Hungry Ghosts (16 page)

31

Charlie Pike almost hoped the autopsy
had been cancelled due to the lousy weather. Dead people didn't frighten him, but seeing them cut open always unsettled him. He left his rental car in the parking lot by the nursing station. The SUV he parked beside looked like a creamsicle, almost completely covered under thick layers of ice and snow.

He approached a woman standing behind the reception desk and asked for Adam Neville.

“Dr. Neville is probably in the morgue,” the nurse practitioner said. “That's down the stairs to your left, beside the vending machines. If he's not, there's a temporary office for visiting physicians on the lower level, too. He could be there.”

When Charlie Pike walked through the swinging doors to the morgue, he found Neville wiping down a metal gurney with bleach. A woman's body lay on a stretcher beside it, resting on top of what looked like a black plastic sheet.

“Hello, Charlie,” said Neville. He appeared tanned and healthy. “Hell of a way to get back to work.”

“
Anii
, Adam. You were on holiday?”

“We were travelling down south for a few weeks. Denise is still in Pinar del Río. The president of the Columbian Mountain Climbing Federation is teaching a course she's always wanted to take. She says it's been wonderful. Pristine mountains, but not too challenging. She wanted me to stay, but I really had to get back to work. It's her first time hiking and climbing in quite a while. She'll be back at work as soon as they can find a place for her.”

“I'm glad to hear she's better,” Pike said. He liked Denise Labelle. She'd worked in the Winnipeg crime lab before she went on disability a couple of years earlier after suffering a minor stroke. “I didn't know you were a mountain climber.”

Neville smiled. “Oh, yes. Denise and I met on Everest, actually. We were in the same climbing group. Contrary to popular belief, Everest isn't all that challenging if you acclimatize yourself and have a decent sherpa. The biggest risk, to be honest, are the lineups. We passed our share of dead bodies on the slopes; people who'd run out of oxygen because they were stuck in the queue trying to go up or down. Several had been there for years, frozen solid. Believe me, that was a shock.”

“You couldn't bring them back down with you?”

“Oh, Lord, no. If someone dies on the mountain, that's it. The porters can only carry so much. Sad, really. But that's one of the risks of climbing. You'd be surprised how much trash gets left behind on that mountain. Abandoned equipment, axes, oxygen tanks.”

Pike didn't much like the idea of dead climbers being left behind like garbage.

“By the way, Charlie, I have some photographs for you from the crime scene. They're on my laptop. It's over there on the counter. Go ahead, take a look. I'll get you hard copies when I get back to
Winnipeg. The file is on the desktop; it's named ‘Jane Doe.' The exhibits are on the counter too. I've already processed the victim's clothing. Everything except the ligature.”

“Any ID on the body?” asked Pike.

“No, nothing this time.”

Pike walked to the counter. The screen saver on the laptop was a photograph of Adam and Denise Neville, tanned and smiling, hanging from harnesses on the side of a mountain.

Pike clicked on the file icon labelled “Jane Doe” and scrolled through the crime scene photographs, cringing as he saw the woman's body. She wasn't blue, he thought. Definitely white.

He and Sheldon had done well in the dark, he realized. Nothing looked different from what they'd found. He thought of telling Neville about the roll-your-own that the technicians missed, but he didn't want to embarrass the pathologist. Besides, Pauley Oshig could have been lying—he might have gone into the woods to have a smoke himself.

Still, it was sloppy. Pike decided he'd maybe talk to Chief O'Malley about the way the technical team had rushed through the investigation without thinking how that might come off to the First Nation. Then again, Bill Wabigoon probably wouldn't give a shit. He just wanted the body out of there—one less problem to deal with.

Pike riffled through the exhibits. He held up a bag containing a cigarette butt and raised his eyebrows. Neville nodded. “Yes, it was placed in almost exactly the same position as the others. But it's a Lucky Strike.”

Pike wondered about that. None of the other crime scenes had two cigarette butts left behind.

“Put these on, will you, Charlie?” Neville handed Pike a pair of overalls, as well as a white mask and latex gloves. He pulled on his own.

“Can you give me a hand moving her off the body bag and onto the gurney? These body bags are terrific. Absolutely sterile. The nurse practitioner upstairs told me that Health Canada sent them here last fall after Chief Wabigoon asked for some help with the flu season. He wanted doctors; they sent body bags. Needless to say, he was furious.”

Pike grunted as he helped Neville lift the body from the stretcher. Bodies weighed more when they were dead, he was sure. It was a mean trick that gravity played.

“I guess he drove over here and dumped them on the doorstep,” Neville added. “After he called the CBC, of course. They've turned out to be surprisingly useful. The bags, I mean. Not the CBC, although God knows this place is crawling with reporters. They're all staying at Tops Motel. I had the pleasure of hearing them discuss sound bites last night at the bar. Are you staying there too? I suppose it's the only motel around here.”

Pike nodded. “I think that's why they call it ‘Tops.' ”

Once the body was in place, Neville walked around it slowly, first pointing out the obvious. “A female, approximately five foot seven inches. Thirties, I'd guess. Caucasian. There is a ligature knotted around the neck. It appears to be a nylon stocking. Skin colour. I suppose my wife would call it nude. There are petechial hemorrhages in the eyes and a protruding tongue. Those suggest asphyxiation. By the way, Charlie, I've fingerprinted the body already. I should know if she's in the system before the end of the day. The OPP are going to run the prints for me.”

Neville removed the stocking from around the woman's neck. Pike didn't see anything unusual about the knot as the pathologist untied it.

“It's not a full stocking, but a knee-high.” Neville peered at the woman's skin beneath the stocking. “Almost no decomposition. That's the upside of these cases. The cold is a damn good
preservative. I'd guess she was killed less than twenty-four hours ago. Can't tell you for sure until I examine her stomach contents. Hmm, Charlie. See the swelling on the neck? That means that pressure was transferred to the left side. It suggests that the perpetrator was right-handed. I think he used his right forearm to strangle her.”

“His forearm?”

Neville glanced at Pike. “Looks like it could have been a chokehold. Maximal pressure, minimum effort. If he'd let go, she would have had a headache, but at least she would have survived. He kept the pressure on long after she lost consciousness.”

Pike nodded. That by itself was enough for first-degree murder. “How long did he have to do that before she died?”

“At least a few minutes. But she was probably unconscious within seconds. And to answer the question you haven't asked yet: Yes, it looks the same as the others.”

“When you first saw the body, was she blue?”

“You mean, other than her lips and tongue?”

“I'm not sure what I mean. The boy who found the body said she was blue. Said she glowed like a computer screen.”

Neville frowned. “I can't imagine what he was talking about. The body has the purplish mottling you'd expect once circulation stops, but nothing you'd describe as blue, except perhaps the cyanosis from deoxygenation on her lips and fingertips. You can see it for yourself.” He pointed. “Perhaps he meant that?”

Pike nodded doubtfully. “Maybe. Was she raped?”

“I won't know until I do a rape kit. There's nothing obvious. But the physical evidence of sexual assault can be very minor, Charlie.”

Neville lifted up her hands, examining each finger. “See here? An expensive manicure, ruined. She must have tried to pry off his arm when he was choking her. But she was wearing leather gloves, so there's no tissue under her nails. Pity.”

Pike looked at the woman's hands. The victim had struggled hard enough to break the tips of two fingernails. “Was she wearing any other clothing?”

“It's all bagged there on the counter. Down parka, black slacks, turtleneck, toque. Everything except footwear and her socks or stockings. I'm assuming, although I don't know, of course, that the nylon around her neck was hers. But her pants were done up; nothing to suggest he tried to remove them. Same as the others.”

“Her boots were gone?”

“Well, we know she was wearing shoes or boots when she walked into those woods; we made casts of the prints. But she didn't have anything on her feet when I arrived. No socks, no stockings, nothing.”

“There were tire tracks from the vehicle that parked on the shoulder. Did you see the shoe prints by them? Are they the same?”

Neville raised his eyebrows. “The only shoe prints we found were inside the woods. Did we miss something?”

“Sheldon pointed some out. They look like they were on the driver's side of the vehicle that was parked on the shoulder. They were hard to see. I took pictures and measurements.”

“Good catch. Get me copies, will you? I'll compare them to the casts.” He frowned. “Now don't tell anyone, Charlie, but the techs left as soon as they found out about the funding dispute. They called their union rep; he told them to get the hell out. No one was sure who was going to pay them. He was worried about liability too. I'm embarrassed, but there was nothing I could do. They drove back to Winnipeg as soon as they dropped the body off here. I certainly hope that's all they missed.”

Pike nodded, uneasy. “First time he's done that. Taken away a woman's shoes, I mean. All the others had their boots or shoes on.”

Neville shrugged. “Hard to say what a man like this might keep as a souvenir.”

“When will you have results from the rape kit?”

“I have specimens from the posterior fornix and the endocervical canal to examine, as well as the vagina and rectum. There's a fairly well equipped lab here that I can use. I'll see what I can do before I head back to Winnipeg. Flights are all backed up because of the storm. I had planned to leave later today, but the earliest I can get out now is the day after tomorrow at noon. You around tomorrow, Charlie?”

Pike nodded. “Call me as soon as you have something, will you?” Then he remembered his cell phone problems. “Reception's not that great around here. If you can't reach me, call Celia Jones. You know Celia, don't you? Our departmental lawyer? She's up at her parents' place, visiting. It's not far from Manomin Bay.”

“Sure. Just write down the number for me, will you?” The pathologist gestured to the counter.

Pike walked over and picked up a pen. He scrawled the number on a piece of paper. “So you think it's him?”

Neville looked at Pike. “Except for the missing footwear, everything else looks consistent. And the nylon tied around the neck; that's never hit the press.”

“True,” said Pike. “But you have to ask what the Highway Strangler would be doing all the way up here. All his other victims were a lot further south.”

“I've heard people on the task force speculate he's a long-­distance trucker.”

“The only trucks going up the 562 are media vans and police SUVs right now, because of the blockade.”

“Now, don't forget about the protestors,” said Neville. “There must be a few dozen Mohawk Warriors at those barricades. No offence, but there are probably quite a few who have criminal records. You can't rule them out, Charlie.”

“An Aboriginal serial killer?”

Neville smiled. “We don't want the task force to be accused of
being racist again, do we? These are the days of equal opportunity. We can't rule out someone from the Manomin Bay First Nation either.”

“People there don't generally hurt outsiders,” said Pike. “They hurt themselves.”

32

When Inspector Ramirez got back to
his office, there was a message waiting for him from the entomologist, Dr. Yeung. He picked up the phone and returned her call.

“I was afraid you would be gone for the rest of the day,” said Yeung. “It is almost time. Can you meet me at a Chinese restaurant in half an hour?”

Ramirez frowned. “Cubans can't go into tourist restaurants,” he said. “Those are for foreigners only.” He realized as soon as he said it that Dr. Yeung
was
a foreigner.

“Except in Chinatown.”

She was right, thought Ramirez. The sole restrictions on Chinese restaurants related to their ownership, not who could dine in them. Only
chinos naturales
and their direct descendants
could operate restaurants and food stands in Chinatown. They alone among Cubans had special licences permitting them to keep their profits.
The Chinese embassy supplied them with cutlery and linens. Los Tres Chinitos—The Three Chinese—was the best known, for its pizza.

“Besides, we won't be eating. There's someone I want to see. Can you meet me in front of the Seniors Centre in Chinatown in twenty minutes? Once the metamorphosis starts, it won't take long.”

Ramirez looked at his watch. He could get there if he hurried. “I'm on my way.”

He ran down the stairs to the parking lot and started his car. He quickly drove to the Capitolio and parked beside a line of old Chevys and horse-drawn carts. The horses shook their heavy heads in the late afternoon heat. Cigar ladies sat on the massive stairs, hiding their faces coyly behind their fans until camera-toting tourists dropped pesos at their feet.

Ramirez strode down Dragones. Children in the Parque de la Fraternidad played catch with empty plastic bottles and kicked around deflated soccer balls. An instructor led a group of foreigners in tai chi moves: The
extranjeros
grasped birds' tails, repulsed monkeys, lost their sequences, and started over, their faces rigid with concentration.

A rectangular
paifang
defined the entry into Chinatown. The wide concrete archway was funded by the People's Republic of China in a show of solidarity and friendship.

Ramirez strode past a century-old pharmacy. Like most in Havana, its shelves were mostly bare. A sign for traditional Chinese medicine, acupuncture, and traditional tuina massage announced that these would be provided by Drs. Romero, Santiago, and Lao.

Bodegas, laundries, and fruit stands lined the pedestrian walkway of Calle Cuchillo. Red paper dragons and lanterns hung from storefronts and restaurants.

Old men sat at plastic tables in front of the Seniors Centre arranging mah-jong tiles. Dr. Yeung was waiting by the front door.
She was plain, with oversized glasses. She shook Ramirez's hand lightly and dropped it. Ramirez sensed she was displeased that he was late. “I'm sorry. I came as quickly as I could.”

She nodded without speaking and escorted him into a nearby restaurant. It was dark and cool inside. Waiters clad in silk jackets served tables. One sported a fake ponytail. Yeung pointed to a Formica table at the back. The dead woman wandered out of the shadows. She leaned against the table, amused.

Yeung motioned to a waitress, a
habanera
in a red silk dress with a Mandarin collar. She spoke rapid Chinese but the waitress shook her head, clearly not understanding.

The Barrio Chino was the largest Chinatown in Latin America, but there were few real Chinese left anymore. Of four Chinese language dailies, only the
Kwong Wah Po
remained in print. The paper was handset with Chinese characters by a man in his nineties. When he died, the newspaper would close, thought Ramirez. No one else knew how to do the printing, and no one cared to learn.

“She doesn't speak Mandarin or Cantonese, only Spanish,” said Yeung, frowning. “Can you ask her to bring us some green tea? We need one bowl of steamed rice, and one set of chopsticks. While we wait.”

Ramirez conveyed the instructions to the server in Spanish. When the waitress returned with the tea and the rice, Yeung turned the place setting to face the door. She stuck the chopsticks upright in the bowl.

“I thought we wouldn't be eating,” said Ramirez.

“We won't be.” Yeung smiled for the first time and looked almost pretty. “The rice is for the Yu
ā
n Gu
Ä­
. When we place the chopsticks in the rice bowl this way, we invite her to join us.”

A smile tugged at the side of the dead woman's lips. She looked quizzically at the rice bowl. She finally sat down in the chair in front of the place setting, crossing her long legs. She pulled out her cigarette and tapped it on the surface of the table, swinging
her foot, while Yeung poured the tea into small white porcelain cups.

“And just who is this person we are waiting for?” said Ramirez.

Yeung smiled. “It's not a person, Inspector. The Yu
ā
n Gu
Ä­
is the hungry ghost. But you need an ‘ask rice' woman to speak to one.”

“An ‘ask rice' woman communicates with ghosts,” Dr. Yeung explained. Ramirez glanced at the dead
jinetera
; she shrugged her shoulders, amused. “Each vowel in Mandarin has four tones. With a slight change in tone,
mun mai poh
—ask rice—becomes ‘spirit medium.' ”

Ramirez sat back in his chair. He picked up the faded menu. It listed roughly eighty different choices, including chow mein, fried rice, and Hatuey beer. No spirit mediums were listed on the menu. There was no mention of fortune-telling, no reading of tea leaves. He put the menu down and raised his eyebrows.

“I am a Taoist, Inspector Ramirez,” said Yeung. “We believe animals have souls. And we believe there are three kinds of ghosts. There are orphan ghosts, who have no children to honour them properly. There are the ghosts of those who die violently, who sometimes come back for revenge. And then there are the hungry ghosts, the ones who can't feed themselves enough no matter how hard they try. Most murdered women are hungry ghosts.”

The dead woman tilted her head sideways. She looked at Ramirez and winked.

“Why is that?” Ramirez asked.

“Because they are more likely to be abused,” said Yeung. “And far too often their needs are not met. An ‘ask rice' woman can find out what is important to them. We can burn paper effigies to provide whatever it is they need. This stops them from wandering, and in return the hungry ghosts will give us clues about how they died.”

Ramirez's ghosts provided him with clues whether he burned paper effigies or not. His face showed his skepticism.

“You don't have to believe in ghosts, Inspector Ramirez,” said Yeung. “What's important is whether they believe in you.”

“So this bowl of rice is supposed to summon a ghost?” said Ramirez, gesturing to the bowl.

“No,” said Yeung. She sipped from her cup. “The chopsticks provide the invitation. When they are put in the rice upright, it signifies ‘death.' ”

A wizened Chinese woman entered the restaurant through curtains at the back. She nodded to Yeung and smiled. She wore a cluster of gold coins on a chain around her neck. She bowed to each of them. She sat in the chair next to the place setting, across from Yeung and Ramirez. Yeung poured her a cup of green tea.

“Normally,” said Yeung, “we would use rice from the dead person's family. In this case, we don't know who she is, so this bowl of rice won't be enough. But we have these. They look like rice, and they were living in her body. It's the best we can do.”

Yeung looked at her watch again. She opened her purse and removed a vial of squirming maggots.

Yeung handed the vial to the medium, who gripped it in both hands. The medium motioned towards Inspector Ramirez and spoke rapidly in Chinese. Yeung shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. The exchange lasted for several minutes before the old woman finally nodded and put the vial down on the table, then stood up and bowed to Ramirez. Yeung opened her purse and placed several tourist pesos on the table. The old woman picked them up and folded the bills inside her sleeve. She bowed to Yeung and Ramirez a final time and scuttled into the shadows.

“What did she say?” asked Ramirez.

Yeung looked at him cautiously. “We talked about Zhuangzi. He
was a Chinese philosopher who dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke up, he wasn't sure if he was a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly that dreamed it was Zhuangzi.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

Yeung shrugged. “Taoists take the idea of opposites literally. Think of water. It is the opposite of hard. But it can break concrete.”

“That's what she said?”

“It is not possible to translate exactly from Mandarin into English. The concepts are different between languages. But your investigation will be about opposites. Good and bad; hot and cold. You must be watchful for the
sei gweilo
.”

“What is that?”

“Literally? It means the ‘dead white ghost.' That's what the Chinese called the first white people they saw, because their skin was so pale. But it also means ‘foreign devil.' Easily confused with
sei chai lo.
”

“And what is a
sei chai lo
?”

“A bad policeman.”

“It is time,” said Dr. Yeung. She picked up the vial, pulled the stopper from the top, and emptied the glass tube into her palms, cupping her fingers together so that nothing spilled out.

As she slowly opened her fingers, Inspector Ramirez recoiled, expecting to see white larvae writhing on her palms. Instead, a dozen or more iridescent green flies crawled up to her fingertips. One by one, they cleaned their wings delicately, elegantly. Then they flew towards the door, drawn to the outside lights.

“Sheep blowflies.
Lucilia cuprina
,” said Yeung. She removed a calculator from her purse and began entering numbers. “Some larvae were still in the woman's body when the dermestids
moved in. They are beautiful, aren't they? You should see them under the magnifying glass. Silver heads, purple legs, red eyes, green metallic backs. The female blowfly mates only once; she lays nine batches of eggs
during her lifetime. Pre-oviposition ranges from three to thirty-five days. The mean generation time is nineteen days, sixteen hours.”

She turned the calculator towards him so he could see the numbers. “Your victim died on February 14, between 6:00 and 8:00 p.m.”

She returned the empty vial and the calculator to her purse. “What are you, Inspector Ramirez?”

“I'm sorry?”

“I tell you a hungry ghost will join us and you express no surprise. You don't watch a bowl of rice, you watch an empty chair. The old woman asked me if you were
mingbairen
. I told her I think so.”

“What is that?” asked Ramirez.

“One who sees ghosts.”