Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (5 page)

“You must have worked quite late last night.” Chen offered a cup of tea to his assistant. “A well-done job. I’ve just read your report.”

“Thank you.”

“Any new information about the case this morning?”

“No. Everything’s in the report.”

“What about the missing person’s list?”

“No one on the list looks like her,” Yu said, handing over the folder. “Some pictures have just been developed. She could not have been too long in the water. No more than twenty hours is my guess.”

Chen started thumbing through photographs. Pictures of the dead woman lying on the bank, naked, or partially covered up, then several close-ups, the last one focusing on her face, her body concealed by a white covering, in the mortuary.

“What do you think?” Yu breathed slowly into his hot tea.

“A couple of possible scenarios. Nothing definite until Forensic finishes.”

“Yes, the autopsy report will probably be here late this afternoon.”

“You don’t think she could be someone from the neighboring villages?”

“No, I don’t. I have called the local county committee. There’s no one reported missing there.”

“But what about the murderer?”

“No, not likely, either. As the old saying goes, a rabbit does not browse near its lair. But he could be familiar with the canal.”

“Two possibilities, then,” Chen began.

Yu listened to Chen’s analysis without interrupting. “As for the first scenario, I don’t think it is so likely,” he said.

“But it would be impossible for the murderer to get her body to the canal without some sort of transportation at his disposal,” Chen said.

“He might be a taxi driver. We’ve had similar cases. Pan Wanren’s case, remember? Raped and murdered. A lot of resemblance. Except the body was dumped in a rice paddy. The murderer confessed that he did not intend to kill her, but he panicked at the thought of the victim’s being able to identify his car.”

“Yes, I do remember. But if the murderer raped this one in a car, why should he have bothered to hide the body in the plastic bag afterward?”

“He had to drive all the way to canal.”

“The trunk would have served his purpose.”

“Maybe he just happened to have the bag in the car.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Well, when a rape precedes homicide,” Yu said, crossing his legs, “the motive comes down to concealing the rapist’s identity. She could have identified him, or the car. So a taxi-driver hypothesis fits.”

“But the murderer could also be the victim’s acquaintance,” Chen said, studying a picture in his hand. “With her body dumped in the canal, her disappearance would not be easily traced to him. That may account for the plastic bag, too. To conceal moving the body
into
the car.”

“Well, not too many people have their own cars—except high cadres, and they would not have their chauffeurs drive them around on such an errand.”

“It’s true. There’re not too many private cars in Shanghai, but the number is increasing rapidly. We cannot rule it out.”

“If the murderer was the deceased’s acquaintance, the first question we have to ask is why? A secret affair with a married man, we’ve had cases like that, but then the woman in such a case, almost without exception, is pregnant. I called Dr. Xia early this morning, and it was ruled out,” Yu said, lighting a cigarette just for himself. “It’s still possible, of course, I mean your theory. If so, there’s probably nothing we can do until we find out her identity.”

“So do you think we should start checking with the taxi bureau—in accordance with your theory?”

“We could, but it would not be easy. There weren’t many taxis in Shanghai ten years ago—you could have waited on the street for hours without getting one. Now Heaven alone knows how many there are, running everywhere like locusts. Over ten thousand, I bet, not including the self-employed cab drivers. Maybe another three thousand.”

“Yes, that’s a lot.”

“Another thing, we’re not even sure that she was from Shanghai. What if she came from another province? If so, a long time will pass before we get information about her identity.”

The air in the small office became thick with cigarette smoke.

“So what do you think we should do?” Chen asked, pushing open the window.

Detective Yu let a few seconds go by, and then asked a question of his own, “Do we have to take the case?”

“Well, that’s a good question.”

“I responded to the call because there was nobody else in the office and I couldn’t find you. But we’re only the special case squad.”

It was true. Nominally their squad did not have to take a case until it was declared “special” by the bureau—sometimes at the request of another province, and sometimes by other squads, but more often than not, for an unstated political reason. To raid a private bookstore selling pirated hard-core CDs, for instance, would not be difficult or special for a cop, but it could get a lot of attention, providing material for newspaper headlines. “Special,” in other words, was applied when the bureau had to adjust its focus to meet political needs. In the case of a nameless female body found in a small remote canal, they would ordinarily turn it over to the sex homicide group, to whom it apparently belonged.

That explained Detective Yu’s lack of interest in the case though he had taken the phone call and examined the crime scene. Chen riffled through the pictures before he picked one up. “Let’s have this picture cropped and enlarged. Someone may be able to recognize her.”

“What if no one comes forward?”

“Well, then we must start canvassing—if we’re going to take the case.”

“Canvassing indeed,” Yu picked a tiny tea leaf from his teeth. Most detectives disliked this drudgery.

“How many men can we call upon for the job?”

“Not too many, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Yu said. “We’re short. Qing Xiaotong’s on his honeymoon, Li Dong’s just resigned to open a fruit shop, and Liu Longxiang’s in the hospital with a broken arm. In fact, it’s just you and me on the so-called special case squad at the moment.”

Chen was aware of Yu’s acerbic undertone. His accelerated promotion was going to take some living down, not to mention his new apartment. A certain measure of antagonism was hardly surprising, especially from Detective Yu, who had entered the force earlier and had technical training and a police family background. But Chief Inspector Chen was anxious to be judged on what he could achieve in his position, not on the way he had risen to it. So he was tempted to take the case. A real homicide case. From the very beginning. But Detective Yu was right. They were short of men, and with many “special” cases on their hands, they could not afford to take on a case that just happened to come their way. A sexual murder case—with no clue or witness, already a cold case.

“I’ll talk to Party Secretary Li about it, but in the meantime, we will have the picture copied and prints distributed to the branch offices. It’s a necessary routine—whoever is going to take the case.” Chen then added, “I’ll go to the canal if I have some time in the afternoon. When you were there, it must have been quite dark.”

“Well, it’s a poetic scene there,” Yu said, standing up, grinding out his cigarette, and making no attempt to conceal the sarcasm in his tone. “You may come up with a couple of wonderful lines.”

“You never can tell.”

After Yu left, Chen brooded at his desk for a while. He was rather upset with the antagonism shown by his assistant. His casual remark about Chen’s passion for poetry was another jab. However, Yu’s critique was true—to some extent.

Chen had not intended to be a cop—not in his college years. He had been a published poet as well as a top student at Beijing Foreign Language Institute. He had his mind set on literary pursuits. Just one month before graduation, he had applied to an M.A. program in English and American literature, a decision his mother had approved, since Chen’s father had been a well-known professor of the Neo-Confucian school. He was informed, however, that a promising job was waiting for him in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In the early eighties, all graduates had their jobs assigned by the authorities, and as he was a student on the president’s honor roll, his file had been requested by the ministry. A diplomatic career was not his own choice, even though such a position was generally considered fantastic for an English major. Then, at the last minute, there was another unexpected change. In the course of the family background check by the authorities, one of his uncles was found to have been a counterrevolutionary executed in the early 1950s. It was an uncle whom he had never seen, but such a family connection was politically unthinkable for an aspirant to a diplomatic position. So his name was removed from the ministry’s list. He was then assigned to a job in the Shanghai Police Bureau, where, for the first few years, his work consisted of translating a police interrogation procedure handbook, which no one wanted to read, and of writing political reports for Party Secretary Li, which Chen himself did not want to write. So it was only in the last couple of years that Chen had actually worked as a cop, first at the entry level, now suddenly as a chief inspector, but responsible only for the “special cases” turned over to him by others. And Yu, like some people in the bureau, had his complaints fueled not only by Chen’s rapid rise under Deng’s cadre policy, but also by his continuing literary pursuits, which were conventionally—and conveniently—viewed as a deviation from his professional commitment.

Chen read through the case report for a second time, and then realized that it was lunchtime. As he stepped out, he found a message for him in the large office. It must have been left before his arrival that morning:

Hi, it’s Lu. I’m working at the restaurant. Our restaurant. Moscow Suburb. A gourmet paradise. It’s important I talk to you. Give me a call at 638-0843.

Overseas Chinese Lu talked just like that—excited and ebullient. Chen dialed the number.

“Moscow Suburb.”

“Lu, what’s up?”

“Oh, you. How did it go last night?”

“Fine. We were together, weren’t we?”

“No, I mean what happened after we left—between you and Wang?”

“Nothing. We danced a few more dances, and then she left.”

“What a shame, old pal,” Lu said. “You’re a chief inspector for nothing. You cannot detect even the most obvious signal.”

“What signal?”

“When we left, she agreed to stay on—alone with you. She really meant for the night. An absolutely unmistakable signal. She’s crazy about you.”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” Chen said. “Let’s talk about something else. How are things with you.”

“Yes, Ruru wants me to thank you again. You’re our lucky star. Everything is in good shape. All the documents are signed. I’ve already moved in. Our own restaurant. I just need to change its sign. A big neon sign in both Chinese and English.”

“Hold on—Chinese and Russian, right?”

“Who speaks Russian nowadays? But in addition to our food, we will have something else genuinely Russian, I tell you, and you can eat them, too.” Lu chuckled mysteriously. “With your generous loan, we’ll celebrate the grand opening next Monday. A booming success.”

“You’re so sure about it.”

“Well, I have a trump card. Everybody will be amazed.”

“What is it?”

“Come and see for yourself. And eat to your heart’s content.”

“Sure. I won’t miss your Russian cabbage soup for anything, Overseas Chinese.”

“So you’re a gourmet too. See you.”