Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (22 page)

Ladarat pondered that for a while as
Maewfawbaahn
purred comfortably on the chair next to her.

But what did that mean? How could Peaflower do that? How could she give these men exactly what they expected?

And—a related but more important question: How would she get these men to do what she wanted them to do?

Ladarat tried to put herself in the position of a Chinese man who had met—somehow—a woman. How might that happen in such a way that these men were led along smoothly and effortlessly?

It would have to be like a mahout leading an elephant. Her father had told her once that the mahouts didn’t actually tell an elephant where to go or what to do. A 50-kilogram man can’t tell a 1,500-kilogram beast what to do. The beast would laugh at the man. If elephants could laugh, that elephant would certainly do so.

But a clever mahout can make an elephant
want
to do something. A clever mahout can guide the elephant’s expectations. A clever mahout can induce the elephant to think that kneeling, or raising a leg, or moving to one side is exactly what the elephant wants to do.

That, Ladarat was certain, was what Peaflower was doing. Somehow, she was setting up situations and expectations in such a way that these men thought it was the most natural thing in the world to sign over their money to her.

And that conclusion led Ladarat to an unexpected decision. If these men were making choices of their own volition, they were not victims in the usual sense. They were… volunteers.

And as Professor Dalrymple cautions, we must always respect people, even if we don’t agree with the choices they make. That is, we must respect the values that underlie that choice, and the person to which those values are connected, even if we think the choice that person is making is unwise, or even dangerous.

These men were choosing to trust this Peaflower woman. Ladarat was convinced of that. They were walking into this situation with their eyes wide open. They were making a choice to trust her.

And the voluntary nature of these choices, she decided, placed them outside her area of responsibility as an ethical detective. She could not pursue an investigation of them any more than she would question the free and informed choice of a patient, no matter how unwise. And no matter what the consequences.

Instead, she would call Khun Wiriya in the morning. She would tell him that she could no longer try to be a detective in this case. The notes would cease, her Beetle would be safe, and perhaps eventually she would forget the smell of a ripe durian. And she would devote herself to the upcoming inspection and to her work as an ethicist. That is, she would be a nurse and an ethicist only. Surely those were enough titles for one person?

Maewfawbaahn
rose and stretched his cat muscles. Then, without pausing to look at her, he paced regally toward the back door, knowing that she would follow. As she did. That cat had an excellent sense of when it was time to stop thinking and go to bed.

Just inside the back door on the small kitchen counter, her mobile phone was blinking, signaling that a text had arrived. Ladarat’s first thought was that the message was from Khun Wiriya, and her heart gave a little skip of excitement. But then, just as quickly, she thought she might just ignore that message. She was not a detective anymore, was she? She was not. She would devote her time to being an ethicist, as she should.

But maybe this late-night text was related to her ethical duties? What if there were an ethical emergency? They did happen, she knew.

Eventually her sense of duty won. As she was picking up her mobile, Ladarat pondered the strange thought that only a few days ago, she would have assumed that any late-night communication was just such an ethical emergency. A patient who wanted to leave the hospital against medical advice, for instance. Or a family that disagreed about the best course of treatment for a child. But now, strangely, her first thought was of murders and mysteries and detection. Well, that would change.

It was largely thanks to that conversation in her head that Ladarat was almost smiling as she read the brief text from Khun Tippawan, instructing her to be at the hospital promptly at 8
A.M.
, to do the job for which she was hired.

The text was brief and impolite, as was usual for the director. And for texts in general, Ladarat supposed. And yet she found herself smiling.

Because that was exactly what she would do. She had already come to that decision herself, although perhaps she hadn’t entirely realized it. Now she did. Ladarat would arrive at Sriphat Hospital early. And she would work late. And she would be an ethicist only.

Wan suk

FRIDAY

THE LEAPING PEN

D
r. Jainukul was nervous. More nervous, even, than he’d been when he first asked for Ladarat’s help with the American. Now he was fiddling with a pen—rolling it over his hand as if he’d trained it to do some strange gymnastic routine. It might look clever to an American, but she recognized it as a rare and entirely unintentional display of nerves that—she guessed—the confident director was convinced he’d successfully concealed from the world.

Of course she would humor him. It would be worse by far to cause him to lose face by asking him if he was nervous. And asking him would be pointless. Because who wouldn’t be nervous, sitting here in the ICU conference room, about to discuss what to do with Mr. Fuller?

At least Mr. Fuller’s family wasn’t here. Ladarat had suggested that the director might want to meet with the other doctors and nurses first, before he spoke with the family. And she’d wanted to have this meeting early. Khun Tippawan would hear of the meeting and she would know that she, Ladarat Patalung, was once more a full-time ethicist.

Besides, it was important to have a meeting, and to have it as soon as possible. You must always know what you think in advance of any formal discussion with the Fullers, she told him, quoting the wise Professor Dalrymple. You must know what you think, and you must be clear about what you know, and what you don’t know. A meeting with the Fullers would not be the time to argue among themselves. Much better to discuss the issues thoroughly in private first, which was why they were having this meeting in a fourth-floor conference room, far away from the ICU.

She’d learned that lesson in Chicago, and of course from Professor Dalrymple. But in fact it was a rule that was not terribly useful here in Thailand. Indeed, there was usually little room for discussion. The director would decide, and others would agree. That was the way Thai culture solved problems. It was always better to agree about a bad solution than to disagree about a good one. And it was always better to agree with your director, so they would.

“I’ve reviewed the results of all of the scans one more time,” he was telling the group. “And I see no cause for optimism.”

The small assembled group was listening intently, although in truth there was very little the director was saying that was new. The director sat at the head of the table, next to the ICU fellow—an ICU specialist in training. Ukrit Wattana was a tall man, for a Thai. With sharp cheekbones and square black glasses, he looked like an awkward adolescent who hadn’t quite grown up. But he was very intense and respectful. And people said he was very smart. That he would take over as the ICU Director one day.

The tough head nurse came next, across from the ICU administrator, who was a nice woman, and pleasantly competent, but who was unlikely to have any opinion whatsoever.

They were all quiet, showing respect by listening. Not like the Americans she met in Chicago. To show respect and agreement, they talked, generally saying the same thing that the most senior person has said, but in a different way. In the United States, an important person’s opinion is like a stone dropped into a small pool—it creates waves that echo back and forth endlessly. Such a noisy waste of time.

In Thai culture, we show respect by listening. By being quiet. That’s not better, really. But Thai meetings are generally much more peaceful. And shorter.

Next to Ladarat, Sisithorn was sitting quietly, taking notes. She had taken extra time with her appearance this morning, hadn’t she? More than usual perhaps. And today her hair had been brushed out instead of corralled in a bun, the way Ladarat wore hers.

For a moment, Ladarat was just a little offended that her assistant should find her own style. But, of course, that was silly. Especially since Ladarat would be the first to admit that no one with any sense whatsoever should emulate her style. That road to fashion led nowhere.

It took a moment for Ladarat to notice the other difference. Her glasses. Sisithorn wasn’t wearing her glasses. Had she gotten contacts? She would find a way to ask carefully. Surreptitiously. As a detective would.

“It has been six days since his accident, and there is no meaningful sign of recovery.” The director paused, and his right hand juggling his pen picked up its tempo.

“We’ve tried to reduce his sedation every day for the last two days in hopes of improving his level of consciousness, but without effect.”

Now the pen was flipping over his hand like that migrating fish—a salmon?—leaping out of the water of a river again and again to swim upstream.

“And the brain scan of yesterday shows no significant swelling that could be the cause of his lack of responsiveness,” he continued. “So… are there any questions?”

Here the pen escaped gravity entirely, whirring through the air to land in the lap of the ICU administrator, who, smiling and blushing, delicately placed the pen in front of the director without shifting her attention. Everyone around the table laughed.

“Thank you, Khun.” He smiled at the table in embarrassment and picked up the pen. But when the administrator edged backward in her chair, the director covered the pen with his hands, making a little tent. He seemed almost relieved that his migrating pen had been trapped.

“So it’s my recommendation that we tell his parents and his wife that there is nothing else we can do to prolong his life.” Then, to Ladarat’s considerable surprise, he turned to her.

“What sort of reaction do you think we can expect, Khun Ladarat? You have lived in America. You have seen these sorts of discussions before. You are more American than we are. What do you think they might say?”

More American? Odd that she’d never thought of herself as American at all. But the director meant it as a compliment. Didn’t he?

Ladarat thought for a moment. What indeed? They would not be pleased, she knew that much. And they would be reluctant to agree to stop treatment. But the reason was difficult to put into words that would not cause offense.

“This will be a shock to them, of course,” she said hesitantly. “A very great shock.”

“But it is obvious that he is dying,” Dr. Wattana said. He turned first to the director, and then back to Ladarat. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s obvious enough to us. But sometimes… it takes some time for your heart to catch up with what your head knows to be true.”

As Professor Dalrymple said, we use our heads to make decisions for ourselves, but we use our hearts to make decisions for our loved ones.

Dr. Wattana seemed as though he was ready to argue, but the director laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“I see. So you think they may need more time to… come to terms?”

Did they? That was part of it. But not all of it.

“They may need more time, it’s true. But…”

“But they may not trust our opinion,” the director said, finishing her thought for her.

“Exactly so,” she said, relieved that it she did not need to say what they all knew.

Dr. Wattana looked as though he was going to argue, but again the director laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“Of course they may not trust that he will get the best care here. Why would they? This is a small city in a small country, halfway around the world from the United States. How could he know that he will get the finest care here?”

Everyone around the table thought about that for a moment.