Red Mandarin Dress (38 page)

“Now that you have concocted such a story, you will move ahead, regardless of your responsibility as a cop,” Jia said, looking up. “But there is something else you have to think about, Chief Inspector Chen. The housing development case is at a critical juncture. Any action against the plaintiff attorney could be seen as a political trick to cover up the government corruption. It is a case closely followed by media.”

“I’ll let you in on something too, Mr. Jia. About a month ago, somebody in the city government wanted me to look into the housing development case. I said no. Why? I, too, want to have those corrupt officials punished. However, they have kept updating me about the latest developments. A short while ago, I got a phone call about it in this room. A compromise has been reached in Beijing for the trial here, as you may know through your own channels.”

“A compromise indeed! So you know how dirty all this is.” After a pause Jia resumed, “In this case, not only are a number of high-ranking officials involved, but they are also interlocked in a power struggle at the top. You are no novice with politics, Chief Inspector Chen. If Beijing had really wanted to put an end to the case, I wouldn’t have been allowed to move it to the present stage. So do you think they want to see a dramatic twist at this juncture?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of the power struggle in the Forbidden City,” Chen said.

“Under normal circumstances, an attorney has to strive for the best interests of his clients. Some sort of deal is understandable. If the trial was interfered with, however, anything would be possible. Deal or no deal, the case might end up with all those official connections exposed, all the dirty details uncovered. The dogfight in the Forbidden City could come out too. What a political disaster! It is too much of a responsibility for a cop. You have to think about the consequences, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“I’ve thought about them, Mr. Jia. Whatever the scenario, the killing of innocent people has to be stopped. When people read the story together with the pictures, they will judge.”

“Some journalists are well-informed. I, too, know quite a few of them. When they learn about the politics behind the scene, do you think they will still be so enthusiastic about the story?”

“Let me assure you, Mr. Jia. I have some other pictures that will lock in their enthusiasm, in spite of all the politics.”

“What pictures are you talking about?”

“The pictures taken that fatal afternoon. A neighborhood cop, Comrade Fan, came to the scene. Suspecting foul play, he took pictures—at the foot of the staircase, before the medical people came to throw a blanket over her nude body.”

“You mean a picture of her lying on the ground that afternoon—”

“Yes, pictures of her lying there on the hard ground, cold, naked, as you may have imagined the scene in your mind thousands of times.”

“But that’s impossible—I mean those pictures—Fan never told me about them. No, it’s not true. You are bluffing.”

For the first time Jia didn’t bother to speak like an unrelated outsider, denying his part in the story.

“Let me show you one,” Chen said, taking out a picture. “A small one. I’m having all of them developed and enlarged. A number of pictures.”

It was a close-up of her lying on the ground, without a shred of clothes covering her body, an image Jia hadn’t looked back to see that afternoon, but which must have haunted him all these years.

Grasping the picture in his hand, Jia didn’t question its authenticity.

Again the turtle started floundering frantically in the pot, in a desperate effort to climb out, yet slipping off the slippery glass surface, repeatedly. An absurd, doomed effort.

“It is horrible, isn’t it?” Chen said, raising his chopsticks toward the pot.

Indeed it was, that scene under Jia’s gaze, not to mention the thought of its being examined anew by millions of readers.

Unearthing a buried body was considered the most horrendous act in traditional Chinese culture, but displaying a dead naked body could be far worse. That was why Comrade Fan had withheld the pictures all these years. Still, it was likely Chen’s last card.

“If the reporters were to get hold of them, together with those in the garden taken by the old photographer, and with the pictures at the crime scenes of the red mandarin dress case—”

“Stop, Chen. It’s so despicably low,” Jia struggled to say, his voice hissing, as if coming out of the pot too. “It’s beneath you.”

“To solve this case, nothing is really beneath a cop,” Chen said. “Now, let me say something about ‘despicably low.’ Something despicably low I initially encountered while working on my literature paper, as I’ve told you, about the deconstructive turns in classical love stories. As I’ve discovered, it’s at least partially because of the projection of a despicable male fantasy about women and sex—a fantasy archetypal in the unconscious of Chinese culture, or the collective unconscious, which I call the demonization of women in sexual love. It’s not a moment for literary theories, I know, but I want to say that you were possessed of it.”

He lifted the grass lid from the pot, ladling out the soup into a bowl for Jia, and another bowl for himself.

“When you were locked up in the back room of the neighborhood committee, your mother went to Comrade Fan. She was so worried about you. In desperation, she told him she was willing to do anything for your sake. Comrade Fan understood what she meant, but he declined, saying that Tian alone had the power to release you. To his regret, she took his advice. Not for one moment did Fan doubt that her concern for you was the cause of her being with Tian that afternoon. She did all that for you.

“You might have thought about such a possibility, but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept it. In that dark back room, what sustained you was the unsullied memory of her taking your hand in the garden—‘Mother, Let’s Go There.’ The world had collapsed around you, but she’s still yours, yours alone.

“So upon your return, the scene at home was absolutely appalling, an immaculate goddess shattering into a shameless slut in the arms of your persecutor. An unforgivable betrayal of you in your mind. It pushed you over the edge.

“But you’re wrong. According to my investigation, Tian had gone out of his way to assign himself to the institute. Like others, he probably watched her perform and became smitten with passion. The Cultural Revolution gave him the opportunity. He worked his way into the Mao Team to be close to her, but she tried her best to avoid his company in spite of his power. If she had succumbed to his pressure, he wouldn’t have come to your neighborhood and led the joint investigation. He didn’t get his opportunity until you got into trouble. She loved you more than anything else in the world. More than herself. Even under the circumstances, it was to Fan, not to Tian, that she first turned to for help.

“Now, it was only a couple of days later that you were unexpectedly released. If there was anything going on between them, it must have happened during that short period—for your sake. How desperate and painful it must have been for her to give herself to Tian, you can imagine.”

“But she didn’t have to. Nothing would have happened to—” Jia was unable to finish the sentence.

“Nothing would have happened to you? I doubt it. In those years, you could have been sentenced to death for such a ‘political crime.’ An old man was executed in the People’s Square, I remember, for the crime of carrying a Mao statue on his back by wrapping a rope around its neck.
It’s symbolic of hanging Chairman Mao
, the revolutionary people ruled. She knew better. She understood that Tian was capable of anything.

“But you kept imagining it from your perspective alone, never hers. The scene of her writhing and wallowing under another man crushed you. You were incapable of thinking rationally. That’s how you finally stumbled on an outlet in the serial killings, an outlet for both love and hate—”

Again he was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the cell phone. This time, it was Detective Yu.

“Sorry, I have to take another phone call,” Chen said, rising to move to the window. The garden outside was entirely submerged in darkness.

“Nothing in the car, Chief,” Yu said. “I studied the parking spot. It’s true that he could move from there and in through the side door without being seen by others. The front is hidden from view by a grove of bamboo. So I got in with the key.”

“Anything in his office?”

“It’s a large suite. In addition to the office, a reception room, and a study, there is also a small bedroom with a bathroom.”

“That’s not surprising. According to Xia, he often stays overnight there.”

“But that made it possible for him to wash Jasmine’s body.”

“That’s true.”

“I haven’t seen any bloodstains or anything like that there. The carpet must have been cleaned of late. It still has a detergent smell, and I saw a steam vacuum cleaner. But that’s something. In those high-end offices, cleaning is usually taken care of by professional people. Why would an attorney have done the cleaning himself?”

“That’s a good question.”

“Then I noticed something else, Chief. The color of the carpet. It matched that of the fiber stuck on the foot of the third victim.”

“Yes, he brought her in without being seen, but he failed to notice a fiber stuck between her toes.”

“But any result from the fiber test won’t be available until tomorrow morning. Besides, fiber evidence may not be conclusive for a homicide case.”

“It will be enough to hold him for a couple of days, and to justify a full search.” Chen added, “At least he can’t do anything during that period.”

“Should we start tonight?”

“Don’t rush. Wait for my call.”

When Chen moved back to the table, the turtle was turned over with its belly upward, a ghastly white belly, motionless in the pot.

“As a cop,” Jia said, “you have written a compassionate story.”

Chen wondered whether it was a sarcastic comment or if it indicated a subtle change on the part of Jia.

“Compassionate characterization is essential for any story,” Chen said, facing Jia. “You may think no one understands you, informed by all the absurdities and atrocities you suffered during the Cultural Revolution. You are like software written by all these events, and as a result, you can operate only one way; it’s beyond your own comprehension. But let me say that I tried to understand. Learning about all of your experiences, I kept saying to myself:
but for luck, what happened to Jia could have happened to me.

“I couldn’t help identifying with the boy in the picture. How happy, holding her hand like the world, how unprepared for the disaster already drawing close to the horizon. I tried to think from your perspective. I felt like I was going mad.

“In the days after her death, whenever your neighbors looked at you, you thought they were seeing her running out after you in her nakedness. It was like a demon eating you up. So you moved out, tried to leave everything behind you. Later you even changed your name. But as in a poem by Su Dongpo, you were ‘trying not to think, but forgetting not.’

“Cop or not, I don’t want to condemn you for taking justice into your own hands—at least in the beginning, delivering those relentless blows to Tian. What a blinding force revenge can be, I understand. I, too, was beside myself over the death of a young colleague of mine. In the Jing’an temple, I swore I would do anything to avenge her.

“But things were getting out of your control. You discovered your sexual problem, the cause of which you must have guessed. As a celebrated attorney, known for politically controversial cases, it was too much of a risk for you to go to a shrink. So you had to hang on, like you did in the black back room of the neighborhood committee, except then you still had hope, with her waiting outside for you.

“Then you collapsed with the crisis over Jasmine. Panic turned you into a killer. When you put your hand on her, the repressions or suppressions built up in you all these years erupted. As for the rest, I don’t think I need to repeat any more.

“I’ve come here not as a judge, Mr. Jia, but I can’t help being a cop. That’s why I have made special arrangements, hoping we may be able to find a different way—”

“A different way? What difference will it make to a man who, as you’ve said, sees no light at the end of the tunnel?” Jia said slowly, deliberately. “Now what do you want?”

“What I want, as a cop, is for the killing of innocent people to stop.”

“Well, if tomorrow’s trial goes on as scheduled. If nothing happens to it—”

“That’s what I hope. Nothing happens to it,” Chen said, glancing at his watch. “Nothing out of the way.”

“Oh, it’s Friday already. You don’t have to worry about it,” Jia said, as if reading his thoughts. “And those pictures have to be destroyed.”

“They will be destroyed. All the negatives too. I give you my word on it.”

“Are you still going to write your story, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“No, not as long as I can help it; not that nonfiction, I mean.”

“Not that nonfiction, and not that particularly or personally, but so far, there isn’t a single good book written about the Cultural Revolution.”

“I know,” Chen said. “What a shame.”

“And I have a personal request.”

“A personal request?”

“Don’t quit. This may sound condescending coming from me. But you are quite unusual for a cop, and you know stories are not simply black and white. Not too many cops share your understanding.”

“Thank you for telling me that, Mr. Jia.”

“Thank you for having told me the story, Chief Inspector Chen. Now, it’s time for me to go back and prepare for the trial tomorrow—today,” Jia said, rising. “After the trial, you may do whatever you want, and I’ll try my best to comply.”

When they walked out, they saw White Cloud still staying outside. She must have fallen asleep while waiting there, curled up on the leather sofa, her mandarin dress rumpled, and her feet bare. She wore nothing under the dress.