The Hua Shan Hospital Murders (6 page)

“So, is there a question here, Wu Fan-zi?” asked Fong.

“Why would he bother, Fong? Phosphorus converts energy into light so quickly that it hardly gives off any heat at all. There’s almost no force released because all the energy is immediately converted into high intensity light.”

“So the phosphorus has nothing to do with the bomb?” Fong asked.

“Not as far as I can tell,” replied Wu Fan-zi.

Fong thought, “Maybe nothing to do with the bomb but definitely something to do with the bomber,” but all he chose to say was, “Okay. Let’s leave the phosphorus for now. Could the bomb have been purchased here?” asked Fong.

Wu Fan-zi thought about that then nodded. “Yeah, it could if you have the money and the contacts. It’s rare that a white man could be so well connected in the Middle Kingdom. Shit, even if Silas Darfun were alive today he’d have a tough time getting his hands on that stuff.”

The others gave short chortles, not real laughs.

“What we do know is that the bomb isn’t homegrown. We’ve got a pretty tight lid on all that. Government stockpiles are cross-checked constantly and it’s almost impossible to get the kind of materials necessary to make that kind of bomb here. Just try buying a large amount of bicarbonate of soda and watch what happens. The Internet sites are all monitored and all hits are traced.
Hey-ka-ka-ka-kaboom.com
seems to be the biggest but there’s seldom anything they get by us. The site has, in fact, been extremely cooperative – don’t ask me why. Besides, even if you ordered something from the Internet it still has to be delivered and we have that covered too. So that leaves us with an importer. My guess is the bomb came across the Russian frontier. But I doubt if it was Russian. They were never very clever with explosives. They always left that to the Czechs.”

“And the Bosnians,” added the CSU guy.

“True,” Wu Fan-zi responded.

“But it would still be so much easier to find this explosive in the West – and the note was in English, wasn’t it?” asked the CSU guy.

Fong ignored the question but asked one of his own: “Would it be hard to smuggle the bomb through airport security, Wu Fan-zi?”

“Yeah.” Wu Fan-zi wasn’t about to supply any more information on that topic but his terse answer bespoke inside knowledge.

“Hard or impossible?” Fong prodded.

“Impossible, Fong.”

The CSU guy looked away as Wu Fan-zi continued, “And the detonator, the timing device, the metal cage – all that couldn’t be smuggled in either. So it would all have to be obtained locally.”

“So the bomber’s entire kit would have to be bought here?”

“Yep,” said Wu Fan-zi, “maybe not homegrown but definitely home bought.”

Fong turned to one of the detectives, “Start with the cage the baby was–”

“Not a baby, Fong.” Lily’s voice was icy cold. In English she continued, “Xiao Ming is baby. This not.”

Fong quickly translated to the men around the table. He saw clearly that they were not interested in the difference that Lily was pointing out. Lily saw their resistance and slammed her hand, palm down, on the table and then said loudly in English, “Important, this!”

Fong both understood and didn’t understand what Lily was so upset about but now was not the time to explore it further. He looked past his wife and pointed to the young detective at her side. “Start with the cage. Someone made that thing. I want to know who.”

The young man nodded. Fong handed him a photograph of the cage, sans fetus, and a piece of paper. “Here are the specs.” He turned to Wu Fan-zi. “What’s that metal called again?”

“Titanium,” said the fireman.

“Is that why it didn’t shatter – being made of this titanium metal?” asked the young detective.

“That and its position beneath the base of the steel surgical table,” said Wu Fan-zi, then added, “and of course there was the planch.”

“The what?”

“The planch. This is all that’s left of it,” Wu Fanzi said, putting a badly dented very thick piece of metal plate on the table. “Some explosives can be given directionality by shaping the material. But it’s a crude method and not totally reliable. The placement of the planch adds to the accuracy. The planch forces the energy of the explosion up and out.”

“Away from the thing in the cage,” said Lily.

“Away from the message in the cage,” Fong corrected her none too gently.

There was another silence, then Fong barked at the young detective, “Go!” The man quickly headed toward the door. Before he got there Fong added, “I want an update on my desk by noon tomorrow.” The man stopped, went to protest, then thought better of it as he noted the grim set of Fong’s face.

He left, slamming the door harder than was absolutely necessary to close it.

“Another happy camper,” Lily said in English.

Fong’s textbook English couldn’t decipher the meaning of the phrase. Why was Lily inferring that the detective could be hitched to the back of an automobile or for that matter that the man was happy?

Fong put aside these questions and turned to the CSU guy. He nodded his head. The man began his report, “All the people in the operating room left identifiable remains. The doctor, the technicians, the–”

“Who did the hair belong to?” Fong demanded.

The CSU guy checked his notes. “The head nurse.”

“And the pool of blood?”

“Hers as well but I don’t–”

Fong cut him off again, “Nothing else from the head nurse? No bones? No body parts? No teeth?” Fong was speaking fast, clearly angry.

“None,” said the CSU guy slowly.

“But there were bones and body parts, teeth, and clothing from all the others?”

“Yes, we found–”

“Find her,” Fong shouted.

Instantly there was chaos in the room. Cries of protest and anger over the apparent disrespect for the dead. Fong allowed the anger to crest, then as it began to fall he said simply, “She’s not dead. You three, find her.” He was pointing to a group of detectives. “Here,” he said tossing the hospital administrator’s data sheet onto the table. “Use this to start.” Then he turned to the window. As one of the detectives took the sheet the other two quickly compared notes with the new CSU man. Then the three detectives headed out. They made no effort to hide the fact that they were happy to leave the room. Once the detectives were gone, Fong turned back to the CSU guy.

Lily had never seen Fong so angry. His words came out as little more than a hiss, “Leave your notes. You’re off the case.”

The man glared at Fong then left the room quickly. Lily turned to Fong but before she could ask her question he spoke to those remaining in the room, “There was no way to miss the fact that the hair and blood must have been planted there. He didn’t want to know. He thought the people in that abortion surgery got what they deserved.”

After a moment of silence one of the remaining detectives said, “Abortion is still a complicated subject.”

Fong felt himself enveloped in dizziness, a world spinning. Fu Tsong, his first wife, dead in his arms, their unborn child on her belly. A yawning pit beneath them. Oh yes, Fong knew that abortion is a complicated subject. He knew that.

He caught Lily’s sidelong look. No. He would not share the death of his first wife with her. “Forensics,” he snapped.

Lily took the note that had been left behind. It had been carefully dusted then resealed in the evidence bag: THIS BLASPHEMY MUST STOP.

Fong translated the messages for the men around the table.

“What is blasphemy?”

“I’ll explain later. Tell us what you found on the note, Lily.”

“The paper is pretty standard issue bond paper. Made here. Probably in the new factory across the river in the Pudong. But there’s nothing to follow up there. The note is clean of fingerprints except for a thumb and forefinger of the guy at hospital reception. The lack of other fingerprints is rare since paper is such a good medium for prints. The ink is from a cheap disposable pen much like Fong uses. The words – are the words.” She shrugged. “I know it’s not much but it’s all I’ve got on that.”

She pushed forward the titanium cage. “The cage was fabricated recently and with a high level of skill. Titanium is hard to work with and the welding joints can be complicated because they need such high heat. The bars are almost exactly symmetrical and the base is nearly a perfect circle. No prints. No fabric or hair traces. Not much to go on really but I’ll get a copy of this to the investigating detective.” She reached for the two newspapers on the table. “Both papers have stringers in Shanghai but there are no credits given for either the stories or the pictures. As well, there is no way of telling if the picture is of the actual cage that we found. Personally I doubt it.”

“How could the papers get the pictures, Lily?”

“They could have been dropped off with the stringers but we’ve checked. They both deny it. Both also deny they wrote the story. They claim the story and picture arrived at their head office in America by e-mail before the bomb went off. When the stringers confirmed the facts of the blast, their papers ran the story. There is no traceable e-mail traffic from the Middle Kingdom to these newspapers so we have to assume the e-mail came from somewhere else. This bomber could have an accomplice or he could have set his computer in America to send e-mails on a certain day to certain papers.”

“Can e-mail do that?”

“If you have the right software it’s no problem.”

“How about these stringers?”

“What about them?”

“You believe these guys – these stringers – Lily?”

“I do. They’re both old China hands. They both have good reason to want to stay here and therefore play by the rules.”

“And the reason they want to stay here, Lily?”

“One is married to a Chinese girl, the other has a weakness for Chinese women.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed, Fong.” Lily smiled at her own cleverness.

“Is that all, Lily?” Fong prompted her in English.

She shot him a hard look. “Not all, Fong, and it know you!” she retorted angrily in her version of English. Her hands trembled as she opened a small transparent folder. She put on a pair of reading glasses. She didn’t look up as she read the Mandarin characters. Her voice was soft – distant – so un-Lily-like.

“The fetus was of a seven-month-old male. Two pounds three ounces. Han Chinese. It seems to have been partially mummified. Perhaps by the blast. No matching DNA markers with known suspects or other victims. No way to tell how long ago it died–” She stopped, realizing the implication of what she had just said. If it had died it must at one time have been alive. She shook her head. Fong was frightened she might break into tears. She didn’t. “The fetus was wrapped in a flame-retardant metal sheathing with an asbestos lining – industrial strength, easy enough to find at any construction site. The lining, that is. The metal was titanium.” She turned the page and continued to read. It took five more minutes for her to complete her report – all very dry, very accurate – pretty much useless and she knew it. She closed the folder and reached for her tea. When she brought the steaming liquid to her lips her glasses misted over. It hid the tears in her eyes.

Fong allowed a moment of silence, then said, “Find out what the hospital does with discarded fetuses.” No one moved. No one wanted that assignment.

“They flush them or throw them in the garbage,” said Lily, her voice thickening. “I checked this morning assuming that none of the men around this table would mind if I did this part of the investigation.”

“Thanks, Lily,” he said in English.

“Hey, please aim do I.”

“Right,” Fong thought but said nothing to her. He turned away from her. “You,” he said pointing to the nearest cop, “find the route between the People’s Twenty-Second Hospital and the nearest incinerator. It may even be in the hospital. Now.”

“Fine,” said the cop getting to his feet. He strode to the door and pushed it open. A muffled “ouch” came from the other side. A stubby rat of a man poked his head around the door and smiled when he saw Fong. Then he saw Lily and he positively beamed.

Lake Ching’s Captain Chen had come to the big city.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lily and Fong took Chen out for dinner that night in the Old City. Even as they walked toward the restaurant Fong wondered if Chen was going to get along in Shanghai. He was such a rube! He kept bobbing around to take in the sights. It made him bump into person after person – a definite no-no on Shanghai’s constantly packed streets.

Chen apologized profusely in his country accent to each and every person with whom he collided. But Shanghanese are not good at accepting apologies from their country cousins and many retorted with intensely unkind descriptions of the poor man. Fortunately for Captain Chen, most of the slanders were spat out in such furiously fast and extremely idiomatic Shanghanese that it was hard for him to understand. Lily and Fong shouted back at Chen’s assailants until Chen stopped them. “Even the cat may look at the king,” he quoted.

Fong was pretty sure this expression referred to the rights of the lowly to view their superiors, and in the realms of beauty Chen was far from being king.

As they passed by the Jade Buddha Temple, Chen stopped. “Can I go in?”

Fong had never been inside the popular tourist attraction that was supposed to be the “home” of the city god. “Sure,” he said.

Inside the temple, the city seemed to slip away amid the quiet and the wafting smell of incense. Chen paid for six long sticks, knelt on the low rest in front of one of the large statues, then set the incense alight. As he bowed his head he rubbed the sticks slowly between his palms.

Fong and Lily stood to one side. Fong looked around. Tourists with camcorders were everywhere. For a moment it occurred to Fong that it was wrong to take pictures in places like this, then he cast the thought aside. Why not, it was just a building set aside to honour superstition. He glanced back at Chen. The young man swayed slightly while he recited his prayers. As he did, it seemed to Fong that a remarkable transformation took place – the overriding clunkiness of Captain Chen gave way to an undeniable elegance. Something about the rhythm of the man’s silent recitation lent him a kind of grace.

Fong stepped outside. The whole “thing” of the place made him feel uncomfortable. The term
left out
came to him but he dismissed it. For the first time in a very long time he intensely craved a cigarette.

Chen came out shortly, with Lily at his side. Both were smiling. Fong led the way through the dank realities of the Old City. They entered a restaurant and Chen marvelled at the choices available on the menu.

“Order what you like, Chen, this is on us,” Lily said.

“Thank you, Miss Lily . . . or is it Mrs. Zhong?”

“For you Lily is fine . . . no Miss. Just Lily,” she smiled at him and touched his hand.

Fong wondered what had happened to Chen’s wife who he had once described as “a sad woman who can’t get pregnant and blames me.” By the time Fong had figured out what was behind the grotesque murders on the lake boat on Lake Ching, and he and Lily were ready to leave Xian, Chen wasn’t talking about his wife at all. They had probably separated, Fong thought. Why not? Chen was young – almost exactly Lily’s age. He had lots of time to find someone new.

“Food good, Captain Chen?”

“Great, sir. Aren’t you going to eat, sir?”

Fong sipped his Tzing Tao beer and said, “I’m not hungry. Are you ready to work?”

“That’s why I’m here . . . sir,” Chen said, catching a live shrimp between his chopsticks and plunking it into his mouth.

“Fine. I want you to lead the investigation into who made this.” Fong took out a photograph of the metal cage in which the fetus had been found. Chen looked closely at the image then put down his chopsticks and spat out the shrimp. He suddenly wasn’t hungry either.

A half-mile north of where Fong, Lily, and Chen sat, Robert stared at Tuan Li across a cheap card table. They were on Good Food Street down by the river. The street was closed to traffic nightly and turned into the world’s largest outdoor restaurant. It was one of Tuan Li’s favourite places. It was hardly classy dining and Robert knew he stood a very good chance of being quite sick the next morning – but Tuan Li was worth it.

“There was an explosion in the city today,” she said.

“I heard.”

“In a hospital. Awful.”

He nodded but thought, “Politics. None of my fucking business.”

A waiter plunked down a dish of steaming noodles in front of Tuan Li. She quickly swirled the sauce into the noodles and wrapped a swath around her chopsticks. “Open,” she said extending the noodles toward Robert’s mouth.

“This wouldn’t be
traif
, would it?” he mocked.

“Is that one of those kosher things?” she mocked back.

Robert wanted to say, “Yes, it’s one of those kosher things,” but his mouth was filled with the thick noodles. They tasted glorious but he knew that often the company made the food taste better than it actually was. He recalled a particular croissant after a particular night with a particular dark-haired Montrealer. Then he couldn’t believe he was reminiscing about another woman with Tuan Li across the table from him making bedroom eyes. What the fuck was wrong with him!

“Nice trip?” Tuan Li asked as a small sad smile came to her lips.

“How do you mean?” Robert covered, surprised that she could see through him so easily.

“You’re not nearly as good a liar as you think, Robert.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you in my . . .”

“It must be very lonely where you are, Robert,” she stated flatly. “Do you know why your mind floats like that?”

“No. Do tell.”

“Because you have no faith. No faith. No love.”

Robert thought, “No trust. No love,” but said nothing.

“You know that play I’m working on?”

“The one about the dumb nigger?”

“You are a very bad person,” she said. “The love in that play exists because of faith. Both Othello and Desdemona know that love is the gift the gods bring after you make the leap to faith. But no leap to faith. No falling in love.”

“Well, it doesn’t exactly work out – the love in this play.”

“No. True. But they have at least lived. Known each other.”

“I’ve ‘known’ you in the biblical sense,” Robert shot back.

“No. Robert. We’ve contacted each other but we have not known each other – in the biblical or any other sense.”

“Well, maybe that’s all there is – contacting each other.”

“Maybe there’s more, Robert, and you just refuse to see it. You have been with a lot of women but have found no place to rest.”

He sighed deeply. “You want to go on with this?”

Tuan Li canted her elegant head, “I do. How long have you been like this?”

“Always,” he said, hoping that would end the conversation on that topic.

“You were always like this?” Tuan Li prodded.

“Yes, I’ve always been like this.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

“When did you first experience this? Be honest, Robert.”

“When I was a kid. My parents sent me to summer camp. Jewish people in Toronto always sent their kids to summer camps named after trees – don’t ask me why.”

“Why, Robert?”

“I thought I asked you not to . . .”

“You did. Why?”

“Well, probably because there are lots and lots of trees – trees, trees, trees, and one Succoni station. Lenny Bruce said that – heard of him?”

“No. Why do you do that?”

“Do what?

“Talk fast about things that don’t matter?”

“Because . . .”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Because I’ve almost always done that.” Before she could jump on top of the “almost” he continued, “At any rate I remember coming home from a tree camp by train and getting off with all the other campers and going into the central hall of Union Station. It’s the downtown train station – not nearly as big as your North Train Station – but plenty big for a kid. Well, everywhere there were kids hugging parents. I looked around and couldn’t find my folks. A neighbour was there and she told me to wait with her. She saw I was upset and she held out her arms to me. I hugged her. It didn’t matter to me that she wasn’t my mother. I hugged her because I needed to be hugged and it really didn’t matter to me who she was. Because it was just as fucking good with this woman as with my mother.” He blushed. He hadn’t intended to spit all that out. He burbled a laugh, then dismissed his outburst with, “Any port in a storm I guess.”

“But there is no storm here, Robert.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes I am, Robert. I know what a storm is – and I sense that you do too. But you won’t share what you know with me.” She waited but he did not speak. Finally she said, “I cannot love a man who cannot fall in love. And you cannot fall in love unless you make the leap of faith to believe in love despite the storms that might be there. What are you doing in Shanghai, Robert? Don’t think about your answer, just answer."

” Robert said nothing. How could he tell her that he was “antiquing” to raise money so he could investigate a crime that may or may not have happened over fifty years ago. A crime that may or may not have ruined his life.

She shook her head and took a deep breath. “I hope your secrets can keep you warm, Robert.” She put her napkin on the table, touched her fingers to his face, then stood.

He watched her disappear into the omnipresent crowd that is Shanghai, not noticing that she passed within a hair’s breath of a man who had been staring at them. A man from Virginia called Angel Michael by his associates but named Matthew by his adoptive father.

Matthew watched Tuan Li’s departure. He knew that she was considered beautiful, even exquisite by some. For the first time in his life he wished he understood that – no he wished that he saw that. He had succeeded in the first step of his plan – succeeded brilliantly – and now he wanted to reward himself. But with what? The food in front of him could have been diced cardboard for all the joy it gave him. For that matter, Tuan Li could have been a deformed old crone for all the thrill he got from looking at her.

He turned in his seat and noticed that his hands were shaking. Quickly the familiar wave of pain began to form behind his left eye. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of stick matches. He managed to get one out and snap its head against a thumbnail. It flared – and the pain backed off. His hands stopped shaking.

Suddenly a long thin cigarette was thrust into the flame’s brightness.

Matthew looked up.

“Light me,” said the whore.

Matthew snuffed out the light and glared at her.

“Hey, it’s your loss, puny one,” she hissed as she turned and left. But as she told her girlfriend later that night, “I got the chills. It’s like that bastard froze my heart.”

Fong couldn’t sleep. Chen was camped on the tiny couch in their small apartment on the Shanghai Theatre Academy’s campus. He snored. “Naturally he would snore,” Fong thought as he looked out the window. Three young male actors were drunkenly lounging on the lawn by the Henry Moore-esque statue. Fong noted their faces. All would be the only children their families would ever have. For the briefest moment Fong wondered how many had been “selected” by their parents.

Chen snorted loudly and pulled the blanket up to his lantern jaw.

Fong moved over to the crib. Xiao Ming slept on her back – her pudgy hands slowly clenching and unclenching in response to some secret nocturnal vision.

Fong reached down and gently touched his daughter. She momentarily wakened and looked at him full in the face. She was so present. So there. He’d heard that boy children spent about a year slowly coming into the world. But he had found that Xiao Ming had been aware of everything from the very beginning.

He smiled. She watched his features move and tried to imitate them. She got close, but a few muscle groups misfired and she ended up with an oddly quizzical look on her face.

Fong knew he should be happy. He was back in Shanghai. He had been reinstated as head of Special Investigations. He had a child. Yes, he should be happy. But something nagged at him. Pulled him toward a waiting darkness. Fong lifted Xiao Ming and held her head against his shoulder. He felt her breath on his neck – it was soft, soft, and so warm. A sweetness from far away. He held her out at arm’slength. She looked away from him. The darkness drew his eyes to the wall mirror. There they were, as if captured in the glass. He noted the distance between them. An arm’s-length. A shiver went through him. Something about their relative positions. He continued holding her at arm’s-length and knelt.

He put Xiao Ming on the floor and turned away. Then he looked back at her. How had the baby’s skull been positioned in the construction pit? Away. She had been looking away from her father. At least the killers had allowed that. At least the last image in the baby’s mind would not be the agony of the ritual murder of her father. Fong allowed his head to loll back and opened his throat as far as he could. How great the fear would have to be to make a man swallow his own crucifix. He held Xiao Ming’s hand tightly as if saying goodbye.

“Fong!”

Lily snatched Xiao Ming from the floor. “How could you, Fong? This is our baby. Not an old skull buried in the ground! What are you thinking! Really, Fong. What are you thinking?” She turned with Xiao Ming in her arms and hurried into their bedroom, slamming the door behind her.