The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery

by T. Hunt Locke

  “Oh, sorry mate,” he said nodding towards Declan. “Me and cops never got on well you see.”

  “Hell, I’m a reporter! You know the cops hate me,” Declan shrugged. Laughter spit up all around followed another chorus of “Cheers.”

  “About those guys organizing the private party,” he pursued.

  “Yeah, about them. A pushy pair. And didn’t fit the cut of the suit, know what I mean?”

  “How so?” Jimmy questioned.

  “First of all, they were two Thai guys. Second, dressed to the nines they were. This was odd because they looked like dockworkers and bloody well seemed out of sorts in those thousand pound suits.”

  Declan was making mental notes of what was being delivered to him. The beginning of the massacre was coming into focus. “You said pushy.”

  “Sure. Like I said, I wanted to get back to my hotel. My girl wasn’t into some upstairs party as well. But these two blokes were practically blocking the exit. I was about ready to knock one right on his arse but then he steps aside, smiles, pats me on the shoulder, and off he goes to join the others filing up the stairs.”

  The picture was complete in Declan’s mind. Two men had come in and made an offer too good to refuse. Free women and free booze for the men and money in the girls pocket. They weren’t eager for this guy and his lady to get away but, apparently, had no choice.

  “Quite a story,” Declan said tapping the guy on his shoulder. “Where’s your girl?”

  The man nodded towards Oum’s office.

  “Ah, she’s with my lady then. Jimmy get your lazy arse back here on the stick and fill everybody up. The night’s on me.”

  Death is like an octopus with toxic tentacles. It paralyzes everybody it touches. Declan had been brought to his knees only an hour before. The sight was not the culprit. Rather, the concept of death held the reaper’s scythe, the knowledge that another breath will never be breathed, another laugh laughed, another enchanting dream dreamt. So it was with pity that he encountered Oum gently cradling the sobbing young lady of the night.

  He also realized that this was a reporter’s dream. A first-hand witness to the events right before things went down. Her grief would be his oracle.

  Oum looked up. She motioned for Declan to sit down behind the office’s dilapidated wooden desk.

  “Som,” Oum began, “This is my boyfriend. You know Declan. He work with police to catch the bad man who kill our friends.”

  “Hi Declan,” Som said her sobs unabated.

  “Som, can you tell me about the men who brought the party upstairs?”

  “No. It only strange because they are Thai man. But sometime rich Thai man want to party in the farang or yipun (Japanese) style. I not go though.”

  “I know, your boyfriend told me.” Declan had already received the main elements of the story. Now he sought any small observation a girl, especially a girl in the business, could provide. “Did anything seem odd about the men? I mean, other than that they were Thai.”

  “No. Well, maybe one thing. I see the one man mobile phone.”

  Declan retained a solemn grimace but inside smiled. The mobile phone was now a status symbol, the first sign that the man sitting at the bar had a fat atm. “What about the phone Som?”

  “It was the old Nokia style. Can buy at market for two hundred baht. How he pay for big party when cannot buy the smart one phone? Sure I not look for that man. If cannot ‘selfie’ with me in pub then I not ‘selfie’ for him at hotel. But I not care. I have boyfriend take care of me.” She then buried her face in her hands allowing for a new wave of tears to flood out.

  Declan leaned his elbows on the desk which teetered against the pressure. Deep in thought, he readjusted his position. A sharply dressed man was rolling with a poor man’s phone. The implication was telling. It confirmed his suspicion. Someone had bankrolled the massacre. The ‘why’ was still abstract but that too was coming further into focus. The murderous events of the past two nights were connected with the disappearance of Martin Gay. It was enough for him to go on. He stood up and went to kiss Oum on the cheek.

  “I need to get to the office” he offered gently brushing away her tears.

  “Go, go. I stay here but keep everything shut up.”

  Declan squeezed her hand and was about to whisper ‘I love you.’

  Som suddenly shouted “Boots.”

  They both looked at her startled. Declan bent down. “What about the boots Som?”

  “Both men had the shiny black boots.” She brought her hands to her temple as if to jog her memory. “How can I say? My boyfriend take me to Royal Palace in Bangkok. That is the boot! Not like soldier boot, but like Royal Palace guard boot.”

  He looked up at Oum. “Boots,” they whispered in unison.

  Declan stood up. “Shit,” he exclaimed. “This really is going straight to the top.”

  The halls of the Chiang Mai Chronicle were silent. Only the office of Peter Morgan showed any sign of life. “Where the hell was Power,” Morgan scowled into the black abyss as he made his way back to his office. The hot cup of coffee he was cradling steamed upward clouding his nostrils.

  Something was afoot. Morgan could feel a story much like an amputee could feel a pain in a missing limb. Love him or hate him, Morgan fell into the latter camp, Power was his man on the street. And if they had a dysfunctional relationship the partnership worked. One thing could be said for the lump of Boston-Irish coal as well, he answered the phone. So why was he now in his office in the dark both literally and figuratively? What the hell was going down?

  Finally his mobile jumped to life cutting through the dark silence. Morgan jumped. His coffee followed suit. “Where the fuck are you? And it better be good! You just made me dump my coffee.”

  Declan smiled. Even something as simple as a spilled coffee over his boss’ desk brought joy. And the fact that he caused the mishap, well all the better. “It’s four o’clock in the morning and I’m on a goddamn story. I don’t have time to answer every call mom.”

  Morgan let the snide comment slide. The coffee was forgotten. “It’s a big one! I knew it. I goddamn felt it in my bones! What the heck is going down?”

  Declan had no time for chatter. He was heading to the office to punch out a story. The only thing Morgan could do was slow him down. Rather he disconnected the line and went to the photos he had snapped at Stairway To Heaven. The image of the ‘Mayor’s’ decapitated body with the head set at the table nearly made his knees buckle again. He took a deep breath of the chilly morning air. He pushed the send button on his phone ushering the grisly photo to Morgan’s office.

  Power looked down the road to where the police were still milling around the scene of the crime. “Boots,” he muttered before roaring his chopper to life.

  Morgan reacted quickly to the message signal from his computer. Power had sent an image. He hurriedly opened the file then watched in suspended horror as the gruesome photo took shape.

  “Good lord! The humanity…”

  “What’s the matter Peter?”

  Morgan jumped out of his chair. He had thought he was alone in the office. He fumbled around to see Bartholomew Hartin. “Bart, I, well I thought I was alone.” Morgan tried to collect his bearings while Bart Hartin craned his neck to steal a glimpse of what was on the computer.

  “Peter, your desk is in quite a state.”

  Morgan straightened his frame and looked Hartin directly in the eyes. Something seemed amiss. The usual alcoholic eye had been replaced by something more steely. It was unnerving. “I’ve never known you to keep early hours Bartholomew.”

  “No. I do like to keep a steady sleep routine Peter. But, lest you have forgotten, I must babysit that miscreant Power today over at King Mengrai University. So, I’ve come to set things in order, a list of questions and all that. But what brings you in so early?”

  Morgan turned off his monitor and began cleaning up his desk. “Working on a story with your mischief maker Bart,” he replied.
“And I’m glad you’re here. We’ll need another pair of hands and eyes.”

  Hartin stiffened in his chair. “Glad to be on the story then.”

  It was said that Captain America never slept. Phitak Pantrem wouldn’t know about that fact or anything else about the man who had become a legend in the world of espionage. He was a true master of the shadow. Today would be their first meeting. And, he knew, their last. In some ways it could be considered an honor to be asked into the great man’s presence. But Pantrem felt only fear.

  He walked to the riverside veranda of the Galare Guesthouse. There was nothing special about this holiday locale as it set neatly in with all the other guesthouses along the river. He had never even as much as seen a picture of Captain America but upon surveying the tourists who sleepily made their way to the breakfast buffet he instantly recognized the man who had summoned him.

  Looking professorial and fastidiously groomed, the man did not raise his eyes from the stack of papers he was scrutinizing.

  “You look like hell.” The words rumbled through the paperwork and hit Pantrem like a cold splash of water..

  ‘How would you know,’ Pantrem thought unaware his superior had even noticed him. “It’s been a long night sir. I just came from a grisly crime scene.”

  His explanation was met with a disapproving glare. “Our business is a series of grisly long night’s son.”

  Bangkok Man simply nodded. He was here to receive orders.

  “Always look professional. Whether that look be suited for the university classroom or the corporate boardroom, never go about your business with the appearance you’ve brought to me. It will get you killed.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  The concept of time had long since eluded him. There was no source of light to guide him. Now Martin Gay assessed his day by the temperature. The morning and afternoon would be chilly while the night would become cold. It was irrelevant. He had been held captive for days, perhaps a week. His hopes had been raised after Ben had been thrown into the cavernous cell. At least he now had a companion in his misery. And an extra hand in plotting their escape. But Ben Post had proven of no help. He turned to spit in his direction but found his mouth dry. His food supply was also running low. He returned his attention to the rusted gate. It rattled when he gave it a good shove showing quite a bit of give and the stone frame which held it was, with persistence, moveable. He wanted to wait for his rescue plan to pull through. ‘Declan Power,’ he screamed through a dry hoarse voice that weakly reverberated off the cave’s ceiling. He fell to his knees and pounded the ground. Why would anyone help him? Especially Declan Power. Martin Gay didn’t believe in God. This was a problem. Faith would certainly come in handy considering the situation. He did have faith in himself though. It was time to be honest. The time for lies was finished. Look where it had gotten him. Bloodied, beaten, and locked in a dungeon deep within a mountain.

  The Chiang Mai Chronicle parking lot was empty. Usually Declan welcomed this early morning solitude. Today it made him uneasy. He took a brisk approach to the elevator and made his way to his third floor office quickly. Bartholomew Hartin greeted him as soon as he slumped into his chair.

  “We’re on a story Power. Why don’t you bring me up to speed,” he began in an authoritative tone.

  Declan laughed. “We’re not on anything Bart. But seeing as if you’re here, why not bring me a cup of coffee.”

  Hartin seethed. “It seems you forget I am deputy editor, or, in other words, your boss.”

  “Sadly I am unable to forget either of those things, Bart.” Declan then straightened himself in his chair. This was no time to spar with Bart the fart. “But seriously, I do have work to do.”

  “Enough, both of you,” Peter Morgan said striding into Declan’s office. He shut the door tightly behind him. “Declan, come on, I’d like to see these photos, all of them.”

  Power took a deep sigh. He did not relish looking through them. His memory likely would never delete the horror that had confronted him only hours before. He leaned over and opened his bottom draw. He produced a bottle of Scotch and three shot glasses. He filled two. The phone, firmly clutched in his other hand, was now connected to his computer.

  Slowly the jpeg images popped onto the screen. Declan waited for them all to boot before clicking on the first image, then the second, and then the third. The carnage and gore could not be adequately digested. Limbs sawed off, or in some cases partially so and hanging from the exposed tendons. Eyeballs gouged from their sockets. Skulls precisely hacked in half. The ladies teeth firmly clenched on the severed penises of the unlucky party goers.

  “Good lord,” Bart Hartin whispered as he filled himself a shot of Scotch. “Who would be capable of such devilry?”

  “The Lan Na Ripper,” Declan replied whirling angrily in his chair.

  Peter Morgan stood up purposefully. He looked at Power with a respect he probably should have ceded earlier. “You nailed it! That’s our headline. I want to go to press asap Declan. I can get an addition on the streets by late this afternoon. Give me my story.”

  “You got it boss,” Declan snapped in reply. A sudden bolt of energy emerged. Despite the long, arduous, and horrific night he had endured, he was on a story and had never felt more alive.

  Mengrai University had been established in 1988. The signs announcing various twenty fifth year anniversary celebrations dotted the campus. The university had been the brain child of Thanat Jaisaen who wanted to build an intellectual institution to be the focal point of what he saw as the reawakening of the Lan Na culture. It was a private university built largely on his family’s prodigious fortune. If the Chiang Mai crown had been taken away from his family’s mantle over one hundred years ago their wealth remained untouched. Built on the edges of Wiang Khum Kam, King Mengrai’s original capital erected in 1286, the university had grown into an internationally recognized research institute.

  Declan gazed impressed out the window as Bart Hartin steered his car up the impressive driveway which led to Jaisaen’s palatial mansion. The neatly trimmed bushes were themselves worthy of admiration. Elephants, giraffes, even bears had been expertly sculpted from the knotty tangled branches and vines. Brightly colored orchards and flower beds sat at their feet. Truly an abode ‘fit for a king’ Declan whistled.

  Hartin slowed as the lane curved revealing a gate manned by two ornately costumed guards. Declan quickly commandeered his phone and snapped a quick photo. “What the hell are you doing Power?” Hartin snarled.

  “Boots,” Declan snapped dismissively.

  Best Bar usually opened its doors for lunch at noon. The expat retiree lunch crowd was brisk. Beer would be poured and girls would be on the menu. Today the doors remained shuttered. Oum surveyed the messy unkempt bar area and set about restoring her saloon to order. Yes, the Lan Na Ripper was on the loose. But closing her doors meant losing money. She glanced down at her watch. One hour would be enough. Before long her stable of ladies, those that had not found a date last night, awoke to lend a hand. A beehive of chatty activity sprung out of a storm of yawns. The bustling laughter buoyed her spirits as her treasured bar beer came glistening back to life.

  In the back alley, Oum had another business discreetly run outside the glare of the Loi Kroh neon lights. In fact, the small sign sitting atop the non-descript entrance read Secrets. Secrets was no more than a well-maintained corrugated tin shack. It consisted of three rooms. The first room held a small bar, a pool table, and a jukebox with the two other rooms standing to each side. These rooms contained a bed and a tub. They were the soapie rooms. The love shack had become a popular and profitable business and one where her girls eagerly lined up for duty.

  So, it was with no surprise when their first customer of the day ordered a one hour soapie massage. Oum had been hesitant to open Secrets in lieu of the current crisis. But her girls needed to earn and she was not going to let her girls out of the pub until the Ripper had b
een apprehended. Still, she’d only let regulars enjoy the pleasures of her back alley hideaway.

  “Hi Joe, what is your pleasure today?”

  “Oum, top of the afternoon to you. I’ll start with a glass of Heineken and a wee bit of whiskey. Is Mimi here this afternoon?”

  Oum smiled. She had a soft spot for the Dublin man. “Of course Joe, I think she always wait for you.”

  Joe raised his glass and gave a sheepish grin. “Well madam, then a one hour soapie is in order.”

  “Ok Joe. Mimi now set up Secrets for business. You are first customer.”

  “My lucky day then,” Joe said happily opening his wallet.

  If the outside of Thanat Jaisaen’s palatial mansion echoed a mini Versaille, the interior had a distinctly more businesslike flair. Youthful university administrators bustled up and down the hallways purposefully and the air hummed with efficiency. Declan Power trailed behind Bart Hartin as he was led to Thanat Jaisaen’s office. The walls were lined with portraits, recently rendered, of the kings of Lan Na. Directly outside of Thanat’s executive suite, and prominently visible from the beginning of the hallway, was the portrait of the empire’s founder, King Mengrai. He had half expected to find Jaisaen’s portrait also gracing the grandiose wall. There was none.

  They were asked to wait in a small reception area. Hartin exchanged stiff pleasantries with a striking secretary. Declan’s smile was received with a frown. He relaxed in his chair perplexed by Hartin’s rigid stance of attention. His colleague seemed riveted to his thoughts, a state Declan was intent on disturbing when his phone whistled a call was incoming.

  “Hello,” he answered coolly.

  “Mr. Declan Power,” a seductive voice spoke in a hushed tone.

  “Yes.”

  “I was told to contact you should I feel my life to be in danger,” the stranger stated directly though her tone no more than a purr.

  There was something hypnotic in the lady’s voice. It was cultured. Declan stood up and stepped back into the hallway.