Red Mandarin Dress

by Unknown

  “But whatever contradiction we are talking about,” Yu said, “I don’t think the first victim is the type of three-accompanying girl Liao has in mind.”

  “What’s Liao’s theory on the relationship between the red mandarin dress and the sex business?”

  “As it seems to Liao, a three-accompanying girl in a mandarin dress might have dumped and deceived the killer. So he justifies his action by putting each of his victims in such a dress.”

  “But that does not account for the exquisite craftsmanship and conservative style of the dress. I don’t think a three-accompanying girl could have afforded to wear a dress like that. And since the killer went to such trouble for the dress, I don’t think he thought of his victims as trash.”

  “So what’s your take on the dress, Chief?”

  “The dress might have been part of the psychological ritual or sexual fantasy with a special meaning for the murderer.”

  “Then how can we know what it’s supposed to mean, if he is such a nut?”

  “Liao’s material profile may help, but for a serial killer, we also need to have a psychological profile.”

  “I mentioned your translation of psychological thrillers to Li, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “In Li’s logic, serial killing can occur only in Western capitalist societies, not in socialist China.”

  “I have read some mysteries, but I haven’t made any systemic study of them. I wonder how a psychological approach could help the present case.”

  “Here in China? I don’t know. In the West, psychoanalysis being a common practice, things can be different. Those with psychological problems might have medical records somewhere. Doctors may perform a psychological evaluation of the suspect. Or cops may have had special training. In my college years, I never took a psychology course. Just read a couple of articles on psychoanalysis for the sake of my literature papers. As for the theories and practices in mystery novels, you can’t take them seriously.”

  “Still, tell me about the psychological approaches in those books. Like Liao’s method, it may help narrow down the range.”

  “Well,” Chen said, “let me try to recall some points. We’ll examine them in the context of our red mandarin dress case.”

  “I am all ears, Chief.”

  “Now, the identity of the second victim suggests something frequently read in those books. A goal-oriented serial killer characterized with an obsessive-compulsive mindset. He has deep-rooted psychosexual problems, psychotic, but not delusional. He is obsessed with the desire to rid the world of the people classified in his mind as undesirable and unworthy. The three-accompanying girls can be so categorized. The goal is to deal a crushing blow to the sex industry, and the victims also happen to be the most vulnerable, easy to pick up. When such a murderer is finally apprehended, he usually turns out to be an upstanding citizen fitting with Liao’s material profile.”

  “So there may be something in Liao’s focus,” Yu said, nodding.

  The waitress came back to their table with a tray of desert samples. Chen ordered a wedge of lemon pie for himself, but Yu chose a steamed bun of barbecued pork. The bar was a mixture of East and West, at least in its desert tray.

  “Now, believe it or not,” Chen resumed, “the sex killers in those mysteries are often impotent. They experience a mental orgasm without a physical ejaculation. So the medical examiner may not find semen in the victim.”

  “Yes, our forensic people have already excluded the possibility of the assailant being a condom user. No condom lubrication left on the victims. So the killer does fit that profile so far. With both victims stripped, yet not raped, he could be a psycho like that.” Yu added thoughtfully, “In one of the books you translated, it has something to do with sexual abuse in his childhood. He grows up all twisted. Impotent.”

  “According to Freud, the importance of one’s childhood experience can never be exaggerated. In most cases, such a killer has experienced some sort of sexual abuse that influenced his behavior.”

  “But how can it help our work?” Yu said. “In China, no one talks about childhood sexual abuse. Admitting it is worse than abuse itself. The very concept of face.”

  “Yes, it’s a taboo, cultural as well as political. Too much face loss,” Chen said, wondering if there was such a term as face loss in Western psychology. “In recent years, it has become quite popular for people there to talk about their traumatic childhood, but it is still unimaginable in China. Also, some childhood traumatic experience here may be taken for granted—in a Shanghai family, with three generations squeezed in the same room, exposure to parental sex, for instance, can be a matter of course. No one talks about it.”

  “Yes, it reminds me of a story from my old neighborhood. A young bridegroom could not consummate because of the creaking sound of his bed, which would be audible to his parents staying at the other end of the room partitioned by a bamboo screen. In his childhood, he had heard his parents’ creaking bed, and he didn’t talk to anybody about it. But he didn’t turn into a killer. After two or three years, he moved into a new room, and all his problems were solved.”

  “But if he had consulted a doctor, he could have gotten immediate help.”

  “Well, I happen to know him, so I can guess at some cause of his problem. But we have no clue at all as to the identity of the murderer.”

  “We do know that he kills his victims and disposes of the bodies in basically the same manner. And that he won’t stop until he is apprehended.”

  “How does that help us, Chief?”

  “If we aren’t sure how he picks his victims, I think we may at least assume that he’ll probably dump a new body in another public location. And on Thursday night. And that’s where and when we have to heighten our patrolling activities.”

  “But in a city like Shanghai, we can’t put our people in every possible corner.”

  “If we are shorthanded, the neighborhood committees aren’t. There are quite a lot of people being laid off nowadays. Not to mention all the retired workers. So we could pay them ten or fifteen Yuan for just one night, Thursday night. Keep them walking about all the time, and checking every suspicious car, possibly with a man and an unconscious woman inside, especially when it pulls up or parks at those public locations.”

  “Yes, that’s something we can do,” Yu said. “I’ll go back and discuss with Liao. He may be grumpy about you, but he’ll take a good suggestion.”

  “No, keep me out of it,” Chen said, draining his coffee. “I have to finish the paper in time. I have promised Professor Bian.”

  TEN

  ALONE IN HIS OFFICE, Detective Yu tried to size up the situation. It was worse than hopeless, he admitted to himself. Worse with the certainty of another killing in three days, and with his inability to do anything about it.

  Since early morning, he had been overwhelmed by a deluge of reports and statements. The telephone kept ringing, somehow like the funeral bell in a half-forgotten movie. After only a few hours’ sleep last night, having skipped breakfast for a teleconference with a Beijing forensic expert, he began sweating in his cotton-padded uniform. Like the other cops in their group, he already felt jaded in the morning, brewing another cup of extra-strong tea—a cup half full of tea leaves.

  Liao seemed discouraged, no longer talking about the profile or the garage. Nor about his sex business scenario, which had been vetoed by Li. The sex industry in the city was an open secret, but no one was supposed to talk about it, especially not in connection with a sensational serial murder case.

  As for the psychological approach expounded by Chen, Yu didn’t even mention it in the bureau. He didn’t think anyone would take it seriously. Psychological studies would help only after the criminal was caught, but not when he remained unknown and at large. Still, Yu recommended heightening security with the help of the neighborhood committee on Thursday night. For once, Li agreed readily.

  Yu was preparing to make a second cup of tea, putting another pinch of oo
long tea leaves into the old cup, when the phone rang again.

  “May I speak to Detective Yu Guangming?” It was an unfamiliar voice, possibly that of a middle-aged woman.

  “This is he. Speaking.”

  “My name is Yaqin. I worked with Jasmine. You came to our hotel the other day. I saw you talking to the front desk manager.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Is the reward for information about Jasmine still available?”

  “Yes, two thousand Yuan, if it leads to a breakthrough.”

  “Jasmine had a boyfriend. She met him several months ago. He stays at our hotel when he comes back from the United States. He’s a regular customer here.”

  “That may be something,” Yu said. “Can you give me more details, Yaqin?”

  “His name is Weng. He’s not that rich, or he wouldn’t stay at our hotel, but he has bucks, at least enough so that he’s capable of staying here for months at a time. And he has a green card, which is enough for many a Shanghai girl to have hooked up fast and furious. Anyway, they hit it off. People have seen them dining outside, her hand grasped in his.”

  “Have you seen them together?”

  “No, but I saw her sneaking into his room late one afternoon, about a month ago. It was not during her shift that day.” She added, “He was a realistic choice for the girl. He’s about fifteen years older, but he could have taken her to the United States.”

  “Have you noticed anything suspicious about him?”

  “Well, nothing that I am sure of. His family is still in Shanghai, but he chooses to stay at a hotel. Why? That’s beyond me. No one knows what kind of work he does, nor where his money comes from. The cost of a hotel for three or four months is a sizable sum.”

  “I talked to your manager the other day. He didn’t say anything about Weng or about his relationship with Jasmine.”

  “He may not know,” she said. “Besides, the hotel business has been affected by her murder. There may be no interest in drawing more public attention like that.”

  “Is Weng at the hotel right now?”

  “He came in from the States this morning. He has been shut up in the room ever since.”

  “I’ll come over immediately. If he comes out, tell him not to leave the hotel.” Yu said, “Are you sure he was in the United States for the last two weeks?”

  “When she died, he wasn’t here, but I’m not sure where he was. And he arrived with all his luggage this morning.”

  “Can you check his passport? Particularly the date of his latest entrance.”

  “That should be easy. He leaves his passport in a safety box here. I’ll check it out for you.” She added, “But I don’t want to be seen talking to or passing information to a cop.”

  “No problem. I understand. I won’t come in uniform.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Yu arrived at the hotel lobby dressed in a gray jacket Peiqin had bought him. No one seemed to recognize him. He soon saw Yaqin, a short woman wearing her hair in an old-fashioned knot, though probably only in her mid-forties. She sneaked him a photocopy of the passport. It showed that Weng left via Guangzhou the day Jasmine was murdered and came back only this morning. Weng would have hardly had the time for the first crime. Definitely not for the second.

  “Thank you, Yaqin,” he said. “Is Weng still here?”

  “Room 307,” Yaqin said in a whisper.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said in a low voice. “So we can meet away from the hotel.”

  She nodded, picking up a full ashtray from the lobby table like a conscientious hotel employee.

  He stepped into an old elevator, which bobbed him up to the third floor. Following the narrow corridor to the end, he knocked on a brown door marked 307.

  The door creaked open. The man inside appeared to be in his early forties, his hair uncombed, his eyes red, slightly swollen. Yu recognized him as Weng, though his passport picture looked younger. It was evident that Weng had not changed since his arrival, his clothes rumpled, encompassing his stout body like an overstuffed duffle bag. Yu produced his badge and came straight to the point.

  “You must know why I am here. So tell me about your relationship with Jasmine, Mr. Weng.”

  “You are moving fast, Comrade Detective Yu. I’ve just come back this morning, and you already have me as a suspect.”

  “No, I don’t. As you may not know, there’s been another victim here while you were in the States. You don’t have to worry about being a suspect, but what you tell me will help our work. You want to avenge her death, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you what I know,” Weng said, letting Yu into the room. “So where shall I start?”

  “Let’s start when you met—but no, let’s go to the very beginning. Tell me first about your trips back to Shanghai,” Yu said, taking out a mini recorder. “It’s just our routine procedure.”

  “Well, I left Shanghai to continue my studies in the United States about seven or eight years ago. I got my PhD in anthropology there, but I couldn’t find a job. Finally I started working for an American company as their special buyer in China. With no factory or workshop, the company designs the products in the US, has them manufactured here, and then sells them for a good profit all over the world. Sometimes they simply buy wholesale at the Yiwu Small Product Market and put their own labels on them. They hired me because I speak several Chinese dialects and am capable of negotiating and bargaining in the countryside. So I fly back and forth regularly, with Shanghai as my base. After all, it’s my home city, and it’s convenient for me to go anywhere from here—”

  “Hold on a minute, Weng. You still have your family here, why don’t you stay at home?”

  “My parents had only a room of sixteen square meters, in which my elder brother still lives with his wife and two kids, all huddled up together. I can’t squeeze back into that one single room. My brother might not say anything, but his wife would grumble nonstop. The company pays all the expenses for my business trips. Why should I save money for them?”

  “I see,” Yu said. “So you met her during your stay in the hotel.”

  “I met her about half a year ago, in an elevator incident. The ancient elevator stopped moving between the fifth and sixth floor. We were trapped inside, just two of us, facing each other and the possibility of its crashing down the next instant. All of a sudden, I felt her so closely. In her hotel shirt, skirt, barefoot in plastic slippers, carrying a pail of soap water. At a flowerlike age, she looked too good to be at such a menial job. Then the light went out too. She grasped my hand in panic. After the longest five minutes in my life, the elevator started moving again. In the light, which came back like soft water, she looked so pure and charming. I asked her to have a cup of tea with me in the canteen—to relieve the shock in an old convention. She declined, saying that it was against the hotel policy. The next morning I happened to see her again in the lobby. She looked worn out, having just finished the night shift. I followed her out and invited her to a restaurant across the street. She agreed. That’s how things began to develop.”

  “What kind of a girl did you find her?”

  “A really nice girl. There are not too many left like her nowadays. Not materialistic at all. She could have earned much more at a nightclub, but she would rather earn her honest money at the hotel. I don’t think she took me as a Big Buck. She knew better. And she was so devoted to her sick, paralyzed father too. An extraordinarily filial daughter!”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. Have you visited her home?”

  “No, she didn’t like the idea. She wanted to keep our relationship a secret.”

  “Because you were staying at the hotel?”

  “You could say that.”

  “But you went out a lot with her. People would have discovered your relationship sooner or later.”

  “Maybe, but we didn’t go out that much. I was busy, flying here and there, and she had to take care of her father.”

  “Now a different question. Did she
ever wear a red mandarin dress in your presence?”

  “No. She was not a fashion butterfly. I tried to buy some new clothing for her, but she invariably said no. She had a pajama top made from her mother’s fifteen years ago. No, she did not—” Weng broke off, as if overwhelmed in memories. “The Old Heaven is blind. A girl like her should not have suffered such a string of bad luck, and such an end—”

  The room phone started ringing. Weng snatched it up as if he had been expecting it.

  “Oh, Mr. Newman, about that deal—hold on,” Weng turned around, covering the phone with his hand. “Sorry, it’s an international call. Can we talk another time?”

  “That’s okay,” Yu said, pulling out a business card and adding the cell phone number the bureau had temporarily given him. “You can call me anytime.”

  The visit hadn’t yielded much, but at least he could rule out two possibilities. First, Weng was excluded as a suspect, and more importantly, Jasmine was not an easy-pick-up target engaged in sex business, contrary to Liao’s suspicions.

  Still, he felt he might have missed something in the interview. Though what it was, he couldn’t figure out.

  ELEVEN

  AGAIN, PEIQIN WAS TRYING to help in her way.

  She attempted to gather background information about Qiao, the eating girl. Since Peiqin herself worked in a restaurant, she had no trouble getting people to talk about those girls. Chef Pan turned out to be knowledgeable on the subject.

  “Oh, three-accompanying girls—singing, dancing, eating,” Pan started with great gusto over a dish of peanuts flavored with Daitiao seaweed. “Another characteristic of China’s brand of socialism. Socialism still has to provide a cover for everything, like a sign of a sheep’s head, behind which dog or cat meat is selling like crazy. The Party authorities keep saying that there’s no prostitution here, black words on white paper, so there appeared the gray area of three-accompanying girls.”

  “You’ve worked at high-end restaurants,” Peiqin said, pouring him a cup of ginseng tea, a gift from Chief Inspector Chen, “and you surely know a lot.”