The Next Best Thing

by Wiley Brooks

  “When I find him,” Mason said, “I’ll be expectin’ a bonus. The amount is entirely up to you.”

  It was midnight when Mason returned to his small condo in Bangkok’s Victory Monument neighborhood. It was on a quiet street, if such thing existed in this city that never sleeps, in a building of twelve units. Mason’s one-bedroom apartment was on the third floor away from the street, overlooking a garden. The building was designed to appeal to Western business and professional types. It had a kitchen that would be right at home in Los Angeles and a bathroom that would, as well.

  Mason was one of the original residents of the building. He moved in when it opened just four years earlier. He knew his neighbors enough to say hello using their names but wasn’t really friends with any of them. He was happy with unit 3-C and saw no reason he would ever need to move.

  The night didn’t go well. At some point around two o’clock, Mason bolted upright in bed, uttering a scream. He never screamed. Ever. He was instantly awake. For the first time in his life, going back even to when he was a child growing up on the farm in Georgia, Mason experienced a full-on night terror. His dream flashed back to the day he killed General Tho. But while he had consciously recalled the moment of the general’s death countless times, none of them had upset him. In fact, he had felt a calm sense of satisfaction every time he had thought about the look on the general’s face when the realization of his imminent death flashed across it. This nightmare was different.

  The image in Mason’s mind was not of the general. It was the waiter who was serving him. The Laotian man, who appeared to be about thirty years old, was leaning over General Tho’s left shoulder pouring tea.

  In the nightmare, the waiter literally melted in slow-motion and then the dream jumped to a small living room with a photo of the man on the wall. An older woman, who Mason seemed to know was the waiter’s mother, was sobbing, as were a younger woman and two children. It was clearly the waiter’s family and they were in intense grief. The vision was painful. Excruciatingly, intensely, overwhelmingly painful.

  Mason was sweating profusely and his breathing was shallow. He shook.

  When he finally slowed his breathing and regained some control, he wondered what the fuck had just happened? What did it mean?

  It had been fourteen years since he killed the general, but he had never thought about the waiter. He searched his conscious mind. Did he remember the man serving the general? He didn’t. Had he made it up? No. The general would have had a waiter, for sure. In fact, there was probably another standing nearby. Mason then realized that he had seen the man darting about the restaurant, even talking with the general. He had just never truly noticed him.

  So, Mason had locked away any thoughts of the man for fourteen years. Until tonight. He wondered if the waiter would replace General Tho whenever his mind drifted back to that day.

  He got out of bed, went to his kitchen and got a bottle of water from his refrigerator. Sitting on the side of the bed, he tried to picture others at the scene, but no faces emerged. He knew there were others. Fifty-four people other than the general had died that day. In fourteen years, he’d never given them any thought. Why couldn’t he recall their faces? Any of them? And why did the waiter suddenly appear to him?

  Mason had thought that the bombing at Sam Neua was behind him. But there was no question that the images of his nightmare had opened something raw within him. As he tried fitfully to get back to sleep, his fear was that the dream was not a fluke. That the man and his family were real. He just knew it. As he tried to coax himself back to sleep, he wondered if this was a one-time thing. He hoped so, but his fear was real. He feared that he would meet the other fifty-three innocent victims of his anger in the days, weeks, months and years ahead.

  God, he hoped not.

  Day 8

  “Hey Fitz. You caught me runnin’ out the door. I have a flight to Penang. What’s up?”

  “This guy is a serial killer,” Fitz said. “We should have caught this, but we didn’t. Over the past two and a half years, there have been seven murders of young American women in Malaysia. The three you know about and four others. They all follow the same MO. Young, blonde, traveling alone. Knife to the front of the throat.”

  “Shit. I was afraid that we might find somethin’ like this,” Mason said. “But it’s good for what I’m doin’. This guy probably has patterns that will lead us to him. Do you have files on all of them?”

  “We’re still pulling it together.”

  “Fax me what you have right now and I’ll take it with me. Then as you get more, fax it to Boonsri and she’ll find a way to get it to me.”

  “Okay. It’s in the fax now.”

  Mason asked if they’d checked if there had been similar deaths in nearby countries. Fitz said they had but nothing had turned up.

  “Anythin’ else?” Mason asked.

  “Yes. One of Amanda’s credit cards was used several times in Penang over the past week and her traveler’s checks were cashed there, too.”

  Mason asked that Fitz include those details in the fax.

  “Listen,” Fitz continued, “seven young American girls in two and a half years escalates this to a big fucking deal. Some of the people who’ve been read in are going ape-shit. I’m concerned some asshole is going to leak it to a buddy in the press. I met with the Secretary at the end of the day. I explained that Anderson had hired you and that we should let you take the lead and offer you whatever help you need. He hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed.”

  “Fuck man! Can you keep it out of the press?”

  “I think so. Only a handful of people know right now. Believe me, everyone here knows how fragile our relationship with Prime Minister Mohamed is. I think it’ll stay under wraps. I’ll try to manage our end.”

  Mason asked about the American embassy in KL.

  “That the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, my friend. We have to tell the ambassador.”

  “What do you know about that guy? Will he muck it up?”

  “John Monjo is a good one. Solid. He’s only been at the post for a few months, but he’s a career State guy. I like him. He and I are tight. Let me take care of him.”

  “Okay. And the Malaysian government itself? Can we keep ’em in the dark? I’d like to do this on my own.”

  “I talked with the Secretary. We’re going to hold off telling them. I don’t know how long we can do that, though, Mason. Seven goddamn murders of young American girls. It’s dicey. Our position right now is that officially, the US government isn’t doing anything. This is a matter between a private American citizen whose daughter was killed and a private detective he hired.”

  “One potential wrinkle that I see,” Mason said, “is that I’m meetin’ this afternoon with Bo. You remember him from Vientiane?”

  “Yes. Why is he relevant?”

  “Because he’s now the chief homicide detective in Penang. He’s on the Mary Higgins case.”

  “That’s fucking great. Well, play it by ear. Bo always struck me as a guy who knew when to keep his mouth shut. Maybe you can convince him that this is such a time.”

  “Well, he only knows about the Higgins girl. I planned to tell him about Amanda Anderson. He’s gonna have access to info that I need. I think I can still tell him about Amanda just not mention the others. At least, not yet. I think if he thinks it’s just the two cases, he won’t see any reason to report it up.”

  “Sounds solid to me.”

  Mason hung up, grabbed the fax, said goodbye to Boonsri and dashed to catch his flight.

  Fitz called Ambassador Monjo after getting off the phone with Mason. He briefed him that Bob Anderson was well connected to the president. In fact, Fitz told him, the President and Mrs. Reagan had sent their personal condolences to Anderson. Monjo knew what that meant, to treat Bob almost as if he were a visiting head of state. He made sure that other key staff knew, as well. When Bob arrived shortly before lunch time, he was immediately escorted into Monjo’s o
ffice.

  “Mr. Anderson, I’m heartbroken about your daughter. I truly am,” Monjo said.

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Please call me John.”

  “Thanks John. And I’m just Bob.”

  “Bob, how do you want to handle today? My staff and I are here to make things go as well as they can, under the circumstances.”

  “I guess the first thing is that I need to see her.”

  “Of course.”

  Monjo walked to his desk and spoke on his phone softly to someone. “Yes, that’s right. Mr. Anderson would like to come down now. Will that work?”

  Hanging up the phone, Monjo looked back to Bob. “Dr. Simpson is our medical officer. He needs about five minutes and will meet us where, a… , well, where we are keeping her.”

  A few minutes later Bob entered a complex of rooms in the basement of the embassy that served as a medical wing. There were a couple of Malaysian men in white smocks who appeared to be some kind of lab techs. In the back room of the wing was a stark windowless room that was noticeably cooler. In the middle of the room was a table. A body, covered in a sheet, lay on top of it.

  “Hello. I’m Dr. Simpson. If you have any questions, I’ll do my best to answer them.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “Bob, why don’t the doctor and I give you some privacy. We’ll just be outside the door. Take your time.”

  Bob nodded, then waited for the men to leave the room. He inched closed to the table until he was standing next to the upper torso. His hand shook as he reached out, took the top of the sheet and pulled it down to reveal Amanda’s lifeless face.

  He had thought about this moment throughout his journey to Kuala Lumpur. He was glad to be alone because he knew he would sob.

  But he didn’t.

  All he felt was rage. A man had taken his beautiful daughter’s life. He would find that bastard and he would fucking kill him.

  He pulled the sheet back over her head, took a deep breath. “He won’t get away with this, sweetie. I promise you. I will find him and I will make him pay.” He paused, then added, “I will always love you.”

  Bob bent over and kissed her forehead through the sheet, then turned and left the room. He asked if she could be cremated.

  “That’s a wise choice,” Dr. Simpson said. “There is a facility we use. Would you like for me to take care of it for you?”

  “Yes. How long will it take? I want to take my girl home.”

  “They’ll probably be able to do it sometime tomorrow. I think you are safe to fly back the next day.”

  The flight to Penang took about two and a half hours. Mason had called Bo before departing Bangkok. The two had agreed to meet at a George Town café where they often dined whenever Mason was in town.

  Detective Jun Shan-Bo was already sitting at a booth when Mason walked in. He offered a small wave to Mason, who walked over to where Bo was sitting. Bo stood. The two men shook hands, looked at each other, then did a quick hug.

  “Good to see you again, my friend,” Bo said. “It’s been too long this time.”

  “What?” Mason said. “It’s only been about six months. I had some work back in Vientiane, so I used the trips there to renew my visa.”

  “How is Vientiane now that the communists run the place?”

  “Like goin’ to China under Mao. The commies sucked the life right out of it. You’d hate it, Bo. It’s nothin’ like it was. All I can say is at least it’s not Cambodia.”

  The two men ordered lunch and continued to catch up for a bit. Bo told Mason the latest exploits about his two boys, ages six and eight. A scientist-to-be and a budding sports star. Eventually, though, the conversation turned serious.

  “I’ve been hired by an American businessman,” Mason said, “to track down the guy who killed his little girl in Mersing a week ago. Here’s the thing, the MO is the same as your Mary Higgins case.”

  “You mean the slashed throat?”

  “Yeah. It’s not just that,” Mason said. “They’re like two peas in a pod. Both girls are about the same age. Both Americans. Both blonde. Both murdered in their hotel rooms after havin’ sex. Both had everythin’ they had of value taken, so same shit.”

  “Yes. Similarities,” Bo said. “But Mersing is very far away. It could be nothing more than coincidence.”

  “With all due respect, bud, this is no fuckin’ coincidence. I learned this mornin’ that my girl’s credit cards have been used right here in Penang several times in the past few days.”

  “Hmmm. That’s different. I would say there is a good chance we’re looking for the same guy.”

  “That’s my thinkin’, too. So, we should share info on the QT. I brought you a copy of the Mersing police report. Not up to your standards, but it is a good place to start. Can you share what you have on the Mary Higgins case?”

  Bo slid a file folder over to him.

  “When you called and said you wanted to meet to go over a mutual case, I figured it had to be Mary Higgins.”

  Both men studied the files before them.

  “The knife wounds look identical,” Bo said. “Same angle. He’s left-handed. And this guy’s precise.”

  “The girls are similar, too,” added Mason. “Same ages. Blondies. My girl was five-foot-five. Yours five-four. Both left buck naked on their beds after havin’ sex. Both Americans. Have you had other cases with young girls who aren’t American?”

  “No. Nothing like this at all.”

  Mason eyed the Mary Higgins’ file.

  “My girl was travelin’ with some others who probably got a good look at our guy. They left town, though, before the police could talk with ‘em. You spoke with one of your girl’s friends?”

  “Yes. We’ve interviewed a young Kiwi girl from the hotel,” Bo said. “She saw Mary having dinner with a guy the night Mary was killed. She thinks he was an American. She said his name was something like Jimmy or Johnny or something like that. She wasn’t sure. She said he seemed nice, though.”

  “Did she meet him at the hotel?”

  “No. At a restaurant, the Rama-Rama. I spoke with a waiter there who remembered them,” Bo said. “He said they both sounded like Americans, though he said he thought the guy might be Malaysian. When I pressed him why he thought that, he said he kind of had a Malaysian look. I pressed him a bit and he was basing it mostly on skin tone. But that was pretty much it. Kinda sorta. You can’t take that to the bank.”

  “So, he could be an American, or at least another backpacker,” Mason said, then got a slightly sour look on his face and added, “I don’t know, man. Walkin’ like a duck and talkin’ like a duck doesn’t make it a fuckin’ duck.”

  “My friend, odds are it’s a duck. The only thing that says otherwise is that his skin tone is not somehow right. But America is a big country and comes in many colors. Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever met a local who could pull off being an American to Americans. My guess is that he’s an American.”

  “You might be right,” Mason said, then paused in thought for a moment. “We might be barkin’ up the wrong tree, though, Bo. The American thing just doesn’t seem to fit.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Backpackers don’t strike me as the type to do somethin’ like this. And for what? A little cash and maybe a camera? I’d be more likely to buy kinky sex crimes. I mean, think about it, Bo. Sure, the cash could go straight in his pocket, but what about everything else? Where is a backpacker gonna unload a passport, traveler’s checks and credit cards, not to mention items like cameras or jewelry? Seems like a stretch for a backpacker. That dog don’t bark. No, I think he knows people. He has a fence. Our boy’s a local.”

  “Good points and explains why your girl’s stuff showed up here,” Bo said, “but I can also tell you that young American girls don’t hang around much with Malaysian guys.”

  “I hear you, buddy. But maybe our guy’s only part Malaysian. I mean, all we really know is that he appare
ntly can pass himself off as an American. Maybe he went to college in the US. We just don’t know yet. Let’s keep an open mind. I’m headin’ down to Mersing later today. Hopefully, I’ll learn more there. I’ll find a phone and call you tomorrow evenin’.”

  Day 9

  Mason had flown into Singapore after meeting with Bo. This morning found him in a rental car on a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Mersing. It was going to be a scorcher today, so he was glad he paid for a larger car with air-conditioning. It was late morning when he arrived at the Mersing police station, a small, single-story white building near the center of town.

  He went in, introduced himself and asked to see the chief. He was led to a small office toward the back of the building.

  “Good mornin’, chief,” Mason said, offering his hand to shake. “My name is Mason Ray. I work for the daddy of the American girl who was kilt here a week or so ago.”

  “Yes. Yes. Awful. Bloodiest mess I’ve ever seen. You say you work for her father?”

  “Yes sir. He wants me to help authorities like yourself. Mr. Anderson knows how few resources might be available. I’m a trained investigator, so he sent me here to talk with witnesses. I know you’ve already spoken with lot of folks. I read your preliminary report.”

  While Mason was speaking, the chief was thinking he thought he was done with the Amanda Anderson case when he sent the report to KL. No one in Mersing cared about a loose young American woman being killed. It wasn’t as if it had happened to someone they knew. And besides, nothing like Amanda’s murder happens in Mersing. It just doesn’t.

  “Look, Mr. Ray, I’m happy to tell you everything I know, but I don’t want to bother our folks here in Mersing. Why don’t we start with. . .”

  “Thank you kindly for the offer, chief. But I’ll do my own talkin’ with folks. It won’t take long and I won’t ruffle any feathers. I promise you that.”

  After a brief silence, the chief finally spoke again.

  “Okay. Sure. Mr. Ray. Let me take care of a couple things and I’ll walk you over to the hotel.”