After a few minutes of questioning, it became clear to Fong that Chen was the only officer assigned to assist him. “Great. We each solve eight and a half murders and we’re done,” he thought.
Fong turned to the map and with a sigh asked, “How big’s the lake, Chen?” Fong consciously left the Captain part out of the ugly fellow’s name.
Chen noted the impoliteness, then responded. “Over ten kilometres at its longest. Just over two at its widest . . . Fong.”
Fong looked at the younger man. “Toady,” he thought. “What do I care what a toady calls me?” Fong smiled. “Is Ching the only town on the lake?” This time Fong left his name off altogether.
Again Chen noted the rudeness but answered, “There’s a smaller town to the north and a village on the western shore.”
“And this?” Fong pointed at the only large island in the lake.
“The Island of the Half-wits, the locals call it. If it has a real name I’ve never heard it. The people in the city have little to do with the residents there. It’s a farming community. No one remembers when those families got there. Very likely centuries ago. The locals won’t intermarry with them because the families on the island have intermarried with each other for . . . for however long they’ve been there.”
“Hence the Island of the Half-wits?”
“That would be my guess.”
“And the three brothers that were arrested . . .”
“Were from the island, sir.”
Fong hadn’t heard anyone call him “sir” in a very long time. He tried not to be influenced by it. But he was.
“The specialist needed to make an arrest. That’s what he said. He left it up to the local officers. They brought in thirty or so suspects. I think it was only local prejudice that those sorry men you saw were included.”
“Any indication why the specialist chose those three?”
“None, sir. He interrogated them in private. It took a long time before he made up his mind and charged those three with the murders.”
“If he just needed to make an arrest, he could have charged the first ones that he saw.”
“I don’t deny that.”
“I want to see the transcripts of the interrogations.”
“That’s not possible.” Before Fong could question him further he added, “None were made.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t in our hands. The whole thing was run by the specialist. He had his own political adviser and a small army of soldiers and technicians. It was his show, sir, not ours.”
“Were local Triad members interviewed?’
“They were contacted.”
“Who exactly?”
“Pak Tsz Sin.”
“The White Paper Fan?”
“Yes, sir.”
The White Paper Fan was the ritual name for a Triad’s financial officer. Like all Triad members, he was also identified by a code number drawn from Buddhist and Taoist numerology traditions. Fong was amazed that he could recall that 415 was the Pak Tsz Sin’s numerical assignation.
“Who else was put on warning?”
“Cho Hai . . .” The Grass Slipper was a Triad’s liaison officer. Sort of a gangster PR guy. His number was 432 . . . “and Hung Kwan . . .” also called Red Pole. He was the Triad’s field commander. He was often well versed in martial arts but was considered expendable by the upper echelons. His number was 426.
“No one big was contacted? No Shan Chu or Fu Shan Chu?” These were the boss and the sub-boss. “Not even the Heung Chu or the Sing Fung?” The former was in charge of rituals and was traditionally third in command. The latter was fourth in command and looked after franchising the Triad.
“No, sir. The specialist didn’t think it necessary.”
Fong thought back to the Triad mark on the exterior of the boat and the slashed markings and message on the mirror. Then he thought of the four close-up photos of the broken chainlink on the Triad medallion.
Why four of the same thing?
Fong had dealt with the Triads in Shanghai. They were a sultry mix of ritual and fear-mongering. Women, gambling and extortion were their stock-in-trade. Not mass murder.
Triads had been active in China since 1674 when the Manchu invaders ended the Ming Dynasty. Myth had it that five monks established the initial five Triads to try and reinstate the Mings. Because the Ming family name was Hung and their royal colour was red, the Triads took both upon themselves.
The Triads played major roles in the Szechuan, Hupeh and Shansi rebellions in the 1790s, the Cudgels uprising in the 1850s, and in the Boxer Rebellion in Beijing in the 1890s. Dr. Sun Yat Sen, the founder of the Republic of China, allied himself with the Hsing Chung Triad in 1906 to begin the revolution that eventually led to the fall of the Manchu Dynasty in 1911. Sun Yat Sen’s successor, Yuan Shih Kai, openly worked with the Triads. When he gave way to Chiang Kai Shek, the doors of power opened to the Triads because the generalissimo was a high-ranking member of the Shang Hai Green Tang. From his capital in Nanking, Chiang led his Triad in battles against the Communists under Mao Tse Tung. During the Japanese occupation, the Triads collaborated with the enemy. Later they aided Chiang Kai Shek’s retreat to Taiwan.
However, by that time several of the “franchises” of the major Triads had thought better of their alliance with Chiang Kai Shek. The old generalissimo was obviously losing. The Triads from the interior, especially around Xian, cut a deal with the Communists. In return for their support against the nationalists, the renegade Triads were to be left to their own devices. As long as they were discreet.
Seventeen dead foreigners didn’t strike Fong as very discreet.
Fong looked at Captain Chen again. “How’d you get stuck with this duty?”
“I was first there. I took the call.”
Yes, but . . . the man was hiding something. Fong only took a moment to figure out what. Chen was young — and not unlike himself at that age — ambitious. Fong smiled.
“What, sir?”
“Nothing, Captain. I was young once, too.” Before Chen could question him on that, Fong continued, “What was this specialist like?”
“Old.”
The word came out angry. Chen had obviously not intended that and he quickly apologized for his disrespectful statement.
“It’s all right, Captain. The alternative to getting old is even more complicated to think about. What else about him?”
“He had white hair that he didn’t bother dying. His legs seemed unsteady. His face was broad. No wedding ring.”
“Accent?”
“He didn’t speak.”
“Huh?”
“He didn’t speak. He was a mute. He did nothing but write on his notepad what he wanted done.”
The mongoose stood on its hind legs beside Fong’s spine, tasting the air.
Fong turned away and looked around the deserted factory. What had they built here? Why was it closed? How many people no longer had work? What terror lurked in those corroding metal barrels? He walked past Chen to the array of photographs on the wall. Again he admired their precision. The ordered detail of the workmanship. Somehow familiar. “How tall was he?”
“Tall for a Han Chinese. Maybe five foot eight. Why? Do you know him?”
Fong shook his head, “How could I? China’s a big country. There are many crime scene detectives. Many experts.” Though something about this specialist did seem familiar. But a mute CSU guy? Whoever heard of that? “Did he have any visible scars?”
Chen nodded.
“On his neck,” he pointed to his throat just below his Adam’s apple. “It looked like a surgical scar. He signed the arrest warrant Inspector Wang.”
Fong told himself it wasn’t possible. Gunshots in the Pudong industrial area had ended Wang Jun. Besides, Wang was a common name. Shit, all Chinese names were common. Call out “Chan” in a crowded market and a hundred heads would turn. Fong considered it for a moment more then changed the topic. “Let’s get started. I want
the photographs duplicated, the second set labelled then hung on the far wall.“
“I have access to photographic equipment, I could get full transparencies made, sir.”
Fong had no idea what transparencies were but said, “Fine. But first get all the dead men’s documents translated, catalogued and laid out beneath their pictures. All the evidence bags opened and associated with the correct victim. Locate the man who owns the boat. And the owner of the restaurant who supplied the food. And any dock worker who touched that boat that night. And everyone who might have been on the lake that night. And . . .” Fong looked up.
Chen was writing furiously. The Captain finally caught up with Fong and looked to him for further orders. “Something else, sir?”
“Yes, Captain Chen.” Fong held his breath and told himself that there was no other way. That he had to keep his eye on the goal — getting home. And there was no way to get back to Shanghai without finding who murdered those men on that boat. And there was no way to find that out without his people. Fine. He sighed. Just one problem. He wasn’t sure if he’d survive the beating that would no doubt follow his demand. But he saw no other choice available to him.
“What, sir?” asked Chen.
Fong took another deep breath and let fly, “Tell whoever runs you, Captain Chen or whoever the fuck you are, that I need my people from Shanghai to work on this or else they haven’t got a chance of finding out what really happened out on that lake. Get me Lily from forensics and the coroner from the Hua Shan hospital. Tell whoever it is that owns you that if these people aren’t here, I’m not working on this case.”
Chen’s mouth flopped open.
“While you’re at it, tell them that I need some chalk and a wide-topped desk, a model of that boat and, oh yeah, where’s the can in this place?”
Far to the east and north, the events in the deserted factory in Ching were being monitored closely. “Why would they resurrect the murderer Zhong Fong?” Her assistant’s question hung in the air as Madame Wu looked out her office window. She put her hands up to the cool glass and pressed. She had old peasant hands. Like her mother’s. But not scalded and blistered like her mother’s from picking the cocoons of silkworms out of vats of boiling water. She remembered the agony on her mother’s face as winter approached. She remembered the humbling poverty.
Then the Japanese and the resistance. And change.
She tapped the glass of her office window. “So many changes,” she thought.
Her assistant repeated his question. “Why would they resurrect Zhong Fong, Madame Minister?”
She didn’t answer although she knew the answer to his question. She was thinking about the principles of leverage. She had been trained as a civil engineer, after all. If I could stand on a platform far enough away from the Earth, I could move the planet by simply pressing down on a stick. Leverage and distance did that. The principle was sound. Positioning, not strength, determined victory.
“Could he be made to work for us, Madame Minister?”
She felt herself on the platform. All she need do is press — and with luck the entire world would change. The whole history of China would be redirected. Back. Back to where this all began. Back to a time before money was everything. “We will soon regain Hong Kong. Our window on the world is secure. Now all we need do is shut the door,” she thought.
Madame Wu turned to her assistant and said, “Yes, he could be made to work for us.” But what she thought was: “He had better be made to work for us or all my years of planning and all the risks I’ve taken will be for nothing.”
Madame Wu smiled.
“Madame Minister?” asked her assistant.
“Nothing — nothing that you’d understand.” She turned from him and looked out the window. It was beginning to rain on Tiananmen Square.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GETTING BACK TO THE TEAM
“They’re not going to be pleased about this,” Captain Chen said, then turned on his heel and left. Fong looked up at the slanted bank of filthy windows in the ceiling of the place, then stepped into the fading squares of light on the floor.
He just nodded. “No shit,” he said to the air.
His two years west of the Wall had taught him the value of simple pleasures — like watching day’s end. He removed his padded jacket, then his shirt. The milky rays of dusk felt cool on his skin. He sat and enjoyed the movement of the sun’s dying light on him, around him.
When it was finally dark, he took a deep breath and flipped the wall switch on. The light from the naked bulbs had no warmth or movement to it. Fong turned to the wall of photos. So much death. So many passings at once. And such brutality. He focused on the pictures of the Chinese men with the scraped-off faces. Obliterated faces. Why do this? Fong got up and went to the pictures. He ran his fingers across the first photograph. He had seen violence in his time but nothing like this.
Fong glanced at the photos of the Japanese men with the lengths of intestine down their fronts, and nothing in their pants.
Erased faces — removed genitals.
He glanced at the Triad markings, but his eyes quickly moved to the Americans whose heads had been switched. This message Fong recognized. Many Chinese couldn’t tell one Caucasian from the next. Switch the heads — what’s the difference.
But so much death. Hardly discreet. Un-Triad-like.
The ancient word chi welled up inside him like something long buried coming up in the spring rains.
Chi was a word that evoked both awe and fear. Chinese mania, the foreigners called it. There had been famous outbreaks before. Reports of those infamous eruptions of chi were whispered about at the dark end of alleys in Shanghai’s Old City when a white person made the mistake of thinking it a cute San Francisco Chinatown.
Fong took one more look at the pictures then turned off the light. He walked in the gloom. Only the steady blinking of the red light on his ankle cuff broke the darkness.
He lay on his back and tucked his rolled shirt beneath his neck. He pulled the Mao jacket up to his chin and listened to the silence of the place for a moment; then sleep took him.
Fong never felt the plastic mask slide over his mouth and nose. The clang of a cymbal woke him. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of the deserted factory, he thought he heard an arhu’s mournful notes added to the cymbal’s insistence. He struggled to a sitting position, disoriented, unable to tell if this was a dream or actually happening.
The mongoose lulled in a drugged sleep.
Then a single light cut through the darkness. A spotlight. Into the light stepped Fu Tsong in full Peking Opera makeup and costume — ready for her role in Journey to the West. A drum sounded and she pulled a four-foot-long feather from her headdress down into her mouth and struck a pose.
“I’m asleep,” Fong shouted then leapt to his feet. The light snapped out. Silence. Then the drum sounded just once. Another light snapped on. This time it was right in front of him. Fu Tsong stepped into the light. She was so close that Fong could smell the greasepaint. She raised her elegant arms and the costume’s long sleeves furled down to her shoulders. Her hand reached out and touched his throat — and he knew. He closed his eyes — and accepted.
Her hands. No, its hands. Cold. Male. Then the hypodermic pierced his neck.
Fong’s eyes fluttered open. He maintained consciousness long enough to look into the eyes behind the greasepaint. They were unblinking. Hard.
“The hallucinogen should wear off soon.” It was a voice Fong didn’t recognize. He felt a cold hand on his face. Then strong fingers pried open his eyelids. A shard of pain shot through his skull as a bright penlight snapped his irises shut.
He spat in the direction of the light.
A curse. A kick to his head. A shouting match. “Break his teeth. He has too much pride.” The sound of far-off cracking. Hard chips on his tongue.
“Typhoid and toothless sounds good. Shoot him up again.”
A pinprick breaking the continuity of his ski
n. Then delirium. Gentle delirium.
Fong laughed in his sleep. Then he felt a strong hand on his throat and saw those hard eyes again. He found himself falling. As if down a well. As if backward. At night.
“His fever’s breaking.” A soft voice.
“That’s quick.” A hard male voice.
“He might have been infected before.”
“Is that likely?”
“No, but it’s possible I guess. Damn!”
“I want him under longer!” The politico.
Fong gasped for air. There was something covering his mouth. He wanted to scream, but found himself awash in a place between wake and sleep where everything slid and changed and lashed out.
Snippets of voices.
“Well, what did he say?” The politico. “What was his plan?” The politico again.
“Well, he asked me to do a stack of things for him.” Chen’s voice.
Then a laugh. Not Chen’s. It could have been the thug’s laugh but Fong wasn’t sure.
“Open his mouth.”
A gasp. “What happened here?
“He fell.” The politico. General laughter.
“Very funny. This could take days to fix.”
“It can’t.” The politico.
“Well, there’s a faster way.”
“Do it.” The politico.
“Hold him still. This’ll hurt.”
A whirring sound. Something prying open his mouth. Then something hot. Molten on his teeth. Spikes of pain. Then on his upper teeth. More spikes.
Then his nose was covered and he floated — tasting oblivion.
He was in a bed. He could feel the crisp coolness of hospital sheets. He sensed it was morning. Which morning he couldn’t guess. He allowed the light to filter through his eyelashes and he slowly turned his head from side to side. The window was to his right.
He opened his eyes.
Sunlight streamed through a large glass pane. A slender silhouette interrupted the square of light.
“Hey ho, short stuff,” the silhouette said in English. “You more looking than usual rotten.” Sort of English.
The Lake Ching Murders - A Mystery of Fire and Ice Page 7
