until only the culprit remains.”

  They stopped first at the hut of Yuth, the headman’s son, and his wife, Somjit.

  “Knock, knock,” said Siri as there was no door and nowhere to actually knock.

  The young wife waddled to the doorway like a dyspeptic duck. She was huge with child.

  “Yeh Ming,” she said, “what an honor.”

  She took his hand in hers and massaged it. She didn’t acknowledge Daeng at all.

  “Just in the neighborhood,” said Siri, retrieving his hand. “Heard you were expecting, and so I decided to stop by to check on your condition.”

  “Me too,” said Daeng.

  “That’s so kind of you,” said Somjit. “But I have Somdet Choepaya, my spirit guide, watching over me. And the coat hangers.”

  It was often a mystery to Siri how different sects arrived at a security system against bad spirits. This entire hut was surrounded by rusty metal coat hangers intertwining like ivy.

  “Well if that works for you I’m delighted,” said Siri. “It’s just that I heard you weren’t well enough to deliver the meals to the prison the other night.”

  “Oh, right,” said Somjit. “I mean, look at me. I don’t even fit behind the handlebars anymore. And they were kicking the other night. I think I’ve got a troupe of dancers in here. I had Yuth drop off the dinners.”

  “I was wondering . . .” said Daeng.

  The girl yanked her gaze from Yeh Ming and noticed Daeng. “Oh, hello, Auntie,” she said.

  “Quite,” said Daeng. “I was wondering why they’d order food from a village twenty kilometers away when they have restaurants and food stalls just a walk from the jail.”

  “I’m a fine cook,” said Somjit.

  “Even so. Any profit you’d make would be eaten up in the cost of petrol.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I think it’s all down to the kindness of Captain Gumron. I mean, him and Yuth are really close. Yuth does the captain a lot of favors and doesn’t ask for payment so the prison concession is the captain’s way of saying thank you.”

  Siri and Daeng and Ugly continued their house calls.

  “You’re not convinced yet?” said Daeng.

  “Getting there,” said Siri.

  “The captain has an accomplice in the village.”

  “I know. I also know the girl was lying although I’m not sure what about. One last call and I’m totally on your side. I promise.”

  Fortune-teller Doo was on his veranda sticking toothpicks in a Barbie doll.

  “Hope we aren’t disturbing you,” said Siri.

  Doo looked up. He was one of the few villagers who didn’t capitulate when he saw the great Yeh Ming. His goiter seemed to have shrunk since the battle with the phibob.

  “Never did get the hang of this,” said Doo.

  “Acupuncture?” said Siri.

  “Voodoo.”

  “Oh, you never know,” said Siri. “There might be some blonde fashion model in New York doubled over in pain right this minute.”

  “I can live in hope,” said Doo without understanding. “What do you want?”

  “Honesty.”

  Siri and Daeng stood on either side of his elaborate returning-soul gate.

  “That’s in short supply around here,” said Doo.

  “What do you know about Captain Gumron?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because you speak your mind.”

  Doo might have smiled then. It was hard to tell.

  “He’s got his secrets,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’ve seen him in the village late at night.”

  “Do you remember when?”

  “Clearly. Last time was the night of the old lady’s poisoning.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “’Cause I don’t trust you any more than I trust him.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Any one of them idiots could have been in league with him.”

  “So why are you telling us now?” asked Daeng.

  “The dog,” said Doo.

  Ugly wagged his tail.

  “What about him?” said Siri.

  “He tells me you’re all right.”

  •••

  Inspector Phosy had awoken from his life-saving surgery on the third day. He’d notified his surgeon of his return from the dead by squeezing her buttock as she was trimming his toenails. She’d thrown herself beside him on the slab and cried on his shoulder. She was still crying when he came around for the second time an hour later. After a few days he was well enough to stand and shuffle around. In gratitude, he’d promised to wash the dishes for eternity. It was a job Dtui hated even more than weeding. Reluctantly she’d agreed to drive her husband to police headquarters where he’d made up a fantastic explanation for his disappearance. It involved having been unconscious for three days and waking to find himself under the care of a mysterious surgeon from Cuba.

  Phosy had spent the next day putting together the report of his attack. He’d attached a copy of the photograph of his
attacker, the man’s name, rank and current location, eye-witness accounts from Dtui and the noodle shop staff, a set of fingerprints from the blade which Dtui had bagged before its extraction from his gut, and a copy of the previous report. He’d done all this not because he had faith in the due process of the law but because it was standard procedure. He knew nothing would ever come of it because the case against the ninja had gone as far as it was able. In this system there were no autonomous underling committees. Decisions were made in the nebulous Communist stratosphere, and they could not be debated or overruled.

  That was why Dtui set off to blackmail Judge Haeng. She found him after office hours on his way to play boules. He was dressed in a thick flannel tracksuit that failed to make him look sporty. She took him to one side and began by asking after the cat.

  “You’d never know she almost died,” he said, a smile plastered across his face. “She eats me out of house and home.”

  “She got a name?”

  “Karla.”

  “After Marx, I assume,” said Dtui.

  At that point the judge appeared to have remembered his status. He shut down his smile and said, “What do you want?”

  She laughed at the man’s shift of identity, then calmly reminded him of her stockpile of incriminating data against him. In particular she rather enjoyed refreshing his memory about a letter he’d once written asking for diplomatic immunity from the US consulate in return for certain confidential information. She suggested it would be very nice if he could call in a few favors and secure the release of Noo, the Thai monk. She handed him a copy of Phosy’s report and told him she was confident he, of all people, would deliver the goods. She ended with a motto: “A good socialist knows when he’s beaten.”

  But the next day the judge had gone to see her at the restaurant. He’d hit a brick wall, he said. His every inquiry had been thwarted. The matter was far beyond his jurisdiction. His eyes watered when he begged her not to do anything rash with the information she had against him.

  “Did you learn anything at all?” she’d asked.

  “Only that the arrest was ordered at the highest level,” he’d told her. “Your Thai monk must have really been asking for trouble. There were rumors that under an assumed name he was a regular contributor to Matichon, the Thai political magazine. He was providing them with anticommunist views and interviews and inside information. Word had it he was a spy and is very likely to be shot.”

  “None of that is credible,” said Dtui. “He’s as red as the central committee. That’s why he was over here escaping from the military.”

  “They say he was planted here by them.”

  “Ridiculous. As far as you know is he still alive?”

  “As far as I could ascertain. But there’s one more thing. Your Comrade Noo isn’t an isolated case. I was able to access the missing persons almanac; it’s the list of everyone reported missing since ’75. It runs into the hundreds.”

  “Where did you find that?”

  “In the office of the presidential security division. That’s where the cases are being investigated.”

  “You’re saying the department that does the kidnapping is the one that’s charged with finding them?”

  “So it appears.”

  “And how many have they found?”

  “None.”

  “That’s not very surprising. What do you think it would take to get Noo released?”

  The judge scratched his chin.

  “Frankly?” he said. “A miracle.”

  •••

  Comrade Civilai had found more success in dusty Vientiane. He’d delivered his prisoner alive and told his incredible tale. A military unit had immediately been dispatched to Ban Toop to put down the black magic rebellion there. The high priests who hadn’t fled across the river were identified and arrested, and a new administration team was sent in to run the regional office in Pak Xan. They’d set up rural retraining centers for villages within a hundred kilometers of Ban Toop. The dark influence had spread far. When they learned the magic circle had been closed down the locals eventually loosened up. Beans were spilled. Only the villagers in Ban Toop itself remained dumb. They had lived in fear for most of their lives, and a promise of safety from government troops would not allay those fears. Their recovery would be long in coming.

  Civilai spent several days working on his report for the Supreme Sangha Council in Bangkok detailing his visits to the village. It ran to some thirty pages. At breakfast on the day he’d planned to send it, Madam Nong read through it to check his spelling.

  “It’s a page-turner,” she said after a long silent read through. “But you realize you can’t send it.”

  “Why not?” said Civilai. “It’s all true.”

  “Because they’ll think it’s you who’s mad, not the grand Satan. Nobody will believe a word of it. You’ve written it like a film script. They’ll think they sent the wrong man in and find somebody else to interview your Buddha. It wouldn’t be over at all.”

  Civilai read through it again. He put a clean sheet of paper in the typewriter and wrote three lines.

  “It is the opinion of this independent inquiry that Mr. Maitreya is not a reincarnation of the Lord Buddha, and his name should be struck from the Sangha’s list of candidates.”

  He signed it, put it in an envelope and went out to the car for a drive to the post office.

  •••

  Boh drove Siri, Daeng and Ugly to Udon Thani in his Toyota, having spent an enjoyable day with the Sangharaj. Before they left, the old Lao monk had invited Boh to come visit anytime. He’d enjoy the company, he said. Boh admitted he was tempted. It was a cold world outside the temple walls. The Sangharaj said his last goodbyes to Siri and Daeng and pulled back only slightly when Daeng gave him an air kiss near his cheek. She knew it was naughty, but she could tell he liked it. Siri’s handshake on the other hand was returned strongly and with great emotion. They all knew fate would not be pulling them together again.

  On his last night in Sawan the doctor had put together an audacious plan to facilitate Daeng’s first trip to Bangkok. Under his arm he carried a brown paper parcel containing the props for his production. At best the couple would have a fine time in the capital, buy a camera and go home to enthrall everyone with their tourism exploits. At worst they’d be put in front of a firing squad and executed.

  But first the murders. When the sun rose that morning Siri had still been putting together his copious notes on the circumstantial evidence that pointed to Captain Gumron. At one point he’d looked out the window to see dead Abbot Rayron looking down at the fat carp from the slate slab. Siri had tripped over himself running to the door of their quarters. He had so many questions and so little skill with which to ask them. But it didn’t matter because by the time he’d reached the garden the abbot was gone.

  Siri had returned to his room and looked down at the handwritten observations. As things stood they were worth nothing at all. He was a foreigner with no legal right to be in the country. His qualifications and experience didn’t count here. And he was making an allegation against one of their own. He couldn’t walk into a police station, make a statement, hand over his notes and expect a major inquiry. Or any response at all. He couldn’t mail it to the Justice Ministry in Bangkok because it would be gobbled up by the machine of bureaucracy.

  No. Siri and Daeng had agreed they should identify one honest person with influence who might take on the case for its principle. Siri believed he’d met that person in a small country courtroom in Nam Som.

  Boh parked his car in front of the Udon Thani public prosecution department and shared a little more of his dirty money. He returned to the parking lot where Siri, Daeng and Ugly sat under a tree and held up the address with great pride. Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of the house on a road of neat buildings inside a large government compound.
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  Siri introduced himself to the prosecutor’s wife and her two young children. The prosecutor was in the city and wouldn’t be home for another half hour. Siri asked if it would be appropriate to wait. The wife approved. Siri had always imagined a prosecutor’s wife to be more stylish. She was attractive enough and could have been glamorous with the right makeup and clothing. Instead she wore her hair tied back severely, had a scrubbed white face and baggy garments. But then again she hadn’t been expecting guests.

  Boh set off with Daeng and the sleeping Ugly in search of a department store to buy an outfit suitable for Daeng’s Bangkok vacation. Rather than enter the house as the wife suggested, Siri thought it would be fun to spend time with the children on their jungle gym in the front yard. Their mother was happy to have a babysitter. Within minutes the age gap had shrunk to a few months and Siri probably had as much fun as the girls. After fifteen minutes they were the best of friends. They led him inside for a cool drink.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” one of the girls asked him.

  Siri wondered what the correct response might be to a four-year-old.

  “That depends,” he said. “Are they nasty ghosts or nice ghosts?”

  “Will you stop the ghost stories,” called the mother from the kitchen.

  The girls ignored her.

  “I haven’t seen them with my own eyes, but I think they’re nice,” whispered the younger. “They live in mummy’s linen closet.”

  “Then at least they have somewhere clean to sleep,” said Siri.

  They thought that was very funny.

  “Do you want to say hello?” said the older girl.

  “I suppose that would be nice,” said Siri.

  They took a hand each and led him to the rear of the house past two closed doors.

  “This is the family room,” said the younger.

  It was a dark room with small windows that framed a lush tropical garden. A transistor radio was playing middle-of-the-road Thai ballads. It competed with an old air conditioner that growled as if in pain.

  “And that’s where they live,” said the elder, pointing to a tall varnished white-wood cupboard against the far wall.