David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

Fong returned his attention to the coroner as the old man said, “The stroke was definitely from top to bottom as indicated by the bevel at the forehead and the overlap on the chin.” He felt his own chin and pulled on the single long whisker there. “And it was done with one stroke.” A dark look passed his features. Perhaps an undigested piece of beef. “So what we’re looking for,” he concluded, “is an incredibly sharp weapon that’s wider than the widest of these faces.”

“A kind of axe?” Lily asked.

“None that I’ve ever seen.”

“How about a long knife or machete?”

“No, it would leave a slant from whichever side it was used. This was used straight up and down.”

“Like a hoe?” Chen asked.

“Some hoe,” the coroner chuckled mirthlessly.

“Let’s not dismiss that,” said Fong.

“Fine,” said the coroner. Chen made a note on his pad. Lily glanced at Fong, but Fong looked away. He stood and stared out the filthy slanted windows, his back to the table. When he sensed that all their eyes were on him he spoke. “What do you know about chi, Grandpa?”

“The black mania? Chinese madness?” the old man was clearly offended. “Western nonsense.”

“Perhaps.” He turned toward them and spoke slowly, knowing the danger of the territory that he was entering. “In May of 1920, huge posters appeared everywhere in Beijing . . .”

“Kill the foreigners, throw them in the sea, China for the Chinese,” said the coroner wearily. “We all know the story.”

“Do we really, Grandpa? Thousands of foreigners were killed in two days. Heads were switched on white men’s bodies and Chinese collaborators were hog-tied and bled to death. Sound familiar?”

“Fairy tales, Fong,” grunted the coroner.

“I was born in the Old City, Grandpa. These were the stories of my youth. Perhaps elaborated. Perhaps. But my grandmother witnessed the event. She was amazed by the bravery of the revolutionists. The complete disregard for their own safety. She called it, ‘So un-Chinese.’” An image of his grandmother yelling at him to get over his typhoid and stop embarrassing the family welled up within him. He shrugged it off. “And she wasn’t one to be easily impressed.” Lily looked at him strangely. This was new information. But he avoided her eyes and went on, “She brought back one of the red kerchiefs they wore. It had the word Fu emblazoned on the front.”

“Happiness,” Lily said in English as she turned away in disgust.

“Did they succeed, sir?” asked Chen.

“No. Their ferocity grew beyond their understanding. They leapt from tall buildings, frothed from their mouths uttering incomprehensible omens of doom and prophecies of the future. One leader, in his ecstacy, sliced his daughter into pieces and threw the bits to his followers. They were so taken by their furor that bullets only slowed them. Death was their companion.”

Lines from Measure for Measure leapt into his head:

If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug her in mine arms.

Fu Tsong loved those lines. An awful thought flitted through Fong’s consciousness.

No one spoke. They could hear the hum of the building’s air intake system.

Finally Fong broke the silence. “You three can take a look at the recreation now. But be forewarned. The model’s potent.” Fong returned to his notes. “Lily, you take the film in the camera, try to get an analysis of the dirt from the runway and I want you to find out more about American patent law. If you need to get information in English, Lily, show me your translations before you send them off. Captain Chen, take the specs on that hoe thing and find out whatever you can on those old cartridges and the gun that might have fired them. Then locate the ship owner and try to figure out where the crew was during all of this. Maybe the owner supplied girls as well. Grandpa, find what you can about those ligature marks on the arms. Let’s see if we can narrow down the type of wire they used, if nothing else. Then get me as much data on the knife wounds as you can. As well, you can interview the restaurant owner who supplied the food.” Fong glanced down at a picture of the brown blotch on the rug near the bar room door. “Ask him about alcohol on board. While you’re with him, maybe he can address your complaints about the local cuisine. Let’s start with that.”

Chen got to his feet, but the other two didn’t move. Fong knew perfectly well what Lily and Grandpa were waiting for. At last he spoke. “I’m going to begin with the local Triad. I want to ask them about the burn marks.”

“The what?”

“The burn marks.” He paused for a second then continued, “After all the killing was done, the boat was torched. It was only the shoal and the ice that kept it afloat for a few days.” He tossed close-ups of the hull’s scorch marks on the table.

“Why, Fong?” asked the coroner.

Fong chose his words carefully. “When I look at that model and the photos I’m struck by many things, but the one impression that is strongest for me is that the entire crime site looks carefully planned. As if it’s an exhibit. I think it was done as a warning. I don’t think there’s any doubt that it was meant to be seen.”

“The positions of the victims, you mean?” asked Chen.

“That and the way they were killed. The whole thing looks like a bizarre object lesson.”

“That goes with the Triad motto on the overhead mirror,” said Lily.

“So, some hoodlums play show and tell. So what? What does that have to do with burn marks?” pressed the coroner.

“Maybe nothing,” replied Fong, “but why go to all that trouble to create an object lesson – then try to sink it?”

No one had an answer for that.

Fong walked toward the rusting barrels at the far end of the factory. He felt wobbly, as if something terrible was just around the corner – just far enough back in the shadows that its true form remained secret – for now, at least.

Without looking back he said, “I think its time I met with the local gangsters, Captain Chen.”

“You mean the Triads, sir?”

“Yes, the Triads,” Fong said; but what he thought was, “Even Chen realizes that there are many kinds of gangsters in this part of the Middle Kingdom.”

“Why didn’t the specialist just arrest some token Triad guys? The Triad leaders wouldn’t have cared,” said Lily.

“That’s another good question, Lily,” Fong said; but to himself he added, “That was the question.” Then he tried to put Lily’s question together with “Why design an object lesson and then try to burn it down?” And couldn’t.

Inspector Wang couldn’t tell if he was awake or dreaming. He was seeing himself from above. He looked like a silkworm chrysalis in its hanging cocoon – fighting, battling, tearing – to get out. He took a deep breath. Silken threads filled his mouth and lungs. His screams were muffled by the wadding.

A light glared. He was suddenly on the bed looking toward the ceiling. Through the gossamer he saw a figure in white. A woman. A girl. She reached out and somehow touched his forehead through the material. Her hand felt cool. Lovely.

The syringe stung as it entered his arm. Then relief. As if the cocoon had been slashed apart, ripped open. And air entered him. He tried to say thank you, but nothing came out.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I can read your lips. Remember?”

He nodded.

“Use the button at your side next time. They’re putting you under again. If you need my help, you’ll have to use the call button. I can’t know you’re in trouble unless you buzz me. Understood?”