Jackson's death becomes celebrity thriller

THERE are still questions to be answered about the untimely death of pop singer Michael Jackson and I suspect these questions will continue to be asked long after he has been laid to rest.

The reason is that all the ingredients are gelling for a grand conspiracy theory.

To bake a delicious conspiracy theory, here's what you need: Take a celebrity with global fan appeal but make sure your candidate is aged between 33 and 50 (any younger and they haven't amassed the fan base necessary to incite hysteria after death; any older there's a diminution of the feeling of being robbed by their death). There's no "injustice" in an 80-year-old dropping dead.

Then have the celebrity die in unusual circumstances. An apparent overdose is always good to kick things off because you can always fall back on the logic of "did someone slip them a mickey?"

Did you know the FBI switched Marilyn Monroe's prescription pills because she was having an affair with JFK and Robert Kennedy, and Jackie knew and she was going to leave the president, and the White House couldn't handle the scandal?

A car crash is also good: apparently the British royal family cut the brake cables in Princess Diana's car. Hmmm. Prince Philip has had that "guilty look" ever since. But you'll be pleased to know that the Queen didn't know anything about it. The palace wanted HRH to retain credible denial.

If you want to add a dash of mystery then have the celebrity disappear. This worked well for Australian prime minister Harold Holt. You see, Holt, weighed down by the guilt of the Vietnam War in late 1967, decided to defect to the communists so he improbably walked into the surf at Cheviot Beach and was whisked away by frogmen to a waiting Chinese submarine.

To this day Holt lives the high life somewhere in the back blocks of China. It's OK, Harold, you can come out now. We're friends with the Chinese. They make stuff for us.

But if you really want to create the perfect conspiracy theory, then have a celebrity power figure, say a 46-year-old US president, assassinated in public. And then have the whole thing captured on a single movie camera operated by a middle-aged man with an exotic name such as, oh I don't know, say Abraham Zapruder.