David Rotenberg - The Lake Ching murders

The archeologist looked away. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it, Dr. Roung? I mean this fisherman wouldn’t, for example, be taking you to the boat, would he? Now why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” The words sounded ancient in the man’s mouth.

“Really! I thought you were the puzzle solver here, Dr. Roung.”

“I don’t know!” the archeologist said louder.

“Well, there were some things you didn’t know. That I grant. Surprises. Oh, there were big surprises, weren’t there? Follow me.” After a moment of darkness, the bar room with the faceless Chinese men snapped on. Fong crossed to a wall and picked up the broad flat hewer that Lily had placed there. It was the kind the islanders used to build trenches and cleave paths. He held it up. The light glinted off its sharpened edge. “Very effective for removing faces, I’d think. Bloody though. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so bloody?”

The archeologist stood directly beneath where the swaying man would have been and turned to Fong. “Detective Zhong, I found something on that island – not something – someone. Someone and something of real value. Timeless value.”

Fong stood and waited. He imagined the swaying man, a bizarre pendulum in a world where time stood still.

“The dead girl, Chu Shi, Jiajia’s wife,” Fong stated flatly.

“Not just her. The whole possibility of something that lasts. Something beyond time.”

“And these mutilated men . . . ?”

“These Chinese men were willing to sell our very birthright. To sell something that is us – no, the very thing that is us – to make our entity into stupid little clay statues and sell them to foreigners.”

Fong walked past the projections of the faceless men at the bar and the others by the mirror. Then he turned to Dr. Roung, a surprised look on his face. “This was your idea?” It wasn’t an accusation. Just a simple question.

“Justice for what they were doing to us, don’t you see?”

Fong allowed his head to nod slowly. “Traitors.”

“Traitors to the black-haired people – yes, Zhong Fong, traitors who met their just reward.”

Fong nodded again then slowly walked out of the projected bar. Dr. Roung followed him like a beaten dog on a long leash.

Everything went dark. Then the runway room projection lit up. But this room was more than just a projection. The curtain was there. The runway was there. The six chairs were there – five occupied by dummies.

Fong entered the room. He pressed a wall switch and the runway lights came on. He pressed a second and the Counting Crows song “Angels of the Silences” began to play. He didn’t look back. “The islanders didn’t tell you about this, though, did they? Did they?” he snapped.

A harsh whispered, “No,” came from the darkness.

“Justice is a hard thing, Dr. Roung. It’s not a thing that can be pieced together from whole cloth. You never have all the pieces when you try to find justice. And your justice and the islanders’ justice may not – no – are not the same. Are they?”

“No.” The archeologist took off his army-issue glasses and rubbed his eyes. The last piece fell into place and Fong laughed.

“What?”

“Your glasses.”

“What about them.”

“Glasses are hard to get, aren’t they? Especially designer glasses. Right from the start, your glasses bothered me. Thinsulate vest and old army-issue glasses.” Fong strode over to the dummy of the eviscerated, castrated Japanese man with the fancy Parisian eyeglasses wobbly on his head. Fong pulled them off and turned to Dr. Roung. “Want them back?”

The man went white and stiff.

Fong reached into his pants and took something from his pocket. “Maybe you’d like this back.” He opened his fingers revealing the bronze statue of a horse’s frontquarters that he had taken from the archeologist’s desk.” Dr. Roung lunged at it, but Fong moved quickly aside. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Dr. Roung didn’t answer, then nodded. “The hindquarters are beautiful too.”

“You’ve seen . . .”

He reached into his other pocket and brought out the hindquarters. Fong continued quickly. “What an unusual girl she must have been. She died of the first recorded case of typhoid on the island in – what – a hundred years? Dug up so an autopsy could be performed. You knew that, didn’t you?”

Dr. Roung nodded slowly again.

“Then she was buried a second time.” Fong paused and waited for the archeologist to take a breath. When he did, Fong added, “Then dug up again.”

Fong moved to the light switch and dimmed the lights. Then he plunged the room into darkness. “Did you know the fisherman was her father? That’s why her immune system wasn’t strong enough to protect her from the typhoid.” A long silence followed then another Counting Crows song, “Daylight Fading,” came up loudly. Beside him in the dark, Fong could hear the archeologist sobbing quietly.

Fong took a breath and pressed hard on the light switch. The stage blared into shocking light. And there, wrapped in filthy, night soil-sodden, crimson burial cloth, stood the partially naked body of Chu Shi, her back to them, held up by a pole.

A long tortured breath came from Dr. Roung.

The music increased in volume and Chu Shi seemed to move to the rhythm despite being dead and propped up on a stick.

“The Japanese were already dead when you arrived in the room. Weren’t they? Sure they were. After the fun with the Americans, the islanders split up, didn’t they? You and Iman led the revenge against the Taiwanese, but Jiajia had plans of his own in here, didn’t he? He and his men killed them and cut them open. Their intestines in their hands facing the stage. When you finally arrived, all the islanders were here, waiting. This was the finale, after all! Sure it was. Absolutely. Except it wasn’t the finale you thought. This wasn’t for them. This was for you. For the one who dared to sleep with one of their women. This wasn’t political. This was personal, wasn’t it? This was to prove to you that Chu Shi was nothing more than a whore who’d take off her clothes for anyone who had money. Who’d fuck anyone, from anywhere – after all, she was just a whore – wasn’t she?”

Dr. Roung fell to his knees and retched. His glasses fell off.

Fong knelt beside him. The vomit was surprisingly odourless. Fong whispered in his ear, “But what they did to her, to your precious Chu Shi, was not as bad as what you did to her. Was it?”

A torrent of bile spewed from the archeologist’s mouth and slapped to the floor.

“How did the typhoid get to the island? It was manmade, cultured typhoid that killed her. How did it get there?” A moment of silence and then Fong screamed, “Tell me!” He grabbed Dr. Roung’s arm and dragged him to his feet. Then he pushed him toward the empty chair at the head of the runway.

Throwing him into the seat Fong shouted, “This was your chair, wasn’t it?” Then he tilted Dr. Roung’s head up and toward the stage – toward the dead woman in the tattered, scarlet burial cloth on the runway – the tattered, scarlet burial cloth covered in night soil-laden earth.

Lily heard Fong yell. She had been holding her breath. Trying not to breathe in the filth. Trying not to imagine the horrible figures of the Japanese men watching her. Trying not to hear the music. Hoping this would be over before she shrieked or fainted or both. Then she stumbled forward.

Dr. Roung screamed and held his head in his hands.

Fong yanked the man’s face up so it looked right into his. “Tell me how the typhoid got to the island!”

“From Beijing. They sent it in the ceremonial wine, from Beijing. The wine at the island banquet.”