Profiler (Fang Mu Eastern Crimes Series Book 1) (23 page)

Fang Mu turned and looked at Tai Wei. Although the kid's face was ghostly pale, his eyes were shining bright.

"Where's the CD?" Fang Mu asked.

"What CD?" For a moment, Tai Wei had no idea what he was talking about.

"From the last crime, Room Four-Zero-Four! The one the skinless girl was listening to!" Fang Mu was now so agitated his voice was almost incoherent.

"It's at headquarters. Why, what are you thinking?"

Before the words had even left Tai Wei's mouth, Fang Mu had already leapt to his feet and was on his way out of the room.

"Come on," he said, "we need to get that CD!"

Tai Wei drove back at lightning speed, keeping his siren on the whole time. By the time they reached the station, everyone in the Material Evidence Division had already gotten off work.

"We're out of luck," said Tai Wei helplessly, as he turned to Fang Mu and shrugged. "All we can do is wait until tomorrow."

"Unacceptable!" yelled Fang Mu. His answer was short, but utterly decisive.

Having no other choice, Tai Wei called one of his colleagues from the Material Evidence Division. Thirty minutes later, the CD stereo was sitting before their eyes.

Fang Mu turned it on, put on a pair of headphones, and then silently listened to the music.

Tai Wei didn't know what exactly Fang Mu was trying to do, but he figured that the kid already had a pretty good idea about the connection between the CD and the fifth murder case, so it would be best not to disturb him. Lighting a cigarette, he sat beside Fang Mu and watched him in silence.

Fang Mu listened to one song after another, pausing every now and then to jot something down. Some songs he listened to all the way through, others he skipped after only the first few lines.

At last, he came to one song that seemed to really interest him. He listened to it over and over again, rapidly scrawled two words in English, and then circled those words many times over.

Tai Wei quickly leaned over to see what he had written.

"Helter Skelter."

"Helter Skelter?" asked Tai Wei, confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Fang Mu had drawn his circles with so much force that he'd punctured the paper, giving it an appearance that aligned with the mindset represented by the two words.

Fang Mu slowly removed his headphones and, ignoring the fact that the CD was still playing, lit a cigarette from the pack on the table and began to smoke. Tai Wei noticed that the kid's hands were shaking slightly.

"Charles Manson," said Fang Mu in a low voice. 

Tai Wei felt he had heard this name before, and vaguely recalled that it belonged to the leader of some perverse religious cult. What did he have to do with this murder?

"Charles Manson was the infamous leader of the Manson Family cult," said Fang Mu, "which was active in the
U.S.
in the late sixties and early seventies. He planned to incite an apocalyptic war by killing white people and then starting a race war between the whites and the blacks. His first group of victims included the wife of the famous director Roman Polanski, their unborn child, and four other people who happened to be staying in their house. The second group was the family of a supermarket executive. There the Manson Family scrawled the words 'Kill the Pigs' on the wall of the crime scene. According to Manson, he had received instructions to start his apocalyptic war by a Beatles song. That song," Fang Mu pointed at the CD player, "just happens to be on the same CD as
Revolution 9
. It's called
Helter Skelter
."

Tai Wei listened to all this in stunned silence. Finally, he asked, "So what you're saying is, the killer copied Charles Manson?"

"That's right," said Fang Mu in a quiet voice. "I'd been wondering why the killer left the victim in a pigsty, and then when the owner of the house mentioned how he had mistaken the corpse for one of his pigs, I instantly thought of Charles Manson. There are numerous historical examples of serial killers doing things to shame their victims after they're dead, for example placing them under public signs that read 'No Dumping Trash,' or positioning a young man and woman so it looks like she's giving him oral sex. That's why I guessed that the pornographic manga found in the hospital murder had been left there to dishonor the victim. However, the most classic example of a serial killer who labeled his victims pigs was Charles Manson. And since I had a faint idea that it was a rock song that inspired him to commit his murders, I therefore deduced that this song had to be on the CD from the fourth murder case." Fang Mu slumped tiredly against the table. "And sure enough, I was right."

After thinking for a moment, Tai Wei said, "So do you think the previous crimes were copying the style of other serial killers?"

"It's possible, but I can't say for sure until I do some more research." Fang Mu stood up. "I'd better be heading home; we'll need all the time we have."

Tai Wei stood up as well. "I'll take you," he said.

"Don't worry about it," said Fang Mu, waving his hand. "You need to get back to the scene and make note of anything that doesn't seem to fit. More than likely…" he paused to lick his dry, cracked lips, "you'll find some clue to crime number six."

Six. At the sound of this ordinarily harmless number, the faces of both men turned grim.

All through the night, Fang Mu sat at his computer doing research. At last, when light began to fill the sky, he crawled exhaustedly into bed and fell asleep with his clothes on. He slept straight until noon, when Du Yu finally woke him up.

After eating a hurried meal in the dining hall, Fang Mu rushed to the library.

Since it was still lunchtime, the library was silent and no one else was around. Fang Mu looked at his watch. It wasn't yet one, so there was still more than half an hour before the reading rooms opened. He then walked upstairs to the third floor reference room, placed his bag on the terrazzo floor, and sat down and leaned against the wall, hoping to nap until the place opened.

After closing his eyes, Fang Mu drifted in and out of sleep for about 15 minutes before being awakened by the sound of steps echoing from the stairwell. He heard a man speaking softly.

"Yes… I know… It's not what you think… Well, how about next week…?" 

A second later, the speaker appeared in the same corridor as Fang Mu. When he saw him sitting there, the speaker suddenly stopped in place, said, "I'll call you back in a little bit," and then hung up his phone.

With difficulty, Fang Mu forced his eyes all the way open.

It was Librarian Sun.

Surprised, Librarian Sun looked down at him. "What are you sleeping here for?" he asked. "You'll catch a cold if you're not careful." After helping Fang Mu up, he pointed at the chilly terrazzo floor. "You shouldn't go around thinking that being young means you're invincible. You could get hemorrhoids sitting on the cold floor like that."

"Thank you, sir," said Fang Mu, rubbing his head in embarrassment.

Librarian Sun looked at his watch. "Seems you're pretty early today. The library's not even supposed to be open yet. That's okay though, I'll let you in." Saying this, he unlocked the big door to the reference room.

As soon as the door was opened, Fang Mu hurried over to the stacks. One after another, he grabbed
The United States Encyclopedia of Crime
,
The Encyclopedia of Criminology
, and
Criminal Profiling
, as well as several other books, and then holding them in a wobbly pile, walked over to one of the tables and sat down. Through force of habit, he immediately took out a pack of cigarettes, but after thinking about it, he put them away.

At that moment, Librarian Sun walked over. Smiling, he said, "Since the library's not yet open, it's okay to smoke." Then he noticed the pack in Fang Mu's hand. "Well, well, well," he exclaimed. "Hibiscus King—that's a very high-quality brand."

"One of my teachers gave me them," said Fang Mu, a little embarrassed. "Librarian Sun, would you like one?" He offered him a cigarette.

In response, Librarian Sun produced a pack of Hibiscus King cigarettes from his own pocket and, waving them slightly, said, "Already got a pack. Just make sure you don't get ash all over the place." Then he walked back to his desk, sat down and began reading a book, puffing away on a cigarette all the while.

For the rest of the afternoon Fang Mu did nothing but research and take notes. Besides getting up every now and then to find new books and return old ones, he barely moved.

People came and went. Sometimes the reference room was noisy, sometimes it was quiet. But none of this affected Fang Mu in the least. Every bit of his attention was focused on the materials before him. Floating down the river of humankind's criminal history, he brushed past butchers of all kinds, from hulking behemoths to wretched wraiths. Hurtling through the decades, he read about crimes so blood-drenched that they threatened to soak the very pages of his notebook, and entered the minds of criminals from 10, 50, even 100 years ago. All the while, he felt himself drawing steadily closer to the truth.

By the time he was finally so exhausted that he could write no more, the sky outside was already growing dark. Massaging his temples, he got up and walked to the water cooler, filled a paper cup full of cold water, and downed it in one gulp.

By now he was the last person left in the reference room. He looked at his watch. The library would be closing soon. Returning to his table, he slowly gathered up his belongings. All of a sudden, he felt an extreme tiredness creep over him.

How am I this exhausted?

His hands and feet felt as if they were filled with lead, his eyelids fought to close, and his chair felt more comfortable than it ever had before...

The sun is blazing hot. Out on the sunbaked basketball court with all my friends from the dorm, wearing shorts and no shirts, playing ball. Third Brother is being too competitive. We had to win, and if we lost he wouldn't let us leave.

The dorm hallway. Passing silent, grim-faced students, blankets held tightly over their shoulders. Sun Qingdong from Room 351 is sitting in front of the door to the bathroom stall, shaking all over. Someone whispers to me: Zhou Jun died in there.

The library. Flipping through the pages of a book, the sound like a tree full of dry leaves rustling in the breeze. Shock as I look at the library card at the back of the book, at all the familiar names that have checked it out.

The little market. Her hair fluttering, Chen Xi laughs and says, ‘It's up to you. Which one do you think is the best?’

The Route 25 bus station. Chen Xi rests her head against my shoulder.

The student club. Savagely, the demon raises his axe high. Blood spurts into the air. Chen Xi's pale, tranquil face.

Room 352. Wang Jian and Fourth Brother's bodies lie twisted amid the flames. A scorched odor fills the air. Wu Han stands before the door. Slowly, he turns around. Panicked, I say, ‘You were the seventh reader.’ Smiling thinly, he walks slowly toward me, the military dagger in his hand.

Then he whispers, ‘Actually, you and I are the same...’

No…

Suddenly Fang Mu leapt to his feet, startling the dark shape before him so it moved back a few steps.

"Are you okay?"

It was Librarian Sun. Fang Mu could see his own disturbed, sweat-soaked face reflected in the glasses perched on the bridge of the librarian's nose.

"Oh, uh, I'm fine," said Fang Mu, taking his hand from out of his bag, where he had been grasping the handle of the military dagger.

"The library is about to close," said Librarian Sun, still badly shaken, "so when I saw you lying on the desk fast asleep, I figured I'd go wake you up. I didn't expect you'd scream and leap up like that. Scared me half to death."

"Sorry," said Fang Mu, "I was just having a bad dream." He forced himself to smile.

"Don't worry about it," said Librarian Sun, patting him on the shoulder. "You may be young, but you still need to take care of yourself."

Fang Mu nodded, but said nothing more. After gathering his things, he grabbed his bag and left the reference room.

The deceased was one Thomas Gill, 41, a white male from the
United States
, formerly in charge of hiring at the
Jiangbin
City
University
foreign teachers administrative department. On the night of the murder, he took a cab from the school gate to the nearby Evening Breeze Jazz Club. There he had several drinks, but no one paid attention to what time he left. This above information was gleaned from his cab driver, who often picked up people outside the school gates, and the staff at the club.