Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett Page B

interested in how well a hospital cared for patients, they forgot that, all around them, conscientious staff were trying to do just that. When they wanted a chart, they had to have it. So Panit Booniliang was a very nervous man.
    He smiled the yim yae yae smile, which could be loosely translated as: “Well, it’s awful, but really, what can you do?”
    This smile, she knew, told the story of why Khun Panit was in charge of medical records. He would do whatever he could to prepare. And still he would be nervous. That was most un-Thai. His worrying was almost American. But in the event, he would realize that he’d done everything he could do and would retreat into the Thai state of choie , or imperturbable calm.
    Alas, he was not quite there yet, as his roving glances across the wide, neat countertop revealed. He was still looking around for files out of place, as if he might see something that would remind him of a task he had forgotten. She hated to bother him now, but it couldn’t be helped.
    Ladarat offered her own version of the yim yae yae smile and said she needed his help.
    “It is about a matter to do with the care that we gave to an unfortunate man in the emergency room last week.”
    “Yes, Khun?” She had gained at least a sliver of his attention. That was good, but she needed his full concentration for the matter at hand.
    “He died,” she said. “It seems he died before he came to our hospital, but his death was pronounced officially here.”
    “I see. And how old was this unfortunate man?”
    “I believe he was about fifty.”
    “And what time did he die?”
    That was when Ladarat knew these questions weren’t prompted by idle curiosity or by concern. Not that Khun Panit was a heartless man, but his questions were typical of Thais faced with news about the death of someone they didn’t know. In a culture that was wrapped in superstition and beliefs about numbers, the story of a man’s death—his age, birthday, time of death—provide the raw ingredients for speculation that led, all too often, to a selection of numbers for that day’s lottery.
    Once she’d even witnessed, much to her dismay, a gaggle of nursing students speculating about the death of a young woman—a katoey . A woman’s spirit trapped in a man’s body. Unable to cope with that cruel joke of fortune, she’d thrown herself off the roof of the Empress Hotel, one of the highest buildings in Chiang Mai. Ladarat was deeply ashamed of her profession to hear these nurses discussing how many floors the poor creature fell, so they could play those numbers in the lottery.
    Panit Booniliang wasn’t like that. No, this was just the force of habit. These were the questions one asked. It was a reflex. That was all.
    Still, better to cut off further questions to which she wouldn’t know the answer—birthdate, occupation… So she was perhaps a little more direct than she would have been in other circumstances,
    “We have a problem.”
    This got Khun Panit’s attention.
    “I see, Khun. That is bad. What sort of problem?”
    He was too polite to ask the question that was no doubt on his mind: What sort of problem could one have with a patient who is dead? Surely this couldn’t be a very important problem. Surely it couldn’t be more important than, say, preparing for next week’s inspection?
    She would need to choose her words carefully. She mustn’t cause alarm, of course. Yet she must convey the gravity of the situation to a man who was understandably preoccupied.
    There was a saying in Thai to which she’d had recourse many times in her career: Kling wai korn, pho sorn wai. Roughly: Do whatever needs to be done, to get through the moment.
    Odd that in the United States such an aphorism would denote a strong-willed determination and a fundamental belief that defeat is impossible. But the Thai version was an illustration of creative pragmatism. Especially the importance of maintaining grace and smoothness, and a willingness to