“No handprints, no bruises, no indication he was hit with anything,” he said. “It is possible he stepped up to relieve himself, took one pace too many, and peed himself to death.”

“Then why would the wives deny they were there?” Dtui asked. “They could have explained what happened and there’d be no evidence to say otherwise.”

“Unless it wasn’t one of them,” said Phosy.

“Good thinking,” said Siri.

“I’m wondering whether he went to Vang Vieng alone last weekend, met a local girl, and took her up into the mountains,” Phosy continued. “She might have panicked when he made advances and pushed him away.”

“Even if it was an accident, she’d still have given birth to a buffalo from the shock of it,” said Siri.

“No way she’d admit to being there,” said Dtui.

“And Vang Vieng’s a small community,” said Phosy. “They’d set up a force field around one of their girls.”

“You wouldn’t even get to talk to her,” said Dtui.

“Unless we could convince her we know it was an accident,” said Siri, lowering the corpse onto its back.

“How would we go about that?” Phosy asked.

“I have no idea just yet, but every body has a story to tell if you just show a little patience. Do you suppose our intrepid Dr. Varnish has exhausted all his autopsy skills?”

“He said there’s nothing more to be learned,” said Dtui.

“Then he wouldn’t mind me tinkering a little.”

“I doubt he’d notice.”

“Splendid. Then I shall return tomorrow at dawn with my tool kit and my faithful lab assistant.”

Chapter Two

My Friends Call Me Toshi

Dr. Siri arrived at the noodle shop a little too early to beat the evening rush. Diners had already filled the small open-fronted restaurant but they weren’t there for the Mekong views. They’d come to enjoy the best noodles in the capital. Government workers in khaki or white shirts had eaten away the frustrations of another day of paperwork and inefficiency. Lady teachers in stiff cotton phasin skirts had kicked off their uncomfortable shoes beneath the tables and sighed off another day of explaining how Marxist-Leninism had affected the shifting of the tectonic plates. Karl and Vladimir had been a busy pair since ’75.

Standing on the uneven pavement was a scrawny man dressed as a farmer but wearing a splendid post office helmet from the old regime. He never entered the restaurant unless invited by Siri himself.

“Comrade Ging,” said Siri. “I’ve told you, you really don’t have to get permission to go inside.”

“Oh, I’m not here for food,” said Ging as always. “Just doing my duty delivering mail. Officials of the Lao Postal Service do not request or expect remuneration for doing something of which we are proud.”

There was no mail delivery service in Laos. Letters were either sent to post office boxes or to a large poste restante sack, much of the contents of which would never be claimed. There were as many postal workers slitting open and censoring mail as there were selling stamps, and customers could never be sure of what subversive material their mail contained. Comrade Ging sold stamps. But on his breaks and after work he would don his helmet, wrap a homemade post office armband around his boney bicep, and deliver unopened mail to residents he knew would show their gratitude. Madam Daeng’s noodle shop was one such place.