Curse of the Pogo Stick (3 page)

“Someone who doesn’t like coroners,” Dtui guessed. “Or, more specifically, someone who isn’t fond of Dr Siri. I’d guess they didn’t know he’d be off partying in the north.”

The soldier pushed past Geung and stepped up to the table. “If she’s right, your nurse here might just have saved our lives.”

“
If
she’s right,” said Suk with one eye on the AK-47. “It sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”

“There’s something else,” Dtui continued. The captain’s uniform jacket was hung over the back of a chair She held it up and poked her finger through a small hole in the back. “Do you know any officers in peacetime who’d knowingly wear a jacket with a bullet hole in the back? There isn’t a corresponding hole in our corpse so I know it isn’t his.”

“You’re right,” said the soldier. “No commanding officer would let him walk around with a hole in his jacket. He might not even be military at all. Someone could have dressed up this body in an old army uniform.”

“Why?” Suk asked.

“Because they knew there wouldn’t be an autopsy otherwise,” Dtui supposed. “But if the corpse is a dead soldier, they knew we’d insist on one. What do you say, Doctor?”

Mot shook his head in bewilderment.

“I’d say nurses have come a long way since I went off to the Eastern Bloc.”

“We still can’t be certain,” Suk said. “We have to confirm this booby-trap theory or we’ll all look like fools. Look, can’t you get this idiot to put down his weapon?”

“It’s just a decoration, Director,” the soldier said. “No moving parts, I’d bet.”

“Well spotted,” Dtui laughed. “It was a prop in the Red Ballet. They came to give us a show last month and left it behind. Our Mr Geung wouldn’t have dared pick it up if it was real. He doesn’t have a violent bone in his body, do you, love?”

Geung smiled his gap-toothed grin and offered the stage prop to the director, who waved it away angrily.

“As for the bomb theory,” she continued. “We can’t be certain how sensitive it is. I suggest we carefully put him back in the freezer and ice him again. Once he’s good and hard we could pop him over to the X-ray Department and see what we’re dealing with.”

“Excellent idea,” said the soldier. “And in the meantime I’ll get in touch with our bomb-disposal people and have them standing by just in case. Very well done, lass. Very well done.”

It was almost midnight before everything was sorted out. It transpired that Dtui’s hunch had been spot-on. There was nothing subtle about the device in the captain’s stomach cavity. It consisted of a spring steel hacksaw blade bent around and fastened with fishing line like a very taut bow. Halfway down the bow was a hand grenade whose pin was attached by a second wire to the opposite side of the blade. The entire stomach sack had been removed, presumably to prevent leaking stomach acid from dissolving the wire prematurely. The device was placed in such a way as to leave the tips of the bow pressed against the abdomen wall. A normal Y incision as performed by even the most incompetent of coroners would have sliced through the fishing line. The bow would have sprung apart, thus removing both the pin from the grenade and the presiding pathologist from life on earth. Dr Mot, Director Suk, Geung, and the unnamed soldier undoubtedly owed Dtui their lives.

Madame Daeng could only laugh when she discovered they’d been taking tea beside a booby-trapped corpse. Her reaction surprised Dtui no more than the old lady suggesting they warm up the body together in the first place. She’d been a resistance fighter, a saboteur, probably an assassin. What was one little bomb in one more dead body to Madame Daeng? Now troubled by arthritis and forced to wear glasses to read, she described herself as ‘just another old biddy’.

But there was no missing the spark in her eye or the fire on her tongue. No white cotton-wool perm for her. She wore her hair short and wild. Had there been an ocean and a navy to sail it in Laos, she’d have outdrunk every man. And she knew stories that would make a monk’s toenails fall out.

Dtui had liked Daeng from the moment she’d laid eyes on her and, given their admiration for the same man, it was inevitable they’d end up best friends. Unlike most Lao, Dtui wasn’t one to respect the elderly per se, but she found herself deferring to the old lady. It was Saturday and the lunchtime rush had subsided. They sat at a table at the front of the shop eating boiled peanuts and watching the herons surf the breezes above the Mekhong. It occurred to those who took in the view with a cynical eye that the far bank was getting farther away. In the two years since the communists had taken over Laos, the river had become a sea, their tiny country, an island. In the first year people had abandoned her for fear of political persecution. Now they were taking their chances crossing the river because they couldn’t feed their children.
Pasason Lao
newspaper that week had rather smugly announced that the per capita income had soared to ninety American dollars per annum. It didn’t mention that one in four children didn’t make it to the age of five. The people across the border in the refugee camps ate better. Dtui had briefly tasted that freedom but she was Lao down to her roots and for better or worse – mostly worse – she loved her country.

Like notes on a bar of music, a flock of birds had come to perch on the telegraph wires opposite. Daeng had been attempting to hum the tune they wrote. She gave up and looked at her friend.

“Is anybody investigating it?” she asked.

“As much as they’re able. Half the Vientiane police force is up in Xiang Khouang protecting the delegates at the conference.”

“Including your adorable husband.”

“They might have to bring Phosy back. It was an assassination attempt against government employees. That’s right up his alley. The army doesn’t want to have anything to do with the story any more. Once they realized the corpse wasn’t military they pulled out. It’s a civil case now and the regular witless wonders of the constabulary are on it. Some teenager in his big brother’s uniform came to interview us this morning. He had me fill out a crime questionnaire. I wasn’t supposed to talk about anything that wasn’t mentioned on the form. Can you believe it?”

Daeng swept the empty peanut shells into a hill on the tabletop.

“So, in reality, until Phosy gets back there is nobody investigating.”

“Right.”

“Then I don’t suppose anyone would object…”

“…if we asked a few questions of our own? Shouldn’t think so. Where do you think we should start?”

“I suggest we make a list of people who might want to see Siri dead. Anyone he’s antagonized recently.”

“A list like that would include half of the politburo, but I doubt they’d go so far as to blow him up. Although I’m not so certain about his boss, Judge Haeng.”

A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH

“D
o you really think it was necessary to yell it out at the top of your voice, Siri?”

Judge Haeng, head of the Justice Department and perennial thorn in Dr Siri’s backside, had the old surgeon cornered.

“I could hardly imagine my voice would carry all the way to the platform, considering it was an open-air meeting hall.” Siri smiled serenely.

“Well, it did. And I could see the angry expression on the chairman’s face quite clearly. You sometimes forget you represent the Justice Ministry at these events.”

“Really? I thought that was your job.”

Haeng clenched his fists. Although he would have preferred it otherwise, he was the coroner’s superior. He was a young man with a boyish, pimply face and an iffy Soviet education. Upon his return from the Eastern Bloc, despite his lack of experience, character, and personality, the Justice staff had kowtowed and given him the impression he was worthy of the position. Only one, Dr Siri Paiboun, had stood up for himself. Their run-ins had been frequent and the score in terms of victories overwhelmingly favoured the doctor. The Justice Department had needed a coroner, and Siri, despite his indifference to the position, was the nearest to one the country had. It was a Lao-Mexican standoff. Haeng couldn’t fire Siri and they both knew it. But in its own ironic way, the conflict had become one of the perks of the job for Siri.

“You know what I mean, Dr Siri,” Haeng said. “A disobedient child in school reflects poorly on the upbringing by his father.”

Siri chuckled at the inappropriateness of the analogy making Haeng even angrier.

“And what would you have me do?” Siri inquired. “Leave the poor chap there secreting his final bodily fluids all over the seat?”

“Surely…surely you could have been more discreet?”

“You mean whispered for the people in his row to pass the body down to the end?”

“Just think in future, won’t you? Of course we’ll need an autopsy.”

“An autopsy? He died of boredom. You won’t find traces of that anywhere on the dissecting table.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A long-term Party member dies mysteriously at a national conference. It’s our duty. The politburo would expect nothing less. My decision’s final.”

“Ah, so it’s a show. Should we sell tickets?”

“It is not a show. It’s a decent, responsible socialist act. His family will be grateful.”

“They’ll die of embarrassment when they find out.”

But Haeng was no longer listening.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Siri’s big bushy eyebrows rose like synchronized caterpillars to the top of his forehead. “We won’t be flying back to Vientiane on Monday.”

“Why not?”

“The prime minister wants the Justice Department to show its confidence in security measures in Xiang Khouang. The province has a history of unrest and we need to let them know we support their efforts to keep down the scattered resistance. The PM has suggested we drive to Luang Prabang.”

“Oh, good God.”

“I suppose you have a problem with that also?”

“Why me? I’m a coroner. What confidence will that instill?”

“I admit I didn’t want you along, but I think today’s little exhibition booked you a place. I imagine the senior members believe it would…”

“Teach me a lesson.”

“You bring it upon yourself.”

“But driving? I hope they’ll give us enough sticky rice and raw fish to last us a month.”

“I’m assured the road has been cleared and the bridges repaired all the way through. It’s the dry season, Siri. We could be in Luang Prabang in a day or two.”

“And the president’s wife might grow a penis on her chin.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“I hope we’re going in a tank. Unless it’s been rerouted, that road passes directly through enemy-controlled territory. Aren’t you afraid of getting shot?”

Although the judge paled, he managed to keep his chest out in front of him.

“Where have you been, Siri? Don’t you read the
Khaosan
newsletters? There is no enemy. He’s been vanquished. All we have now are one or two Hmong rebel gangs hiding in the jungle. Even so, we’ll be travelling with crack People’s Liberation Army commandos. It’ll be safer than crossing Ian Xang Avenue. Don’t be afraid, old fellow.”

Siri wasn’t afraid. He was devastated. He knew the road was awful. Even in a tank they wouldn’t arrive in under a week. And, as for vanquishing the enemy, that was far easier in an editorial in
Khaosan
than in real life.

The Hmong had first migrated to Laos from China almost two centuries before. They were a people forced through their swidden – slash and burn farming – lifestyle to move on every five to ten years when the fields became unproductive. Originally, land had been plentiful and this was no problem. But soon, with overcrowding on the plains, they were forced to higher and higher ground. They were a race with no nation, no large cities, and few ambitions beyond family and home. They lived according to tradition with the elders teaching everything technical, moral, and spiritual to the young. But history constantly found them in the wrong place at the wrong time. Opium cultivation had been imposed on them by the Chinese and French administrators, then they were taxed for producing it. When they supplied to the wrong side, they were hounded off the land. They found themselves in a system they’d had no desire to enter, constantly having to fight for their independence. When they fought it was not out of conviction but for their own survival. In Laos, interclan rivalry was exploited at the time of the Japanese occupation. One clan collaborated with the Japanese, the other with the French. This split became even more pronounced after the war, with one side forming an alliance with the communists in the north and the other with the Americans. There was very little option of non-alignment. The Lao Hmong lived in a land that had forever been somebody’s battleground. Diverse groups who had no interest in politics were forced by their clan name to favour one side or the other. Clans found themselves pulled into the fray by recruiters. Once again, the Hmong had become somebody’s enemy – a title their culture abhorred and, given their history of abuse, one they hardly deserved.

Once rallied, the Hmong were fierce fighters and all those who battled alongside or against them vouched for their valour. It wasn’t until 1973 that a cease fire was called in the protracted civil war but the suffering hadn’t stopped for the hill tribes. In 1975, the so-called thirty-year Hmong who had sided with the Pathet Lao were somehow forgotten when the communists took control of the country. There were token positions and ranks allocated, but the majority were either sent back to grow opium, or, worse still, relocated to the plains, where they succumbed to diseases unknown in the mountains.

The Hmong who fought with the CIA under General Vang Pao were also forgotten by their allies. The Americans could retreat to the land of the free and the brave, but the Hmong had nowhere to go. They were the enemy in their own land. They weren’t extended the luxury of being ignored or relocated. They were hunted. They fled, of course, some to the camps in Thailand, other old soldiers to the mountains around Phu Bia, where they formed the
armee clandestine
in a hopeless resistance against the PL. Others still formed bandit gangs and vented their frustration on their own kind. Once again, war had divided a culture, split families, and left only shells of the proud men and women who had fought and lived to tell the tale.