by Unknown
Song — the lieutenant could have uncovered Jiao’s connection to “Mao,” approached him, and, to “Mao,” posed a threat.
“Yes, you have to say yes to me, say yes!” “Mao” shouted. Yes echoed in the bedroom.
Jiao didn’t respond.
The silence thundered over Chen. When “Mao” stopped his monologue, the bedroom was shrouded in stillness, except for his labored breathing.
Chen opened the door further to see before him an astonishing tableau. “Mao” sat naked on top of Jiao, straddling her abdomen, his back toward the closet door, his muscles stretched taut, tremulous, his hand rising up from her mouth, as if having just given up the effort to stop her shouting. She lay motionless, her white legs spread wide, her pubic hair darkly visible.
Only a tenth of a second, but long enough for all the details to start etching themselves onto Chen’s consciousness.
“You —” “Mao” abruptly dropped his Hunan accent. “I did all that for you. Without you, without —”
Wrenching open the door completely, Chen whirled headlong, flinging himself forward, but stumbled over the broom that was falling out of the closet.
“Mao” jerked up and jumped off Jiao. Swinging, he snatched up something from the nightstand and hurled it at Chen. But for Chen’s lurch, it might have hit its target. Instead, it missed and smashed against the window, breaking through the glass with a loud crash.
Chen was shocked at the sight of “Mao” — it was none other than Hua, the real estate tycoon he had seen earlier that afternoon at the cocktail party. There Hua had spoken with a strong Beijing accent.
Struggling to regain his balance, Chen countered by lashing out with the knife in his hand. Hua dodged violently, his body hitting Mao’s picture above the headboard.
What happened next came close to an absurd slow-motion scene in a horror movie. It appeared as if the picture of Mao had come to life. It groaned, shivered, and crashed hard on Hua’s head, with all the weight of its heavy metal frame.
“Mao —” Hua swayed, stared in disbelief, slumped back on the bed, and lost consciousness.
Chen rushed over in two strides and shoved Hua’s body off of Jiao. She lay still on the rumpled sheet, her body spread-eagled, cold, and ghastly against the flickering night-light. He touched her throat. No pulse.
How long it had been, he had no idea, suffering a sudden, overwhelming nausea in his whole being.
He was reaching for the cell phone when Hua’s body jolted up in a ferocious motion before rolling off the bed with a thud, again cracking against the fractured Mao portrait on the floor.
His fingers touching the phone seemed to signal the abrupt footsteps running outside along the corridor, and then conjured up a loud pounding on the door.
“Open the door! Police Patrol.”
It was Old Hunter, who was inserting a key into the lock.
THIRTY
“OH — CHIEF INSPECTOR CHEN!” Old Hunter bumped in, panting. “I was patrolling on the street when I heard a crash and saw a black object flying out of the window. Is something wrong —”
He cut himself short at the sight of the naked body on the bed — Jiao, lying stiff, still — and then the other one, a naked man on the floor, sprawling over a splintered portrait of Mao.
The utter disarray of the room was presented in ghastly somberness, with only the tiny night-light flickering in the corner. The clothes of the two bodies were scattered around. There was a chunk of plaster on the bedsheet that had fallen from the wall above the headboard. A pocketknife glittered beside the rumpled pillow. A broom lay not too far away, sticking out of an open closet, pointing to the bed.
How did Chen come to be in the midst of all that?
Chen looked distraught, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled, and his T-shirt and pants crumpled and soiled, as if he had been just released from a prison cell. Old Hunter knew that Chen had just come back that morning on the night train from Beijing.
However, nothing about the eccentric chief inspector would be surprising.
“I’m calling for an ambulance,” Chen said, producing his cell phone.
Feeling for a pulse on her ankle, Old Hunter said, shaking his head, “It’s too late, Chief. Who’s the man?”
“His name is Hua. They had a fight. She started shouting, and he tried to stop her —”
“So he strangled her —” Old Hunter didn’t finish the sentence, wondering where Chen had been at the time. He checked to see if the man on the floor was breathing. There was a thin trail of blood congealing along his temple, but he breathed evenly. “He’s alive.”
“I let myself into the apartment and was looking around. Then they came back unexpectedly — no, Jiao arrived first, and then Hua, possibly through a secret door. So I had to hide in the closet. I couldn’t see and I could hardly hear.”
Old Hunter turned on the lamp on the nightstand. The light glared on her white body, which had a purplish bruise around her shoulders and neck. Her breasts were flat and appeared unbruised, yet bore something like a bite mark. There were no other outward signs of sex — no semen around the genitals, thighs, or in the black pubic hair. Her large eyes remained open, staring. The corneas were not yet cloudy, a sign of a recent death. Her fingernails had hardly lost their pinkish color.
Chen picked up her crumpled dress and covered her in silence.
Technically, they should wait for the arrival of the detectives from the homicide squad or Internal Security before touching anything, Old Hunter thought, shifting his glance toward the closet.
“I should have come —” Again he left the sentence unfinished. A couple of minutes earlier? He was outside on the street, unaware of the situation here. As in an old saying, the water’s too far away for the fire close at hand. Still, he didn’t want to sound too critical of Chen. It could have been hard for Chen to judge the situation in the room while hiding in the closet. “But you subdued him.”
“When I became aware that something was terribly wrong, I jumped out of the closet. He hurled the cinerary casket of Shang at me. It was empty except for a picture of Shang inside. Then, in an effort to dodge my attack, he caused the Mao portrait to fall and hit him on the head with the full weight of the metal frame.”
“Mao’s spirit worked,” Old Hunter murmured, shuddering at the realization. He didn’t really believe in the supernatural, but there was something so unbelievable about the case. It was almost like those Suzhou operas. “Hua killed Shang’s granddaughter under his portrait, and Mao knocked him out. Mao’s not dead.”
“Mao’s not dead — you can say that again.”
“But how did Jiao and Hua get together?”
“Here’s what I think,” Chen said. “Hua learned about her family history while she was working as a receptionist at his company. He then overwhelmed her with his Big Buck advances, buying her the apartment and everything else, cutting a ‘little concubine’ deal with her. He did all that, however, not because of her, but because of Shang, her grandmother.”
“I’m totally lost, Chen. It’s even more mind-boggling than a Suzhou opera ghost story. Shang died so many years ago. Is Hua such a crazy fan of hers?”
“No, he fell for Jiao because of Shang’s affair with Mao. I should have made that clear.”
“So — Hua fucking Jiao was like a parallel of Mao fucking Shang. Is that what you mean?”
“It’s more than that. By sleeping with Jiao — Shang’s granddaughter — Hua turns himself into Mao. He started talking like Mao, thinking like Mao, living like Mao, and fucking like Mao too.”
“But Hua is a Big Buck. He could have girls like Jiao and live like an emperor — like Mao too. Why all the bother, Chief?”
“Being Mao gave Hua a meaning he had never known before. In terms of the cultural unconscious, it’s the emperor archetype — Son of Heaven, with the divine mandate and power, all the emperor’s men and women. That’s why Hua was so panic-stricken about the possibility of losing Jiao, a woman he di
dn’t really care for. Consciously, she was nothing to him. But in his subconscious, Jiao was everything.”
“Leaving your psychological jargon aside, he’s devil-possessed. He has fucked his brains out! He must have watched too many movies about Mao and the emperors. He’s totally crazy.”
“It’s sheer craziness, but for such a split personality, it makes sense. Jiao provided the mechanism for him to switch into Mao, so he couldn’t afford to let anyone know about their relationship. That led to a hell of secrecy: adjoining apartments, a secret door from his apartment into hers — somewhere in the living room, I believe — and financial transactions too. After she quit her job, he no longer was seen in her company, but he kept seeing her in secret. That’s how you caught a glimpse of them by the window the other night.”
“I’m still confounded, Chief. That bastard is crazy — why would Jiao have played Shang for him?”
“I don’t think Jiao liked the role of Shang, but he must have insisted on it as the condition of their Mao deal.”
“Beauty has a thin fate indeed. What a curse to three generations! A curse to her grandmother, to her mother, and to her too. But what’s the damned point for him?”
“There’s not a point in the world — its not like in a Suzhou opera. There isn’t always a transcendental point visible in life, so people have to have their own point, or to make one, at least, in their own imagination,” Chen said, his dismal smile getting lost in thought. “Anyway, Hua got increasingly uneasy about Jiao’s visits to Xie’s place, and about her mixing with other people. For instance, Yang kept trying to drag Jiao to other parties —”
Chen’s cell phone rang, cutting short his speech.
“Oh, it’s Liu,” he said to Old Hunter, pressing a button.
“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, I’ve got the information you requested. Among the people Song interviewed during your vacation, there’s one named Hua. He owns several large companies, including the one for which Jiao once worked. It was just routine. Nothing suspicious on the record —”
“Nothing suspicious on the record,” Chen repeated in irrepressible sarcasm. “Then listen to this, Comrade Liu. Less than an hour ago, Hua killed Jiao in her apartment. He’s in my custody. Hurry over here with your people.”
“What?” Liu said, too astonished to absorb what Chen had said. “But you didn’t say anything about it this morning, or this afternoon.”
“You were so bent on your tough measures, expecting to get the warrant tomorrow. Did you really want to listen?” Chen added after a pause, “Hua also killed Yang, who he saw as a potential threat that could drag Jiao away from him.”
“He killed Yang! But — why should he have bothered to leave Yang’s body in Xie’s garden?”
Old Hunter, too, found it hard to believe. How could Chen have discovered it while on vacation thousands of miles away?
“In Hua’s imagination, Xie had became another threat because Jiao was nice to him.”
“How could an old pathetic fellow have been a threat?”
“Hua’s paranoid, and all he saw was that Jiao was nice to Xie. So by getting rid of Yang and planting her body there, Hua tried to kill two birds with one stone.”
“You — you have done an amazing job. We’re on the way. Stay there, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“Yes, I’ll stay here,” Chen said, snapping the phone closed in disgust. “An amazing job indeed, Old Hunter. Jiao was murdered in this very room, not even a stone’s throw away from the closet I was in.”
“But you did your job,” Old Hunter said in earnest, aware of the agony in Chen’s voice. A cop could close many cases successfully, but a single screwup could haunt him forever. “You were in the closet, unable to see or hear clearly. Nobody could have done any better under the circumstances. But for you, the criminal would have got away. What a case —”
Old Hunter lost his words in angst. What a Mao case — so many years ago for him, and now for Chen …
“Shang —”
THIRTY-ONE
“SHANG —” HUA WAS COMING round, his features convulsed with bewildered astonishment. “What the hell happened?”
“That is exactly what happened,” Chen said, thinking of the superstitious interpretation of Old Hunter’s. “You strangled Shang’s granddaughter, Mao knocked you out — at least, Mao’s portrait did.”
“But how did you get in here?” During their fleeting encounter in the dark, Hua must not have seen Chen break out of the closet — probably hadn’t realized that Chen had been hiding in there at all.
“You devil, you deserve a thousands cuts!” Old Hunter interrupted. “You won’t get away with it. This is murder in the first degree.”
Hua appeared very different, his eyes lusterless, his left cheek twitching uncontrollably, his mouth dropping. There was no trace left of the imperial Mao persona. Nor even of a successful businessman. He was totally crushed.
It was a moment for Chen to seize upon. To shake something more out of the fallen. There were still unanswered questions.
But his cell phone shrilled out again, breaking the spell of the moment. It was Minister Huang from Beijing, and Chen had to take the call.
“Liu’s just called me, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“Oh, Minister Huang, I was going to call you too,” Chen said, not surprised by Liu’s fast move. Jiao was killed in her apartment by someone named Hua. A nut who tries to imitate Mao. He is in my custody.”
“A nut who tries to imitate Mao! That’s unbelievable. But how did you get in there? Internal Security is complaining about your singular methods.” The minister added quickly, “It’s sour grapes, of course. I understand. You beat them again.”
“They were so anxious to use their tough measures, but it wasn’t a good idea, not on such a politically sensitive case. As you have said, it wasn’t in the best interest of the Party. So I decided that I had to act on my own.”
“It was very decisive action, I have to say. Now, did you find anything there?”
“Yes, there was something left behind by Shang.”
“Really, Chief Inspector Chen!”
“A scroll of a poem in Mao’s brush handwriting with a dedication to Phoenix — which was her nickname, you know. It was ‘Ode to the Plum Blossom.’ And the scroll was certified as authentic. Shall I turn it over to Internal Security?”
“Oh, that — no. Turn the scroll over to me. You don’t have to say anything about it to Internal Security. You’re working directly under the Central Party Committee. Is there anything else?”
“Not at this moment,” he said. Apparently the minister didn’t think that the scroll mattered a great deal to the image of Mao. Chen decided not to mention the broom. He still had to verify what was inside first. Besides, Old Hunter and Hua were listening. “I’m going to search thoroughly. whatever I find, I’ll report to you, Minister Huang.”
Old Hunter looked confused. So did Hua, though he had been tipped about Chen’s high connections. Little did he imagine that the “would-be writer” was actually a chief inspector who was talking to a government minister in Beijing.
“Don’t reveal anything to the media,” Minister Huang said. “It’s in the Party’s interest.”
“Yes, I understand. It’s in the Party’s interest.”
“You solved the case under a lot of pressure. I’d like to suggest that you take a vacation. How about one in Beijing?”
“Thank you so much, Minister Huang,” Chen said, wondering whether the minister was aware of his recent trip to Beijing. “I’ll think about it.”
“As I said, you’re an exceptional police officer. The Party authorities can always depend on you. Greater responsibilities are awaiting you.”
The minister didn’t forget his promise of promotion to Chen probably as the successor to Party Secretary Li in the Shanghai Police Bureau.
Following the conclusion of the phone call, a wave of silence overwhelmed the room.
Hua looked up from the floor,
his smoldering glare shifting and settling on Chen.
“What a bastard you are! You’ve created all this trouble for me, haven’t you? But you’re so stupid. Surrounded and surrounded by the enemy, / I stand firm and invincible.”
Hua was quoting again. Those were lines composed by Mao while fighting the guerrilla war against the nationalists in the days of the Jinggang Mountains. However, it was ridiculous for Hua to attempt the Hunan accent. It sounded hollow, empty, without any conviction.
“What an idiot!” Old Hunter commented. “Still lost in the days of the Jinggang Mountains. That son of a bitch doesn’t even know what day it is today.”
But what did Hua know about the Mao material? Chen had to find out. Judging by the renewed defiance of “Mao,” it would be impossible to make him talk before Internal Security arrived.
“Today? Look at what the so-called reforms have done to China today. A total restoration of capitalism. New Three Mountains are weighing down on the working class, who are suffering once again in the fire, in the water. Indeed, all this I foresaw long, long ago. Contemplating over the immensity, / I ask the boundless earth: / Who is the master controlling the rise and fall of it.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Old Hunter grunted. “The rise and fall of the devil, I say.”
“He’s quoting again,” Chen said, recognizing the lines from another poem written in Mao’s youth, which was perhaps less well known. But Hua’s speech was a passionate defense of Mao — and self-justification, as well.
But it was a defense made in the most grotesque way, with him lying stark naked on his back, mouthing those heroic lines, waving his arm in a style, fashioned after Mao’s — as in the picture beneath him. It was a weird juxtaposition too, not just of Mao and Hua, but of so many things — past and present, personal and not personal. Chen had a hard time fighting off the impulse to kick the hell out of Hua and all that was behind him. It was then that an idea hit the chief inspector.
He flipped out a cigarette for Old Hunter, lit it, and then another one for himself, flicking away the ashes, as if too contemptuous to cast another look at the prostrate figure on the floor.
