Qiu Xiaolong - Red Mandarin Dress

Chen handed the envelope to Yu, who opened it and started examining the checks with utter disbelief on his face.

“The families of the red mandarin dress victims, including Hong’s,” Yu said in an awe-stricken voice. “He must have kept a record of them. With the checks signed, it’s like a full confession. We will now be able to close the case.”

Chen didn’t speak up at once. As for how to conclude the case, he still had no idea.

“His own signature,” Yu said emphatically. “It should be conclusive.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Any comment, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?” the reporter who had recognized Chen shouted at him across the crowd, trying to elbow his way through the restraining line kept by the courtroom security officers.

“Are you in charge of the case?” Another reporter joined in, pushing forward with several others.

The courtroom was now in total confusion, as if the pot of boiling water was not merely spilling all over, but the pot itself toppled upside down.

Some of the reporters followed the stretcher out. Chen and Yu were left standing alone where Jia had fallen several minutes ago. Other reporters were shifting their attention to the two cops, their cameras flashing.

Chen dragged Yu into the judge’s room, which was empty, closing the door after them. Almost immediately there came loud knocking on the door, presumably by the reporters who had broken through the restraining line, but then the knocking stopped. Whoever was there at the door must have been dragged away by security.

“Did you anticipate such an ending, Chief?” Yu asked, straight to the point.

“No,” Chen said, taken aback by the sharpness of the question from his longtime partner. “Not exactly. Not like that.”

But it was a turn he could have foreseen. And he should have. Facing trial for the serial murder, with the skeletons of his family history exposed, with the picture of his mother’s naked body unearthed, with the stories of her sex scandal examined, with the Oedipus complex exaggerated, Chen himself wouldn’t have hesitated to choose the same exit Jia had.

Chen wondered about Yu’s reaction. Yu might suspect Chen of having acted out of his bookish consideration, of giving in to the last appeal made by Jia last night. After all, giving a fatally wounded soldier the opportunity to kill himself was a time-honored tradition. It wasn’t exactly true, but Yu didn’t know everything.

“Those checks are a large sum,” Yu said sarcastically, “but of course the money was meaningless to him.”

Jia’s last act also spoke for his contrition. Jia wasn’t a delusional killer, as Chen had maintained. In his heart, Jia knew what he did was wrong. The checks made a large sum-Jia’s way of offering compensation, though as he had just said in his statement, that’s no justice.

But there was something more to it. It pleaded for leniency in a message the chief inspector alone could grasp. It was as if he was pushing the credit over to Chen, though it was a huge gamble for Jia. If Chen were not a man of his word, he could take credit for solving the murder case and still go ahead with the publication of his sensational story with all those pictures. Jia’s signed checks implied his unconditional trust in Chen. As in an ancient battle, a dying soldier gave himself to his opponent whom he respected.

Chen, knowing he was trapped, broke out in a cold sweat.

“Jia didn’t have to do that,” Chen said finally. “He’s too clever not to know the consequences. These checks sealed his crime. He did it as a way of appealing to me: he kept his word to cooperate, so now it’s up to me to keep my word.”

“What word?” Yu said. “So you’ll start writing the case report, Chief?”

Indeed, what about the case report?

The Party authorities would push for an explanation. As a Party member police officer, he could hardly say no. And the story would have to come out.

But they might not necessarily push for the whole truth, Chen thought, if he started throwing off hints about the Cultural Revolution background of the case. If he handled it right, they probably wouldn’t care too much about the mumbling vagueness of his explanation. Digging out the skeletons of history could backfire. So he might be able to trick the government into hushing up the details. Perhaps he could come up with a different story instead, acceptable to everyone. A blurred statement about the death of the serial murderer, hopefully, without even revealing his identity or the real cause. After all, whatever story he might produce, some people wouldn’t believe it. As long as there were no new victims in a red mandarin dress, the storm would blow over.

“He got away too easily,” Yu pushed on, obviously upset by Chen’s silence. “Four victims, including Hong.”

Yu hadn’t yet gotten over the death of Hong. Chen understood. But again, Yu didn’t know that much about Jia-or what was behind Jia’s case. Chen didn’t know if he would be able to explain everything to his partner.

But about the case report, he thought he had a better idea. Why not push the credit to Yu, a great partner who was standing by him, as always, in spite of the unanswered questions?

“But was there any other way out for him?” Chen said. “So, now you have to wrap up the case.”

“Me?”

“Yes, it was you that checked out the background of Jasmine, discovered the name in the short list of the Joy Gate, drew my attention to the part about Tian’s bad luck, and checked Tian’s history as a Mao member. Not to mention Peiqin’s contribution to the investigation. Her studies of the dress as an image inspired me.”

“That’s not true, Chief. I may have explored along those lines, but I came up with nothing. It was on your order that I rechecked into Tian’s past-”

“We don’t have to argue about that. As a matter of fact, you are doing me a favor. What explanation can I possibly give to the others?”

“What do you mean?”

“Inspector Liao will be thoroughly pissed off. He must believe that I’ve played hide-and-seek with the bureau and worked on the case behind his back. So will Party Secretary Li. Li might well be paranoid with political suspicion.”

“But the fact is,” Yu said, “you brought the first serial murder case in Shanghai to conclusion.”

“I gave my word to Jia. There is something in the case that I won’t tell. Not just about him. Now that he’s dead, having fulfilled his part of the deal, my lips are sealed. You might understand, Yu, but not the others.”

He wondered whether Yu understood, but Yu wouldn’t press for an explanation. Not too hard, anyway. They were friends, not just partners.

“But what can I tell them-the revenge of the Cultural Revolution? It’s out of the question.”

“Well, he committed the crimes in a fit of temporary insanity. Afterwards he was filled with remorse. So he signed those checks for the victims’ families.”

“But why should he have given the checks to you?”

“I happened to be looking into the housing development case and I met him. And that’s true. Director Zhong of the Legal Reform Committee can support my statement. Even last night, Zhong called me about the housing development case, and Jia was in my presence at the time.”

“Will they accept your story?”

“I don’t know, but the government won’t be interested in a scenario such as ‘the revenge of the Cultural Revolution,’ as you’ve just called it. Hopefully they won’t push for details. In fact, the less said, the better for everyone. We may pull it off.” He added, “It’s possible that the Party authorities may not even want to reveal the identity of the serial murderer. He’s killed. Period.”