David Rotenberg - The Hamlet Murders

“My producers – I call them my Screaming me-me’s,” Geoff whispered.

“I think we need to work on the opening,” said small Miss Pinch Face Me-me. “It’s flaccid.”

Fong looked to Geoff. Who was this woman? And the opening was anything but flaccid. It was pure liquid. Classic Geoff.

Geoff made a cursory introduction. “Kitty Pants, Inspector Zhong Fong, head of Special Investigations, Shanghai District.”

“Hi,” said Ms. Pants without any warmth or even really bothering to take in Fong.

Fong stood. He wasn’t about to be dismissed by the likes of this sour woman.

“We have work to do, Mr. Fong.”

“Inspector Zhong,” Fong corrected her. She was clearly surprised that he spoke English.

“Yes, well, could you excuse us for a moment?” It wasn’t really a question. “Come.” She signalled for Geoff to follow her. Fong had met many theatre people during the time he had been with Fu Tsong. He could sense who was and who wasn’t of that world. Geoff most assuredly was. Miss Pants certainly wasn’t. So what was Geoff doing answering to this tightassed little woman?

As Geoff moved up the aisle with Miss Pinch Face, the two Chinese watchers flanked them. What the fuck was going on here?

Fong shifted in his seat. Something fell from beneath the collar of his coat, where Geoff’s hand had rested so uncomfortably. Fong eyed the business card that now lay on the floor. He noted the position of the watchers and when he thought it safe, leaned over as if to tie up his shoe and picked up the card. Under the italicized words The Play’s the Thing were Geoff’s name and contact numbers in both Mandarin and English. Fong turned the card over. There, in a scrawling hand, were slashed the words: I have no right to ask, but help me, Fong.

And now Geoffrey Hyland was no more. Fong sat back in his seat and thought about the card. The request for help – and how out of bitterness, and jealousy, he had ignored it.

Four hours later, Li Chou handed over the crime site to Fong with the pointing of a fat index finger and the warning that his people would be back to “pack it up” later. As he left the theatre, Li Chou said loudly to Fong, “Don’t make a mess.”

“I’ll wash my hands and everything,” Fong snarked back, but he felt small the moment the words were out of his mouth. Once Li Chou and his men had left the theatre, Fong ducked under the tape and headed toward the stage.

He’d seldom ventured onto a stage. In fact the only time he remembered actually being on a stage was in an attempt to hide himself and an American woman, Amanda Pitman, in the days before his internal exile.

A stage was Fu Tsong’s domain. Not his. His place in a theatre was in the darkness of the audience. Fu Tsong’s place was in the light. She somehow seemed to bring the light.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then hopped up on the stage.

The platforms were arranged like a shattered cross. Fong knew the basic Christian significance of this but it carried no resonance for him. He walked over to the body that still hung by its neck. It seemed to be in motion as if it were the bell at the bottom of a long pendulum. As Fong approached, an unwelcome thought flitted through his consciousness. “Fu Tsong had loved what this body encased.”

He took a breath and then another. His heart was racing. He bent over from the waist. “Fuck, I’m going to faint,” he thought. He yanked off his jacket, crumpled it and held it to his mouth. His breathing became less laboured. His heart stopped racing. Slowly he regained control. Then he turned back to the body.

Fong knew his men were watching him.

A young detective stepped forward. Fong held up his hand. The man stopped. Fong hoped that when he spoke his voice wouldn’t wobble. “Get me the forensic report as soon as it’s available.” The young detective gave a curt bow and left through the side door by the pinrail.

Chen waited for him to issue more orders. He was careful to keep his eyes down. Finally he asked, “It’s a suicide, isn’t it, sir?”

It sure as hell looked like a suicide. The ladder Geoff had climbed and then kicked aside was lying where it ought to be forward and downstage from him. The knotted rope around his neck had the traditional look of a hangman’s noose. “Was there a note?” Fong asked.

“No one has found one yet,” said Chen.

“Get me access to his room. Was he staying at the theatre academy or in a hotel? He usually stayed on the grounds.”

The cops looked at Fong. They all digested the information that Fong had known the deceased. More mystery for them about their boss. “I’ll find out,” said another young cop and headed out.

“Chen, photograph the scene, I’m more confident in your abilities than in Li Chou’s.” There was a chorus of muffled chuckles.

Fong turned to his men. “Enough. We have work to do.” Turning to the nearest cop, he said, “Find me the stage manager. I want to know which actors were last to leave the theatre.” Before anyone could question him, he added, “Find me another ladder.” Then, to everyone’s surprise, Fong turned and walked over to the stage-right proscenium arch. He pointed to a smudge mark of some sort on the pillar eight feet above the ground and said, “Take a photo of that too, will you Chen? And bag a sample.”

“Sir?” Fong ignored Chen’s question and marched across the stage to the other proscenium arch and looked at it carefully. “Is there something . . . ?”

“Later, Chen, later. Let’s stand that ladder up now.”

After carefully noting its position, marked by Li Chou’s people on the stage floor, they righted the ladder. Fong looked up at the hanging body then allowed his eyes to follow the noose. The rope went up to a pulley attached to a wooden batten dead hung from the ceiling by thick chains. The rope then continued from the pulley offstage until it met another larger pulley then headed down to the floor stage left, where it was tied off to a pinrail. Fong headed over to the pinrail. He reached out and held the rope. Its thick tautness was not pleasing. He gave it a yank. Immediately yelps came from the stage as the body twitched. Fong ignored them and looked around. Chen pointed toward a set of iron weights attached to the pinrail. “Counterweights, sir, to make it easy to lift a dead weight. Sorry, sir, no offence intended.”

Fong looked at Chen. “None taken. Thanks.” But Fong wasn’t really paying attention. He was trying to recall a story Fu Tsong had told him about counterweights. Something about Christ and counterweights. Fong shook his head. That couldn’t be right – Christ and counterweights? He sat heavily in the chair that was by the pinrail. Then he stood and looked at the chair. A simple school chair. He looked up and down the wings. It was the only chair there. He looked at it a second time then strode back onstage and climbed the ladder to Geoff.

It was only later, when Fong recalled Fu Tsong’s story, that he realized he hadn’t noted a crucial fact: how much counterweight was on the line.

Face-to-face with Geoff, everything else receded into a misted background – the theatre, his cops, Captain Chen – as if in a film when the camera zooms in tight. Here, with death, Fong was at the apex, in the very centre. In focus.

He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and touched Geoff’s face.

The flesh was almost hard to the touch. Already dense, spongy. The blood had, upon death, pooled in the lower extremities of his body leaving a tough plastic-like consistency to the skin. But beneath the skin, Fong knew that rot was setting in quickly. Nothing dead resisted rot long in Shanghai’s summer heat. Fong leaned in to look at the rope marks. There was a lot of ligature burn up and down the neck. Fong hoped Geoff’s neck had snapped. The image of Geoff strangling slowly on the end of the rope was not pleasing – Fong had seen hangings that didn’t go off well, the phrase “without a hitch” came to him but he put it aside. If it’s not done right it can take several terrifying minutes before a man suffocates at the end of a rope. A scent caught Fong’s attention. He couldn’t identify it but it was not a body odour.