Read Online Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett - Free Book Online Page A

responsibility.
    “But you see,” she concluded, “we don’t always support families as we should.”
    “We don’t?”
    “No.” She shook her head sadly. “We do not. It is easy to simply walk away from a patient who has died. And easier, usually, to walk away from his family. They are distressed and sad, and sometimes angry.”
    “Ah, I see, so these inspectors, they want to see that our staff comforted the family. And that we—”
    “Determined the cause of death, and shared that with his wife. Yes. They will want to see this. So,” she concluded, “I need to review this man’s records, and his laboratory tests, to see whether the inspectors are likely to be satisfied with what they see.”
    Ladarat was quite proud of herself. And even prouder when Khun Panit nodded once—a quick bob of his head—and disappeared through the double swinging doors behind him. During the short time he was gone, she had the opportunity to think about what she’d said. It was, she decided, as neat an example of kling wai korn, pho sorn wai as she’d ever accomplished.
    And even better, it was true. That is, as health-care providers they should continue to care for families just as they did the patient. And it was true, too, what she said about walking away. Doctors and nurses today, they didn’t want the stress of those conversations. It was easier, they realized, to simply hand the death certificate to the ward clerk and disappear into another patient’s room where they couldn’t be disturbed.
    She was still thinking about that, and how Thai culture was uniquely ill suited for these sorts of difficult conversations, when the medical records clerk reappeared. His smile suggested that he was not bringing good news.
    Without saying anything, he held the chart by one corner, letting it flap open. There were no lab results inside, she could see. Nor were there any notes. Nor, honestly, was there anything else. The folder was entirely empty.
    “Is it possible,” she asked hopefully, “that notes or tests haven’t been added to the chart?”
    Khun Panit shook his head with a finality that she found disheartening, “No, Khun. A chart cannot be filed if there are pending tests, or if there are notes that need to be written.” He paused. “I suppose this is bad for us?”
    Ladarat nodded. “Yes, it is bad.” Although perhaps not for the reasons she had divulged. No, what it meant was nothing that would give them any clues about whether this poor man’s death really was suspicious.
    But… there. Stapled to the back of the chart. There were two sheets of paper. She reached for the chart and Khun Panit released it reluctantly.
    One was a death certificate. As she’d expected, it had little information. Doctors hardly ever took the time to fill them in correctly. Just the patient’s name, and his age, and his diagnosis: cardiac arrest. That’s all.
    The second page was the other thing that she’d hoped to find: a marriage certificate. Someone had known that they needed a copy to release the body and—better—had made sure to keep it in the chart. You couldn’t trust doctors, but the clerks, at least, were reliable.
    This was interesting. It was a marriage certificate dated… January 24, 2009. Several years ago. So what did that mean for the man that the corporal saw with the woman just three months ago? If this couple had been married for almost a decade, had she married two men?
    She shook her head in confusion. But there wasn’t time to figure this out now. The medical records clerk was watching her curiously, and she’d be hard-pressed to explain her interest in this marriage certificate if he were to ask. Hopefully he wouldn’t.
    There was just one more piece of information she needed. One more… clue. There it was. Anchan Pibul. That was the wife’s name.
    And an odd name it was, too. Anchan meant “peaflower,” a local plant that was used to make tea. Ladarat had even enjoyed iced butterfly peaflower tea