Two Foreign Cops Investigating a Murder in Bangkok*

‘Chaotic’ was the first thought that came to mind as I held up the crime scene tape for Chief Inspector Bailey to step through. The morning sun broke the darkness, the Bangkok humidity and heat making me drowsy.
I stood there frozen as a fleet of red rice carts whizzed by, each filled to the rim with pig carcasses. Blood and guts don’t bother me much; Christ, I’ve just spent the last five hours looking for clues in a house with six mutilated corpses, four of them children. Blood on the walls. Everywhere.
I even had a plate of rice and a piquant chicken curry in the dead woman’s kitchen. She had probably cooked it herself before someone decided it was time to hack her face off with a blunt axe and/or machete.
Yet, I found the pig carcasses, bouncing like rubber and being wheeled around the city streets in the early hours of the morning, more disturbing.
‘Maybe I’ve seen too many dead bodies. Is my mind telling me that I can’t handle this shit anymore; that what I’m doing is eating me up like cancer? Maybe I’ll start teaching English like the rest of the foreigners here. Take it easy. Shag and drink and watch pirated pornos. No, fuck that. That’s even worse than red rubbery pig carcasses.’
“Are you going to stand there like a fucking statue, Rococo? You look like shit,” Inspector Bailey said in an I-don’t-care-voice. I stepped through, under the tape. He handed me a sandwich with the unmistakable pink of crabstick and sweet mayo in the middle. “Found it in the fridge,” he said, dabbing at the alcoholic sweat on his forehead and upper lip.
“No, thanks. I had some curry earlier,” I said, retching.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Why is the bread in Thailand so poor?” he said, “They have excellent bread in Laos. The only fucking good thing the French left behind, in my humble opinion. And it’s not that far away, if you think about it; no more than 500km from Bangkok. Christ, with all the counterfeiting going on in Thailand, one would have thought someone would have taken initiative to open a decent bakery that sells more than the average doughnut and toast with shredded pork and sugar. Or this shit.” He chucked the sandwich over his shoulder.
When we reached the 1992 BMW 325i, there was a loud bang.
“Christ! Get down!” Chief Inspector Bailey ducked behind the passenger door. “They’re shooting!” I heard him curse again as he lost his balance. Then, as the Thai national anthem started playing, I lowered my head, walked around the car and pulled him to his feet. He was rattled, and still on his back, head resting against a shit-stained bin.
“It was just the loudspeaker, Inspector,” I said, pointing up. The speaker had been fastened with a piece of rusty wire to the lamppost. “They’re just playing the nation--”
“Yes, I’m aware of that now, fuck you very much. Ah, fuck!” He stepped into a soggy pizza box that stuck to his one shoe, “Fucking garbage disposal. Useless. The fuckers spill more than they take away.” He took a deep breath.
“Ever thought about what they come across?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Who?!” Bailey scraped his foot on a Pepsi can to get rid of his pepperoni and double cheese sole.
“The garbage disposal workers,” I said, “I bet they see more fucked-up things than we do sometimes.” I knew he wasn’t listening. “I’ve heard horror stories.”
“Open the fucking door; we need to get to the office and file a report.”
Traffic was already heavy as we neared Siam Square.
“I’ll meet you at the office at ten,” I said, “I need to take a shower.”
“Yeah. We’ve got to meet with that fuckwit of a policeman at eleven. What’s his name again?”
“Inspector Boonmee. He’ll probably be drunk by then,” I said.
“No doubt,” Bailey said, shaking his head.
We sat in silence in traffic for about half-an-hour before Inspector Bailey spoke again, “What the fuck happened in there, Rococo?” he asked out of the blue, referring to the murder scene.
“Definitely someone with a grudge. Gambling debts? Politics? Who knows? Life is cheap here in the City of Angels, Inspector. But we always catch them, don’t we.”
There was a distant look in his eyes as he tried to read the sign on the bus next to us. He rested his chin on his fist, “We always do, Rococo, we always do.”

*I dreamt about this last night. Almost exactly as I've worded it, but I need advice. Do you reckon I should describe the crime scene at the beginning? Including the curry eating scene as well? Or do you think I should go into the murder scene with the drunk cop, Boonmee? Any input will be appreciated.