Chasing the Monkey King

by D. C. Alexander

  Severin took out his phone and dialed Officer Joe as another thunderclap roared in their ears and a hard rain began to fall.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  By dusk, Officer Joe’s men—half of them plain-clothes, half uniformed police—had exhumed the remains and were scouring the area for evidence with the help of one dog and two metal detectors. But to Severin’s surprise, they hadn’t found two bodies—they’d found three.

  Momentarily satisfied with the progress being made, Joe did Severin and Zhang the courtesy of coming over to explain where things stood. “As you probably guessed, it looks like the perpetrator dragged the bodies to the edge of the compost heap, then got on top of it and shoved waste down the side to conceal them, quick and dirty. Two of the bodies are wearing clothes of American manufacture. One male, one female, each appearing to match the descriptions of Powell and Keen—at least with respect to approximate height and hair color. The third body appears to be Chinese.”

  “The van driver, Fang Xu,” Severin said.

  “Possibly. None of the bodies have any identification on them. Each has one kill shot to the skull. It’s clear the female was also hit in the hip. I’m confident we’ll find abdominal shots to both male victims as well, once we have a chance to carefully examine the bodies. My guess, under some pretext or threat, the perpetrator convinced the three victims to get out of the van. Then, before they could run, he got off at least three quick shots to hobble or incapacitate them. Then he finished each of them off with a shot to the skull and concealed the bodies. You might also be interested to see this,” Joe said, holding up a small clear plastic evidence bag. It held a brass bullet shell.

  “.32 ACP?” Severin said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Is the .32 ACP a common bullet in China?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Joe said, looking impressed. “First of all, while some nevertheless do, it’s technically illegal for private citizens to have guns. So no bullets are common. That being said, the .32 caliber is that much more uncommon. And I dare say that in China this particular bullet,” he said, turning the shell so that Severin could see its flat, round back end, “is unheard of.” Stamped into the brass, in text that curved around the primer pocket, were the words Winchester Super X. An American bullet. “We’ve only found the one shell. It was in the irrigation ditch under 35 centimeters of water. My guess is the perpetrator tried to pick up his brass to minimize evidence, but couldn’t find this one and gave up in his haste. But it looks like we’ll recover at least three bullets. As I mentioned, each victim has an entry wound to the skull. But none of them has an apparent exit wound.”

  “I don’t suppose we could borrow one of the bullets,” Severin said.

  “Quite impossible. But I can probably find a way to email you a copy of the analysis. Just don’t tell anyone where you got it.”

  “We’d be grateful. And if there’s ever a need to have the report submitted as evidence in an American court, an official copy would have to be requested through proper diplomatic channels anyway. So as far as we’re concerned, anything you email to us will never have existed.”

  “Then of what use will it be to you?”

  “That remains to be seen. But it’s a start. Now I suppose we’d better get back to the hotel to call Thorvaldsson.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Back in Seattle four days later, Severin received the forensic report from Officer Joe indicating, among other things, that the gun that killed Powell and Keen was a .32 caliber Beretta Tomcat. “Very popular for concealed carry because of its small size,” Severin explained to Zhang over beers at Big Time Brewery. “Perfect for an ankle holster.”

  “Strapped to the ankle of a shit-bag D.C. attorney,” Zhang said.

  “Methinks. And something else occurred to me last night.”

  “What?”

  “When we interviewed him way back when, Holloman usually referred to Keen and Powell as the Commerce team, or the Commerce investigators. He didn’t like to use their names.”

  “Because it made him uncomfortable,” Zhang said.

  “I just wonder.”

  “Do you think it was Holloman who made the anonymous call to Xiu’s people, warning them that somebody from Marshall Quotient Trading would be poking around the fake YSP factory?”

  “And do I think Holloman was hoping Xiu’s people would kill us? Yes and yes.”

  *****

  Early the next day, they once again flew from Seattle to Washington, D.C. That same evening, dull with jetlag and stinking of the fried crab cakes they’d had for a late dinner, Severin and Zhang sat in a rented Ford sedan, under a broad, ancient chestnut tree on a quiet stretch of Dumbarton Street in the Georgetown neighborhood. It was just after 3 a.m. on a clear, cold night. They were parked several doors down from the stately brick Federal-style townhouse of Ben Holloman, Esquire—hot-shot partner at the prestigious law firm of McElroy, Steen & Duff.

  Three hours earlier, they’d stopped in roughly the same location to take a preliminary look at the house. Though initially frustrated to find that it bore window stickers indicating that it was protected—and no doubt wired with burglar alarms—by a private security company, they’d been pleased to see that the alarm system control keypad was mounted in the kitchen, clearly visible through the home’s front windows.

  “Part of me still finds it hard to believe that Holloman’s our guy,” Zhang said.

  “Who else could have done it?”

  “I don’t know. Someone from the company?”

  “Shooting American bullets from an American gun?”

  “Maybe it was Holloman’s gun in someone else’s hand.”

  “Anything is possible, I suppose.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t like him. Way too uptight. But still, he seemed pretty sincere. Pretty straight. One of those rare birds who come from nowhere and make it to the top table on merit.”

  “On the other hand,” Severin said, “he’s a highly successful member of a profession that has turned being two-faced and full of crap into a form of performance art. I’m sure he could make himself seem like whatever he wants. Maybe all his self-deprecation is a façade. Maybe it takes a viper to climb from where he started to where he is. Someone with no moral compass. Maybe he’s twisted by envy of his privileged Harvard and Yale-educated colleagues. Who knows?”

  “If it was Holloman, why on Earth would he have ever agreed to talk to us in the first place?”

  “He was under the not altogether unreasonable impression that by being cooperative and agreeable, he’d largely avert suspicion. Plus, I’m sure he had great confidence in his ability to act the sincere and concerned witness. Again, he’s a lawyer.”

  “But you think he owns a gun and keeps it at home? Guns are illegal in D.C., aren’t they?”

  “That’s funny, Wallace. You should do stand-up.”

  “Fine. But really, wouldn’t he have been insane to try to smuggle a gun into China? The Chinese don’t play around when it comes to stuff like that.”

  “When we arrived in Shanghai, did Chinese customs bother to unzip your suitcase and conduct even a cursory hand search?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “They didn’t. They ran the baggage through what looked like x-ray machines. But it didn’t look like anybody was monitoring the screens.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’d bet good money those machines aren’t even operational. Just props for deterrence.”

  “You mean they were just running bags down conveyor belts for show, through unmonitored or otherwise dead x-ray machines?”

  “Yup. And someone who travels there regularly would probably be aware of this. Or maybe he bribed a corrupt customs agent to help him circumvent the process. Or maybe he gets preferred treatment over there on account of his status as a highly respected defender of Chinese trading companies.”

  “You can take guns on airplanes?”

  “In checked baggage.”

>   “Okay, but airlines x-ray checked luggage for international flights, don’t they? And they’d know guns aren’t allowed in China. So wouldn’t the airline have stopped it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he express-mailed the gun to himself there, addressing it to an alias just in case. Maybe he concealed it in a lead box. Who knows? Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “But why would he take a gun to China at all?”

  “Why does anybody carry a gun? He’s afraid of stuff.”

  “Okay.” Zhang shook his head. “But I still have my doubts.”

  “Well, we’ll see if we can’t put those doubts to rest shortly. Speaking of which, why don’t you go ahead and take the lens caps off those binoculars.”

  “Alright, sir.”

  With that, Severin took hold of the hammer he’d purchased at a hardware store earlier in the day, opened the car door, and crossed the dark street, heading for Holloman’s house. Once there, he popped on his tiny LED keychain light and examined the front windows until he saw what he was looking for: a window alarm sensor. It was on an old-fashioned multi-paned window with an ancient wooden frame. He would have to move quickly, just in case Holloman was a light sleeper—or even awake. With the blunt top of the hammer, he punched in one of the window panes, reached in, unlatched the window, and raised it a few inches, instantly triggering a shrill alarm siren. He ran for it, looking over his shoulder as he went around the corner of the block to observe, with satisfaction, that Holloman had, rather stupidly, turned on the interior lights of his house. That would make things much easier for Zhang to observe.

  *****

  Sometime later, he rendezvoused with Zhang down on M Street.

  “His security system code is 7771,” Zhang said.

  “Excellent.”

  “And guess what he was brandishing when he rushed into the parlor in his pedophile silk robe?”

  “A cute little handgun.”

  “Es correcto. It was in his hand as soon as he appeared, and he appeared quickly. So I’m guessing he keeps it in the bedroom.”

  “Well done, Wallace.”

  *****

  In late morning the next day, having insisted that Zhang stay behind at the hotel and not risk getting himself arrested—or worse—if things went wrong, Severin was strolling down Holloman’s block of Dumbarton Street for the second time in 10 minutes, on the opposite side of the street from his house, making a quick and dirty reconnaissance. Holloman’s house appeared to be unoccupied, but Severin couldn’t be sure. He continued his walk, going around the corner before calling Zhang.

  “His secretary said he isn’t in the office yet,” Zhang said.

  “Crap. I wish I’d gotten here early enough to make sure he left for work.”

  “Want to wait until tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. I’m going to have a closer look.”

  Severin gave it another few minutes before walking back down Dumbarton Street—this time on the sidewalk fronting Holloman’s house. Reaching it, he marched right up to the front door as if his purpose were entirely normal, then made motions as if knocking on the door—without actually making contact—for the sake of any casual observers, all the while peering in the windows looking for signs of life. The house looked empty.

  Screw it.

  He scanned the street and nearby windows for potential witnesses. Then he reared back, and with all the force he could muster, knocked the door in in one powerful kick with the bottom of his foot. The deadbolt splintered what turned out to be a surprisingly weak and brittle doorframe. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and took two seconds to listen. All was quiet, save for the beeps of the alarm system’s countdown. He ran to the keypad and punched in the code, 7771, deactivating the system, then went down the hall to find Holloman’s bedroom.

  *****

  Back at the hotel, Severin strode into Zhang’s room carrying a large paper grocery bag. He went to the bed and dumped its contents onto Zhang’s comforter. A newly purchased hack saw, a small plastic card, a sawed open, hard-sided, plastic, portable locking gun case, and a small pistol.

  “That, sir,” Severin said, “is a .32 caliber Beretta Tomcat. And can you guess what’s loaded in its seven-round magazine?”

  “Winchester Super X bullets?”

  “Ten points for Wallace. There’s also this,” he said, holding up the small plastic card. “It’s a nonresident concealed carry permit issued by Fairfax County, Virginia. Might be useful to pull the application records, if they aren’t sealed like they are in some jurisdictions.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now I make a phone call and cash in on a favor.”

  Severin called Greg Carlsen, his old friend and colleague on the Anacortes, Washington, police force, explaining that he was going to send him the Beretta by overnight mail so that Carlsen could have a lab confirm that the Beretta fired the bullets described in a Chinese forensic analysis that Severin would be emailing him a rough translation of.

  “You’re pushing the edge of the limits of our friendship,” Carlsen said. “But since I got you into this, I’ll do it. I have a cold case I can assign the analysis to. Nobody will notice.”

  “In the meantime, why don’t you run the serial number to see if any surprises pop up.”

  “You’re a bold bastard. Give it to me.” Severin gave it to him, and heard Carlsen keying it into the laptop of his patrol car terminal. “Nothing weird. Looks clean.”

  “It was worth a look. Thanks.”

  “Wait—when did you say this murder took place?”

  “Last August.”

  “This gun was first purchased on September 4th.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Severin pondered the possibilities. Had Holloman dumped the .32 he used to kill Powell, Keen, and Fang Xu while still in China? That would have made sense. He probably chucked it off a bridge, into some ancient, muddy river or canal, never to be seen again, and then replaced it with a new one upon his return. “Well, I guess you don’t have to worry about having the gun tested. Thanks for nothing.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  He hung up and explained the situation to Zhang.

  “So now what?” Zhang asked. “Are we at a dead end?”

  “Let’s get a drink to loosen up our thinking caps.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  With a sense of déjà vu, Severin and Zhang once again sat in the rental car in the dark, under the broad chestnut tree, with two pair of binoculars trained on Holloman’s house on Dumbarton Street. They’d just watched Holloman get home from work, pour himself a surprisingly low-quality bourbon, and plop down in front of his television to watch—of all things—an ancient rerun of the original Muppet Show with guest star Loretta Lynn.

  “A hillbilly kid at heart,” Severin said.

  “A lonely one, a long way from the hills.”

  “Actually, I don’t think there are any hills where he grew up in Florida.”

  “I sort of feel sorry for him.”

  “Even though he probably murdered three innocent people?”

  “Well.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s shake off your gloom with some fun, seat-of-our-pants subterfuge,” Severin said, dialing Holloman’s home number on his cell phone. Holloman picked up on the first ring.

  “Ben! Lars Severin here.”

  “Lars Ssss—oh, right. How are things going?” Holloman stood up, pointing a remote control at his television. Severin saw the word mute appear in a corner of the screen.

  “Just got back from China, actually.”

  “Did you? I hope the long flight was worthwhile.”

  “I have to tell you, you’re doing well so far.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The pause while you pretended to have to take a moment to remember where you’d heard my name before. The feigned ignorance about my trip to China. Smooth and convincing. It’s all in the timing and delivery, just
like in comedy. You know, they’re always looking to hire good role players for the interrogation course at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center down in Georgia. You should apply if they ever let you out of prison. ‘Course they probably won’t.”

  A longer pause. “Mr. Severin, I’m not—”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. Just jerking your chain a little bit. Can’t help myself. Remember, I’m not a cop. As I’m sure you’ve divined by now, I’m a defrocked alcoholic burnout looking to make ends meet. My interest in this whole affair is purely financial. So why don’t we help each other?”

  “Help?”

  “First off, I haven’t been instructed to take my evidence to the police. But I haven’t been told not to either. I figure that’s my big stick. My leverage in our little negotiation here.”

  “Mr. Sev—”

  “Hold on now. Hear me out. Kristin Powell’s family promised to pay me $50,000 for what I’ve learned. That’s a nice sum for three weeks work. But it isn’t enough to get me out of the low-rent district in Seattle. That city has gotten so damned expensive. Anyway, my point is that I can be talked out of giving the information to them. You follow?” Silence. “No? Well, well. Let’s try a different tack. How long have you been out of law school and in private practice? Are you still up on your criminal law?”

  Silence.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ben, but I think we’re looking at two counts each under U.S. Code Title 18, sections 1114 and 1119(b)—first-degree murder of a federal officer, and first degree murder of a U.S. national while outside the United States. Not sure what code section would apply to your murder of the Chinese van driver, Fang Xu. And I’m crap when it comes to math. Still, under that pesky mandatory minimums thing, I’m pretty sure that comes to at least four mandatory life sentences. That’s a long time, Ben. A hell of a long time. Not in geological terms, of course. But it’d be the rest of your life. Unless they give you the death penalty, which is a possibility on any one of the four counts. Then again, they might just let the Chinese extradite you for killing one of their citizens. That would be a nice gesture that might win our government some goodwill points—some political capital they could use in their next agreement negotiation. That’s how it works, right? Then the Chinese could harvest your organs, or whatever it is they do over there with murderers.”