Skinner's Box (Fang Mu (Eastern Crimes))

by Lei Mi

  Instead of driving straight home, Yang Jincheng made a stop at Wisdom Park District's local precinct. He came back out 15 minutes later, followed by the obsequious little man who was the captain in charge of public security for the district.

  "Relax, Mr. Yang; you can rest assured that we'll catch the culprit who scratched your car." He had put extra stress on the word "culprit," and his face had the expression of one bent on eliminating a common enemy.

  Yang Jincheng and his son drove the rest of the way home. As soon as they entered the door, Yang Zhan kicked off his shoes and scurried into his room.

  Yang Jincheng had originally planned to resume lecturing his son as soon as they got home, but when he heard the click of Yang Zhan locking the door behind him, all he could do was stand where he was, stunned, a fiery rage building deep within his chest.

  Soon he could not contain it any longer, and he bellowed at the top of his lungs: "I'm going back to work! Stay out of trouble while I'm gone, and don't even think about going anywhere!"

  His schoolbag still draped over one shoulder, Yang Zhan sat on the edge of his bed in his room and smirked at the sound of his father yelling. As soon as he was sure he was gone, he put his school bag down and crawled under the bed until he could reach the little iron box. He opened it and put in the pieces of leftover food he had confiscated from the paper bag and clutched in his palm the whole time. When he was done, he stood, patted the dust off his clothes, and went out into the living room to watch television.

  By the time Yang Jincheng returned home it was the middle of the night. The living room was pitch-black, and the crack under the door to his son's room was just as dark. Yang Jincheng tried the door handle, but it was locked. He crept over to his study and turned on the computer, then changed into a tracksuit and brewed himself a strong cup of coffee. The wall clock read 11:30. He sat in front of the computer and logged into his email. When he saw that his inbox contained an unread message, his face lit up.

  About an hour later, Yang Jincheng turned off the computer, took a shower, and went to bed.

  Yang Zhan did not take his ear from the wood of his bedroom door until he could hear soft snoring sounds coming from his father's bedroom. He was still dressed in his school clothes, as if he had no plans to go to bed any time soon.

  With his shoulder touching the door, he undid the lock as cautiously as he could. The sharp click almost made him jump. Instead of opening the door right away, he just stood still and listened for a while, until he was sure his father had not woken up.

  He tiptoed across the living room and put on his shoes without a sound. Shoulders tense, breathing as shallowly as possible, by the time he was finished his head was spinning from lack of oxygen. He slowly pushed the door open and slipped out.

  The air in corridor was colder than it had been inside the apartment, but to Yang Zhan it felt good. He slowly made his way down the steps until he was two floors below his apartment, at which point he quickened his pace. As he descended past floor after floor, the sound-activated lights turned on at the approach of his now cheerful footsteps, making the gloomy building seem to spring into life.

  The boy kept going down until he reached the underground parking garage level. A cool, damp breeze wafted across his face and neck. In the darkness, the parking garage exit looked like the jaws of a giant cave, stretching upwards to open wide onto a dim yellow world of eerie street lights. The boy ignored the surveillance cameras as he continued down to the lowest level. Yang Jincheng's complaints had done nothing to increase the number of security guards patrolling the premises, and the guard shack was totally dark; the guard on duty must have gone off to bed. Yang Zhan walked past cars of all different colors and models until he came to a silver Honda. Kneeling next to one of its doors, he reached his fingers out to touch the bright, shiny surface. A trace of a smile danced across his features, but it soon evaporated. Moments later the boy had a key in his hand.

  Pinching the key firmly between his thumb and forefinger, he pressed it against the paint of the door as hard as he could and drew diagonally downward, leaving a long, deep mark.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Miss Q's Story

  I was nineteen and still in high school when it happened. Just like most girls, at that age I was full of fantasies. I was passionate about everything that was beautiful: the flowers in the grass; summer; lovely skirts; ice cream. I loved my mom and dad very much. I knew that with my grades, I would be able to get into a decent university, and there I would meet a cute, handsome guy and we would get married... I simply did not believe there could be such a thing in this world as a bad person.

  Thick curtains were drawn across the one window in the room, and the only light in the room came from a dim little lamp in the corner. It was very quiet; apart from Miss Q's hypnotic voice, the only sound in the room was the monotonous humming from the air conditioner on the wall.

  They had rolled up the rug and stood it in one corner of the room. They formed a tight semi-circle around Miss Q as she sat on the floor, head drooped, telling her story; Luo Jiahai and Mr. H sat on one side, Mr. T and Jiang Dexian on the other, and Mr. Z sat across from her.

  One afternoon I went with a classmate of mine to Chongqing Road to go clothes shopping. It was after 6:00 and the sun had set by the time we headed home. We each bought an ice cream and were eating them as we walked. Tons of people were walking in and out of shops on both sides of the street, and the whole place was very lively...

  Moving quietly, Mr. Z turned on a mini tape recorder he had next to him. A moment later a din of noise filled the room. From the chaos of sounds, Luo Jiahai was vaguely able to discern car horns, pop music blaring out from various department stores, merchants hawking their wares, and snatches of conversation from pedestrians as they walked past. He closed his eyes, and all of a sudden it seemed like the five of them were there with her on a busy street in the city.

  Miss Q shivered and buried her face in her hands. Mr. H stood and walked to a corner of the room where there was a small bar fridge. From its freezer he procured an ice cream cone. He then walked to Miss Q's side and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  "Try to relax, Q." He gently pulled her hand away from her face and placed the ice cream cone in her hand.

  "Take a bite, Q." Mr. Z leaned forward a little, his voice soothing. "We're all here. Chin up, okay?"

  It took a full 30 seconds or so for Miss Q to calm down. When she finally lifted her head, her pale cheeks were crisscrossed with tear stains. She smiled apologetically at everyone and raised the partly melted ice cream to her lips.

  In the doorway to one of the shops there was this person dressed up as a huge teddy bear, dancing and waving at passersby as he handed out product flyers. We thought he was funny, so we stopped and watched for a while. I remember thinking how uncomfortable that person must feel, having to wear a big bear suit on such a hot day. When the bear noticed us standing there, it wobbled over with its arms wide and tried to hug us. My classmate laughed and dodged out of the way; we thought he was joking around. But then he suddenly turned toward me and locked his arms around me and squeezed. I was totally caught off-guard, so I just stood there stunned for half a second. But then I started to struggle, but the more I struggled, the tighter he squeezed. The bear's cute and cuddly face suddenly seemed fierce and sinister, and for a second I thought it was going to bite me. I don't know how long he tore at me—whether it was seconds or minutes. All I know is that by the time I finally got free of him, every single button on my blouse had been ripped open and the whole entire street was staring at me...

  Miss Q lowered her head again and began choking up. The ice cream in her hand fell to the floor with a wet splat.

  Mr. Z stared at Miss Q. "Keep going," he said gently.

  Miss Q shook her head violently. "No! No! I'm afraid!"

  Mr. Z did not press her. Instead he signaled for everyone to turn around so that no one was looking at her anymore.

&nb
sp; This gave Miss Q a chance to settle down some, and after a few minutes she stopped sobbing.

  "I'm sorry. Just now, with you all staring at me, it reminded me of how I felt that day when everyone on the street was gawking at my naked chest." Miss Q's voice was still thick and nasally from crying, but in it could be heard a note of determination. "Thank you, everyone. I guess I'll continue."

  I ran home crying and stayed in bed sick for a whole week. My friends came to visit me, and one who didn't know what had happened brought me a giant stuffed animal. I took one look at it and fainted. A month later, I sat the college entrance exams, and you can guess how poorly I did. But that wasn't the worst thing; I discovered that I wasn't able to go near stuffed animals anymore, and any time I even saw one I had a strong negative reaction to it. At first I thought my problem would go away with time, but even after I was at the university it was still with me, following me everywhere I went like a shadow. And it was getting worse. I couldn't even wear clothes made of wool; it was as if anything I wore that was the slightest bit fuzzy might grab me by the neck and choke me until I couldn't breathe. I'm sure you all know how many stuffed animals there are in the typical girls' dormitory at a university. I remember this one time one of my roommates, the girl across from me, got a big teddy bear gift from her boyfriend. It made her really happy, and she kept it on her bed. But for me, that thing was a nightmare. I can't explain what it felt like to come back from class and push the door open to find a giant, tan teddy bear sitting on the bed, glaring at me and grinning wickedly... My legs went weak...

  Miss Q was trembling, her knees drawn up against her chest as if she were trying to shrink into a tiny ball.

  "When you saw the toy bear—was there an expression on its face?" Jiang Dexian asked tenderly.

  "Yes." Miss Q nodded. "Actually, I was sure I was seeing things; toy bears don't have facial expressions; even if they are made with one, it's usually a charming one, like the sort of smile I used to have all the time when I was nineteen. And their expressions can't change. But every time I look at something like that, I always get a really strong feeling..."

  Mr. T glanced at the rolled up rug standing in the corner. "What sort of feeling?"

  Miss Q squirmed uneasily and looked up at them. "Shame," she whispered.

  "Shame?"

  "Yes." She stared into the air in front of her through, her eyes blank. "Just like...like everyone's looking at me, and I'm completely naked."

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Miss Q lost all control and broke down crying.

  With a look of pity in his eyes, Mr. T stood and moved as if to console her, but hesitated, apparently unsure whether that would be appropriate or not. He looked over his shoulder at Mr. Z. Mr. Z nodded at him and turned the tape recorder off.

  Everyone, including Luo Jiahai, moved closer to Miss Q, surrounding her, holding her hands, stroking her hair, muttering soft words of comfort and encouragement. Miss Q wrapped her fingers around Mr. T's hand and clutched it tightly as she bawled her heart out.

  When she gradually calmed down, Mr. Z said, "You're very brave, Q."

  "Th-thank you," she stuttered, wiping the corners of her eyes. "Thank you all."

  The five men looked at each other and smiled.

  "I'm sure we'll all get better." Miss Q made a fist with both hands and thumped it down against her knee. "I'm sure of it."

  CHAPTER

  14

  A Show of Pain ( Part 1 )

  Cigarette in hand, Fang Mu leaned back in his chair and stared at the bulletin board on the opposite wall. On it were pinned photographs of various sizes, all of Luo Jiahai.

  With the city locked-down as tightly as it now was, the chances that Luo Jiahai could escape were close to nil. Furthermore, by all indications, he had not even attempted to leave Changhong City, so he was almost definitely still hiding there somewhere. The real question was: Why had he broken out of the detention center if he was just going to stay within the city?

  Fang Mu picked up a pen and drew a circle on the note pad in front of him. The ink had the effect of making the word written in the center stand out even more: Revenge.

  In the days since Luo Jiahai escaped from captivity, Fang Mu had begun to question his own judgment. Still, after collecting all the information he could and going over it again and again, he remained convinced that certain conclusions he had drawn about Luo Jiahai were, in fact, correct. For example, his love for Shen Xiang. Perhaps that had been Luo Jiahai's motive for breaking out of prison.

  Luo Jiahai's personality was very capable of feeling a need for revenge. He had chosen to break out of prison, but to remain in Changhong City, where Shen Xiang had lived. He would not have done this only to then turn around and look for a way out of the city. Shen Xiang's rape had occurred in Changhong City; could he be staying in order to find the person who raped her?

  Fang Mu shook his head. Luo Jiahai would be stupid to try it. No rape report had even been filed, and the only one who had witnessed it – Shen Xiang herself – was now dead. Without a single clue to go on, trying to find a rapist more than 10 years after the crime would be like trying to find a rusty knife under the city landfill. Unless…

  Unless someone was helping him.

  Fang Mu scribbled a couple more words on the note pad and stared at them: Jiang Dexian.

  The door to the office burst open and Bian Ping's torso leaned in, nostrils flared. "Let's go. I need your help with something."

  Fang Mu followed Bian Ping all the way upstairs to the conference room on the top floor. As they entered, he saw a man in a dark suit waiting at the table. Soon after they sat down, two more people from the Psychology Research Institute joined them.

  Bian Ping started by introducing the man in the suit. “This is Yang Jincheng, director of the Psychology Research Institute, and a prominent expert in psychology and psychotherapy."

  Yang Jincheng nodded and made a barely detectable bow. "At your service, everybody."

  Bian Ping spread his hands. "No need to be so polite, Director Yang. You may have asked us to do you a favor, but it would be far more accurate to say that today we've been blessed with a unique opportunity to learn from your expertise." He picked up a pile of documents and began handing them around the table. "Please take a look, folks."

  Fang Mu took one of the folders and opened it to find a résumé, at the top right corner of which was a name. "Lu Xu?" he said out loud.

  "That's right," Bian Ping said, looking at him. "Lu Xu was the motorcycle cop who was injured during the massive pile-up the other day. While he was recovering at the hospital, he experienced some very intense mood swings that predominantly manifested in the form of insomnia, irritability, a reduced sense of identity, and so on. After the doctors closely monitored his symptoms for a while, he was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

  "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," one of the men repeated under his breath.

  "Exactly." Bian Ping's eyes moved from face to face around the table as he continued in a grave tone of voice. "The patient is one of our own, so I want everyone to give Director Yang their full cooperation on this. Let's help Lu Xu find his way out of his condition as soon as possible." When he was finished, he turned to look at Yang Jincheng.

  Yang Jincheng smiled and began to speak in a manner that was neither hurried nor slow. "I was asked by the City Hospital and the Public Security Bureau to provide Officer Lu Xu with my assistance. From now on I'll be referring to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder simply as PTSD. It is a mental disorder resulting from psychological trauma that is caused by a sudden or catastrophic threat of violence which can lead to chronic symptoms of mental dysfunction. I am personally very interested in this condition, and have conducted quite a bit of research on the subject. If I can be of help to Officer Lu Xu, it will please me to no end. Of course, all of you are experts on various aspects of psychology yourselves, so to a very real extent I will need to rely on your assistance as well."

  He cam
e across as both professional and down-to-earth, and beneath his humble demeanor he seemed to carry himself with a certain air of nobility.

  Fang Mu was keenly aware that Bian Ping's not having mentioned such things as the jail break or the missing gun had been intentional. Suddenly his own obsession with finding Luo Jiahai and his neglect at having not even given any thought to the wounded officer caused a wave of shame to well up in him.

  "Okay, so, what should we do?" Fang Mu asked.

  "The treatment of PTSD is a step-by-step process. If you will all allow me, I will be happy to organize and assign to you the various tasks needing done." Yang Jincheng's features relaxed even further. "The first thing we need to do is to chat with Officer Lu Xu and lead him to a balanced state of mind with the appropriate mixture of alertness and relaxation. You could call it warming him up."

  "Are you talking about psychodrama?" Fang Mu blurted.

  "Yes; that is correct." Yang Jincheng seemed a little surprised. He looked Fang Mu up and down for a moment and turned to Bian Ping, emitting a small laugh. "I thought the psychologists employed by the police force were all exclusively interested in criminology, but here it turns out you have someone who has studied treatment methodology as well."

  Bian Ping chuckled, a pleased look claiming his face. Fang Mu's ears were red, but he was inwardly excited. Psychodrama was a form of group therapy that was used to treat PTSD. Over the course of nearly a century, from traditional re-enactment and abreaction to the addition of ceremony and narrative, psychodrama had been successfully employed to cure a great number of trauma cases. However, due to its complexity, its dramatic nature, and the relatively high level of expertise required of its practitioners, it was not a widely used form of treatment for PTSD in the country.