The Coroner's Lunch

by Colin Cotterill

  “She’s with an embalmer I know. She’ll make your sister look presentable for your family, and I’ll arrange for the body to be shipped up north.” He started to write down Mrs. Nan’s address, then stopped. “Can you read?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “Okay. I’ll get Nan to come to your shop. When everything’s ready, she’ll find a way to let you know.”

  She took both of his hands in hers, which was the most generous thank-you she could give. She didn’t mention revenge or ask about justice, perhaps because she’d never known any herself. But Siri wanted her to believe in it.

  “I’m going to find the man who killed your sister. I promise you and your family. Can you remember anything about her men that would help me identify them?”

  “I can’t think right now.”

  “I understand. If anything comes to you, you know where I am. But, in the meantime, you aren’t to say a word to anyone about murder. Not anyone.”

  “Don’t worry.” She ripped off more tissue and wiped her face. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful. Really beautiful.”

  She smiled, unconvinced but happier, and walked from the office. Siri collapsed back into his chair. Encounters with the living always drained him more than those with the dead. And women most of all. Give him a dead man over a live woman any day.

  There hadn’t been a day of his marriage that he hadn’t loved Boua. But the last three years of her life had stretched that love to its limit. She’d always been stronger than he in many ways. The few arguments he didn’t lose because he deserved to, he lost because it was wise to do so. As she got older, her fuse got shorter.

  She couldn’t contain her frustration over the tortoise pace of her revolution. It was as if she’d opened the chest where all her girlhood dreams were kept, dreams of a world full of fairness and logic and happiness. And all she found in there were the shriveled remains. Once she started to believe her army had neither the commitment nor the unselfishness to form an administration solely for the people, she changed.

  She didn’t seem to notice it herself, but she began to punish Siri for her disappointments. He never raised his voice to her, or defended himself in public when she belittled him. He was a doctor and she was a woman with an infirmity. There were no drugs to calm her anger, so he had to use the most natural therapy he could find: compassion.

  During her last year, he’d accepted more missions away from their camp. It was a deliberate ploy to spend time apart from her. Perhaps his being near her was a catalyst to her anger. Two days before her killing, he’d gone to Nam Xam to help set up a field hospital. There’d been no exchange of niceties between doctor and wife. There was no kiss goodbye; not even a token “I love you.” He just told her he was going, and she nodded.

  The one person he’d always searched for in his dreams had never come. Boua died believing he didn’t love her. She died hating him. He wanted a chance, just the briefest contact: enough time to put everything right with her. But she didn’t ever come.

  The cicadas drowned out his thoughts, and he used the tissue to dry his own damp face.

  He took his shoulder bag with the Vietnamese file inside, turned out the lights, and locked the door. He said “good evening” to a flock of nurses arriving for their shift, and walked boldly through the gates of the hospital. It wasn’t until he reached the dark riverbank that he remembered how perilous this journey might be.

  He turned around, passed the hospital again, and walked toward home along comparatively bright Samsenthai Avenue. But even here the yellowish lamps turned every doorway into a lurker’s cave. Every person he passed, he watched from the corner of his eye. When he was beyond them, he strained his ears to listen for their footsteps doubling back.

  He reached his block from the opposite direction from the one he was accustomed to, and had to cut through the temple grounds. He could see the monks in their chambers doing their final chores by candlelight. He stood in the shadows of a small champa tree and looked up at his window. It gaped back at him blackly. No movement inside. Or, perhaps? No, just the gentle wave of the curtain in the breeze.

  He didn’t hear the man approach.

  “Something wrong there, brother?”

  Siri jumped out of his skin. The silent monk had sneaked up behind him, with his rake poised to defend himself. Siri caught his breath and smiled at his own foolishness.

  “No. Just enjoying the peace. That’s my room up there.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Good night.” He walked off.

  “Good night, Yeh Ming.”

  Siri turned, but the monk was already on his way back across the yard.

  It took Siri half an hour to attach the hasps with his old tools. The little girl from downstairs came up to watch him, and to escape bed. She was six, and precocious in the nicest sense of the word.

  “But why?”

  He didn’t want to frighten her with tales of burglars, so he ventured off into the type of epic lie that always comes back to catch you.

  “Because I’m very handsome.” He told her he was bolting the door because so many women wanted to marry him, they disturbed him day and night.

  “No you aren’t. You’re old.”

  “Aha. To somebody who’s six, I may look old; but to an older lady, somebody over ten, for example, I’m terribly handsome.”

  “Manoly?” The mother had noticed she’d lost this one.

  “Shh. Don’t tell.”

  “She’s up here, Mrs. Som.”

  “Ooh, you meanie. I wouldn’t marry you.”

  Once he was locked in his room and the desk was against the wall, away from the open window, he felt secure. Not safe, exactly, but secure. He washed his hands and face at the basin, and started to make coffee. There was a new package of beans, unopened on the shelf. The padlock hadn’t come a moment too soon. Miss Vong was slowly moving herself in.

  He pulled the Vietnamese report from its temporary hiding place under the floorboards and sat at the desk. Nguyen Hong’s handwriting was neat, but Siri still needed to refer to his Vietnamese dictionary a few dozen times. There wasn’t really anything new in the report. Like the earlier Tran, Hok had been tortured with the same electric current applied to the nipples and genitalia.

  But it was in his personal notes at the end that the Vietnamese turned Siri’s thinking around completely.

  “Just from my observation, it appears that the current used is somewhat excessive for the purpose of torture. The men would likely have become unconscious before they could offer up any secrets, which seems to defeat the object. It could very well have been enough to kill them. This applies to the other two, also.

  “In two of the victims, our Tran and Hok, there seems to be little positive vital reaction. Odd as this may seem, the suggestion is that the electricity may have been applied post-mortem. But at the moment, this is completely conjecture on my part.”

  “Post-mortem?” Siri drained the last of his coffee and went to make another. He knew that “vital reaction” was a reddening of the skin beyond the burn marks where the body begins to repair the damage. If there were none, the body hadn’t been doing its job. “Post-mortem, eh? If that were the case, it would lead us completely away from the idea of the Lao torturing Vietnamese, and more into the realm of someone setting it up to look as if we had done so. Now, if we could only prove that, somebody’s hard work would be completely wasted. I can see that being reason enough to kill me.”

  He returned to the desk, ducking low as he passed the window. He missed the natural breeze that skimmed off the jasmine bushes, but he would have missed his life more. He read the final paragraph.

  “I think I may have identified a cause of death. (See photo A.) It was so well concealed, we needn’t be ashamed we missed it earlier. But it isn’t something I can confirm without more research. I have to leave with the embassy entourage tomorrow. I’ll try to get transport down to Ho Chi Minh city as soon as I can. I may f
ind my answer down there. I’ll try to call you at the hospital when I get back. Have faith, my friend.”

  There was a Polaroid snapshot stapled to the back of the file. It was a groin shot of the second Tran. The epidermis around the inner thigh had been peeled back. Apart from the charring from electricity, there appeared to be a very distinct circular bruise about the size of an American dime. Nguyen Hong had marked it with an “A.” On the back, he had written: “Once we confirmed all three bodies were ours, your people released them to us. This instant photo is the best I can do to show you what I mean. I couldn’t find your autopsy photos. Check them and you should see they all have the same mark. Could be important.”

  Siri laughed to himself. Perhaps he could phone Sister Bounlan’s granny and ask her if she had noticed anything odd in the wedding photos. Although there wasn’t yet anything that could be called evidence in the report, there was a speck of hope. It might slow down the warmongers on either side who hadn’t had enough of killing.

  He took out a pad of paper and a pencil and began to draw up an alternative scenario based on conjecture and half-truths. Two hours later, he’d convinced himself that he was on the right track. There were still several gaps in logic that he needed to fill in before he could show it to anyone. But the sooner he shared, the less likely he was to be shot. He needed a little help. If they weren’t busy, he wouldn’t mind a visit from Tran, Tran, and Hok in his dreams that night.

  Succubus Terminal

  The Vietnamese couldn’t make it, but Siri certainly wasn’t left alone. Before going to sleep, he lay back on his thin mattress and took the white amulet from its pouch. He looked at the worn characters that had been rubbed for luck so many times, he wondered if there could be any left in it.

  He wondered how the monk here at his local temple could know who he was. He wondered whether the Phibob had forgiven him, or given him a thought since Khamuan. And with all that wonder in his mind, he fell asleep.

  It could have been minutes later, possibly hours, when he opened his eyes to see the oil lamp still burning beside him. He was annoyed that he hadn’t put it out. Lamp oil was still available on coupons at the hospital co-op, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon he’d have to use cooking oil and stink the place up.

  He pulled back the mosquito net and lifted the glass bowl. But before he blew out the light, he had an odd feeling that his room was different. He looked slowly from wall to wall. He knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He puffed at the little flame and the room fell into moonless blackness.

  He looked around at the darkness one more time, then retreated under the mesh tent. He lay his head on the small pillow. Still the feeling lingered. Then suddenly it came to him. It wasn’t a difference you could see; it was a smell. The scent of cheap perfume pervaded his room, and was becoming more potent.

  The moon fought free of its cloud for a second and sent a glow through the window. At the very same moment, a tiny sigh like the breath of some small animal puffed past his left ear. He turned his head in surprise and, to his amazement, there was the sleeping face of Mai beside his own.

  He retreated as far as the mesh allowed and held his breath. She lay breathing almost silently as she slept, a smile on her young face. Her perfect naked body stretched downward on the mattress beside him. Before the moonlight left them again, he noticed the deep slits at her wrists, the blood congealed and glinting red.

  Then it was black again. He focussed on her breathing. Not seeing her, but knowing she lay there, was even more erotic. He knew how inappropriate his feelings were, and wondered if this were penance for his immoral thoughts earlier in the day.

  He had no idea what to do. Should he wake her? What was she doing sleeping here? If she’d come to him, presumably she had something to say. So why didn’t she say it? Perhaps the journey had tired her out. So he lay, shuddering with agitation, while she slept in peace.

  Perhaps this was the message. Was she telling him she could be at peace now? Did she want to thank him for…?

  There was a knock at the door, a tap as if someone were trying not to wake the neighbors. Siri jumped, like an unfaithful husband caught in the embrace of his naked lover, his naked, dead lover. He cursed whoever it was. All the ridiculous thoughts of half-sleep ran through his head as he prepared to answer the door: how could he hide her? what excuses could he give?

  Then a man’s voice, a whispered shout, called out: “Mai, Mai, it’s me.”

  Damn. This was part of it. It was all part of the show. Psychics, he decided, would never have need of other entertainment. She stirred beside him. Her perfume floated over him when she moved. Then he heard her drowsy voice.

  “I’m sleeping. What time is it?”

  “Three. I just got back.”

  She sighed again, this time with pleasure. “Go away.”

  Siri lay back spellbound, like an audience listening to a radio melodrama.

  “Nah, don’t be like that. I’ve got something for you.”

  Siri heard her pull back the net and pad barefoot across the floor toward the door. “Does it have four wheels?” she giggled.

  “Better than that. Don’t be cruel. Let me in. I’m dying for you.”

  “What could be better than a car?”

  “Didn’t you ask me to bring you something from Viengsai?”

  She squealed. “Rubies? You didn’t! Did you bring me rubies?”

  There was the sound of a latch hurriedly shifting. As the door opened, a dim light bathed her. She stood naked in the doorway, magnificently unashamed. The suitor remained hidden in the hall. She giggled again and reached out to him. But the strong left hand of a man grasped her wrist and yanked her outside. The door closed behind her, and darkness returned.

  Siri, still breathing heavily, still shaking, scrambled from his bed and hurried to the door. He could hear the muffled sound of a woman choking beyond it. He found the handle and pulled it, but the door wouldn’t open. It was held fast by a large steel padlock.

  At six, Siri woke confused. He lay still for some time before a crustiness at his groin brought all the memories of the night back to him. Slightly ashamed, he went down to the bathroom and sluiced himself with cool water. It was fifty-six years since such a thing had last happened to him, and he didn’t feel any less guilty this time.

  Death by Intercourse

  “Good morning, Siri.” Professor Mon was the director of the Lycée Vientiane. He was also Teacher Oum’s father. He was standing uneasily in the vestibule. He didn’t want to go into the morgue examination room, so Siri came out to meet him.

  “Mon, how are you doing?” They shook hands.

  “Fairly well, I suppose. I have a letter here addressed to you and Oum.” He handed a grey envelope to Siri. The stamp was from the U.S.S.R. “I think it’s about the chemicals you asked for.”

  “It’s unopened.”

  “There’s no one to open it.”

  “Oum?”

  “You obviously haven’t heard. They picked her up just after you left. They took her for re-education up in Viengsai.”

  “Teacher Oum? What the hell for?”

  “They said she’d picked up some radical ideas in Australia. They said her attitude was detrimental to the struggle against individualist thinking.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What about the baby?”

  “Her mother and I.”

  “Look, Mon. This is absurd. I’ll talk to some people. I mean, she’s virtually my assistant. She’s the only chemist I’ve got access to. I’m sure for that reason alone….”

  “If you could. We are quite anxious.”

  “Don’t worry, friend. We’ll get her back.”

  When Mon had left, Siri stood in the vestibule fitting one more piece into his scenario jigsaw. Not a coincidence, this. Not at all. It was so frustrating not being able to contact Nguyen Hong.

  An unfortunate old gentleman chose that morning to pass away in the hospital operating room, and was s
ent to the morgue for an immediate autopsy. Siri was asked to confirm that there’d been no malpractice. It was ten, and he had to meet Civilai at twelve. He didn’t like to leave a job in the middle, but this job was going to take a long time. So they made preliminary notes and put the body in the freezer until after lunch. Suk, the director, was furious, but Siri didn’t care much.

  He was seated on the log by the river some ten minutes before Civilai arrived.

  “Where’s our other member?” Civilai asked.

  “I think he must have drowned the other day.”

  “Or the fascists got him. I bet they can’t make him talk. Can you believe those Thai tin soldiers? They take over the country by force, then issue a statement that we’re an unlawful governing power. What balls they have!”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Oh, sit down, Civilai. Relax. How are you, Civilai?” his brother prompted.

  “Civilai.”

  “All right. I suppose your life is in danger,” Civilai conceded. “You’d be proud of me. I’ve been a good spy. But I’ve had to share this with a few people to get the information.”

  “That’s not a problem. I think it’s time to share what we’ve got with everyone you trust. The more people who know…”

  “…the less likely you are to get your brain splattered all over your front door.”

  “They’ve sent Teacher Oum to Viengsai.”

  “The chemist girl? H’mm.”

  “Somebody’s covering up.”

  “I’ll see if I can find out who gave that order.”

  Siri pulled four sheets of paper from his pocket and unfolded them. Neither man had thought about eating his lunch. “I’ve been putting all the bits and pieces together. I’ve come up with a hypothesis.”

  Civilai looked at the untidy notes. “Brother, I’d have to be an Egyptologist to understand that garbled mess. Let’s start off with what I’ve found out and see how it fits your theory.