“Yeah Chief.”
“Dek, you need come now. Not station, come Three Kings Monument. Big trouble. Come fast!”
The Three King’s Monument is set directly in the middle of Chiang Mai’s Old Town. It is majestic, a testament to the ancient splendor of the Lan Na Empire. Beside it sits the Lan Na historical museum. Here too a tourist could see the multitude of artifacts which identified an artistically and socially advanced civilization. The Square which houses both the monument and the museum also serves as the center of the nascent Lan Na Renaissance.
Driving up Thapae Road, the main thoroughfare in the bustling Old Town district, a sense of foreboding began to overtake Declan Power. This was not about shaking down some wayward farang. The usually jovial Chief sounded tense. The tone of his voice betrayed a sense of nervousness, panic even, that Declan had never observed before.
He thought of the events that had put him on the trail of Martin Gay. It all began, he realized, over a year ago with his uncovering of the scam being run out of the Lan Na Language Center at King Mengrai University. Now he was being summoned to the center of Lan Na Culture, to the monument immortalizing King Mengrai, the founder of the Lan Na Civilization. His sixth sense, that indefinable voice in the head that every successful newspaper man should have, told him what awaited him was intricately entwined in the search for Martin.
His heart began to pound. A dog jumped from an alley giving him a further start. The roads were deserted, except for the alley dogs which eyed him hungrily. Up ahead he could see a beehive of activity. He came to a police barrier.
“No come through,” a uniformed officer casually said with a yawn.
“Chief Pao told me to meet him here,” Power replied.
The officer yawned in reply and walked away with an uninterested wave. Declan reached for his phone.
“Dek, Dek,” a friendly voice called. He looked up. Lieutenant Job jogged up, took him by the elbow, and led him past the barrier.
“We have big problem Dek,” Job stated with obvious concern. Pott Panthetem, Job, was an officer on the rise, a sharp young man with a bright future. Declan had never seen him in such a state.
“What’s the problem? The Chief seemed out of sorts and now you’ve got me more worried.”
“This is a problem you must see. I don’t know the word to explain,” Job explained breaking increasing his speed. They slowed as they came to the Lan Na Historical Center’s courtyard. It was carefully roped off.
He was then led through a myriad of uniformed officials all engaged in animated conversation. He spotted Bangkok Man. Bangkok Man also took note of Declan. He motioned for him and Job to stop.
“I can guide Mr. Power from here Lieutenant,” he ordered.
“Guide me to what Pantrem?” Declan use of the tax officer’s last name was impolite in most cultures, but especially so with a Thai government official. Phitak Pantrem took no offense.
“I’ll need you to identify somebody.”
Declan stopped walking. “And what the hell does this have to do with a tax issue. Let me talk to my friend the Chief.”
Again, Pantrem did not seem to take issue with Declan’s less than accommodating tone. “Of course, Declan, you will have time to consult with the Chief. He is over here, but now he is being questioned.”
A thought jumped into his mind. Bangkok Man was being almost friendly. Something obviously bad had taken place. A crashing thought erupted. Oum! “I need to make a call,” he said frantically breaking away from Bangkok Man. The phone rang and rang. No answer. Ten rings and then ten more, the sweat began to pour from his brow. A sleepy voice finally mumbled: “Declan?”
He let out a long breath. “Baby! My Girl! You’re ok!” he exulted. A deep sense of relief swept over him.
“Of course ok. Where are you?”
“I’m at the Three King Monument. Something bad has gone down.”
“What?” Oum exclaimed suddenly awake.
“I don’t know baby.” Declan looked at Bangkok Man who was beginning to get impatient. “I’m about to find out though.”
Rose lay tethered to the silk enveloped bed. Her four limbs were securely attached to each of the four teak bed pillars. She had just been ravaged. Her lover’s servants, three of them, had violently ripped her clothes asunder and pinned her to her present position. They raped her. She endured it.
Then the master entered the room brandishing a whip. The three miscreants were rendered to tears as the whip tore into their skin. Finally the punishment came to an end. They scurried out of the room. Still, they had been fed.
The master looked down on Rose passively. No words were exchanged. None were necessary. A contented smile creased her face as her lover began to mount her. Rose was now a slave.
There are moments in life that will remain ingrained in a person’s memory permanently. Some are happy and others sad. Regardless, those moments carry a significance that remains deeply etched on the consciousness.
Declan was led towards the Three Kings Monument, the mythological center of Chiang Mai. It is said that the Lan Na King Mengrai with his allies, the Kings of Sukhothai and Phrae, designed the new city, Chiang Mai, capital from the very spot where the monument now regally observes the old city section.
The courtyard within which the monument stands was now crowded with city officials and flooded with lights. Interestingly, he noticed no members of the press. Something was up and something was being covered-up.
Then he saw it. Or should he say her. The hill-tribe dancer from Foxy Lady, the young lady Ben had taken a fancy to, was carefully laid out at the monument’s square base. It was the severed head which first appeared. Placed atop the eight foot platform and at King Mengrai’s feet, a stark look of sheer terror harkened. Declan returned the gaze. A rose was placed in the girl’s well combed hair. Below, at the monuments marble base the rest of the unfortunate girl’s torso rested in a sitting position. The right leg was placed at the right corner of the foundation with the left adorning the left corner. The arms occupied a similar position at the monuments rear. The girl from the mountain was dismembered. The shock of the situation barely registered. It was disconcerting, but in a strange way. The macabre scene had an almost artistic quality. Declan was numbed.
“This way Declan Power,” he was prodded. Bangkok Man gently nudged him away. He was being led into the Chiang Mai Art and Culture Center. A lantern lit the entrance. Here the bizarre exhibition of mutilation continued. Bangkok Man stopped. Declan saw an arm hanging down from the lantern which lit the entrance. It was held in a gently sway. His eyes opened wide. He knew the arm. It was unmistakable to him. The tattoo, John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd, The Blues Brothers, was expertly printed into the bicep. Declan was looking at Ben Post’s arm. He pivoted quickly to vomit. He started to run away.
Bangkok Man caught up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. “You can identify him?” he shouted.
Declan sat down. He took in a large gulp of air. “What the fuck! Why did you drag me down here for this? The Chief or his aid certainly can identify Ben Post.”
“How could they?”
Declan looked up dazed. “I’m sure the sick bastard who did this has Ben’s body cleverly placed inside the museum. But you know that already don’t you,” he replied trying to hold his nerve.
Bangkok Man leaned against the lamppost. He rubbed his chin. “No,” he grumbled. “That was it.”
Declan looked on not understanding.
Bangkok Man continued in a murmur. “The arm that is, nothing else was left.”
They looked at each other distantly. Each consumed with his own ideas, his own knowledge, regarding the situation which had developed in a gruesomely murderous direction. Declan got up and walked silently away. Pantrem looked after him but did not attempt to stop him. They were linked.
The tunnel wove deep into the mountain. The kerosene lanterns lit the way but there was always darkness just beyond. The rats scurried out of sight. Small drips of water
crept down the ancient stone walls only occasionally spilling onto Rose’s hair. None of this bothered her. She studiously carried out her task. She looked down at the platter she was carrying with great care. It was silver and said to have been presented to the kings of Lan Na on their coronation day. The history mattered little to Rose. She was most proud of what the platter held: Ben Post’s head. ‘An enemy of the state,’ her new master had proclaimed. She didn’t understand the situation. It didn’t matter. Rose had found her destiny. And it lay within the walls of this estate.
They came to a cell. It was awash in darkness. The iron doors creakily gave way allowing entrance. A rustling sound could be heard in the corner. The lantern meandered through the darkness providing a hazy dusty illumination. Martin Gay cowered against the wall. Rose recoiled. Half-eaten rats lay scattered by his feet.
She wanted to turn and run. The sight of him was horrific. Half man half beast, she was looking at a savage. Her master prodded her forward. She reluctantly followed the directions given her. The platter was dutifully placed at the man’s feet. No words were exchanged. Martin Gay’s eyes flickered to life with recognition.
Two legs were then placed beside the platter. Martin Gay ran around in panic. The man who had administered his torture was present. He was the deliverer of Ben Post’s legs.
A voice came from the shadowed doorway: “Bon appétit Martin Gay.” The voice caused Martin even more dread. His head scanned around wildly. Martin Gay’s captor had returned. His torment had yet to cease.
The procession silently paraded out of the cell and returned back down the ancient corridor. Martin looked down at the severed head of his former friend. A single tear made a solitary trek down his savaged face. He whispered hoarsely: “Ben.”
An anguished cry followed Rose as the end of the tunnel appeared. She exhaled as she exited the gates of hell. The bright moonlight washed over her face. She had found a home at last.
Declan Power rarely cried. His father had beaten into him the notion that a man never cried. He hated his father. He stared grimly as the sun peaked over the nearby mountain range. His thoughts thickly consumed by the fate of his best friend. Yet no tears emerged to give a hint to his distraught state. He could have saved Ben. At least he could have paid more attention. But he didn’t. He simply observed as the best friend he had ever known in these parts of the world pissed his life away.
Oum came onto the balcony carrying a pot of steaming hot black coffee. He had told her everything as he always did. It was a story that was best kept undercover, but it was a tale she was knee deep in. Danger was at their doorstep.
“You’ll need to go back to your village Oum,” he stated firmly.
She looked at him sympathetically understanding his grief. Something came to her. “Why only the arm?” she questioned. “I watch Criminal Minds. You know, maybe the killer keep Ben alive.”
Oum, even in the worst of moments, could change his mood. His mood eased ever so slightly. “This isn’t TV baby.” He took a deep gulp of the rich Arabica.
“This is about Martin Gay. You tell me this yeah! Ben is the good friend of Marty too. Maybe jai lai, the evil one, take Ben to find Martin. Now jai lai send message to Bangkok Man.”
Declan looked at his bride-to-be with awe. He sat up straight, took another deep gulp, and lit a Marlboro. She had awoken him. Now, alert, his mind began to race. “You are brilliant my Pillsbury Dough Girl! Why not place Ben around the courtyard or museum as well? Just one arm, no, you’re on to something. A message is being sent. And it was delivered straight in the heart of Lan Na culture to boot.”
He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and raised his aching bones out of his chair.
“Where you go?” she asked happy to see his resolve return.
“I’m on a story so it’s off to the office.” He bent over to give her a big hug and motioned for the futon. “But before I go…”
“Ok bai, go out now, we have guest,” she said while bustling him towards the door.
Declan turned and kissed her deeply on the lips. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Then it’s up to the mountains for you, Martin’s wife, and the kid.”
“Sure, Nam and daughter go to village. Me, I stay! I have business to run.”
He thought to argue but knew it would only waste time. Time was of the essence.
Chapter 3
It had been some time since he had arrived at the Chiang Mai Chronicle’s office at such an early hour. A big smile broke on to his face. A few months back, during a late night doing his rounds, Declan and Ben had come across a ferret. It didn’t take long for them to figure out what to do with the furry little menace. They snuck into the office of the august editor-in-chief of Chiang Mai’s one and only daily and deposited the critter into his top drawer. Declan had gone home, showered, shaved, and reported to his desk at an unheard of eight sharp. The howl of fright and surprise was worth the cost of a mammoth headache. Peter Morgan could only glower in Declan’s direction.
He put the key into his office door and wiped away a slight bit of moisture from his eyes. He felt better. It was time to formulate a strategy. Declan had an idea. The story had to revolve around Mengrai University. He needed an interview with the big man on campus. Declan Power needed to get in Thanat Jaisaen’s office.
Jaisaen had become arguably the most important individual and civic leader in Chiang Mai. He promoted everything Lan Na and had an open distaste for the Bangkok elite. He was fat. Aside from Thaksin Shinawat, the exiled prime minister, Thanat Jaisaen was the wealthiest Thai north of Bangkok.
Nicknamed Jakrit, he had been gifted with Midas touch and saw Mengrai University as his own personal fiefdom. He took what he wanted. Much like the former Lan Na kings, he saw his rule as absolute. In fact Jakrit claimed to be a descendent from an unbroken line of rulers dating back to the founder of the Lan Na Empire King Mengrai. The truth was he was a distant cousin of the last king who could lay claim to the Lan Na throne which was abolished in 1929.
That fact was unimportant. The lie had been sold. The legend had been cast. His career had soared without blemish. That was, until Declan broke the story of the TEFL scam being run on his campus. Thanat Jaisan’s hand had been caught firmly in the cookie jar. But, he had not achieved his success without displaying an acute sense of timing and ingenuity.
Jaisaen acted quickly. Martin Gay was unceremoniously throne off campus with all computers confiscated. A show had been made of it as well. Martin had been invited to a meeting. In Martin’s mind the meeting was confidential. Jaisaen, with other ideas in mind, had alerted the leading Thai newspapers to be on hand. The King Mengrai Guard, a glorified and expensively uniformed campus police, was laying in wait for Martin who was photographed being roughly and literally thrown outside the university gates. It had all been great drama.
Declan leaned back in his desk chair. Was Jaisaen capable of murder and, perhaps, kidnapping? The answer rushed forward. “Yes!” he exclaimed.
But he was reaching. He knew better than to reach for a story. Uncover one rock. That will lead to a bigger rock. And then, the story will come to him. Still, Thanat Jaisaen was the key. He needed an interview with the would-be king of a resurrected Lan Na throne.
The newspaper reporter has little of use in his tool box. In reality, nobody wants to talk to a reporter. But a good reporter needs two things. First, a healthy dose of wit will lead you to the story. Then, a healthy dose of gumption is needed to carry the wit to where it can be put to the best use.
With that in mind, he strode into his boss’ office. Peter Morgan did not gaze up from his newspaper.
“You look like shit,” he commented dryly.
Declan was tempted to unburden himself after last night’s unwanted surprise. That’s what his wife was for. In any case, Peter Morgan would only be concerned about something that would aggrandize his bottom line. Declan smiled to himself. His wit could always outmaneuver a pinstripe mind.
“I’m a beat re
porter. I should always look like shit at eight in the morning. Plus I need to be over to the shoot at eleven.” Declan had forgotten about the shoot and Rose as well. His mind began to scramble. Would the mamasan at Foxy Lady have received the news about her mutilated and murdered dancer? And what about Rose? She had also gone off with Ben.
Morgan put the paper down and flashed a rare smile his way. “I just nailed a full page ad with Chiang Mai Auto Mart. They want it run directly opposite our Chiang Mai Centerfold page.”
Declan was wrestled from his thoughts. ‘My centerfold page,’ his mind screamed. This was no time for icy barbs. He smiled. “Look I’m working on a story. Even with all the good press and recognition we got from our uncovering of the TEFL scam, Thanat Jaisaen hit us hard on the ad front.”
Peter Morgan scowled. “Yeah, recognition and good press, for you maybe. Your story hit my ad bottom line hard. I’m just starting to dig out.”
Declan smiled inwardly. His wit was taking Morgan’s pinstripe mind for a stroll. Hell, his editor had even dumped his phony clipped British accent for his native cockney. Time to dance. “Precisely. I think I can turn this to our advantage.”
“What do you have in mind?” his boss questioned suspiciously. “You’ve already done enough damage.”
“First things first, I need to get Rose over to the photo shoot and organize that. You’ve seen her photo?”
Morgan looked greedily down at his phone. “Yes I have. You really outdid yourself Power.”
Declan didn’t disturb him as he leisurely took in Rose in all her natural beauty.
“I need to up the ad price for this page,” he grumbled to himself.
“Once I finish that boss, I propose I work on a story that attempts to rehabilitate both the Mengrai University Language Center and World TEFL. I’ve set up an interview with the new director at World TEFL and I’d like for our office to set up an interview with Thanat.”
The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery Page 5