The Corpse Reader (26 page)

“No, you listen. It isn’t my fault you’re inept. You even cleaned the body
before
checking for evidence.”

Astounded, Gray Fox looked to Professor Ming, who instructed him to keep calm and told the others that it wasn’t quite time to pay Xu.

“As I’ve said many times, having conviction is important in this line of work, but on its own it is never enough. That’s why we have tribunals rather than just taking the word of an accuser.” Ming turned to Cí. “Your words have a convincing edge, but you also show insolence, and above all, your assertions lack evidence. Without the evidence, the only conclusion can be that this is a flight of fancy. Either that, or you were actually present at the crime.”

Cí had known this presentation would be different from one to a group of mourners. The best investigators were trained at the Ming Academy, but if he explained his logic, they’d know he had medical training, which could give away his identity.

So he said that if they really needed proof, all they had to do was go to the scene of the crime. At this, Ming threatened to report him to the authorities.

Cí pressed his fists together and bowed. The risk was worth taking to prove he was right.

“Very well, we’ll begin with the cause of death. He didn’t die in a fight; there were neither several assailants nor numerous beatings. He died when his throat was slit, and the incision point and direction of the cut demonstrate that this happened from behind. Given that he was so tall, he must have been seated when he died. Otherwise, the killer wouldn’t have been able to cut down to up like this. The stab wounds on the torso were all delivered by the same weapon, from the same position, and with the same intensity—that is, by the same person. Three of them are mortal, which means that all the others, including the slit to the throat, were unnecessary. So we can discard the story of the attack squad.”

“Pah! Pure supposition,” said Gray Fox.

“You sure?”

Cí seized the wooden spatula as if it were a knife and rushed at Gray Fox. The student leaped backward, holding his arms up to parry the thrusts. Cí kept on coming, eventually cornering him. But as much as he tried to get at Gray Fox’s torso, he never managed to get past the raised arms.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d begun his attack, Cí stopped.

Gray Fox didn’t launch a counterattack, but looked around incredulously. No one had come to his aid, and Professor Ming had watched the whole thing impassively.

“Master!” squealed Gray Fox.

But the professor’s only response was to give the floor to Cí once more.

“As you can see, for all I tried, I couldn’t get past his defense. Now, picture the situation: If I’d had a knife, instead of this wooden spatula, your arms would have cuts all over them. If I had landed a blow on your body, the angles of the cuts, and how deep they went, would all have been very different.”

To this Gray Fox gave no answer.

“But,” said Professor Ming, “that hardly leads us to the idea that the killer was a woman, or his wife, or that he was an escaped convict—nor any of the rest of your conclusions, or fabrications, I should perhaps say.”

Cí went calmly over to the corpse, inviting the group to look closely at the wound on the forehead.

“The result of a fall? Wrong. If your classmate had carried out his examination properly, he would have seen that this section of skin, which he thought came away because of an impact, was in fact pulled off with the very same knife that slit the throat. Look at the edges of the wound.” Cí ran his gloved fingers along them. “He didn’t bother to clean the wound, so he missed that the edges of the wound are sharp and clearly defined. The precise rectangular shape of the wound can mean only one thing.”

“A demonic ritual?” asked Xu.

Please, Xu, not now.

“No,” said Cí, clearing his throat. “It was an attempt to remove something that would have identified the corpse, because it was something that would have identified the man, beyond doubt, as a dangerous criminal, convicted for the worst of crimes.” He paused, turning to Professor Ming. “It wasn’t any old piece of skin that was removed; it was where the tattoo they put on murderers was placed. Fortunately, in this case, the killer either forgot or didn’t know that murderers are also tattooed on the crown of the head.”

From their expressions, Cí could see the students’ attitudes were rapidly changing from disdain to astonishment.

“And the idea that he deserted Xiangyang?”

“It’s well known that our penal code sets out execution, exile, and enforced labor as punishments for murder. This corpse was alive only yesterday, which leaves exile or enforced labor.” He held up the corpse’s right hand. “And the circular callus at the base of the thumb proves, without a doubt, that this man was wearing the bronze ring with which the flexor tendon is tightened.”

“Let me see,” said the professor, coming closer.

“It is also well known that our army forces are concentrated in Xiangyang because of the incursions by the Jin invaders.”

“And that’s why you think he deserted.”

“Basically. In a state of war, no one is allowed to leave the army, but this man did so to return to Lin’an. And not long ago, either, judging by his tan.”

“His tan?” asked Ming.

“Look at this faint horizontal mark,” said Cí, indicating a line across the forehead. “There is a very slight difference between the color of the skin here, compared to a little higher.”

The professor checked this.

“A head scarf,” continued Cí. “In the rice fields, the workers call them two-tones. But here there is only a very slight difference in coloration, indicating he only recently began using the head scarf to hide his tattoo.”

The professor frowned, seeming to weigh his next question.

“And the whereabouts of the woman? What were you saying about asking at the Yurchen shop?”

“Oh, I was lucky there. There was so much leftover food matter in his mouth that I could only deduce he died while eating.”

“But—”

“The Yurchen shop, yes. Look.” He picked up the gourd in which he’d deposited the leftovers. “Cheese.”

“Cheese?”

“Surprising, yes? A very unusual thing to eat around here, but common among the northern tribes. As far as I know, the only place bringing cheese into Lin’an is Old Panyu’s exotic food shop. I’m certain they’d remember the few customers who had recently bought such disgusting fare!”

“Which he perhaps developed a taste for during his time in the army…”

“Perhaps. They have to eat whatever they can find.”

“But you still haven’t explained the key element—that his wife killed him.”

Cí consulted his notes. Nodding, he lifted one of the corpse’s arms.

“These,” he said, pointing to some faint scratches. “The same as on both his shoulders. They showed up when I washed the body with the vinegar.”

“And these lead you to conclude…”

“That she’d been beaten badly earlier in the day and tried to fight back. She couldn’t take the abuse anymore, so when he sat down to eat, she came up behind him and slit his throat. And when
he was down, she went into a rage, straddled him, and stabbed him in the torso. When she calmed down, she removed anything that might identify the body or link it to her. But because he’s such a big man, she wouldn’t have been able to carry him very far. Therefore the killer is still in the vicinity of where the body was found.”

“Truly fantastic,” said Ming.

Cí bowed in thanks.

“No, I mean fantastic as in you’ve created a huge fantasy based on scant findings. Anyone could find any number of holes in your argument—for example, why the wife and not a sister? If the skin from the forehead is gone, there’s no way of being certain it had a tattoo on it, let alone what it said.”

“But—”

“Enough. You’re smart, no question about it, but you’re not as brilliant as you think.”

“And…the bet?” said Xu.

“Mmm.” The professor took out a purse and handed it to Xu. “That should settle it.”

The professor signaled to his students it was time to go. As they filed out, he motioned for Cí to follow him. Leaving the students, Ming led Cí over to a hedged garden. Cí’s heart raced as he waited for the professor to say something.

“How old are you, boy?”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

“And where did you learn your skills?”

“Learn? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on,” said the professor. “I can tell where your knowledge is from.”

Cí pursed his lips.

“As you wish,” said Ming. “If you don’t want to take part, that’s a real shame. In spite of your temerity, I’m impressed.”

“Take part? What do you mean?”

“One of our students fell ill last week and had to go back to his province. There’s a spot at the academy, and in spite of the long waiting list, we’re always on the lookout for anyone with real talent.” He paused. “But I see it isn’t for you.”

Cí could hardly believe it. The Ming Academy was the gateway for anyone who wanted to be anyone in the judiciary, an entry point into the elite—it even meant avoiding the Imperial exams, and the promise of regaining his family honor. It was beyond his wildest dreams.

But this offer was like the honey on a spoon before the bitter medicine; he could never afford the fees.

As if he’d read Cí’s thoughts, Professor Ming said they might be able to offer him accommodation, and that there was a job in the library with wages that would cover his tuition. Cí pinched himself. He’d be able to learn all the new techniques and cutting-edge developments. It was a chance to earn his rightful place. Finally his life would be what he wanted.

But what about Third?

The professor was shocked when Cí rejected the offer.

Cí cursed his fate again—it built him up only to knock him cruelly back down.

He went back to the grave he’d been digging. He dug and dug until his hands bled. Even then, he didn’t stop.

There was one insurmountable obstacle to Ming’s offer: he wouldn’t have been able to continue taking care of Third.

Ming had made it clear that Cí’s costs would all be covered if he worked in the library, but Cí wouldn’t have been able to afford Third’s medicine, or food or lodging for her. He had asked if he could carry on with his job at the cemetery, for extra money, but Ming said no, he would have to be fully dedicated to his studies.

Night fell and still Cí was digging, but then he remembered he had to get back to Third. He found it impossible to sleep that night. Third was sweating and coughing. He twisted and turned next to her, trying to figure out what to do. She’d had the last of her medicine hours earlier, and he was completely out of money.

Xu had refused to share Ming’s purse with him, claiming that since he’d put the money up, he alone deserved the winnings. Cí couldn’t have hated Xu more.

When morning came and Xu headed out for work, Cí ignored him and spent a few more minutes with Third. Though it was already summer, she couldn’t stop shivering.

“Don’t you dare make her work today,” he spat at the wives as he walked out the door.

As he walked along the port, past the swell of beggars scrabbling for something to eat, Cí realized that enough time had passed for Feng to have returned to Lin’an.

He was running out of options and time. While he knew that his fugitive status could tarnish Feng, he was Cí’s last hope.

Crossing the city by taking one barge after another, he eventually came to the Phoenix area in the south. He passed a few mansions before getting to Feng’s pavilion, a venerable one-story building with gardens in the front and back. Memories came flooding back of happier times spent among those apple trees. But as he got closer, he was shocked. The back garden, previously full of well-tended flowers, was tumbledown and overgrown. He rounded a pond that was now nothing but scattered rocks, and when he climbed the wooden steps they splintered beneath his weight. The house was completely abandoned. He knocked on the door, its bright red paint now dry and peeling. No one answered, so he tried the door and found it unlocked. As he stepped inside, he thought he caught a glimpse of a hunched figure moving through the rooms. A woman?