by Qiu Xiaolong
Melong cut himself short. The police officer sitting opposite him, however unorthodox, was still a representative of the system.
“Nor are there any independent newspapers,” Chen responded, nodding. “So the Internet has emerged as a necessary alternative, and an outlet for the people.”
“You’ve got it, Chief Inspector Chen. One of the netcops said something similar to me, except that he emphasized that the Internet is a controlled outlet, and that netcops function as the necessary control. No one should think that they’re anonymous or invisible in cyberspace and that they can say whatever they want without worrying about the consequences. That’s absolutely not true. Thanks to technology, not only are sensitive words detected and deleted—‘harmonized,’ all for the sake of a harmonious society—the Web site itself can be blocked and banned, and the government can also trace the comments all the way back to the user.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Chen said slowly, sipping at his tea. “About these Internet human-flesh searches, I hear some claim that these people are simply trying to do the job of journalists. But could you imagine something like that being published in Wenhui Daily? Others claim that these netizens are just unruly mobs, lacking moral and social responsibility. But who has the power to define social responsibility? Whatever else may be said, these Internet feeding frenzies are an undeniable indication that people don’t have any other way to seek justice or voice their opinion.”
Melong was confounded by the thrust of Chen’s statement. He decided not to say anything, at least no more than was absolutely necessary, in case Chen was setting up a trap.
“There are so many people now joining forces, or taking part in one search or another, that it reminds me of an old Chinese saying—the law cannot punish when too many people are involved.” After a pause, Chen went on, “But can you tell me more—any details at all—about how you got the photo you posted online?”
Here it came. Melong wasn’t unprepared.
“I’ve already told the netcops everything. But for you, I’ll go over this one more time. I got an e-mail with that photo attached. The e-mail message was simple. ‘This picture appeared in Liberation, Wenhui, and other official newspapers last Friday. Look at the pack of cigarettes in front of Zhou, the director of the Shanghai Housing Development Committee. What’s the brand? 95 Supreme Majesty. Do you believe an incorruptible Party cadre working wholeheartedly in the interests of the people could afford it?’
“Officials smoking the top, most expensive brands is nothing new. But out of curiosity, I looked at that day’s newspaper, which threw new light on the picture. As a rule, we don’t post anything without knowing the identity of the contributor. This time, however, it was a picture that had already been published in the official media, so we didn’t have to worry about its authenticity. I simply posted the photo online and put the e-mail message underneath it. What happened then, you must already know.”
“The netcops came to you after that, right?”
“It wasn’t just the ordinary netcops. Before they showed up, some people from the city government hurried over, a group headed by somebody named Jiang. Then Internal Security showed up too. At their insistence, I dug out the original e-mail. They looked into it, and according to the IP address, it was sent from an Internet café not too far from here. That’s it.” Melong paused and took a big sip of tea before he continued on. “They want me to help them ferret out the anonymous sender, but what’s the use of dragging me in? They have far more resources at their disposal than I do.”
Melong chose not to go into what netcops might do to him. There was no point. The chief inspector couldn’t side with him.
“Yes, that is really up to them to do. They’re the netcops, after all.”
The sarcasm in Chen’s statement was unmistakable. It was difficult, however, for Melong to play along in the dark. He thought he’d better wait until the cop showed all his cards.
“You think so too?” Melong asked.
“It’s not easy to run a Web forum like yours. You’re doing something meaningful, an alternate way for people to find out what’s happening in our society, our socialist society with Chinese characteristics. On your Web forum, they’re allowed to speak their mind despite the difficult circumstances and stringent regulations.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector Chen. Things must not be easy for you, either, what with all those complicated responsibilities on your shoulders.”
“You’re right.” Chen lit a cigarette for him, and then one for himself. They spent the next minute wrapped up in the silent, spiraling smoke. “The case I’m working on is another difficult one. For me, the one and only focus is determining the cause of Zhou’s death. But before we could get anywhere near to a conclusion, my colleague Detective Wei died in a suspicious accident. I hold myself more or less responsible for the accident that killed him. He might have discovered a clue while investigating, but I was too busy to discuss the case with him that morning, and I failed to warn him of the risk involved in taking the case in that direction.”
Melong began to see why Chen set up this meeting at the teahouse. The chief inspector was intent on revenge, and in desperation, he was seeking Melong’s help. But if he thought it involved something like hacking into Zhou’s computer, the way the netcops did, then Chen was making the same mistake.
“It’s difficult for me,” Chen continued, “because there are so many different people working on the same case, and some of them were involved before we were brought to it. The shuanggui of Zhou began a week earlier, and they already had his computers and files taken away. All the information made available to me looks like it was secondhand or preselected.”
“According to one of the netcops who spoke to me,” Melong said tentatively, “the hard drive of Zhou’s computer was destroyed before they got to it. But who do you think are the likely suspects?”
“For the moment, I’m working on one possible direction, though it’s only one among many. The picture in the newspaper is too small and the resolution too low for anyone to be able to see the cigarette brand. So whoever sent the picture in must have had access to the original one on Zhou’s computer—one that was high enough resolution that it could be enlarged so that the details would be readable. This occurred to me when I was looking at some other pictures that were sent to me electronically.”
“That makes sense,” Melong said, without adding that it was the same theory that the netcops were working on.
“Now, who could have access to the original photo? The people close to Zhou, who would be able to sneak into his office and check his computer or his camera,” Chen said. “As Detective Wei said to me, one approach would be to focus on who might have benefited from making Zhou’s problems public.”
“That would narrow down the list.”
It was like a tai chi performance. Each of the players made a show of striking out in a direction, without really hitting the opponent. The true intention was to understand each other. Melong got it. While Chen seemed to be moving in the same direction as the netcops, he wasn’t after Melong.
Whether a target or not, Melong didn’t want to have anything to do with the police.
“But it’s just a list. That’s why we have to help each other, Melong. Once the case is solved and everything comes out, I don’t think the netcops or any of the others will waste their time on you.”
The hint was unmistakable. Given Chen’s position and connections, it wasn’t impossible for the chief inspector to help. At least this time. Melong started debating with himself.
A cell phone rang. It was Chen’s. He pulled out a white phone.
Melong moved to step out of the room, but Chen gestured for him to stay.
“Sorry, it’s just from my mother, but I have to take it.”
Chen spoke like a filial son. Melong couldn’t help noticing the change of expression on Chen’s face. It looked like one of immediate relief. The next few fragmented words and sentences that wer
e Chen’s side of the conversation didn’t make much sense. They were, of course, out of context.
“I did … my colleague’s widow … to Mr. Gu about it … Yes, I’ll thank Dr. Hou properly … come around either tomorrow or the day after that … Yes, I will … East China … Take good care. See you.”
Chen put the phone back into his pants pocket and said, “My mother had a minor stroke, and she’s just checked out of East China Hospital. I keep the phone on at all times. She’s old and all alone, so I’m concerned.”
“She doesn’t live with you?”
“No, she insisted on not moving in, saying that she prefers to stay in the old neighborhood. But she won’t stay in the hospital too long, worrying about the cost.”
“Which hospital did you say it was?”
“East China Hospital.”
“No surprise, for a high-ranking cadre like you.”
“No, that wasn’t it. She was admitted because of a doctor I know there. He’s also the head of the hospital. It was due to connections, you might say, but I have to do whatever I can for my mother. Anyway, he’s been taking good care of my mother, whether it has anything to do with my position or not.”
“In today’s society, no one is capable of doing anything without connections, and connections come from one’s position,” Melong said, then added in spite of himself, “Not everybody is as lucky as you are.”
“What do you mean, Melong?”
“My mother has been diagnosed with lung cancer, second stage, but before any hospital in the city will admit her, she has to wait at least two months. She has no chance of getting into a top one such as East China. I feel so helpless,” he said, with a slight sob in his voice. He drained the last of the tea from his cup. “I’m a total unworthy son.”
“I understand. I feel exactly the same about myself,” Chen said; then he pulled out another phone and punched in a number.
Melong watched Chen, puzzled.
“Dr. Hou, I have to ask you for a favor,” Chen said emphatically. “A friend’s mother needs to get into the hospital as soon as possible. She has advanced lung cancer. I know how difficult it is for you to arrange an admission at East China, but I still want to beg you for it this time.”
Melong couldn’t hear Dr. Hou’s response, but it wasn’t long before Chen spoke again.
“Thank you so much, Dr. Hou. I owe you a big one.”
Apparently Dr. Hou was saying something on his end, but Chen cut him short. “We can call it even now. Don’t mention that again.”
The last part was intriguing. It sounded like an exchange of favors, but Chen was already turning back to him. “Dr. Hou will admit your mother first thing tomorrow morning. Don’t worry. He’ll take care of everything.”
“Such a huge favor,” Melong said as he stood up and bowed low. “I have to say, as in a martial arts novel, ‘If I cannot pay you back in this life, in the next I will be a horse or an ox working for you.’”
“You don’t have to say that, Melong. But in those martial arts novels, people also say, ‘The green mountains and the blue water will always be there, and our paths will cross again.’”
That quote was to the point, Melong knew.
“Now I have to go and prepare for her admission tomorrow. As a son yourself, you must understand,” Melong said. “But I’ll call you, I give you my word, as soon as I have something.”
SEVENTEEN
ON THE EVENING OF the next day, Chief Inspector Chen left the bureau and walked out into the gathering dusk, still lost in thought.
Walking sometimes helped him think, especially when he was confronted by many possible directions. It was like an English poem that he’d read back in college. The poet could afford to speculate about the consequences of a road not taken in the yellow wood; a cop could not.
That afternoon, after the routine bureau meeting, he’d once again tried to shift his investigation in a new direction.
First, he tried to look into what Zhou had done during the last days of his life. But soon Chen gave up. What if the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty was just a trigger? Zhou might have been involved in something long before that. The presence of the city government team at the hotel pointed to such a possibility. Then Chen tried to figure out what Detective Wei had been doing on the last day of his life. Chen made several phone calls, reaching out to every possible contact, but it would be days before he learned anything useful.
Finally, Chen tried to find out the reason the Beijing team had been dispatched to the hotel. Comrade Zhao hadn’t written back yet, and there were all sorts of whispered stories, but none of them proved to be substantial.
Ultimately, he was exhausted, with nothing really accomplished. He decided to call it a day and go pay a visit to his mother. She was back home and living alone, where only an hourly maid who could hardly speak Shanghainese came by occasionally.
He kept walking, absentmindedly, until he found himself at Yunnan Road, a street he’d known well back in the days when he still lived with his mother. It was a street known for its ramshackle eateries with a variety of cheap, delicious specialties. Smelling the familiar scents, he thought it would be a good idea to buy some cooked food for his mother.
Nowadays, it was called a “gourmet street,” with a number of new, tall buildings and splendid restaurants in place of the old shacks. He walked over to Shenjiamen, a recently opened restaurant that sported an impressive array of basins near the entrance, plastic and wooden containers of various colors and sizes and shapes, each containing sea and river delicacies. He came to a stop at the sight of crowding squid, squirting clams, squirming trout, jumping frogs, and crawling crabs, as if they were still scuttling along the silent floors of rivers and oceans. A snakelike hose dipped in and out of the basins, pumping air into them in a bubbling appearance of life. There were several people lingering, likely or unlikely customers, squatting or standing around. A young mother looked down at the little boy tugging at her hand, her face radiant under the neon light that flashed: Private Room, Elegant Seat.
His phone rang and interrupted his reverie. It was Jiang of the city government.
“Fang has disappeared, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“Fang?”
“Zhou’s secretary. Nobody knows where she is. Not even her parents.”
“I’ve not met or interviewed her. Detective Wei told me that you didn’t see her as a potential suspect.”
“Not a suspect in Zhou’s death, no, but she might have been privy to his corruption. We talked to her quite a few times, and she denied any knowledge of his criminal activities.”
“She’s just a secretary. On the list of people privy to Zhou’s problems, she might not be at the top.”
“She wasn’t just a secretary—she was a little secretary, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I didn’t know, Jiang,” Chen said, though he recalled both Wei and Zhou’s colleague Dang using the term. He ignored Jiang’s sarcastic tone. Trying to find out more, Chen said, “In fact, you didn’t tell me anything about her.”
“It was Zhou who brought her into the office. She studied in England a couple of years ago, and she still has a valid passport, as well as a valid visa that would allow her to travel to England and Europe. We have to prevent her from slipping out of the country. I’ve already informed customs and provided them with her picture.”
“I see.” But something didn’t add up. She might know something about the details of Zhou’s shady schemes, but that wouldn’t be a “state secret.” It was certainly nothing for Jiang to panic over.
“You have to find her as soon as possible, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve discussed it with your Party Secretary Li, and you’re the one with experience in searching for a missing person.”
“Please fax or e-mail me all the information you have about her immediately. Send the photos you have of her as well. At the same time, inform Liao of the homicide squad that I’ll do my best,” Chen added before hanging up.
This
was another twist, although Chen didn’t see anything particularly surprising about Fang’s disappearance. Jiang had, by his own admission, talked to her quite a few times, undoubtedly bringing a lot of pressure to bear on the secretary—or little secretary—so much so that it was very possible that she couldn’t take it anymore and ran away. An understandable reaction on her part, and she might come back before the police even started looking for her. It was very apparent that Jiang wasn’t telling him everything. Why would Jiang have bothered notifying customs?
He decided not to visit his mother right now. Instead, he stepped into a small Internet café across the street. Like in the one near the concert hall in Pudong, it had a plastic sign marked Registration on the front desk. This time, he produced his ID without being asked.
Perching on the chair in front of his assigned computer, he had a free cup of tea, which tasted like it had been rebrewed, and then started looking through his e-mail. The first batch of material had already come in from Jiang, including several photos. The photos were of Fang when she was still in her twenties. They showed a handsome, spirited girl, and there was nothing that suggested she was or would become a little secretary. He glanced through some of the background information, but there was nothing really new or useful, either. It might take him hours to sort through everything.
His cell phone rang. Caller ID showed that it was Lianping, so he picked up. After exchanging greetings, Chen asked, “What’s up?”
“I’m going to the Shaoxing Literature Festival tomorrow.”
“That’s nice—have you ever been there?”
“No, this will be my first time. It’s only one hour outside of Shanghai, and the sponsor is providing me a ‘journalist’s package.’ It includes a ticket to tour Lu Xun’s residence, meal coupons, and if I stay over, accommodations at a four-star hotel.”
“What a nice package!”
“I mentioned your name to the sponsor and they would love to invite you to come and speak. Everything would be covered, and it would also include a handsome speaker’s fee.”
