The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery (11 page)

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, and 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 night 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.

“Holy Buddha,” he spat.  He gazed apprehensively up the staircase then motioned to Power. “Chief, your lieutenant is right. I’m not trying to put you in the gulag but someone may well be. Wait for your team. Power, come on, we’ll go in first.”

Declan hesitated. He was used to reporting on stories. Now he was the story. Or at least a key player in the drama and the thought made him queasy. He gripped his phone and then instinctively activated the camera. Game on.

“What are you doing?” Pantrem complained.

“Adjusting the focus.”

“No photos!”

“I’m a reporter and you’re cops. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

“A story!” the Chief shouted angrily.

“Yes, a story. Chief, just think about it, a front page hot off the press story where both you and Bangkok Man come off as heroes!” A headline image leapt into his thoughts. “The Lan Na Ripper!” he exclaimed with excitement. The title jumped out of his mouth with excitement. His heart began to pound with both exhilaration and fear. The implications caused the Chief and Pantrem to retreat into their own thoughts.

They both came to the same conclusion. The Chief started off towards Job commanding over his shoulder, “Don’t touch anything. I’ve got final say on what photos you can use.”

Pantrem swallowed deeply and nodded his assent. Simultaneously they set their gaze on the pulsating lights coming from above. Slowly they began their ascent. ‘The stairway to hell,’ Declan murmured envisioning his headline with trepidation.

The moon hung tenaciously to its domain. ‘A full moon at that,’ the Lan Na King thought ruefully. The act had been completed to perfection. The glimmering photos proved as much. It was not uncommon for a leader to use a provocation to start the wheels of history into motion. It was said that Franklin Roosevelt knew well the Japanese plans to attack Pearl Harbor. If the act was savage the result would be pure. That was the key. In any case, nobody of value had been sacrificed only the sad refuse of the gutter.

The men who carried out the atrocity were chosen well. Butchers by trade, drunkards and whorists by night, they were easily enticed into employ. Their wives would reap a healthy benefit for the deed they had just performed.

This was of little solace to the two men who produced the human carnage at Stairway To Heaven. They now found themselves tied to a stake. In their drunken stupor they could still fully appreciate the horror of being on the other side of the butcher’s ax. The walls began to run red, the blood spurting mightily where a limb once hung. Their pitiful cries for help were easily engulfed in the cavernous maze which ran underneath mountain.

Martin Gay huddled shivering in the corner of the cave that had become his home. His plot for escape was beginning to come into focus. The food supply afforded him was getting low so he no longer offered any to his cell mate. Little appreciation his generosity had garnered anyway.  What was that? Gay shuffled to the gate. He gave it a rattle. A smile came to his bearded countenance. He tugged on his beard. Cries of pain filtered through grotto. He covered his ears but the shrieks continued to burrow into his head. Then a realization came. The cries were not coming from without, but rather they were emanating from within the lair. Martin turned to his friend. He dropped to his knees and sobbed. His companion filled the walls with the bellows of the insane. Ben Post had gone mad as the shrieks of his imprisonment attested. Silent for days, refusing to eat, the pressure had finally taken its toll.