A REPORT FROM THE CHIANG MAI MEDICAL RECORDS CRICKET LEAGUE

A few minutes later, down in the basement, Ladarat tapped lightly on the door to Panit Booniliang’s office in the rear of the medical records department. She had never been back here before, because she had always met the director of medical records at the front desk, from which he guarded his domain. But this afternoon there had been a pleasant young man stationed in Khun Panit’s usual place.

She’d been taken aback at first—his resemblance to Panit Booniliang was so strong. It was as if the good director had lost forty years in a day. But of course, he was Khun Panit’s nephew, Chaow (which meant “quickness of mind”) Willapenna. Usually he worked in the far back, filing X-rays. But today he’d been promoted to the front desk.

Farang could never appreciate the Thai penchant for nepotism, but it made a world of sense. If you hire someone from your family, you know exactly who you are getting. There are no surprises. And if there was one thing you could say for certain about Khun Panit, it was that he hated surprises. Which was why this conversation was likely to be uncomfortable. At least, it would be if her hunch was correct.

Panit Booniliang came to the door and gave her a deep wai, which she returned. Surprised at the sudden escalation in formality, she took a seat as he closed the door behind her. This was indeed strange.

The medical records clerk sat behind his desk and pulled a stack of medical charts toward him. As was his habit, he squared them with thin, elegant fingers, so that their edges lined up perfectly. Then he began to flick a corner of the top chart with a fingernail.

Still he said nothing. He looked from her to the charts and back but didn’t speak. It wouldn’t pay to rush things, she knew. Khun Panit would speak up when he was ready.

But her composure began to dissolve a moment later. As she looked at the stack of charts, she noticed that each one was thin. Very thin. There couldn’t be more than a few scant sheets of paper in each one. Just like the chart of the man, Zhang Wei, who had recently died.

She had a sinking feeling as she realized that this would be a difficult conversation indeed. No wonder Khun Panit was so reticent.

And yet… she felt excitement, too. This was a real murder mystery. Or it might be.

She’d just reached that conclusion when Khun Panit began to speak. He was avoiding her eyes now, which confirmed her worst fears about those charts.

And there was the fact that he was smiling. It was the smile known as yim yae yae, which meant, “I know things look bad, but getting upset won’t make things any better, so why not smile?”

“I must admit, Khun Ladarat,” he said slowly, “that I doubted your idea that there might be murders.” He paused, flicking the corner of the top chart more frequently now. “I mean, murders involving this very hospital? Unknown to us? It was inconceivable.”

He paused, thinking, as he squared the slim stack of files one more time.

“And yet I did as you asked. And I found these.” He pushed the pile of charts toward her, as if they were trash he wanted to get rid of. And perhaps they were. They were evidence that the orderly world he’d created was beginning to fray around the edges.

“There are eight charts,” he continued. “Eight separate people. All of them were brought into Casualty in the early morning hours. The first about five years ago. And the last—the man you asked me about—only two days ago.”

That seemed impossible. Eight men killed?

“But, Khun, how do you know that they were…” What was the word?

“Connected?” He smiled sadly. “That is the term, I believe? You see, I am not a detective, so I do not have all of the right words as you do. But I think that is the word for which you were searching.” He smiled again.

There was no malice in his teasing, she knew. He was actually paying her a compliment. She had uncovered these murders, and he was giving her credit.

“I can’t be certain, of course. But it is not a coincidence. Look at the name on the top chart.”

She did. It was Zhang Wei, the man who had died two nights ago. But… the date was wrong. The date was from two years ago. She looked at Mr. Booniliang, who nodded.

She looked more closely at the stamp on the upper-left corner of the chart. It was for Central Chiang Mai Memorial Hospital, about two kilometers southeast, near the river.

“Exactly so. Look at the next chart,” he suggested.

She did. It was from about six months later, but bore the same name, and the stamp of yet another hospital.

The real shock came with the third chart. She checked the stamp first—it was her own hospital. Three years ago. But with the same patient name.

Quickly, she flipped through all eight charts and found three from her hospital.

Mr. Booniliang looked grave. And he was no longer smiling. “I don’t know which is worse,” he said. “The fact that there were three deaths in our hospital, or the fact that there were five in other hospitals.”

She thought about that for a moment. There was something about this that was nagging at her. Then she realized what was wrong.

“There are three hospitals in this pile,” she said.

Panit nodded.

“Three deaths at our hospital, three at Memorial, and two at Changpuek.”

Panit nodded again, looking worried.

“Khun?”

“Yes?”

“How big is your cricket league?”

“We have four hospitals,” he said sadly.

“So at least there is one hospital where these deaths are not happening,” she said. “That is cause for some relief.” Ladarat was duly relieved.

But then she noticed that Panit did not look relieved.

“Well, you see, my friend at that fourth hospital just had gall bladder surgery, so he was not able to help me.”

They both sat there quietly, pondering that information. But she wanted to be certain.

“So you mean to say that you inquired at three hospitals and there were suspicious deaths at all three?”

The medical records clerk nodded. “That is what I mean to say.”

“Ah.” It was the only reply she could think of.

There were half a dozen hospitals in or near Chiang Mai. There was Lanna Hospital and Siamriad to the north along Route 11. And McCormick Hospital, to the east of the river. And those were just the ones that were very close.

She looked at the medical records clerk, who was still nodding. “So you see? This is a problem, Khun. A big problem.” He paused. “If you doubt me still, look at the names of these men’s wives.” She did, flipping through the stack as she had before, but looking this time at the line on the first page that listed the patient’s next of kin.

She looked up again at Panit, who was once again wearing the yim yae yae smile.

“Eight men with the same name…” she said.

“Married to the same woman,” he finished her thought.

“Peaflower,” they said in unison.

Suddenly very serious, Panit Booniliang leaned across the desk. “You must find her,” he said. “You must find this woman. She kills a man regularly. So she will kill another very soon.”

Ladarat nodded uneasily. Khun Panit’s hard work had confirmed her worst fears, but it hadn’t done much to help her solve the case. The stakes were higher, certainly. But her job wouldn’t be any easier.

She thanked the medical records clerk and made her way out past his smiling nephew. Out in the hallway, though, her thoughts turned back to the conversation she’d just had. She thought, too, about her observation that her job hadn’t gotten any easier. She thought about that very hard, in fact, as she made her way down the hallway to her office.

But this wasn’t her job, was it? It was not. She was… unqualified.

A simple look into medical records was one thing. But a murder? A serial murder? Eight men? As Khun Tippawan would no doubt tell her, she was a nurse, not a detective.

She should call Khun Wiriya. She should let him know what she’d found. And she should tell him that she could no longer help. She would tell him what she knew, and then she would go back to being a nurse ethicist.