They walked into the vestibule to watch the arrival of the new body.
"My adoring husband isn't with you?" Dtui asked Siri.
"He had to go straight to police HQ with Sihot," Siri replied.
"I'm sure he did."
On any other day, Siri would have followed up on Dtui's comment, but this was far from any other day. Two orderlies carried the corpse past the office door and into the autopsy area. The body was wrapped in a tarpaulin in an attempt to preserve the blood trails.
"Ano…another guest f…for room one," smiled Geung. He liked to keep busy. He followed the orderlies and barked at them to be careful.
"Oh, Doc. That isn't — " Dtui began.
"It's another one. Yes, Dtui."
"The same MO?"
"I get the feeling it would have been. Except this one fought back. She refused to go quietly."
"I like her already."
They removed the epee and placed it with the other two. There was something different about it, lighter or…But Siri would get to that later. They undressed the young woman as Dtui made notes about the bloodstains on her skin and clothing. The victim was physically fit, with a well defined musculature. Unusual for a Lao woman. Probably an athlete. They took their allotted three photographs. They washed the corpse and noticed immediately that the Zorro brand on her thigh was deep, much deeper than those of her predecessors'.
"In fact," Dtui said, looking closely at the wound, "I'd say one of these cuts is deep enough to have sliced an artery. What do you think, Doctor?"
When Dtui wasn't breastfeeding or burping or lulling Malee to sleep, Siri liked to have her comment during autopsies. He still had hope she'd secure a scholarship in the Soviet bloc and study to take over from him at the morgue. She already showed more enthusiasm and acumen than Siri himself.
"Let's have a look," Siri said, and leaned over the body.
He cut gently at the flesh around the Z and worked his way inward towards the slashes. The cuts were wild, almost fanatical. Completely different from the carefully carved thigh of the second victim, Kiang. It was the cross cut, the axis of the Z, that had dug deepest and had, in fact, nicked the femoral artery.
"Hmm. Now that's interesting," he said.
"This is where all the blood came from," Dtui decided.
"And, if that's the case…"
"The Z had to have been cut before she was killed with the sword."
"Otherwise?"
"Otherwise the wound wouldn't have bled like the Nam Pou fountain. How did he keep her still enough to sign her thigh? It must have hurt like hell."
Siri thought about the bottle of medicine. If it had contained some kind of sedative, that might have been enough. The killer drugged the woman and was signing her thigh when she came round. All possible. Once they were done with the autopsy Siri would spend time with the bottle and its contents.
"She might have been drugged," he said. "In fact they all might have been drugged. Teacher Oum's off at a mini re-education seminar and she's the only one with the chemicals to find out what our three ladies had in their stomachs, we won't know for sure until she gets back tomorrow. So, let's keep delving."
The medic had been a well-endowed young lady and the sword had entered her left breast from the south-west. After his Y incision, Siri and Dtui set about tracing the path of the blade. They arrived at the point where it had passed through the rib cage. The bones were unmarked so they had to assume the sword passed between the ribs without touching them. Enter Mr Geung. He wielded his rib-cutters like a ferocious Greek warrior. If one were to ignore his perm he might have been taken for a middle-aged Achilles. Siri and Dtui stood back to admire his work.
"You really have to stop treating our Mr Geung like a poodle, nurse," whispered Siri.
"I really don't know what you mean," she replied.
"I think you do. And I'm serious. Enough's enough."
Dtui adopted a Lao band-aid smile to cover her embarrassment. Within minutes, Geung's work was done and they had access to the inner sanctum of organs. Siri stepped forward and began to probe. Then stood back in surprise.
"Well, I'll be…" he said.
"What is it?" Dtui asked, and stepped up to the table. Her face dropped in astonishment. "She…"
"I know," Siri smiled. "Fascinating, isn't it?"
"I don't know." Dtui shook her head and began to fumble around in the victim's chest cavity. "Does the word 'fascinating' describe something that's physically impossible? She hasn't got a heart."
The lung was clearly visible but there was no heart nestled against it.
"Nurse Dtui, surely your medical training would have told you we all have to have a heart in order to function. So, as we know this young lady was walking around just twenty-four hours ago, logic would dictate that she must have a heart. We just have to go looking for it."
He pulled back the flap of skin to the left of his incision and smiled.
"There you are, you sneaky devil," he smiled. The heart smiled back at him from beneath the medic's right breast.
"It's on the wrong side, Doc," Dtui said.
"It certainly is."
"You seen this before?"
"Seen? No. Not with my own eyes. But I have heard of it. The most famous example of it was in the 007 film, Dr. No. They thought they had dispatched the villain with a bullet through the heart. But it wasn't there."
"That's a movie. They make those things up."
"In this case, no. It's a real condition called dextrocardia and we have a perfect example of it right here. Mr Geung, the camera please. I think this deserves a photograph. We may never see anything like this again."
Geung took one photo in close-up of the victim's chest and one of Siri and Dtui crouching by the misplaced organ. Naturally, Mr Geung wanted to have his photo taken too with the right-sided heart but they were able to convince him not to make a V sign. All three apologised to the corpse but they felt she wouldn't have objected.
"Do you think she knew?" Dtui asked.
"Hard to tell. It doesn't look as if she's had any major surgery. They might have mentioned it to her during medicals but, given the overall standard of nursing skills here it's quite possible nobody noticed. Present company excepted, of course. It probably didn't affect her physically, in fact she looks in very good shape. Less inconvenient than being born with two thumbs on the one hand, I'd guess. But one thing's for certain, the perpetrator certainly couldn't have known. And that could explain why she didn't die immediately."
"You mean, the sword didn't kill her?"
"Let's take a look. If it didn't puncture the lung she might have survived the wound."
Siri was right. There was no puncturing of the lung, not so much as a nick. The sword had passed behind the ribs and through the no-man's-land where her heart should have been. There was damage to muscle and tissue but nothing life-threatening. The blade had slid in front of the lung and out the side of her body. Hard as it may have been to believe, the sword through her chest looked much worse than it was. It hadn't killed her. The Z signature on her thigh had.
"It must have confused the heck out of the killer," Dtui said as they washed up. "He pins her through the heart and starts to cut her thigh and there she is wandering around like the living dead. He probably had to chase after her to finish it. No wonder it was messy. Doctor?"
Siri was deep in thought, going back over the crime scene in his mind, the bloodstains, the footprints.
"Doc?"
"Yes, sorry. I was just trying to organise a few things in my head."
"It's all explained, isn't it?"
"What? Yes. All explained."
"Good, so I can go? I have a daughter who thinks the creche worker's her mother."
"Yes, of course. Get out of here. I don't want to be the…"
He was going to say, "the cause of a family break-up." It was supposed to be a joke but something about the past few days made him think it wouldn't have been all that funny.
&nbs
p; "Be the what, Dr Siri?"
"Be the evil employer who forces his staff to work all night."
"Oh, I don't mind. And…I'll apologise to Geung on my way out. I understand. I'm stuck in mothering mode, venting my frustrations on the poor dear."
"Thank you. I — "
"OK, I'm gone." And she was. Their serious talk would have to wait.
7
BLACKBOARD SINGEING IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
Siri sat on a bench in front of the office of Judge Haeng at the Ministry of Justice. From his seat, if he leaned forward, he could see the windows of the office of the new minister, a man who'd spent his entire life fighting for the socialist cause. So occupied had he been with this struggle that a law degree — or even a college education — had been out of reach. This was a fact that Judge Haeng, the possessor of an authentic, if abridged, law degree from the Soviet Union, never failed to point out. While the figurehead sat in his air-conditioned office, Judge Haeng performed all the active duties of the ministry. All right, perhaps he passed most of them on to his assistant Manivone and her staff, but at least he spoke to people, he delegated, he diligently signed whatever Manivone put in front of him. At least he was still alive. He had no idea what was happening in the newly furbished upstairs room. He often got his new clerk to pass along the corridor once a day to see if he detected a pungent smell of decay coming from the room.
Judge Haeng was a bitter man. The only good news in his book of torment was the fact that Comrade Phat, the Vietnamese advisor, had moved upstairs also. Haeng had shaken off his albatross and was free to make wrong decisions and screw up projects without assistance. His paperwork had to pass 'upstairs' but as Manivone did most of it, he didn't have to worry.
"Call him in," Siri heard from inside the room and the door to the office opened and a young man with a cherry tomato nose stepped out. His eyes watered and his expression was strained as if he had several sliced onions concealed in his undershirt.
"Dr Siri?" the boy said, looking left and right, although there was only one potential Dr Siri sitting directly in front of him.
"That would be me," Siri said.
"The judge will see you now."
"You work here?"
"Just started."
"Do you have a cold?"
"Sinuses," said the boy.
"I could give you something for it. I work at the morgue — "
"You think it's that serious?"
"No. I'm a doctor. The morgue is irrelevant. I was just telling you where to find me."
"Thanks."
"Not a problem."
It always helped to have an ally in the enemy camp. Since his arrival from Moscow, Judge Haeng had been a concrete block set around the doctor's ankles. He'd barely spoken one civil word to Siri in all that time, which was why his reaction on this occasion came as something of a surprise. The spotty-faced judge rose from his desk with his hand extended. So unexpected was this gesture that Siri instinctively looked across the room to see what the man was pointing at. When he turned back the hand was still there so he shook it limply. It was as damp as he'd always imagined it to be.
"Siri, Siri, Siri, my old friend," said the judge.
Siri quickly scanned the judge's head for lumps or other evidence that he'd suffered an injury.
"You want something?" Siri asked.
Haeng laughed. He reached beside him for his walking stick and hobbled around to the other side of his desk. Siri still marvelled at how quickly the infection had spread from the judge's imagination to his perfectly healthy leg.
"Don't be silly, Siri," he said. "Two old comrades getting together for a chat. Why do we need a reason?" He cast a sideways glance at the young clerk now ensconced at the advisor's old desk. Siri was about to take his place on the wonky interrogation seat but Haeng waved him away.
"Let's get comfortable," he said.
He gestured to the vinyl couch and the uneven tin coffee table where a bottle of Cola and two glasses sat in expectation. Siri, more nervous with every revelation, edged to the sofa and sat. The springs played a short tune of welcome. They played a different tune entirely when the judge joined him and he poured them both a drink. Siri hated Cola. Even when it became a luxury item the taste didn't improve. It was still heavily sugared engine oil to Dr Siri.
He was closer to Haeng now but still couldn't see the wound on his head that had caused this sudden change in personality. Perhaps it was his thyroid. Glands had been known to bring about mood swings. Haeng raised his glass and expected Siri to do the same. It was too creepy, even for a man who spoke to ghosts.
"All right, I give up," Siri said. "What's happened?"
"Siri, Siri. You! You've happened. You don't suppose that little bit of news wouldn't somehow find its way to my office, do you? I can't begin to tell you how proud we are."
At last, Siri understood. "The hero shortlist."
"I can't tell you what a boon it would be for the Justice Department if one of its own was selected," said Haeng.
"How could it have any effect on the credibility of a ministry?" Siri asked, bemused.
"Do you need to ask?"
Siri was distracted momentarily by an old lady who had come to sit at the judge's desk. She had a face that defied guesswork as to her age and wore the traditional clothing of a country woman. Her mouth was a splatter of betel nut. He knew the old lady well even though he didn't recall meeting her when she was still alive. She'd been with him from time to time, just sitting, just there, never speaking. A monk had once hinted she might have been Siri's birth mother, but there was no way of confirming or denying it. He called her his 'mother angel' anyway, just in case. Of all the visitations he experienced from day to day, his mother angel was the one he most felt a need to communicate with. He had a lot of gaps in his early memories. But she sat and chewed and made no effort at all to answer his questions.
Judge Haeng was babbling on about something in the background. Siri interrupted him.
"If you were a bank I'd understand," he said. "You could use me on advertising hoardings. "Dr Siri is proud to be a director of the such and such bank." That type of thing. Or a farm implement manufacturer. "Dr Siri drives a Kwailek tractor. Why don't you?" But you're a ministry."
"And a fledgling ministry in a fledgling democracy, Siri. We need the farmers to trust us."
"Then stop making them join collectives."
Haeng ignored the comment.
"We need the common people on our side," he said. "The simple man is a moth drawn to the bright light of a halo around the head of a great leader. We need their support and they need a hero."
Siri saw himself in his green leotard, flying down from the ministry turrets to aid the commoners, fix that dam, shift that bale. He laughed and shrugged in the direction of his dead mother. He felt a 'but' coming.
"We're almost there," Haeng said. "There's just one small area that needs addressing."
"I'm not giving up on the Hmong," Siri told him.
"The…? Oh, no problem. We're a multi-ethnic society, Siri. Compassion for our ethnic brothers and sisters can do you no harm at the polls. It won't get you anywhere, but it won't hurt."
"So, what's my 'small area'?"
"Siri, there are rumours about you…and ghosts."
Siri's mother was dribbling betel juice all over the judged reports. Siri smiled and she might have smiled back. It was hard to tell.
"What type of rumours?" Siri asked.
"Siri, I'm going to ask you bluntly and I expect a blunt answer. Are you a shaman?"
"Absolutely not."
He hosted a shaman, but that was hardly the same thing. He had conducted a seance and travelled to the other world, and confronted demons, but that wasn't the question. Haeng leaned back and sighed as if a javelin had been removed from his foot.
"Excellent," he said, "because I have heard second-hand reports that you are…apparently, that you dabble in spirit worship."
"Judge Haeng," Siri said earnestl
y. "I can honestly say that the only spirit I worship is fermented from rice and left to stand for a month."
"That's what I thought. Good. I can forward my report tomorrow with a clear conscience. Glad we cleared that up. Good luck."
Haeng lifted his Cola and Siri raised his and heard the clink as the two glasses met. He sipped the bubbleless, lukewarm sugar-oil without tasting it. He was surprised at how effortlessly he had skirted around the judged accusations. His normal self would have left doubts and messed with the judge's mind. But Siri knew what was at stake here; hero status. And, if he were honest with himself he would have to admit, yes, he wanted to be a hero. He'd earned it. It wasn't the glory and adulation he desired. It was simply that he'd been a fair, honest and hard-working man all his life. Assuming the DHC didn't turn him into some Asian Errol Flynn, there were far worse role models out there for young Lao to follow. He was proud of the decisions he'd made and the direction he'd taken. Damn it. Yes. He would be a hero even if it killed him.
He looked at his mother who was sitting on the desk ripping up reports. She nodded. Yes there were character flaws; he was disrespectful, and given to grumpiness, he talked to dead people and he drank too much, but, as everyone knew, time had a way of smudging over a hero's personality faults.?
The electricity is back on and the eternal day has returned to my classroom. My tough Lao belly has been invaded by foreign devils — bacteria whose names should not be spoken aloud. I am suffering from cramps and chronic diarrhoea. As I have no control over my bowels I have removed all my clothes and piled them at one extreme of the length of my chains. Soiled clothing is a breeding ground for more diseases than I care to tell you. At the other extreme of my shackles is my toilet. I use half the water they give me to keep myself clean as best I can. It's as sanitary as I am able to manage given the conditions. I'm a doctor. I balance the risks.
The monk is asleep, chained not a leg's length away. There's a smile on his face. His subconscious is apparently unaware of the terror that surrounds him. I don't know when they carried him in. He arrived like a demon in the night and took hold of my hand, frightened the living daylights out of me.
Love Songs from a Shallow Grave dp-7 Page 9
