“We make the most of what we have available,” said Phosy. It had become a tired mantra in the People’s Democratic Republic.
There was silence inside the room again apart from the purring of Malee in sleep.
“What’s the case?” asked Dtui.
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “Dr. Mot will—”
She climbed on his back and wrestled him to the ground. “Tell me, or I’ll rip your arm out of its socket,” she said, holding her pen to his ear.
“All right. Put the pen down and we’ll talk.”
She tossed the pen but stayed on top of him.
“It’s a skeleton,” he said.
“Oh well, that counts me out right away,” said Dtui. “I don’t know a thing about bones.”
“Siri said you do.”
“I might be able to identify knife and gun wounds on them but none of that age, height, origin, historical stuff.”
“Nothing historical,” said Phosy, crawling out from under her. “It’s quite recent in fact. There are even parts still attached.”
“What sort of parts?”
“Ligaments, tendons, hair. The ligaments are holding a lot of the skeleton together.”
“What sort of hair?”
“Long. Very long. Black. Even if the Party hadn’t forbidden men from wearing their hair long it’s clearly female.”
Dtui looked at her daughter.
“Any clothes?” she asked.
“None at all.”
“Where did you find it?”
“At the base of the Anusawari Victory Arch. Four o’clock this morning.”
“No cover? No note? No witnesses?”
“Not a lot of action at four a.m.,” said Phosy. “Still curfew hours. One of the night patrols noticed it when they were passing. All they saw was the skeleton propped up against a wall.”
“But if she was delivered there must have been a car or a truck. There’s so little traffic on the road someone must have heard an engine. Some insomniac might have seen it pass.”
“Nobody we’ve found so far. We’re interviewing.”
“And why would they put it at the arch?” Dtui asked. “Do you think—”
Malee called her mother but it was from the depths of her subconscious and she was soon back in her dreamland.
“Do you think it was symbolic?” Dtui asked. “They were trying to make a point? Something political?”
“They certainly wanted it seen,” said Phosy. “There’s one electric light bulb at the foot of the arch and she was sitting there in the lamplight. But right now, all we have is the body. So, I’d really like it if you could take a look and see if there’s anything that might tell us who she is.”
“Phosy, something terrible’s happened to this girl.”
“I know. And we’ll find whoever did it to her.”
“Where is she?”
“In the freezer at the morgue. We put the power back on this afternoon.”
“I’ll need help.”
“Madam Daeng’s given Mr. Geung the weekend off. And I’ve cleared it with the hospital director. You can take as long as you want.”
“I wish I were more qualified.”
“You’ll do a good job. You always do.”
Dtui arrived at the Mahosot morgue on Sunday afternoon. Dr. Siri’s welcome mat still greeted visitors, and Mr. Geung had been there all morning sweeping and mopping. Geung had been the cornerstone of the morgue in its heyday. He’d carried corpses with respect, he’d cut them open and sewn them back together. He’d weighed the internal organs and put all the fluids in plastic bags—all the time talking to the spirits who’d stuck around to make sure their old bodies were being well taken care of. Siri often wondered whether this paranormal chitchat might be his fault in some way. Had he tuned the young man in to the wavelength or had Geung always carried the gift? One thing for certain was that as their relationship progressed, Mr. Geung’s awareness of that other dimension strengthened. Those outside the loop assumed the lab assistant was talking to himself, perhaps an offshoot of his condition.
“Those Down syndrome folk are a weird mob,” Civilai would say.
Like Dr. Siri, Mr. Geung usually preferred to keep the secret to himself. But on this day in the morgue, there was a premonition Mr. Geung needed to get off his chest.
“Any guests today?” called Nurse Dtui as she entered the cutting room. It was a long-standing joke question that never failed to tickle Mr. Geung.
“One g-g-g-guest in room one,” said Geung.
The skeleton lay in front of him on the zinc table. Her hair lay to one side of her scalp as if she hadn’t had time to fix it before the coroner arrived. The bones were a yellow grey, not the blanched white of a skeleton left in the sun. Tufts of tendons and ligaments clung to the joints. There was no skin on her face and most of her fingers and toes were missing. Those remaining had no nails. The deterioration was in its early stages, yet there was no flesh. How had the woman’s meat been so completely removed from her bones?
“How are you, Geung?” Dtui asked, checking through the equipment.
“I’m f-fine,” he said, “and you?”
“Sparkling,” said Dtui, eliciting another laugh from her friend. “And how’s Tukta?”
Mr. Geung went silent, which was unlike him. He was usually delighted to discuss his Down syndrome lady friend. He and Tukta had been working at the hospital: he in the morgue, she in the canteen. At first they’d resented each other for being more competent, more popular, more . . . Down’s. But chemistry had triumphed and they’d formed a union based entirely on love. It was possible neither was completely sure what that word meant but, as Siri told him, none of us really is.
“I need to t-talk to you,” said Geung.
“About Tukta?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Work first,” said Geung who didn’t like to keep a body waiting.
So Dtui went to work. It wasn’t the type of autopsy she’d ever been a part of. There wasn’t much left to allow her to follow procedures. All she had was a basic structure in front of her. The scalp was intact, connected to a lock of well-cared-for ebony-black hair. Dtui could smell sweet coconut oil on it. Some mothers applied oil to their daughters’ hair as soon as it started to grow. The hair hung loose. There was no rubber band or hair tie to enable her to work without the hair getting in her eyes. Perhaps it was lost.
The bones and tendons fascinated her. If the flesh had been cut from the body as one of Phosy’s colleagues suggested, there would have been numerous knife tracks. Not even the most competent butcher could cut meat from a bone without scoring it here and there. But the marks on the bones and tendons were neither regimented nor neat. They didn’t suggest any order. There was no evidence of slicing or sawing. The marks on the bones were abstract, random, chaotic puncture marks and scratches. To her mind, it looked more like a frenzied attack than calculated butchery.
There was a peculiar chemical scent emanating from the corpse. It was a confusing smell, as if two conflicting odors were competing for her attention.
“What do you smell here?” she asked Geung.
“Insect spray,” he said as if he’d been waiting for the question.
“That’s it,” said Dtui. “And that explains something that’s been worrying me. There’s no evidence of insect damage, no maggots. She spent at least one night out in the open. But why would anyone go to the trouble of spraying a dead body?”
Once she’d isolated the scent of the repellent the second scent became recognizable. It was disinfectant. Not so obvious as to suggest that the body had been washed in it but clearly the skeleton had been in contact with a strong disinfectant.
She used Siri’s old magnifying glass to examine the marks on the bones in detail. She look
ed especially at stains and dark deposits here and there. She leaned close and smelled them, attempting to isolate those scents from the chemicals. And after half an hour she was confident there was only one explanation for the state of the corpse. It was impossible for her to say whether it was a pre- or postmortem act, but the lady with the nice hair had apparently been eaten by animals. It was an awful thought.
“Any communication with the spirit?” Dtui asked.
“It’s all hi-hi-higgledy piggledy,” said Mr. Geung.
“Really? Care to explain that?”
“No.”
“Fair enough. I suppose we should put her back in the freezer, don’t you?”
They were carrying the skeleton on a flattened cardboard box used like a stretcher when Dtui remembered Mr. Geung’s request.
“Would you like to talk about Tukta now?” she asked.
“No.”
“Awful lot of no’s today, Geung.”
“I . . . I’m higgledy piggledy too,” he said and that was the end of it.
“Animals?” said Chief Inspector Phosy. “What type of animals?”
“Small ones I’d guess,” said Dtui.
It was supper time and the smell of instant noodles stalked the police dormitory corridor like an unpopular cousin. With the markets almost empty and salaries unpaid for three months, the officers in Dormitory 3 and their families had to live on non-perishable stock and vegetables they grew themselves. Those with nets caught fish. Those with slingshots knocked shrews from the trees. Poor people off in the countryside ate better than city dwellers.
“You mean like mice?” said Phosy.
“No, bigger,” said Dtui. “Perhaps cats.”
“Our victim was eaten by cats?”
“Something about that size, yes.”
“We don’t see a lot of cat packs roaming the streets of the capital,” said Phosy.
“I know. It’s odd. I went to take a look at the base of the monument. I’m sure she wasn’t attacked there. The crime scene would have been a bloodbath.”
Malee was already asleep inside and her parents sat outside the window of their room in a small vegetable garden. It was cooler there. They burned lemon eucalyptus oil to keep off the late-evening mosquitoes. The sky was an inky ocean speckled with stars.
“What I can’t understand is why anyone would bother to transport the body,” said Dtui.
“I’m assuming it was to draw attention away from the actual location,” said Phosy.
“But they clearly wanted it to be found,” said Dtui.
“And that’s another mystery,” said her husband. “There is no end of places to dump a body. If they had just wanted to get rid of it, they could have buried it out in the jungle somewhere. They could have cremated it in the kiln at some deserted temple.”
“They could have put it on a chair after a Party seminar,” came a voice.
They looked up to see Siri standing inside their room looking out through the window.
“And we’d all assume she’d died of boredom,” he continued.
“Who let you in?” asked Phosy.
“Security is virtually non-existent here,” said Siri.
“Evening, doc,” said Dtui.
At that point, Ugly arrived through the thick grass that surrounded the allotment. He’d follow his master anywhere as long as it was outside. For some reason, he was petrified of buildings. He accepted a single head pat from Dtui and lay beneath the window. Siri sat on the sill.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your nose out of this one,” said Phosy.
“Just curious,” said Siri.
Dtui gave him a summary of her findings and suspicions from the autopsy, and Phosy added the loose ends he’d been unable to tie thus far. Nobody had reported a missing friend or relative in Vientiane. It would be a few weeks before he’d receive any such reports from the provinces.
“My estimate is that she’s been dead for less than a week,” said Dtui. “Probably three or four days.”
“And in that time I’ve had no reports of wild animal packs roaming the city,” said Phosy.
“I have to admit I do enjoy a mystery,” said Siri.
“Good, then you can help us solve it,” said Phosy.
“No need,” said Siri. “The most competent couple in the county is already on the case.”
He climbed down from the window sill and started off through the vegetable garden with Ugly at his heel. But then he stopped suddenly and the dog walked into him. His eyes weren’t so good.
“There is one thing,” said the doctor.
“What?” Phosy asked.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve considered this already, but the patrols said they didn’t see anything out of place after the curfew.”
“That’s right.”
“Then we’d probably be looking for something that wasn’t out of place.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dtui.
“Unless the skeleton was delivered on foot, which is unlikely, there had to be a vehicle of some kind. We have so few cars on the roads anything that wasn’t supposed to be there would have stood out like a goiter. But you said the earlier patrol saw nothing when they circled the arch.”
“The boys doing the patrols aren’t always totally reliable,” said Phosy. “But whoever put the skeleton there found the only functioning light bulb. The patrols couldn’t possibly have missed it.”
“Assuming they actually did the patrol as they were supposed to,” said Siri.
“They have control boxes all through the route,” said Phosy. “They have to log in at ten locations. They merely drop a printed card with their names on it into a slit in the top of a box. They’re encouraged not to go from one to ten in order. That way nobody knows where they’ll be at what time. I checked. They logged in at all ten boxes. One of those boxes is opposite the arch. One unit passed there at three-fifteen. They did the rounds they were supposed to. A different unit found the body.”
“Then the body was delivered sometime between three-fifteen and four,” said Siri. “The driver of the delivery vehicle couldn’t possibly have known exactly what time the patrol would pass the arch. So, there was a strong possibility he would have been spotted. But he didn’t care. That can only mean one of two things. Either he was extremely daring . . .”
“Or he was in a vehicle the guards expected to see,” said Phosy.
“And as private cars are not permitted on the streets after curfew, our delivery man had to be in a government or military vehicle,” said Dtui.
“Or, on special occasions, an embassy vehicle,” said Phosy. “We also have a dozen assorted cars, old trucks and jeeps in our car park at police HQ. I have a man watching them overnight. I didn’t assign anyone a vehicle that night.”
“Are the patrol units required to record any government vehicles they see on their route?” Siri asked.
“No,” said Phosy. “They’re just there to scare people back into their beds.”
“Then I think a meeting is called for to test their memories of the night of the skeleton,” said Siri.
“It’s astonishing,” said Civilai.
“Thank you,” said Siri.
“I mean I’d never have known you had it in you. I wasn’t even aware you could write. In all these years, I can’t say I’ve ever seen you put a pen on paper before. Thought you were illiterate. Yet here you are with a grammatically correct, well-spelled rather splendid work of literature.”
Siri and Civilai were sitting on a log on the bank of the river in front of Daeng’s shop. They were eating baguettes and drinking pomegranate juice and Siri had been forced to keep his mouth shut for two hours while Civilai read the screenplay.
“Did you copy it from someone?” Civilai asked.
“Copy it?” said Siri, offended. “How
many other Lao do you know with the ability to put together a full-length screenplay?”
“It’s truly wonderful,” Civilai gushed on. “And what a storyline. Two visionaries, not unlike our young selves set off in search of truth and enlightenment. We . . . I mean, they travel the world, get an education, meet brother Ho Chi Minh in Paris, become Communists and come home to their beloved country to drive out the usurpers and help establish a republic that is fair and prosperous.”
“Plus sex and a little violence,” Siri added.
“Unavoidable,” said Civilai. “If only we could get Ratanaporn Intarakamhaeng to play the part of Madame Daeng.”
“Civilai, there is no Madame Daeng in this movie. And, even if there was we won’t be bringing in a Thai movie star to play the part.”
“But the brassy young girl freedom fighter who selflessly gives her all for the revolution?”
“The character’s name is Saylee.”
“I know that, but of course she’s based on Daeng. We’re all in it. You can’t deny that. You’ve compressed our lives into one hundred and twenty minutes and resisted the Hollywood urge to give it a happy ending.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I killed you,” said Siri.
“I deserved it,” said Civilai. “And I’d sooner go on the silver screen than in a government nursing hospice. Just think how many lovely young girls will be crying into their handkerchiefs as they watch me take my last breath. My character’s amazing. All the characters are.”
“You don’t think the not Dr. Siri character is a little too—I don’t know—too Kung Fu?”
“Oh, Siri. It’s 1980. Cinema goers expect a bit of violence. There are no limits. We can do what we want. But . . .”
“But what?”
“There is one issue we might have a little problem with.”
“What’s that?” Siri asked.
“Well, is there any way we can shoot the entire movie inside?”
“Inside what?”
“Inside—the opposite of outside.”
“Civilai, this is thirty years of revolution we’re talking about. Famous land battles. French invasions. American bombing. And how can we make a Lao movie without footage of the Plain of Jars, of That Luang monument, of the caves of Houaphan? We don’t even have a studio. Should we make our entire movie in a bathroom? The water trough doubling as the mighty Mekhong? Little paper boats in a Thai armada?”
Don't Eat Me Page 3
