David Rotenberg - The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

The ancient man sat waiting for Fong to speak. If, as Chen suspected, he had learned his metallurgy during the Great Leap Forward the man could well be in his eighties. Fong noted the man’s fingers. Long. Tapered. Supple. “What was it with artists and beautiful hands?” Fong wondered.

Fong sat opposite the man. He identified himself and began to explain why he was there.

The man stopped him. “Your companion, Captain Chen, has already explained the circumstances of your visit.”

There was a sharpness in the man’s voice and a confidence – as if he’d been interrogated many times before.

Fong thought he knew why. “Did you have a hard time of it during the Cultural Revolution?”

“I am an artist. The Red Guards hated artists.”

Simple. Straightforward. Clearly true.

“But why?” Fong found himself asking.

“We can see the beauty. They cannot.”

Again simple. Again true.

“Do you know the use your cages have been put to?”

The man nodded, his face neutral.

“Who bought the cages?”

“A man.”

“Which man?”

“He was very careful when we met. He contacted me and had me meet him at a restaurant in the Pudong.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know its name but it was set up like an American restaurant, a diner, I believe they are called. I was instructed to sit in the farthest booth from the door and face the back of the restaurant. He sat in the booth just forward of me and ordered me not to look back at him. My eyes are not very good. I’m old. I don’t see well at night and the lights in that place were turned down very low. He explained what he wanted and handed me plans.”

“How many times did you meet him?”

“Just that once.”

“How did he pick up the cages?”

“I left them for him in a locker at the North Train Station. He’d given me the key.”

“Was he old, young?” Fong reined in his growing frustration and continued, “Please think, we need your help.”

The old man digested that and pulled himself up to his full height. He spoke softly. “It was hard for me to tell.”

Chen spread out the three photos on the table. “One of these men, perhaps, Grandpa?”

The old artist looked at the three photographs. He put aside the two middle-aged men and stared at the young man with the briefcase. Then he opened a desk drawer and drew out a magnifying glass. He put it close to the photograph. Fong saw that he was looking at the man’s hands. Of course, the man had handed over the plans. The old man would have seen the hands!

The old artist began to nod and held the pictures.

Fong stared at the photograph. The image there was so young. So clear. So free of doubt. So . . . luminous. Without looking at the old artist Fong said, “Him.”

The old artist nodded.

“Do you think he saw the beauty, sir?” Chen asked the cage maker.

The old man thought about that for a moment then said, “No. But I believe he saw something else.”

“What?” asked Fong.

“Something . . .” his voice faltered. Then he tried again, “Something, somehow, entirely different, foreign.”

Fong thought about that for a moment but could make no sense of it. He took the photo and strode toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob he stopped and turned back to the older man. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make the cages for him. Surely you knew there was something odd about his request.”

“Something odd?” the old man murmured as a small smile creased his face. “Yes, Detective, I guess there was something odd in his request. There was also two thousand American dollars. Enough to buy me all the materials I will need till my passing.” Then he abruptly spat on the ground and his voice turned hard, “I did nothing illegal. What I made harmed no one. This is not the Cultural Revolution. You are not Red Guards. Now go away.”

“How many cages did you make for him?” Chen asked.

“Four,” the man replied.

“Has he picked them all up?” Chen asked.

“Days ago.”

Fong strode back to the table. “This man covers his tracks. He killed the nurse who helped him. He’ll kill you too.”

“Only if he finds me, Detective.”

“We found you.”

“No. Your ugly friend found me. How did you manage that, Captain Chen?”

“People tell me things they often will not tell others.”

“Ah,” the man smiled. “An advantage of a modest appearance.” Then he quoted, “We are all granted a boon, although sometimes that specialness is hard, at first, to see.”

Angel Michael waited outside the apartment block – one of the old Soviet-styled horrors. He didn’t follow Lily and the baby into the place for fear that the building warden would note his presence. Instead, he stood on the sidewalk and mixed with a crowd of Shanghanese commenting on a game of Go being played by two elderly gentlemen in Mao jackets. The crowd clearly favoured the man using the black stones, but Angel Michael quickly saw that the elderly man using the white stones was a much better player. Every feint white made, attracted black’s eye. Whole sections of the board began to close off to black without him even knowing it as he concentrated on one of the many diversions black set up.

Angel Michael understood the value of a diversion. He was planning one of his own at that very moment. The level of security at the Hua Shan Hospital was very high. He’d gotten the cage and the RDX to the courtyard outside the window of the operating room but he needed time in the surgery itself to set the detonator. He needed a distraction – and a cover – and he thought he knew the key to both: Xiao Ming.

Lily came out of the building and headed in the direction of the Hua Shan Hospital. Shortly thereafter, Lily’s mother came out of the building wheeling her granddaughter as if she were a tiny queen. Matthew remembered the chess games with the man he called his father. He remembered how even a queen can be a diversion. He remembered that bad chess players watched the queen. Good ones knew that although the queen had mobility and power, she was not the point of the game. The almost immobile king was. The baby Xiao Ming was only the queen. The Hua Shan Hospital abortion surgery was the king. Direct their eyes toward the queen long enough and their king would be vulnerable.

Matthew followed the queen and her grand dame down the road. He kept his distance and they led him to their oh-so-logical end. The queen, of course, goes to the palace – the Shanghai Children’s Palace. Matthew paid his admission, avoided the drama club kids, and followed the queen. Xiao Ming and her grandmother were met at a side door that opened to a surprisingly Western-style plastic playground. The place was a daycare of some sort. By the way the two were greeted they were clearly regulars. Lily’s mom took her leave of Xiao Ming with a big kiss. The child smiled.

Once Lily’s mother was gone, Matthew took a small digital camera from his pocket, zoomed in, and took a shot of Xiao Ming. Then another. Then a third.

A daycare worker came up to him. “She’s a lovely girl.”

“Yeah, we’re crazy about her.”

“We haven’t seen . . .”

“No. I’m usually at work by now. I’m with Special Investigations.”

“A police officer?”

He smiled and took one last photo of his queenly diversion then asked when Xiao Ming’s grandmother usually returned to pick up the child.

“Usually around three.” Then confidentially the woman added, “I think she plays Mah Jong, I hope you won’t arrest her.” She laughed.

Angel Michael joined in her laughter then told the woman that he’d be back to pick up Xiao Ming today. “We’ll give the old lady a break. Give her time to win back her losses.” She laughed at that too. He went to leave. The woman called after him, “Don’t you want to take a picture of me?”