The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery

by T. Hunt Locke

  That was a pipedream Declan knew and not a vision he had taken seriously. But something was afoot. Times were changing. And he was involved. He was a reporter. Hot on the trail of a story. It was time to burrow further, the greater the danger the higher the reward.

  “Look, I have a meeting with Thanat Jaisaen tomorrow. Let me see what I can dig up,” Declan offered trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  “He won’t tell you anything of value,” Job replied dismissively.

  “Of course not,” Declan shot back. “Not intentionally. A good reporter can see through the cracks. He’ll give up something. But I need something from you Chief.”

  “What?” the suddenly despondent police kingpin replied.

  The Chief had been put through a lot over the past few days. His authority had been challenged. He was no longer master in his own house. Declan considered that fact; just another case of life teaching a strong lesson.

  “Tell me about Bangkok Man.” The request was simple and open-ended, the best way to get a subject to talk.

  He ran his hands through his thick graying bushel of hair. He was sweating. “From what I can gather they believe Thanat is getting tricky with the books over at Mengrai University. They believe he is using the tax advantages of the university to fund his private businesses. Or, I suppose, to clean money.”

  “That doesn’t quite square though,” Declan frowned. “This is Thailand. He could simply pay a top official in Bangkok and make that go away.”

  The Chief raised his hands palm up. “That’s what I know. They saw Martin Gay as a way to get to Thanat. He’d cooperate or go to jail. Then Gay goes missing. You get called to the station. I’m sent to shake up Ben Post. Now I’m a suspect in a murder and abduction.” He downed his glass of wine dejectedly. A glint of light returned to his gaze. An imperceptible smile crept to the edge of his lips. “But I’m not done.”

  Declan was glad to see a hint of fire return to his friend’s belly. Then he reminded himself. There were no friends here. Their bond amounted to a fragile alliance. Everybody was working on their own agenda. They were bound by mutual self-interest and it was a fact to always keep close to mind. When their interests no longer walked hand in hand the friend became the enemy. This was the law of the Chiang Mai jungle. A thought came to him. If the Chief wasn’t a Lan Na sympathizer, Bart Hartin was clearly in Thanat Jaisaen’s camp. An encouraging thought leapt into his thoughts. He had a foot in the door. It was all Declan Power needed.

  “Bangkok Man needs me,” he commented casually while rolling the linguini on his fork. “He needs a pair of eyes inside Thanat’s lair. I’ll be the Trojan Horse.”

  Job and Pao both looked at him curiously.

  “The Trojan Horse,” Declan repeated emphatically. His dinner guests maintained their uncomprehending gaze.

  “You know, the Greek war with Troy. Homer for God’s sake.” He was still confronted by their blank stares. Finally, exasperated, Declan stated: “Brad Pitt, Troy, the movie.”

  “Yes,” Pao exclaimed stabbing his fork in the air. Job too finally grabbed hold of Declan’s point. “Great movie and great idea Declan,” he added forcefully.

  “And,” Declan continued, “This should focus Bangkok Man’s attention away from you Chief.”

  The Chief nodded satisfied. “While you do that I’ll have Poom look after Oum at Best Bar. He’ll also stand guard outside your condo until this business is finished.” Declan returned a nod of gratitude.

  Their self-interests firmly aligned, a bond rendered stronger, attention was returned to the dazzling array of food and their women.

  The smell of the food and taste of the wine was enough to put their problems to the side for a while as the good things in life were set upon their table.

  Martin Gay observed the stone door frame which held him captive. His mind was alive. A fresh batch of food had recently been placed in the cell and he could feel his body becoming fortified again. The more he ate the more famished he seemed to be. But, nonetheless, he could feel his facilities return. Gay turned to his friend.

  “Shake out of it Ben!” he prodded gently. Again, no reply was forthcoming. “I understand our predicament looks dire mate but we’ve still got life so let’s put it to good use.”

  Ben maintained his perpetually taciturn look. Gay returned his attention to the stone frame which held the rusted gate firm. He grabbed the vertical rods and shook the door violently. It was solidly shut. But there was some give in the frame. Hope was alive. He looked around for something to use as a tool. A discarded bone, the marrow sucked out, lay in the corner. Marty picked it up and wedged it in between the small space separating the door from the stone. He put his shoulder into the door while pushing down hard on the bone. There was movement, however slight. He pushed again. The bone suddenly broke in two with one end tumbling just outside the gate. He looked on the splintered limb frantically.

  “Shit!” he shouted lowly trying to suppress his terror. He fell to his knees and tried to fit his arm underneath the gate’s heavily rusted doorsill. No luck, the fractured bone was just out of reach. He scrambled to find the other half. Martin brought it up to his mouth where he gashed it with his teeth again and again. Apparently there was more marrow to be had and he sucked it in thirstily. Satisfied, he began to rip the bone into smaller slices. Another thought raced into his mind. He felt the jagged edges of the shards which were now peeling off effortlessly. They were sharp. Weapon like. More hope.

  He revisited his primary task. Using the thickest of the slices, he was able to negotiate the fractured limb back into the cave. He gathered his tools into his breast and retired to his dusty corner. He held up the sharp sinewy weapon triumphantly. “You see Ben,” he exclaimed in glee, “Don’t give up the ghost!”

  Another night’s patrol of Chiang Mai’s red light district had provided the usual fare. Declan had been hesitant to leave Oum’s side but the Chief’s enforcer stood a sturdy guard against any mischief. Oum herself kept a low profile behind the bar. Declan also trained an eye for any suspicious behavior as he hopped from pub to pub. He was paranoid. Identifying a friend’s body part will have that type of effect. In any case, better paranoid than dead. The night was uneventful.

  His first and last stop of the night was to Foxy Lady. No word had been heard from Rose since she left last night with Ben. Mamasan was, rightfully so, angry. Declan had explained the situation, less the gory details, to the go-go’s mother hen. Her anger understandably turned to fear. She had also heard the rumors of a madman, now labeled ‘Jack the Ripper’, roaming the seedy nightlife areas of the city.

  Many of the girls tugged at his sleeve plying him for information. He mostly tried to allay their fears while at the same time listening to see if they could provide him with anything useful. They couldn’t. But Lemon, one of the establishment’s hottest piece of merchandise and a former centerfold, did provide something. “Declan, they get into very fancy limo car. A man, the limo man, open door and every people get in.”

  “What about the man?” Declan prodded.

  Lemon shook her shoulders. “Not know man.”

  “How about his shoes? Did you see what he was wearing?”

  She flashed the smile which had seduced many a man. “I not care about shoe. First I look at wallet then I look at this,” she laughed while squeezing Declan’s crotch.

  He shared the laugh and motioned to the bartender to send Lemon a drink. Mamasan then saddled up to him with a grim countenance.

  Declan didn’t try to sugar coat it. Mamasan also had a business to run. The show went on. But she did secretly photo any man who took one of her girls out for the night.

  The photos provided nothing of interest but he’d run them by the Chief and Job in the morning just in case. His temple began to throb.

  He looked over at his love. Oum was now fast asleep and cuddled astride the giant stuffed teddy bear he had recently won at a local carnival. An intense sense of love, pride, a
nd loyalty overtook him. She would be kept from harm’s reach. For him, danger was the story. He’d search the grim reaper out. A timid reporter wasn’t worth his salt and now was his time to reap as much salarium as he could mine.

  That would be for the morning though. He mixed himself a scotch and soda and reclined in his Lazy Boy. The History Channel was airing one of his favorite programs, Cities of the Underworld. He chuckled to himself. This week’s episode, (find title to the Dracula episode), in the heart of Romania. The irony sent a shiver down his spine. He took a deep swallow of the Hennessey.

  Perhaps it was the Hennessey or maybe it was the lack of sleep. Whatever the circumstance, Declan found himself asleep in his Lazy Boy with Oum trying to rouse him. “What time is it?” he mumbled.

  “Only three, come on to bed,” she replied groggily.

  She had awoken him in more ways than one. He picked her chubby little frame up in his bearish arms and gently placed her on the futon. Making love to Oum was the closest he had ever gotten to paradise and she eagerly returned his passion. Satiated they lay in an embrace. He rolled over and retrieved a box of Marlboro Reds from the night stand.

  “Give me one too,” she said. He looked at her with surprise.

  He lit two up. “I haven’t seen you smoke in years,” he observed with a bit of concern.

  “Worry about Jack Ripper. Worry about my girls. Worry about Ben.” Oum replied.

  He inhaled deeply. “I don’t like it.”

  “Nobody like this.”

  “No, I mean the name. ‘Jack the Ripper’ won’t do.”

  “Is that so important Declan?”

  “For a reporter it’s everything babe. Hey, listen to this. ‘The Lan Na Ripper!’ How does that grab ya?”

  Oum poked him in the ribs. “Mr. Original,” she giggled loudly.

  “Ok, ok,” Declan replied returning the tickle and the laugh. “But the Lan Na Renaissance is all the rage. I’ll add to the texture and it’ll sell.”

  Oum relaxed into his arms. “Time for laugh. Time for cry too. But so much trouble outside the door.”

  “And no sight of Rose,” he mused bringing his mind back to the nitty gritty.

  “Why that,” she quizzed. “Rose get into limo with Ben and other girl.”

  “I guess they want to use her to frame the Chief,” Declan added trying to fit the pieces together.

  “You say she leave the message. If want to frame Chief why not show Rose in street dead?”

  “Why indeed?” Declan agreed. “You’re right Pillsbury Dough Girl. That would put the Chief in twice the pickle.” He wanted to say: ‘The night’s still young,’ but refrained. She was in enough of a fit. No reason to flame her fears.

  Declan’s phone suddenly rang to life. He sighed, adjusted his glasses, and peered into a photo message. The Instagram snapshot was vivid and left little to the imagination. Startled, he jumped up in the bed, the cigarette tumbling from his fingers. Oum yelled. “Declan!” She hurried to stamp out the butt’s hot ash. He grasped for breath. He fought the urge to heave. “The Mayor, the Mayor,” he stammered.

  Oum retrieved his phone which had fallen to the floor. The sight that confronted her dropped her to the floor. She tried to scramble up and rush to the bathroom to no avail. Oum stumbled into Declan’s arms and screamed in horror. He held her tight even as she began to violently vomit.

  The Lazy Boy provided a gentle resting spot which he placed her down in. Her screams subsided into deep sobs. He retrieved the phone and did his best to gather his nerves. The photo would need to be saved and sent to the Chief. Some guard he had placed at the door he thought derisively. Their shouts had probably woken half the building.

  He forced himself to read the message which was placed underneath the grotesque snapshot. “One step closer Mr. Power,” it read. He had no time to sort out its cryptic meaning and quickly sent it to the Chief’s line.

  Suddenly Oum’s phone vibrated causing her to recoil. She peered down into the crisply lit screen. Her eyes widened. Declan took the phone. Oum wrapped her arms around him tightly. She had been shocked into silence. He quickly understood why. The bright image displayed a man sitting frozen in time, a hatchet buried into his skull. Their guard was dead.

  Pithak Pantrem reached for his mobile. He nearly fell out of bed still not used to the configuration of his hotel room. The Nokia fell to the floor. He cursed. “Damn you! Sending me up here on this fool’s errand,” he shouted in to the empty room with his boss’s image clearly set in his mind. Pantrem retrieved his phone thankful it was not broken. The screen announced the caller: Declan Power.

  “This better be good!” he growled through a deep yawn.

  “Do you know the pub Stairway To Heaven?”

  Pantrem rubbed his eyes. His ears caught the whiff of nervousness. Something was up. Declan Power was not his type of person. He hated the press. But Power was steady, not the type to be unnerved. “Why, what’s the problem?”

  “Loi Kroh, directly across from (find name of business), meet me there in twenty.”

  The line went dead.

  “Why did you have to involve him,” the Chief screamed.

  Job, steady as always, supplied the answer: “He needed to know and the sooner the better.”

  Declan nodded in agreement. “This is bigger than any of us. We need to know what Bangkok Man knows and now is the time for him to lay his cards on the table.”

  The Chief paced around the condo deep in thought. His man, hatchet in head, had been taken to the morgue. His murder would be kept secret. He paused to look at Oum sitting curled up deep in shock. “Nong Oum,” he said gently to the younger lady, “Kaw tod Kha, I’m so sorry to have failed in protecting you tonight.”

  Oum clasped her palms together and gave a deep bow accepting his apology. Declan had made sure she did not witness the body first-hand limiting her exposure to the crime to that brief first look on the mobile screen. It was enough.

  Job pointed to his watch. “Time to go,” he waved. “Oum, we can drop you at my home. My wife is waiting and she can take care of you.”

  She stood bolted to the floor her arms folded over her chest.

  “Baby please,” Declan pleaded.

  Oum shook her head. “No, I go with. Many girl will be in the shock tonight. I can help.”

  There was no other way Declan knew. “This is an argument we’ll all lose,” he said to the Chief and Job ushering them towards the door.

  “Thai women,” Job sighed in defeat.

  Walking along any street at four o’clock in the morning can provide a person with the sense of being in no man’s land. By the nature of his job no man’s land had become a familiar haunt of Declan Power. Death had made a visit to Loi Kroh. That was evident by the prying eyes peering from the dimly lit windows of the long since closed establishments of sin. This was Declan’s street. But this was also Oum’s street.

  The Chief had ordered for both ends of Loi Kroh to be barricaded. They headed south down the street from the moat towards Stairway To Heaven. A small parade of bar girls, those girls who had not found their Romeo for the night, started to gather. Last night’s drama had played out in another, far more affluent, section of the city. Tonight the grim reaper had paid a visit to their doorstep.

  Much like the sea or a rainy day, death has a distinctive smell. That was the odor Declan, the Chief, and Job inhaled as they came to the entrance of Stairway To Heaven. Oum collected the growing swarm of girls into Best Bar. They all followed like a litter of scared kittens. Declan shot a dispirited wave in her direction as he turned to enter the formerly festive go-go bar turned into chamber of horrors.

  The first floor was eerily devoid of any clues of the horror which awaited them on the second floor. In fact it was immaculate. The bar stools had been properly stored atop the cleaned tables. The mahogany bar displayed the reflection of beer mugs which hung above awaiting the punters for another day. The wooden floor had shaken off the muck and mire of the previous n
ight and relaxed in its freshly laid sawdust.

  Bangkok Man joined Declan, Job, and the Chief. The interloper was met with suspicious eyes with the minds to match. He returned their glares with a scowl. Each then returned their attention to any clues that the seemingly unperturbed barroom had to offer. The room was a silent non-cooperating witness.

  Declan sighed and turned his frame towards the staircase. “This way,” he said warily as he lumbered towards the well trodden stairway to heaven. Declan would rather have left this to the brown shirts. Let them do their job. But, he knew, this could not be avoided. It was time to visit death.

  Job quickly jumped in front. He drew the police issue pistol from his holster. Climbing up the stairs at a steady pace he leveled the gun in a firing position. Job was met with complete darkness. “Is anybody here?” he commanded in Thai. “Make yourself known!” The silence mimicked the dense shroud.

  “Job, I’ll hit the lights,” Declan hissed. The entire pub jumped to light. Each squinted furiously to adjust their eyes to the awaiting gloom. A loud gasp was heard from the top of the stairs.

  “Job,” the Chief yelled. “What is it?” They had seen the photograph on Declan’s phone. It was hideous. But they were prepared. Job awkwardly staggered down the steps. The sight had robbed him of his breath.

  “This, up there, is the work of the devil. We cannot go into that room!”

  “Why not?” Pantrem questioned harshly.

  Job looked the tax investigator straight in the eye. “Because somebody is trying to frame my chief and I. If we go into that crime scene unprepared, no gloves, our fingerprints will be available to any who want to bury us.” His voice was accusatory.

  Bangkok Man sought to reply but held his tongue.

  The Chief filled the awkward silence. “Job, call for our forensic team. Tell them to report to me immediately.” Job pushed past back down to the bar.

  Declan retrieved the photo on his phone and handed it to Pantrem.