David Rotenberg - The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

Fong both understood and didn’t understand what Lily was so upset about but now was not the time to explore it further. He looked past his wife and pointed to the young detective at her side. “Start with the cage. Someone made that thing. I want to know who.”

The young man nodded. Fong handed him a photograph of the cage, sans fetus, and a piece of paper. “Here are the specs.” He turned to Wu Fan-zi. “What’s that metal called again?”

“Titanium,” said the fireman.

“Is that why it didn’t shatter – being made of this titanium metal?” asked the young detective.

“That and its position beneath the base of the steel surgical table,” said Wu Fan-zi, then added, “and of course there was the planch.”

“The what?”

“The planch. This is all that’s left of it,” Wu Fanzi said, putting a badly dented very thick piece of metal plate on the table. “Some explosives can be given directionality by shaping the material. But it’s a crude method and not totally reliable. The placement of the planch adds to the accuracy. The planch forces the energy of the explosion up and out.”

“Away from the thing in the cage,” said Lily.

“Away from the message in the cage,” Fong corrected her none too gently.

There was another silence, then Fong barked at the young detective, “Go!” The man quickly headed toward the door. Before he got there Fong added, “I want an update on my desk by noon tomorrow.” The man stopped, went to protest, then thought better of it as he noted the grim set of Fong’s face.

He left, slamming the door harder than was absolutely necessary to close it.

“Another happy camper,” Lily said in English.

Fong’s textbook English couldn’t decipher the meaning of the phrase. Why was Lily inferring that the detective could be hitched to the back of an automobile or for that matter that the man was happy?

Fong put aside these questions and turned to the CSU guy. He nodded his head. The man began his report, “All the people in the operating room left identifiable remains. The doctor, the technicians, the-”

“Who did the hair belong to?” Fong demanded.

The CSU guy checked his notes. “The head nurse.”

“And the pool of blood?”

“Hers as well but I don’t-”

Fong cut him off again, “Nothing else from the head nurse? No bones? No body parts? No teeth?” Fong was speaking fast, clearly angry.

“None,” said the CSU guy slowly.

“But there were bones and body parts, teeth, and clothing from all the others?”

“Yes, we found-”

“Find her,” Fong shouted.

Instantly there was chaos in the room. Cries of protest and anger over the apparent disrespect for the dead. Fong allowed the anger to crest, then as it began to fall he said simply, “She’s not dead. You three, find her.” He was pointing to a group of detectives. “Here,” he said tossing the hospital administrator’s data sheet onto the table. “Use this to start.” Then he turned to the window. As one of the detectives took the sheet the other two quickly compared notes with the new CSU man. Then the three detectives headed out. They made no effort to hide the fact that they were happy to leave the room. Once the detectives were gone, Fong turned back to the CSU guy.

Lily had never seen Fong so angry. His words came out as little more than a hiss, “Leave your notes. You’re off the case.”

The man glared at Fong then left the room quickly. Lily turned to Fong but before she could ask her question he spoke to those remaining in the room, “There was no way to miss the fact that the hair and blood must have been planted there. He didn’t want to know. He thought the people in that abortion surgery got what they deserved.”

After a moment of silence one of the remaining detectives said, “Abortion is still a complicated subject.”

Fong felt himself enveloped in dizziness, a world spinning. Fu Tsong, his first wife, dead in his arms, their unborn child on her belly. A yawning pit beneath them. Oh yes, Fong knew that abortion is a complicated subject. He knew that.

He caught Lily’s sidelong look. No. He would not share the death of his first wife with her. “Forensics,” he snapped.

Lily took the note that had been left behind. It had been carefully dusted then resealed in the evidence bag: THIS BLASPHEMY MUST STOP.

Fong translated the messages for the men around the table.

“What is blasphemy?”

“I’ll explain later. Tell us what you found on the note, Lily.”

“The paper is pretty standard issue bond paper. Made here. Probably in the new factory across the river in the Pudong. But there’s nothing to follow up there. The note is clean of fingerprints except for a thumb and forefinger of the guy at hospital reception. The lack of other fingerprints is rare since paper is such a good medium for prints. The ink is from a cheap disposable pen much like Fong uses. The words – are the words.” She shrugged. “I know it’s not much but it’s all I’ve got on that.”

She pushed forward the titanium cage. “The cage was fabricated recently and with a high level of skill. Titanium is hard to work with and the welding joints can be complicated because they need such high heat. The bars are almost exactly symmetrical and the base is nearly a perfect circle. No prints. No fabric or hair traces. Not much to go on really but I’ll get a copy of this to the investigating detective.” She reached for the two newspapers on the table. “Both papers have stringers in Shanghai but there are no credits given for either the stories or the pictures. As well, there is no way of telling if the picture is of the actual cage that we found. Personally I doubt it.”

“How could the papers get the pictures, Lily?”

“They could have been dropped off with the stringers but we’ve checked. They both deny it. Both also deny they wrote the story. They claim the story and picture arrived at their head office in America by e-mail before the bomb went off. When the stringers confirmed the facts of the blast, their papers ran the story. There is no traceable e-mail traffic from the Middle Kingdom to these newspapers so we have to assume the e-mail came from somewhere else. This bomber could have an accomplice or he could have set his computer in America to send e-mails on a certain day to certain papers.”

“Can e-mail do that?”

“If you have the right software it’s no problem.”

“How about these stringers?”

“What about them?”

“You believe these guys – these stringers – Lily?”

“I do. They’re both old China hands. They both have good reason to want to stay here and therefore play by the rules.”

“And the reason they want to stay here, Lily?”

“One is married to a Chinese girl, the other has a weakness for Chinese women.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed, Fong.” Lily smiled at her own cleverness.

“Is that all, Lily?” Fong prompted her in English.

She shot him a hard look. “Not all, Fong, and it know you!” she retorted angrily in her version of English. Her hands trembled as she opened a small transparent folder. She put on a pair of reading glasses. She didn’t look up as she read the Mandarin characters. Her voice was soft – distant – so un-Lily-like.

“The fetus was of a seven-month-old male. Two pounds three ounces. Han Chinese. It seems to have been partially mummified. Perhaps by the blast. No matching DNA markers with known suspects or other victims. No way to tell how long ago it died-” She stopped, realizing the implication of what she had just said. If it had died it must at one time have been alive. She shook her head. Fong was frightened she might break into tears. She didn’t. “The fetus was wrapped in a flame-retardant metal sheathing with an asbestos lining – industrial strength, easy enough to find at any construction site. The lining, that is. The metal was titanium.” She turned the page and continued to read. It took five more minutes for her to complete her report – all very dry, very accurate – pretty much useless and she knew it. She closed the folder and reached for her tea. When she brought the steaming liquid to her lips her glasses misted over. It hid the tears in her eyes.