I Shot the Buddha

by Colin Cotterill

  “You’re a Sawan lad. A child of the sages. These are your people.”

  “Grandfather, I think you’ve done enough amateur detective work, don’t you?” He turned away from Siri’s satisfied smile and addressed the abbot. “The constable and me came on two motorcycles. Do you want the boy to go back to bring a van, or . . . ?”

  “I’m fine on the back of a motorcycle,” said the abbot.

  “I thought so,” said the captain. “I don’t suppose you have much in the way of belongings?”

  The abbot held up his small saffron shoulder bag.

  “When will the judge hear the abbot’s case?” asked the Sangharaj.

  “Well, sir, it’s not exactly something you could set a clock to,” said the captain. “We’re on what they call the judicial circuit. Prosecutor Suthon is here once a month. When he’s in town he gets through as many cases as he can in three days. He got here yesterday. Now, the more serious the case, the higher the priority. He’ll be expecting to pass down a verdict on last month’s murder. He won’t be prepared at all for what happened last night. I’ll have to type up the report of my findings here and that takes time. I don’t know if he’ll want to make a judgment without looking at the new evidence. So I’m guessing he’ll not say a lot today.”

  “The abbot doesn’t have the right to have witnesses speak on his behalf?” asked Siri.

  “Usually not,” said the captain. “All that stuff will be in my report.”

  “Doesn’t that make you the judge?” said Siri.

  “I don’t write down opinions, Grandfather. I just make a note of what I see and what people tell me.”

  “That’s what most of the newspapers in the world claim to be doing, but you’d be surprised how slanted the finished text turns out.”

  “Yeah, and you’d really know something about the world’s newspapers.”

  “A bit.”

  “Nobody’s ever questioned my reports,” said the policeman. “I spend a lot of time getting them accurate.”

  His defensiveness was turning to annoyance, his tolerance taut as a piano wire. But still Siri pushed. “And meanwhile the accused rots away in a cell for a month waiting for the next judicial visit,” he said.

  The Sangharaj cut in like a boxing referee. “I too am concerned with the amount of time the abbot will have to wait before the next hearing.”

  “That’s the system,” said the captain. “We have cases ongoing for four or five years. We have witnesses and suspects die of old age before they hear a judgment.”

  “Isn’t there any way to expedite the process?” asked the Sangharaj.

  “In this country I’m sure money would speed things up,” said Siri in the background.

  Gumron ignored him. “Only one that I know,” he said.

  “And what would that be?” asked the Sangharaj.

  “Publicity,” said the captain. “If for some reason the press picks up on a story, especially if some celebrity’s involved, and the TV people hop on board and the public weighs in on the side of the accused, then you’d be amazed how a case can speed up. Pressure from Bangkok to be seen doing its job. Good exposure overseas. But, then again it could all be over today.”

  “How so?” said Siri.

  “Well, the judge has had time to go over the reports of the first three incidents. After the first two he said there wasn’t enough evidence. But since then we had another murder, and now this. He might just recommend the death penalty this very day, and your abbot will be shipped off to Udon.”

  Siri looked at Abbot Rayron, whose expression hadn’t changed since the doctor arrived. There had been no delight, no shock, no horror registered there. The doctor couldn’t tell whether it was the look of enlightenment or resignation.

  “And this all based on a couple of informal chats with villagers and scribbled notes and circumstantial evidence,” said Siri. “No cross-examination. No research. No appeal. And I thought our system at home was barbaric.”

  The policeman had reached his limit. “Listen, you hick, Commie senior citizen, we do what we can on a low budget. We’re swamped out here. It wasn’t that long ago that all these cases were settled by village headmen with vested interests. You upset some old idiot today, and you find yourself in his court tomorrow. We’ve come a long way since then. You get your own house in order before you start throwing rocks at ours.”

  •••

  Madam Nong had traveled back to Vientiane with the driver. Civilai was at the council office at exactly opening time. The officials of the district council office arrived between twenty and forty minutes later. Civilai continued to sit on a concrete bench in the garden where brown vines strangled the few surviving flowers and the grass was too high to walk through. Nobody asked him who he was or what he wanted. He noted how Communist bureaucracies constantly shifting cadres had created an impersonal, non-caring system.

  He wasn’t absolutely sure what he was doing there. Perhaps it was just that there had been nobody to complain to in the village, and the desire to vent one’s frustrations could be a powerful thing. But there was something else. He’d felt ill at ease in Ban Toop. It wasn’t a normal Lao village. He hoped that the government administrators could explain what was going on there.

  At last he walked inside, where a greasy-faced girl was filing. “Where’s your director?” he asked.

  “Just sit down, Granddad,” she said. “We’ll get to you.”

  “I don’t want to be got to,” he said. “I want to speak to your director.”

  She sighed as if she’d had her fill of grumpy old people. Then she ignored him. She just carried on with her filing as if he didn’t exist. Civilai hated being ignored almost as much as he hated the Chinese. He walked up behind her.

  “What’s in those files?” he asked.

  “Oh, just sit down,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of your cabinet drawers was labeled something like . . . ooh, I don’t know. Politburo? Am I right?”

  She disregarded him, but she was clearly feeling uncomfortable. He walked along the bank of cabinets calling out the labels alphabetically until he reached the drawer he’d been looking for. He’d pulled it open and thumbed through the files before she could react. As he expected, the photographs of politburo members who had been retired from both the cabinet and the frames on the wall had been placed in the drawer. There was an expanding number of pictures of those who had passed away. He found the photo of himself just as the girl reached him. She made a lunge for it but his backward step was too quick for her.

  “Well, look at this,” he said. “I wonder who this vibrant young character is. He was a little thinner back then before the kitchen gods possessed him, but I think he’s filled out quite nicely now, don’t you?”

  She looked at the photo, looked at the man who held it, then looked at the photo again. And her legs seemed to give way beneath her.

  8

  A Living Skeleton in the Closet

  Civilai stood in the office of Comrade Luangrat, director of the local council, having refused water, juice, Coca-Cola, tea, coffee, snacks, cigarettes and “something a little stronger.” He refused to sit as he listed the failings of the office. It was then that he added the debacle of his own official visit to the region and the absence of pomp and ceremony. The director was not the dynamic type. He looked like an old cinema usher who’d spent his life in the dark showing people to their seats. Even his embarrassment was subdued.

  “We got the notification from Vientiane,” he said.

  “And threw it in the bin?”

  “No, comrade,” he said. “Naturally we informed the headman at Ban Toop. He insisted on making the arrangements for your visit himself.”

  “But it’s the responsibility of you and your office to follow up on that. At the very least you should have been there to greet my wi
fe and me. That’s protocol.”

  “I know,” said the director, timidly.

  “So why weren’t you?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a little difficult to explain.”

  “Good. I have until my heart finally gives out to hear that difficult explanation.”

  Civilai sat behind the desk. The director was silent for the longest time.

  “Well?” barked Civilai.

  “The headman at Ban Toop is a very well-respected and powerful man.”

  “More respected and powerful than your office? More powerful than the administration you represent?”

  “At the local level, I suppose one could say yes.”

  “You’re afraid of him.”

  “Goodness, no. But my role here is to maintain cordial and productive relations with village communities that have been established for generations.”

  “Did he tell you not to send anyone to meet me?”

  “Not in those words.”

  “Then, give me the words.”

  “He said they would welcome the esteemed visitor according to the traditions of the village.”

  Which means not welcoming him at all, thought Civilai, but he said nothing. He’d had enough. It was clear he was talking to the wrong man.

  “I need a car,” he said.

  “We . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “We only have the one.”

  “That should be enough.”

  “There’s no driver available.”

  “I’ve been driving since 1921. I think I remember how.”

  “But . . .”

  “You really have a ‘but’ after all this?”

  “No.”

  “I assume you have a fax machine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I want you to contact my office in Vientiane. I’ll give you the number. Tell them we have a village that could use a little discipline. You can use your own words. Explain to them what’s happened and tell them to send out a team immediately. I’ll stay until they get here. I’ll come by this office tomorrow to collect the reply.”

  “You won’t . . . I mean, this won’t endanger my position here, will it?”

  “Honestly, Comrade Luangrat,” said Civilai, “I’m surprised you have a position here. Now, where’s my car?”

  •••

  Nurse Dtui and Mr. Geung had been sitting in the reception area of the Ministry of Justice for forty-four minutes. There were only four hours between the lunch and dinner shifts at the noodle restaurant, so time was precious. Manivon, the chief clerk and secretary to Judge Haeng, had apologized every ten of those minutes. Apologizing took up a large chunk of her time most days. Dtui and Manivon had known and liked each other for a long time, so if strings could have been pulled to get Dtui into the judge’s office they would have been. But her boss reminded everybody that these were particularly hectic times. The republic was a week away from formalizing diplomatic relations with Bulgaria. The Thai prime minister had visited, which had entailed setting up a number of impromptu meetings. The Soviet Development Commission had been touring the disastrous cooperative farming projects in the south, and there were moves afoot to recognize a Vietnamese puppet government in Cambodia led by an ex-officer of the Khmer Rouge.

  In fact, Judge Haeng had been involved in none of these political matters but he used them as an excuse to hide out in his office with the blinds closed. Whenever Manivon knocked on his door he would jump out of his skin. He flinched at any loud sound and had stopped eating. Rumors were circulating in the ministry that he’d become an opium addict.

  Dtui tapped Mr. Geung on the knee. “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Go wh-where?” asked Geung.

  “To disturb a rude judge,” she told him.

  “Poor judge,” he said but followed her along the open corridor. If anyone had cause to hate the little judge—and many did—Mr. Geung should have been at the front of the queue. Haeng had gone to great pains to remove Geung from his position of morgue assistant at Mahosot Hospital. He’d called him a freak, said there was no budget to employ morons. Yet even though he understood all of these terms, honest, sweet Mr. Geung hadn’t been able to find hatred in his heart.

  They arrived at the unmarked door and Dtui knocked lightly before barging inside. She was just in time to see the judge drop to the floor behind his desk.

  “Ha, ha. I spy you,” said Geung.

  “Judge Haeng,” said Dtui, “it’s me, Nurse Dtui.”

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  She got on her knees. “Why are you under the desk?” she asked.

  “Paper clip,” he said. “Dropped one.”

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “No.” He banged his head on the underside of the desk when he tried to return to his chair. When he was finally seated he noticed Geung standing in the doorway.

  “What’s that doing here?” he asked.

  “He’s with me,” said Dtui.

  “I can see that,” said the judge, slowly regaining his composure.

  To Dtui, Haeng looked like a roll of moldy flannel.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He was twiddling a pencil between his fingers to disguise his trembles.

  “What gives you the right to inquire about my mind?” he asked.

  “Err, I wasn’t,” she said. “I was asking after your health.”

  “Then don’t,” he said. “I’m perfectly well. Now, I don’t believe you have an appointment.” He looked menacingly at Geung, who waved his fingers in reply.

  “In a way we do,” said Dtui. “The doctor thinks he can help you with your little ghost problem. So he sent us.”

  “Siri?” said the judge. “Where the hell is he? I’ve been sending messages for two days.”

  “The doctor and Madam Daeng had to go . . . away on business.”

  “Damn. And what do you suppose a chubby girl can do for somebody like me?”

  Dtui took one last gulp of her pride. She had promised Siri, after all. She remembered one of her mother’s sayings. When you’re removing a splinter from a bear’s paw, expect a few scratches. Judge Haeng was a hard man to help.

  “Look,” she said. “Everything Dr. Siri knows about you—medically, politically, mentally and morally—I know about you too. The doctor and I have no secrets. So don’t play the tough judge with me. I don’t have to be here. I have noodles to boil and nurses to teach and a daughter to play with.”

  “Me too,” said Geung with a grin.

  “And, in fact, I’d be happier digging up beets in the communal garden than helping you. So either show a little humility, or we’re leaving and you can spend the rest of your life haunted by a dwarf.” She headed for the door.

  “No, wait,” he called.

  Before heading to Comrade Koomki’s apartment, they stopped off at the market for some supplies the doctor had recommended. At first they couldn’t get Haeng to walk through the communal front doorway of the old colonial house.

  “Tell me why we’re here,” he said.

  “We’re following up on a Dr. Siri hypothesis,” Dtui told him. “Do you have the keys?”

  She knew he did because she could hear them rattling in his shaky hand. She took them from him, walked along the corridor to Koomki’s room and opened the door. The apartment smelled of excrement but not death. Dtui considered that a good sign.

  “We might be in time,” she said.

  “What for?” shouted the judge.

  “To prevent a loss of life.”

  “Whose?” asked the judge, slowly edging along the dark corridor toward the room.

  “Let’s see.”

  Dtui went immediately to the wardrobe and unlocked it. The stench from inside was horrendous. She put her hand over her m
outh and nose and looked inside. The contents appeared to have been attacked by a madman with a machete. Clothes were ripped to shreds, the wooden shelves where split and scratched, and there were bloodstains around the lock. She took down a metal coat hanger and used it to poke around in the debris. It was on the bottom shelf beneath the folds of a nylon bedcover that she found it, as good as dead. Its claws were caked in dried blood from its attempts to escape. Some teeth were broken. Hair was shedding in clumps and it was as skinny as a lattice of toothpicks. But it was alive.

  “Not dead yet!” shouted Dtui.

  Haeng came tentatively into the room. “What is it?” he asked.

  “A cat,” said Dtui.

  “A what?”

  “Koomki kept a cat,” said Dtui. “When you came to inspect the apartment, you locked her in the wardrobe.”

  He looked over her shoulder. “Are we too late?” he asked.

  “Might be.”

  Mr. Geung gently lifted the body. She weighed no more than a lightbulb.

  “But that was a month ago,” said the judge. “This is impossible.”

  “You’d think so,” said Dtui. “Defies all logic. But here it is.”

  She opened the bags they’d brought from the market and unwound the rubber band that fastened a plastic pouch of coconut water. Mr. Geung dipped his finger in the liquid and rubbed it over the cat’s lips. There was no reaction. He tried again.

  “Coconut water,” she said. “Lot of nutrients and easy to digest. In a pinch it can be used in place of a saline drip. I’d sooner she took it by mouth though if she’s got the strength.”

  “But how?” said the judge. “How did Siri know it was in there?”

  “Intelligent guess,” she said. “Instinct. A whisper from the beyond. Who knows? But the doctor figured even a man like Koomki needed company, and cats don’t really care about body odor or bad personalities as long as you feed them. Siri put two and two together. Saucer and towel on the floor, animal comics, the sound of crying. And he decided Comrade Koomki wasn’t as tough as he pretended to be. He loved his cat and he couldn’t move on as long as it was suffering.”

  “And that’s why he’s . . . he’s . . .”