“He had another wife,” said Suthon. “I used to follow him after school, wait until he left the factory. They had a house. They’d walk with their son to the park and play ball. They’d hold hands. It was perfect except I wasn’t in the picture. Then things started to go well. When the other woman died the boy was sent away. Everything worked out. When the monk came to our house to tell my father the other boy was dead I wanted to embrace him. It was the perfect end to a story. Everything I’d been told about Buddhism had come true. The monk had brought elation and peace to my life. I imagined living like him, wandering from family to family spreading good news.
“My father left home so there was me and the maids and the spirit menagerie. There were only odd visits from her, the Chinese witch. So I followed her instead. That’s when I saw my monk again. The monk she’d convinced to lie to my father. Him and her. In the morning he’d dress in his robes and go out to collect alms. In the evening in his flowery shirt they’d drink gin together in open-air restaurants and they’d go to expensive clubs. They’d conspired, of course, even dared show his face in my house. Might have planned to kill my father for all I know. My old man wouldn’t doubt the word of a monk telling him the bastard was dead. More inheritance for the witch and her boyfriend. When she died, the fake monk didn’t even come to her funeral. It was all coming apart in my mind. It was a sin, Siri. They taught me what sinning meant, then they gave me practical examples.”
Suthon took a bottle and tumblers from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured two full shots of whisky. He drank one and held up the other to Siri.
“No?” he said, then threw back the second.
“You’ve left out the most exciting part,” said Siri.
“And what would that be?” said the prosecutor.
“How you killed the women in your father’s life,” said Siri.
Suthon’s smile had never been so broad.
“Why, you clever little coroner,” he said. “How did you work that one out?”
He was already pouring two more glasses.
“Easy really,” said Siri. “A lot of people claim to have killed and many more look as if they might, but it takes a rare breed of psychopath to actually do it. Now that I’m pretty certain it was you who killed the villagers in Sawan, it doesn’t take genius to imagine you poisoning your mother or climbing through the window of the house of your father’s whore. The odds are stacked against two maniacs in the same family.”
“I should have killed the little bastard then and there and I wouldn’t have had all this hassle,” said Suthon. “The whore’s son was lying there on the next cot watching me. He was only five years younger than me, eight or so, but he was pathetic there sucking his thumb, crying. He gave me that look—that accusing look—and it stuck with me. Of course he didn’t know who I was. I told him that night if he said anything to anyone I’d haunt him for the rest of his life. And it worked. He didn’t even have the balls to tell the police. If the investigators had been worth anything at all, I would have been free from both his women that night. I made it look like the Chinese witch had done it, but they didn’t even investigate her. So I had to bide my time and kill her on one of my rare visits from Bangkok.”
“How did you discover your father had changed the will?” Siri asked.
“His lawyer told my lawyer,” said the prosecutor. “One of those safety valves I put in place to avoid surprises.”
Siri looked at the young man and sighed. Whatever he had in mind for the doctor was still a secret. Siri could think of no better plan than to keep him talking. Suthon needed no urging on that front.
“It was the final insult,” said the prosecutor. “Do you know how much he was worth? Oh, Siri. You could pay back your little Lao national debt three times over with the money that old skinflint had put away. What was he going to do with it? But I didn’t want complications. It’s the only reason I didn’t kill him too. I was patient. He’d die soon enough, I thought. Then I found out he’d decided to give it all to a monk, to some bastard orange cowboy. What a waste.”
He finished another glass.
“I was already up here,” he said. “I’d arranged a transfer from Bangkok when I heard the old man was on his last legs. Now you have to understand it isn’t that easy to get a transfer to a specific location. You usually have to go where they send you. You can’t just go into some judge’s office and say you’d like to pop up to Udon like he’s a travel agent. But there are brokers, and they’re usually family members of the judges. It costs a fair bit, but it’s worth it. That was my loose end.”
He held up an unsealed envelope and took out a check.
“This is the reason you’re here, old fellow. This is my final payment to the broker. Before sunlight you’ll have told me how you got ahold of this address. As I told you, I’m nothing if not patient.”
“Why didn’t anyone recognize you when you came back?” Siri asked.
“Because I wasn’t an acne-covered teenager anymore.”
“But the name?”
“Do you know how easy it is to change your name in this country, Siri? You go along to the district office with your ID card and your new name on a scrap of paper. They type up a new card. You give them fifty baht, and you’re somebody else. Then you set fire to the district office, and there’s no record of your old name. Amazing Thailand, eh?”
“Why go to all that trouble?” Siri asked. “Why not just hire two thugs on a motorcycle to shoot the abbot?”
The prosecutor brought his second beaker to the sofa opposite the doctor. He was surprisingly steady on his feet despite all the booze.
“That would have been such a wasted opportunity,” he said. “You see, I want a province, a fiefdom. I want my father’s money, of course, but I need credibility. As a judge—a rich judge—I would very soon become governor. Layer by layer, gold leaf by gold leaf, I would be in a position to dismantle the stronghold of religion in the northeast. Not overnight, I admit, but I could sow doubts through education and common sense. By discrediting the Sangha and showing the people that all gods are false. By showing them that their lives would be more wholesome, more successful if they gave up their belief in ghosts and believed in themselves. Or, better still, believed in me.”
Siri sighed. Now would have been a good time for another drink, but he didn’t want to interrupt a maniac in full flow.
“So you made Abbot Rayron your scapegoat,” he said.
“I suppose you’d have to call him that,” Suthon agreed. “But, as you say, I could have had him exterminated on a dark road in the middle of nowhere. Rural monk. Unknown location. The story would be forgotten in a week. Nobody cares about little deaths in the countryside. But, what if it were something spectacular? He’d be a legend. They all are, the famous serial murderers. You remember the name of the killer but never the victim. This would be Thailand’s first international homicidal maniac. The press would give it a catchy name like “The Shaman Slayer”: a premeditated executioner killing in the name of the Buddha. Following in His footsteps.”
“The mendicant, the corpse, the aged and the sick,” said Siri.
“That’s it exactly,” said Suthon, glowing with pride at his plan. He knocked back his drink and looked in the direction of the desk for the bottle. It was as if he were desperate for drunkenness, but it refused to come.
“It was so well planned”—he smiled—“if I do say so myself. Nam Som was on my circuit schedule once a month. It wasn’t so hard to slot things so I’d be there every full moon. The village was only twenty kilometers from town, and there were a hundred places to hide my car. I needed a full moon to be seen, you see. Nobody would be close enough to see my face and a woman’s stocking over your hair looks very much like a bald head from a distance.
“The mendicant was a gift. When I heard he was staying at the temple I knew my success was destined. Month by month e
verything fit together. There was always a body in the cremation hut. There were any number of sick and elderly to choose from. And on my first nocturnal recce of the village I learned a good deal. I learned that your Captain Gumron was knocking off the wife of the headman’s son. The cop befriended the husband and sent him off on errands, so he could creep into their hut. He had her deliver meals to the prison so they could screw in his office. I’m certain the baby will resemble Gumron, poor thing.”
It occurred to Siri that the prosecutor had never had an opportunity to tell his story. And here he suddenly had a captive and disposable audience. The doctor’s only hope was that the man might drink and talk himself into a stupor long enough for the feeling to come back into Siri’s legs. The prosecutor returned for his bottle.
“So you didn’t go into the village expecting to see Loong Gan?” Siri said.
“Loong . . . ? Oh, that bastard,” said Suthon. “No, Siri. No. Not at all. What a discovery. What a coincidence. There he was, the charmer all of a thousand years old still boasting about his conquests, still drunk. The fake monk who’d seduced my mother and lied to my father. Oh, Siri, what a blessing.”
“So you sliced him up?”
“Eventually. I had so much fun with him that night. I didn’t order an autopsy, but if they’d conducted one they’d have found some vital parts missing, or rather in the wrong places. I’ll spare you the details. It was most satisfying and fit the plot so perfectly.”
“And the sick woman?”
“She was dying of some disease.”
“She was recovering from hepatitis,” said Siri. “I treated her.”
“Well, you know. Country woman. Unimportant but for her part in the overall pastiche. For perfection it should have been a man. The Buddha didn’t seem that concerned about the plight of women.”
“You called the press to the court.”
“Yes, it was all over the news, wasn’t it? After my third hearing of the case I was the cool judge who didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I ordered them barred from my courtroom but allowed a press conference later. I knew everyone in the country would be tuned in for the final part in the puzzle. Was Abbot Rayron the fanatic Buddhist serial killer? It would have been so well orchestrated.”
“What went wrong?” Siri asked.
“He recognized me,” he said, and began to pace again. “You were there with him in court. He asked to speak. I should have said no, but I let him. And he said, ‘I apologize for forcing you to make such a difficult choice.’”
“Perhaps he was just being polite.”
“He knew who I was, Siri. He recognized me, damn it. He was talking about my choice to kill his mother. His psychological amnesia of that night was suddenly lifted. There in the courtroom he looked at me the same way he had that night in his mother’s room. An innocent look that spoke of eternal damnation. That same I-am-better-than-thou look every religious devotee uses to look down on non-believers.”
“He was eight. You were thirteen.”
“They instill it in the young. They give them the power.”
Siri admitted to himself he was in a dark hole with a nutcase, and there was no way out. It wasn’t how he’d hoped to go, but if it was unavoidable he might as well have the taste of good whisky on his lips.
“I could use a drink,” he said.
“Oh, where are my manners?” said Suthon.
His steps were more directed than spontaneous but the prosecutor managed to get to the desk, pour two drinks, and bring one to Siri. He held it up to the doctor’s lips and poured carefully so that not a drop was spilled. Still leaning over Siri and breathing into his face, Suthon said, “He ruined it all.”
“All what?” said Siri.
“The big scandal. The big Monk Goes Insane trial with me at the helm. There should have been a good month to build up the tension. Allow debate in the press. Time for the media to lay bare the false image of good clergy. I would have dropped in unfounded accusations that he’d murdered his own whore mother when he was a child. Insinuated there had been no background check on the abbot. That any fool or criminal could become a monk and rise through the ranks. It would have brought out all the laity with their horror stories of bad monks. The whole Buddhist infrastructure would have wobbled.
“But then he recognized me. All he’d have to do was mention my relationship to his mother, and the cameras would turn on me. I’d stop being the wise adjudicator and become a player—a suspect. That couldn’t happen. I had to kill him.”
“You went to his cell.”
“The cell block was in the same compound. My trials had run late. It was dark. Captain Gumron was hiding from his mistress’s husband and shared that news as if it were even remotely interesting to me. Nobody questioned me. I often visited the cells to make sure the prisoners didn’t die from lack of care. Everyone was asleep. I called to him—the bastard monk. He stepped up to the bars. I said I understood what he’d said in the courtroom. He pretended not to know what I was talking about. I told him I’d like to have a chance to embrace him and beg his forgiveness before I left for Udon. He told me there was nothing to forgive. It was cold in there. Udon nights. He wore a spare sarong as a scarf. I reached in, grabbed it and pulled him hard against the bars. The impact knocked him out, and it was simple enough then to strangle him. Of course I carry a key to the cells. I entered and changed the position of the body to suggest a suicide. You know the rest. You were right. Down to the last detail, you were right about everything. Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s the story, old man. The only thing that remains . . .”
“Is the insurance company in Bangkok,” said Siri.
“Exactly. Then I can let you go.”
“To my heaven?”
“To the scene of your accident. After that it’s up to you.”
“Then why would I even consider telling you?” asked Siri.
“Forty-three E,” said Suthon. “I imagine that’s where mad Boh and your wife will be spending the night after not finding you. It’s only fifteen minutes from here. Sorry, like I said, I don’t leave much to chance. I looked up your monk’s address.”
Siri could feel a tingle in his nerve endings but no movement in his muscles. He had to attack using the only option available to him.
“Before I tell you,” he said, “it might be necessary to change your perception of . . . I don’t know . . . everything.”
“Siri, I heard about your cabaret at Sawan,” said Suthon. “You can sway the feeble minds of farmers with your hocus pocus but both you and I know it’s all trickery. I’ve spent a lifetime exposing your kind. Not once have I been swayed by the chants and fireworks. You’re all the same, you shamans and monks and priests. You do your magic tricks and suck people in and then bamboozle them with archaic language. And I don’t have time for any of it. So just tell me how you got the name of the broker.”
“I saw it here in this office,” said Siri. “You wrote the address by hand on an envelope, but you made a mistake in the spelling of Bangkok. I’m not criticizing. It’s a hard word to spell in Thai.”
The prosecutor smiled and returned to his desk. He looked at the envelope he’d shown Siri earlier and was startled.
“You have remarkable eyesight for such an old man,” he said. “Eat a lot of carrots in Laos, do you?”
“Carrots?” said Siri. “It’s five meters from here to the desk. And you wrote by hand. I’d need binoculars to see that far.”
The prosecutor scribbled out the mistake, ripped the envelope in half and threw it into the bin. He poured another drink. Everything came together in Siri’s mind. It was a remarkable feeling.
“What other tricks do you have for us tonight, great shaman?” Suthon asked. At last he was slurring.
“Well, let me see,” said Siri. “Are you missing a hole puncher
, by any chance?”
“A what?”
“Come on, you know what a hole puncher is. You’ve probably been searching for it for weeks. But that’s what happens when you don’t allow anyone in your office. A cleaner would have found it in a few minutes. It’s under your sofa. And don’t tell me I have good eyesight. I’d need x-ray vision to see that from here.”
Suthon smiled. “Just out of curiosity . . .” he said.
He took his drink to the sofa, got down on his knees and looked beneath it. His expression was one of anger rather than amazement.
“See?” he said, leaning on the seat with one elbow. “These are exactly the tricks that fool farmers.”
“You’re not a farmer,” said Siri, “but you’re fooled.”
“Magic is a science, Siri. It’s learned. If I hadn’t had so many drinks I’d be able to work it out.”
“There’s more,” said Siri. “Like the calendar on the post there. I can’t see it at all, but I’m certain you didn’t get around to ripping off the month of February. There’s a picture of the King driving a tractor. You marked the seventh with a tick.”
The prosecutor had lost the rosy glow from his cheeks. He glared at Siri, got clumsily to his feet and went to the central pillar of the room.
“How am I doing?” Siri asked. “The curtains are drawn but if you pull them you’ll see a flurry of flying ant activity around the lamp. So it rained recently.”
Suthon opened the curtains. The window was alive with insects.
“There’ll be more later,” said Siri.
“I give up,” said Suthon. “How do you do it?”
“Not a trick exactly,” said Siri. “I’ve been here before, you see. I came to your house a couple of times, although then I didn’t realize why.”
“You could not have come here without my knowledge.”
“Well that’s just it. I did. The first time I found myself in your linen closet. Must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I think it was me the children heard.”
Suthon put down his glass for the first time and sat on the edge of his desk.
I Shot the Buddha Page 28