David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

Fong’s eyes returned to the terra-cotta figure on the table.

“Have you seen the terra-cotta warriors at Xian?” the man asked as a thin smile creased his lips.

“The Qin Dynasty soldiers?” Fong blurted out, stunned to think that the thing on the table was one of the famous statues.

“Yes,” the man widened his grey eyes, “the very ones.”

“No. I’ve never been to this part of the Middle Kingdom before.”

“That’s a shame.” The man turned from Fong and, without further explanation, walked to the canvas-covered object on the other table.

Fong didn’t follow him and snapped, “Why?”

“Why what, Detective Zhong?” the man replied.

“Why is it a shame?” he asked feeling silly – no – totally off-balance with this man. Shit, he didn’t even know the man’s name.

The man’s smile was surprisingly sad this time. He was about to say something then stopped himself. When he spoke, his smile was gleeful again. “Because I have been in charge of that excavation from its onset in 1976 just after the silly old farmer stumbled into the first tomb. The heavy roof beams had fallen. Perhaps they had been burned by the rebels or perhaps the wrath of the gods brought them down.” He paused. Fong waited. “At any rate, the beams had crashed down on the figures shattering them to bits. I often think that leading the reconstruction of those thousands of clay warriors in the first pit was my greatest accomplishment. I think of it as a recreation of what was.”

“That strikes me as a reasonable thought,” Fong said, carefully keeping any trace of awe out of his voice.

The man’s pale eyes twinkled again.

Fong didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“Have you ever seen a recreation, Detective Zhong?”

“I’ve been to Grandview Gardens . . .” Fong was stopped by the man’s high-pitched giggle. He laughed like an old woman. It hurt. “I guess you’ve never been to . . .”

“To the slut fest by the sea? Oh, I’ve been. It just goes to prove the depth of humour inherent in the Chinese character, wouldn’t you agree, Detective Zhong?”

“I guess,” Fong said slowly. Although he agreed with the man’s assessment both of the place and the Chinese character, he felt that he’d been bludgeoned into the accord.

“Don’t guess, Detective Zhong. There’s nothing to guess about. Grandview Gardens is a mockery of life. What I do makes time stand still. I enhance life.” He indicated the canvas-shrouded structure on the table. He put his hand on the canvas. “The real is not always more terrifying than the artificial. Your wife was an actress, wasn’t she?” Fong nodded slowly, uncomfortable that this man knew anything of his past. “Surely the husband of the great Fu Tsong knows that artifice in the hands of a true artist enriches the experience of life. It doesn’t imitate it.”

Fong nodded. With this he was willing to agree, without being pushed.

“Fine,” the man said then pulled the canvas aside.

There sitting on the table was a beautifully constructed wood reproduction of the boat. Fong looked at the man.

“You are impressed, Detective Zhong?”

Fong nodded, “I am . . . I don’t know your name.”

“Forgive my impoliteness. Dr. Roung,” he said, “I am an archeologist by training, hence my title: Doctor.”

Fong put a hand on the model. “The recreation is even more impressive when you open it up, Detective.” He reached forward and removed an upper section of the wall to reveal the death room of the two Americans.

Fong peered in. “Where are the photographs of this room?” The man pointed to the board on one side. Fong quickly spotted the ones of the dead Americans. He allowed his eyes to travel from the photo to the model. Even the looks on the dead men’s faces matched. He leaned down and looked up into the tiny mirror. The Triad warning was there. Fong looked to his right.

The man was smiling.

Fong removed the opposite wall section to reveal the bar room with the swinging man. Dr. Roung offered the pictures, but Fong ignored him. He lifted out the room itself to reveal the video room beneath. Even the cut lines on the beams were present. He replaced the upper room.

“There are no nails or screws,” Fong said.

“There is no need when everything fits one piece into the next.”

Fong ran his fingers along the edges. Smooth, perfect. Then he lifted off the room with the Americans to reveal the room with the runway. It too was perfect down to the curtains and mudstains on the runway. The five miniature Japanese men sat in their brutal death positions, cameras and glasses in place. Fong assumed that should he open their pants that reality would have been reproduced as well. His eyes scanned the room. So much detail. So much accuracy. So terrifying. He looked at the man. His eyes twinkled. “I hope you find it adequate for your purposes, Detective.”

“It’s more than adequate.”

“It’s a piece of art,” Dr. Roung said.

Fong nodded.

The older man smiled, clearly pleased.

Fong crossed to the door and called for Chen. They carried the model back to the Jeep and then Fong returned to the workshop. The archeologist was at the table with the terra-cotta warrior. He turned. “Something else, Detective?”

“No, nothing.” Then he added for no particular reason, “For now.”

The man’s smile vanished.

Fong was surprised yet again.

Back at the factory Fong stood staring at the model. He once more marvelled at its construction, its precision, its ability to freeze a moment in time.

His thoughts were interrupted by the return of the coroner who announced to the world, “The food in this place stinks.”

Lily followed him into the space. “The forensic facilities aren’t much better than the food.”

Fong covered the model with the canvas and moved toward the table. “Now that we‘ve established those two important facts, perhaps we’re ready to have our first meeting.”

“What did he make of the model?”

The politico weighed his words carefully, “I wasn’t inside, sir, but I’m sure he was impressed, although he kept his mouth shut when he left.”

The head of internal security for the People’s Republic of China allowed himself ten seconds of silence then said, “Good,” and snapped off the speaker phone on his desk.

Each investigator had become familiar with the photographs and the physical evidence. Each had prepared a first report. Now they gathered around the oval table.

Fong caught Lily staring at him. He wasn’t surprised. He’d taken a good look at himself. The skin of his face was worn and greying and the veins on his chin and left cheek had shattered into thousands of spiky red lines. His smile was a little crooked. Then there were his new teeth. Well, two teeth actually. The politico’s dentist hadn’t bothered to build up individual teeth, but rather had just put an enamel layer over both his upper and lower sets so that it looked like he had only two very wide teeth. “Government toothes very p’actic’l, short stuff, but hide you us,” Lily had commented.

He’d filed down the enamel layers so that he could talk more like himself. He’d even considered trying to etch in individual tooth lines, but had given up when he poked a hole in the bottom set.

He’d just have to get used to being “but hide you us.” He’d also have to try and figure out what “but hide you us” meant. Lily’s English came from so many different media sources that the exact meaning of the phrase could be hard to determine. He could have just asked her, of course, but he was worried about her response. He wasn’t prepared to be old in her eyes.

Fong called their meeting to order. He stood at the head of the table. Lily and Chen had large jelly jars filled with steaming tea in front of them. The coroner sat to one side, dyspeptic and farting loudly.