David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

For an instant, the coroner felt the cut that severed the Achilles tendon then the yank that pulled the old man from his feet. No. They would have cut his face first. Then hauled him up into the air.

Keeping him upright would mean he’d bleed to death more slowly. With those facial wounds, he’d bleed out quickly if he were inverted. But he wasn’t. It was meant to last.

The coroner had seen much of his countrymen’s nastiness in his seventy-odd years. He had pulled apart the remains of more men than he cared to remember in an effort to find out how, if not why, anyone would inflict such damage on a fellow species member.

Little surprised him. He accepted much. He understood the deep nature of anger that resided in the Chinese heart. He condoned certain acts of vengeance as just human – just part of the darkness of being.

But the swinging man was an expression of something else. Perhaps not chi, but something other than anger. This was rage, a fury born of something very old, that is stored deep in the heart of humankind.

He replaced the section of the model, took a white cloth from his pocket and swabbed his face. He was clammy with sweat. He began to refold the cloth, but stopped suddenly when he saw to his shock that it was encrusted with rust-red deposits.

Chen pulled the Jeep out of its parking space and made his way through the crowd at the animal park by honking at anyone who dared slow his progress. When he finally got to the gate, he turned to Fong, “Do you believe them, sir?”

“Do you, Captain Chen?”

“I’m afraid I do. They had more to gain by the foreigners being alive than dead.”

“And they are about making money, aren’t they, Chen?”

“At least they have been for quite some time, sir.”

“I actually think the most telling thing is that they didn’t offer up some of their foot soldiers. Pin it on them. It would have been so easy, but they didn’t.”

“Can you figure out why, sir?”

Fong could, but the answer appalled him, so he kept it to himself.

Chen waited for a response then realized that none was forthcoming. He wasn’t pleased but decided to change the topic. “What should I do with the women’s business cards, sir?”

“Check them out.” Chen nodded. “You saw a brokendown bus with young women on your way to the lake that night, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Them?”

“That would be my guess, sir.”

“Mine too, but make sure. Match the cards to accounts at the bus company. Who knows, we might get lucky.”

“Do you believe in luck, sir?”

Fong didn’t bother answering that either.

Lily stared at the model section of the small runway room. She glanced at the photos of the Japanese men on the chairs with the rags of intestine dangling between their legs staring up at her. She fought down her disgust both with the men and their demise. Then she felt for the girl who must have been on the runway – dancing to the music of the American rock band, Counting Crows.

Lily imagined her.

Up there.

Alone.

Lily often teased but never like that. Never like that.

The phone in the Jeep rang. Fong grabbed it. He listened for a second then shouted, “What?” Then quickly, “When?” He listened for a moment then cut the man off. “When exactly? Never mind. Don’t let anyone near that cell. I want the whole place put off limits and I want all the men on duty prepared to be interviewed. Is that clear?”

Fong turned to Chen, “One of the islanders died in his jail cell.”

Chen spun the steering wheel and pressed down hard on the accelerator.

The young warden who met them at the prison entrance was filled with excuses and apologies, clearly fearing that he’d be blamed for the death that had taken place on his watch.

Fong ignored the man and demanded to be brought to the cell. The remaining two brothers were in the basement isolation lock-ups. All that was left in the original cell was the dead man. Fong recognized the nervous man he’d interrogated two days ago. For a moment, he couldn’t recall his name. Then he did. Hesheng, meaning: in this year of peace. He remembered that he’d made a joke about it – no one had found it particularly funny – not even those who watched the process.

The dead man sat with his back against the bars, his head slumped unnaturally far forward. Fong pushed open the cell door and stepped in. Hesheng’s colour was already souring to that of a Caucasian. There were no overt indications of cause of death. There were no signs that a struggle had taken place. Just a man suddenly deep in sleep and not about to ever awaken again.

Although he knew that Hesheng was dead, Fong said, “Get me a pocket mirror, Captain Chen, and call the coroner, I want an autopsy done on the body. I want to know how he died.” Fong felt, more than saw, the young officer leave. He wanted to be alone with the corpse.

Fong knelt down and moved his hand beneath the man’s nose. No air movement. Dead men still don’t breathe. Fong examined Hesheng’s face. He seemed young. He seemed peaceful. Fong put his hand to the man’s neck and pushed gently. The head moved. No rigour, so it hadn’t been too long.

Then he sensed a movement. He couldn’t tell where, but something was in motion. For a long moment he questioned his own perception, and then he saw it again. The man’s shirt moved. Slid.

The mongoose leapt up his spine.

Fong jumped back, knocking a metal pitcher from the low table in the centre of the cell. The pitcher and a metal cup clattered to the floor.

The serpent emerged from the space between the top buttons of the dead man’s shirt. Its slender yellow head pivoted with a sensuous ease, its tongue flicked out and tasted the air. The eyes, flat omens of death, slowly panned toward Fong, and then the head followed.

The mongoose turned and feigned indifference, although Fong sensed it ready to fight.

Fong tried to move, but slipped on the liquid that had spilled from the pitcher. In the back of his mind he noted that the water was slightly oily.

The mongoose flexed its knees and prepared to spring.

The serpent slithered down the front of the dead man, its eyes boring holes in Fong.

Fong rose slowly and moved away from the yellow presence. “Don’t ever trap an enemy or it will have to fight.” The Art of War phrase leapt into his mouth as he continued to back away.

Then the snake was in motion. Fast.

The mongoose pushed off Fong’s spine and was instantly airborne.

Fong planted a foot and tried to leap away, but the oily liquid on the sole of his shoe made him slide and he crashed to the ground. For a second his head filled with blackness. When he snapped open his eyes, the lethal yellow head was within inches of his mouth.

Fong felt the serpent’s breath on his cheek. How odd that death’s breath should be so soft. So inviting.

Then the snake’s head disappeared beneath a heavy boot.

Fong looked up.

Chen stood there squashing the last of the life from the surprisingly small reptile.

Fong sprung to his feet. He immediately sensed the mongoose was no longer with him. He glanced at Chen; the squat man seemed to have a lithe grace about him that wasn’t there before. Fong understood. The mongoose had saved his life and moved on. He put his hand on Chen’s shoulder. The man was shaking. “It’s dead. Leave it.”

Chen wanted to protest, but Fong was already searching the wall of the cell and calling to him, “There’s got to be a hole.” Fong ran his hand along the base of the wall. “There.” He raced out of the cell yelling, “Collect a sample of that liquid on the floor.”

Fong shouted at the two guards in the front to follow him as he ran around the side of the jail and counted cell windows until he got to Hesheng’s. He approached the wall while holding up his hand to stop the two cops from following him. “Cordon off this entire area. It’s a crime scene now. Tape it!” The guards looked at one another, not sure what the Shanghai cop was talking about.