Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“As some of you already know,” Phosy said, “this is Bok. He’s headman Ar’s son. Bok cannot speak and he’s a little slow to understand. But he’s very talented. He hunts well and he knows all the secrets of the jungle. His speciality is catching insects, as you can see. I asked his father when he first developed this fascination with lassoing little creatures and it appears it was somewhere around the time the sorceress witnessed the dragon crash into the moon. She believed Bok’s sudden change was another manifestation of the disaster that happened that night. Apart from his insect fetish, Bok also started to draw pictures. In the beginning he drew them in the sand but his father bought him some paper and crayons and Bok became an artist. Another miracle. Before that the boy just used to sit in front of his hut day and night, staring off into the distance. Suddenly he could walk and the strength returned to his fingers. He was a different person. He couldn’t yet speak but his father believes it’s just a question of time. So what really happened to stimulate Bok’s mind?”

Phosy pulled an old Thai Mekhong Whiskey calendar from his pack. On the front page was a colour photograph of a young girl in a bikini. The audience looked on in dismay. Was the boy’s mind turned by half-naked women holding glasses of whiskey? Fortunately not. The inspector turned over the calendar to show that the backs of the photographs were blank and someone had made sketches on the large white sheets. He flipped them over one by one. The illustrations, without exception, were of what looked like a large monster. It had big feet and hands like table tennis bats. All of this might have been attributed to an inability to draw. But attention had been given to small details like the flowers on the monster’s shirt and blood spurting from the mouth. And the main feature of each picture was a string leading from the monster’s hand. It reached up into the sky and at its end was a bizarre flying creature with one huge eye.

“Very nice story of rehabilitation,” said Judge Haeng. “Very heart-warming. Now perhaps you’d like to rejoin the search. We’ve been covering for you for two hours.”

“No, I feel a point coming on,” said Civilai.

“The point is,” said Phosy, “there’s no ground in any of these pictures. The monster is flying. For ten years, Bok has been training insects so he can fly like the monster. Where did a boy with no schooling or life experience pick up a concept like that? Why would he ever believe he could be carried away by insects?”

“By being at ground level and watching a man fly down at the end of a string,” said Daeng.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” said Phosy. “From Bok’s point of view the helicopter was as small as an insect. There was a full moon so he could see it clearly. And to him, the man was a monster. Civilai was right. Boyd did come down at the end of the cable.”

“Oh my goodness.” Judge Haeng laughed and looked around apologetically at the Americans. “What rubbish. Surely this isn’t what we pay you for: the psychological analysis of mental retards.”

“It sounds plausible to me,” said Madame Daeng.

“Of course it does, madam,” said Haeng. “And we all know that you studied for five years at law school. So … no wait, it was primary school, wasn’t it? I seem to recall you didn’t even make it to high school. And if you had, you’d know that such a farcical theory is inadmissible. It’s missing the two key ingredients known as empirical evidence and logic. Giants being transported by hornets won’t get you far in a court of law. Am I correct in assuming you don’t have any concrete evidence of this, Inspector?”

“No … sir,” said Phosy.

“Just as I thought. Now perhaps-”

“No, I mean, no you aren’t correct. The evidence has been in front of us all the time but we didn’t look.”

He turned to Bok and said something in Phuan. Bok looked at his father who nodded. Slowly and gently, Bok removed his cap. The exhausted beetles were both resting on the peak. Phosy took the once yellow cap and held it up to the audience.

“I don’t know if you can read it from where you’re standing,” said Phosy, “but the lettering on the cap says UNC. At the orientation they told us that Boyd played college football for the University of North Carolina.”

“The boy might very easily have found it at the secondhand market,” said Haeng.

“Together with atomic submarines and Elvis Presley wigs,” mumbled Civilai.

Phosy turned over the cap. Sewn inside the lining was a label.

“Peach, could you read this for us?” Phosy asked.

She took hold of the cap and smiled.

“It’s printed with the name “BOYD BOWRY, 1960.” If Bok found this in the market, he got real lucky.”

The discovery caused elation in all but the judge. He continued to argue that the hat, like the tailplane, could have been blown away in the explosion and found at a later date. He wasn’t able to explain how it escaped the flames. It didn’t irrevocably prove that the pilot had survived the crash but Sergeant Johnson apologized to Civilai for doubting his hypothesis. He promised to buy him a beer and the Hollywood deal was still on. As they walked back to the trucks, there was just the one remaining mystery to be solved.

“Since when could you read English?” Civilai asked Phosy.

The policeman smiled.

“I may be an old dog,” he said, “but Dtui’s been teaching me some tricks. I can’t have a wife who’s smarter than me, can I now? English this year. Russian next. By the end of the seventies I’ll be a chief inspector at Interpol.”

Toua, the manager of the Friendship Hotel, greeted the returning trucks by running down the front steps and waving his arms frantically.

“The senator. The senator,” he shouted.

“What about him?” asked Lit, jumping down from the flatbed before the truck had come to a complete stop.

“Somebody shot him,” called Siri, who was sitting at the rattan table on the veranda with what looked like a can of Budweiser beer in his hand. He was looking remarkably cool, considering. Ugly was looking even cooler in the chair opposite.

“Is he dead?” called Phosy.

“No. But he sustained an injury which might end his career.”

“Where was he shot?” asked Lit. Everyone had climbed from the truck. One group surrounded Toua, who was acting out the shooting quite dramatically, and the other stood in front of Siri.

“He lost the tip of the index finger of his right hand,” Siri told him. “He may never shake again.”

“I don’t consider it fitting to take this so lightly, Doctor,” said Judge Haeng, who ran inside with the Americans.

“Where is he?” asked Phosy.

“Dining room, basking in sympathy. I dare say he could use some more.”

“This is getting out of control.” Phosy shook his head.

“And you haven’t heard the half of it,” Siri told him. “Go do your investigating and I’ll tell you the rest when you get back.”

Civilai and Daeng opted to join Siri at his table. Ugly eyed them both and decided to let them sit there.

“I didn’t do it,” Siri told them.

“I didn’t think for a minute you did,” said Daeng patting his hand.

“I wanted to,” he confessed. “I’ve had to put up with his whining all afternoon. There’s never a gun around when you need one.”

“How’s his finger?”

“He’ll live. He bled like a geyser though. Quite impressive.”

“Do you think that was the plan?” Civilai asked. “Just to wing him?”

Siri sipped his beer and Civilai looked around for service. He could barely see the inn door. The murky sky had brought on the dusk an hour early. The generator clunked and rattled and gurgled in the distance and a small pale bulb came to life above their heads.