by Mark Tufo
Kyle held his shot aloft, polished it off in a single gulp, and washed it down with a frothy pull of beer. His companions matched his move and let out a whoop before resuming their pool game.
Kyle bought the next round and Nick the next as the crowd began to thin with the late hour. The waitress served them with the same blank expression and merely winced when Kyle smacked her hard on her tan buttock, leaving a red handprint as clear as a tattoo.
The toughs who’d been loitering at the other end of the bar approached the Americans, and the largest of them spit on the floor next to Kyle’s boot.
“You leave now,” he snapped. Kyle looked at him unbelievingly before his brow furrowed with inebriated anger.
“The hell I will,” he slurred. “You gonna make me?”
Cody stepped beside his friend and regarded the Thais, pool cue in hand. “There a problem?” he asked, the words jumbled from the alcohol.
The bartender called out over the music, and one of the Thais looked over at him and growled a few dismissive words. The bartender shook his head and motioned to his bouncers, who made their way to where the standoff was taking place.
The nearest Thai looked Kyle up and down and spit again before muttering a curse. That drew a laugh from the big American, and the atmosphere grew tenser as the two faced off. The bartender yelled something to his men, and they spoke in hushed tones with the Thais, clearly trying to talk them down and avoid a fight. The discussion lasted several moments, and then the toughs backed away, clearly unhappy.
The head bouncer nodded to Kyle, his expression neutral. “Might want to finish drink and leave. Plenty more bar open.”
Kyle bristled, but Nick’s hand on his arm stopped him from taking a swing.
“What’s wrong? Our money no good anymore?” Kyle spat.
The bouncer didn’t respond, his eyes flat as lead, threads of scar tissue across his nose and forehead evidence he’d earned his position the hard way. Nick pulled on Kyle’s arm as Cody swayed to the pool table.
“Come on. I’m bored with this shit hole,” he said. “Time to pack it in.”
Kyle scowled at the thugs, who were leaving the bar. “I’m not done with my drink,” he snarled.
“Yeah. Okay. No rush. But no point in staying where we aren’t welcome.”
“I don’t like being told what to do,” Kyle protested.
“In the wrong line of work, then, buddy,” Nick countered. They laughed heartily, and the tension evaporated. Kyle finished his beer and Nick glanced at Cody, who was looking slightly green as he drained his bottle. “You gonna make it, wild man?”
Cody nodded and burped. “Shouldn’t have eaten that crap off the street.”
“I’m sure they hose off the dog before they cook it.”
Cody blanched. “Funny.”
“You about ready?” Nick asked.
“Let me get my cigs and we’re out of here.”
They trooped to the door. Most of the patrons averted their eyes, uninterested in drawing unwelcome attention from the drunken servicemen. In any conflict with Americans, the Thai authorities would come down hard on the locals, assuming that they could have prevented an altercation if they’d chosen to. It wasn’t fair, but it was the way things were, and nobody wanted to spend the weekend in jail, or worse.
The street was muddy from a recent shower, the air sticky and hot. Food carts hawked their wares as the men made their way down the lane, trailed by come-on calls from girls in the club entrances along the road. Near the intersection, a pair of scantily clad dancers shimmied on stripper poles affixed to the top of a large horseshoe-shaped bar at a club called the Pink Pony, cowboy hats and professional smiles firmly in place as they bumped and wiggled.
Cody stumbled at the corner, and Nick took his arm to steady him.
“You okay?” Nick asked. Cody gave him an alarmed look and, without warning, vomited into the gutter, retching out a splatter of booze and street food.
Kyle shook his head. “You white boys can’t hold your water, can you?” he muttered, feeling for a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket.
Cody answered with another surge of vomit, and Kyle grimaced. “I’m gonna head down there and pee. I’ll be back in a few.” He paused, eyeing his friend. “God, Cody. That’s disgusting.”
Nick nodded as he stood by Cody, the stink from the effluvia pungent in the humid night air. Down the street, a pair of bar girls laughed as they picked their way past the puddles, hands over their mouths at the sight of the compromised American, ebony hair bouncing in a light breeze that afforded no relief from the swelter. Nick breathed through his mouth as he waited for the spell to pass, the din from nightclubs blaring along the road, Cody gasping as his stomach spasmed, the evening’s excess abruptly over. He managed a few breaths and wiped his face with his arm. Nick stepped back with a look of revulsion.
“Dude, come on. You’re just making it worse.”
Cody grunted unintelligibly and waited to see if the spell was done, hands on his thighs for support, his body trembling. Nick slid his cigarettes from his pocket, hoping the smoke would overwhelm the stink from his companion’s sick. He lit it with a dented Zippo, flipped the cover closed to extinguish the flame, and took a deep drag. When Cody didn’t vomit any more, Nick checked the time and shook his head.
“Crap, Cody. It’s already damn near two. Pull yourself together. We have to get back to base,” he said, his voice low, eyes roving over to where some of the locals were loitering, their merriment obvious as they enjoyed the show. A shadow appeared from out of one of the clubs, and a shapely Asian approached in a miniskirt and halter top.
“Hey, boys, you wanna good time?”
Nick regarded the hooker and his eyes narrowed. “We’re not into ladyboys.”
The ladyboy looked him up and down and smiled. “Don’t knock till you try.”
“Get out of here. Scram.”
The ladyboy shrugged. “Two-for-one discount…finest kind.” Seeing the expression in the men’s eyes, the young man elected for a strategic retreat and returned to the bar with an exaggerated swing of his hips.
“I…I think it’s over,” Cody said, and spit into the gutter with a pained look at Nick.
“I think that’s your liver there,” Nick said, gesturing at the gutter with his smoke. Cody managed a humorless laugh.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” He hesitated, looking around. “Where’s Kyle?”
“Went to drain the weasel.”
They waited for several minutes and, when Kyle didn’t return, tottered around the corner onto the darkened dirt street. Gone were the bright lights and music, the endless party and willing bodies, replaced by the stark poverty of clapboard buildings and shanties, some little more than lean-tos with patchworks of pilfered corrugated metal for roofs.
The mud sucked at their boots as they negotiated the muddy road, and Cody pointed at Kyle’s footprints trailing away in the muck.
“Least we know he’s around here somewhere.”
They followed the tracks as the area quickly degraded, and then Nick froze as they neared another dark road. Cody nearly ran into him and was voicing a complaint when Nick’s voice stopped him cold.
“What the fu—” Nick blurted, pointing at one of Kyle’s boots protruding from the mouth of a narrow alley.
Cody swallowed a mouthful of stomach acid and squinted in the darkness, trying to make out what lay just out of sight in the gloom. Nick’s Zippo flipped open with a snick and flame leapt from the lighter, momentarily blinding Cody. Nick drew in a sharp hiss of breath.
“Jesus…” he whispered.
Cody peered into the alley. A rat tore by, its coat slick and wet, and raced into the night. Cody caught a glimpse of what had moments before been their friend, and fell into the mud on his hands and knees, gagging. Nick slowly backed away, the lighter shaking in his hand, his teeth clenched so hard he saw stars. The muddy sluice beneath his feet ran black with Kyle’s blood, the thing on the ground ha
rdly recognizable as human much less the strong, capable air force master sergeant who’d survived three tours in the ass-end of the world.
— 2 —
Chief Inspector Sunan eyed a cow by the side of the road as his battered police truck bounced along the ruts; his assistant, Panit, gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. It was early on Saturday morning and they were headed from Pattaya to Bang Sare, a small beach village fifteen kilometers south of the larger town, to investigate a nuisance complaint from a farmer who’d reported that several of his cows had gone missing.
Sunan scowled at the rising sun burning off the light mist over the freshly planted fields, where a few laborers in peaked straw hats were already at work with hoes and shovels. The younger Panit glanced at Sunan and returned to watching the road. His boss was clearly in one of his moods—understandable given his assignment in Pattaya, a huge step down from his prior position in Bangkok, where he’d been one of the senior homicide inspectors in that city’s police department.
“So the case of the missing cows draws us deeper into the wilds,” Sunan said, as though reading his subordinate’s mind.
“Well, the farmer seemed pretty upset when I took the call.”
“These people let their livestock wander off and expect us to go hunt them down. If we had anything better to do—”
Sunan was interrupted by the crackle of the radio. Panit reached for the mic clipped to the dashboard and keyed it.
“Yes?”
“Is Inspector Sunan with you?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes, he is.”
“Let me speak to him, please.”
Panit handed his boss the mic. Sunan depressed the transmit button. “This is Sunan.”
“We’ve been trying to reach you for the last few hours. We tried at your home, but there was no answer.”
Sunan frowned. He’d spent his evening in the company of a friend and didn’t feel any need to explain himself.
“Yes, well, you’ve reached me now.”
“We have another homicide. A block off the main drag.”
Sunan exhaled loudly. “That was fast. Same M.O. as the others?”
“Yes. At least, it looks that way.”
“Where exactly? Who’s the first responder?”
The dispatcher mentioned two uniformed cops who were competent, but not much else—that was why they worked the night shift, which typically involved breaking up fights and arresting drunks. Sunan’s scowl deepened.
“Any witnesses?”
“They took two Americans into custody.”
“What?”
“You heard me. They’re at the station.”
The dispatcher waited for Sunan to respond.
“Is the victim still in place?” Sunan asked.
“Yes. As per your instructions.”
Sunan had indoctrinated the local police not to disturb a homicide crime scene until he’d personally had a chance to go over it. When he’d first arrived in Pattaya a year earlier, the scenes had been contaminated within minutes by officers with no experience and even less education on the finer points of forensics and evidence collection. Sunan had changed all that, bringing the force into the twenty-first century, but even so he knew he was fighting a losing battle with the country bumpkins who worked the beach beat.
“We’re on our way,” Sunan said, his words clipped, and replaced the mic in the dash mount before looking askance at Panit. “Turn it around. We’ve got another one. You heard.”
Panit nodded and slowed to perform a three-point turn and retrace their route to Pattaya. “That’s the third one,” he said.
“Yes. Assuming it’s the same perp, it’s a troubling trend.”
“I wonder why he’s targeting Americans?”
Sunan shrugged. “We don’t know that he is. The Americans stick out, so if one goes missing, it’s a crisis. We both know that countless peasants disappear every year without a word.”
“Sure, but many are just escaping the farm. Kids running away to try their luck in the city.”
“Which is accepted, so if some kid goes missing in the hills, nobody thinks anything of it.”
Panit’s eyes narrowed. “You really think he’s killing Thais, too?”
“I don’t have an opinion. I’m simply saying we can’t assume we know more than we do. This is too new.”
The first body had washed up on the beach a week and a half earlier, badly decomposed and covered with crabs who’d been feasting on the remains when a local fisherman had stumbled across it. The second had been found three days ago, on a deserted back road leading from town. That corpse had been in better shape, and it had been obvious that it had been mutilated—but by whom and for what reason, Sunan didn’t know.
Homicides were not unknown in Pattaya, most linked to the thriving drug trade and some to robberies gone wrong, but still they were a rarity, and the singular fact that both victims had been Americans stationed at the U-Tapao Royal Thai Navy Airfield had created a stir when the papers had gotten ahold of the news.
The American military police had demanded to be kept in the loop, but so far that had meant conveying a paucity of results rather than anything meaningful. Sunan was frustrated by the open cases, but not surprised—most homicides were crimes of passion or criminal disputes where the perp was well known to the victim. It was rare that apparently random attacks took place in sequence, and Sunan had worked homicide long enough to know that when a serial was involved, discovering the perpetrator was orders of magnitude more difficult than a normal murder.
Panit frowned at the possibilities his boss had raised. This was the first time they’d discussed the likelihood that it wasn’t a lone killer responsible for the atrocities.
“My money’s still on one guy. Probably hates Americans.”
“Could be. Could also be anything from a rear column Vietnamese terror scheme to one of our criminal gangs having a beef with some of their customers. Although why they’d kill the men they’ve worked hard to get hooked on junk escapes me.” Sunan paused. “Best not to speculate until we know more.”
They rode in silence, with the protest of the four-cylinder motor and the grinding of gears for company, lost in their thoughts as they returned to Pattaya, leaving the farmer’s missing cows for another day.
When they reached the crime scene, Sunan was pleased to see yellow tape holding back a small crowd. Three other police vehicles were there along with the coroner’s khaki van, and Panit coasted to a stop near the alley. When they stepped out, the heat slammed into them like an oven after the slim relief of the vehicle’s truculent AC. Sunan led his assistant to where three uniformed police stood smoking and eyed them disapprovingly.
“That it?” Sunan asked, pointing at where a black tarp was spread over a man-sized lump at the alley mouth.
“Yes,” one of the men said. “It’s ugly. Hope you didn’t eat breakfast.”
Sunan nodded and ducked beneath the tape. Panit made to follow, but Sunan stopped him. “Give me a second alone.”
Panit nodded, puzzled. “Sure.”
Sunan took hesitant steps toward the body, noting the hundreds of shoe prints in the drying mud from the police and coroner, as well as any of the curious who’d stopped to look before the cops had arrived. Isolating the killer’s prints now would be virtually impossible, any positive that the mud might have created in memorializing his steps outweighed by the sloppy crowd work and lackadaisical approach to the scene. His eyes roamed over the rotting wood walls of the buildings that framed the alley and then settled on the tarp, which was covered with flies.
The swarm rose into the air when he raised a corner of the material and gazed down at the victim, his face impassive. He was accustomed to the distended bloat that accompanied death in the tropics, but even so, the defensive wounds on the man’s arms were obvious, as was the ultimate cause of death: his throat had been ripped out.
Sunan studied the cadaver, holding his breath so the stench of putres
cence wouldn’t overwhelm him, and then dropped the tarp back into place and slowly continued down the alley, eyeing the sides of the buildings for any evidence the rain and the passersby hadn’t obliterated. Five minutes later, finding nothing, he returned to where Panit was chatting with a squat chubby man with a bad comb-over who’d sweated through his shirt. The coroner nodded as Sunan approached and offered a gap-toothed smile.
“Another customer, eh?” the coroner asked, his jocular tone a constant no matter how heinous the crime.
Sunan frowned. “Have you gone over him yet?”
“I did a basic, but they said you were on your way, so I figured I might as well wait.”
“You note the wounds?”
“Of course. Looks like he got hacked to pieces with something blunt.” The coroner paused. “Maybe a pipe with an edge?”
“Just like the last two,” Sunan said.
“No question. Maybe we’ll find some residue to clue us in about the weapon this time.”
“Hope springs eternal.”
“You done with him?” the coroner asked.
“Not much else I can do now.” Sunan approached the uniforms. “You question everyone around here?”
“Yes. We’re still doing a door-to-door.”
“Anything promising?”
The lead officer shook his head. “Not really. Nobody saw anything. You know the drill.”
“Lot of drugs being dealt in this area,” Panit observed.
“Doubt this was drug related,” Sunan snapped. “Unless the local gangs are target—”
He was interrupted by a cackle behind him. He turned and found himself facing an ancient woman with wild white hair and a face like a catcher’s mitt, burnished the color of tobacco by generations beneath an unrelenting sun. Sunan glared at the old woman, and then his expression softened when he saw the tremor in her hands. “What’s so funny, Mother?” he asked.
