Profiler

CHAPTER 13

Before getting off work, Tai Wei ran into Zhao Yonggui, deputy chief of the State Enterprise and Nonprofit Institution Investigative Division. Old Zhao was leaning against the hallway window, smoking sullenly. A number of butts already littered the floor around his feet. When Tai Wei walked over and said hello, Old Zhao glanced up at him with cavernous, bloodshot eyes.

"How's your case going?" asked Tai Wei, offering him a cigarette.

Old Zhao tossed the spent cigarette in his hand to the ground and accepted the one from Tai Wei. He lit it and took a deep drag.

"No progress whatsoever," he said, digging his fingers into his temples. "We've interviewed nearly six hundred people and still haven't learned a thing. How about yours?"

"The same," said Tai Wei, his voice sounding a little disheartened.

The two men smiled bitterly at each other, and then smoked together in silence.

At some point it began to rain, blurring the view from the window. As Tai Wei watched the drops run endlessly down the glass, he suddenly remembered how he and Fang Mu had searched through a storm for Tong Hui. Unable to help himself, he smiled.

That pale, quiet, somewhat nervous kid had actually seemed a lot better the last time they'd met. His complexion had improved, and there was a more youthful look in his eyes.

It was true; making a kid his age confront blood-drenched murder scenes day after day was a little cruel. He should get to be like his fellow students, happy and carefree, idling his time away. And then later: graduating, getting a job, marrying, having children-enjoying the common pleasures of an ordinary life.

Ding Shucheng had said Fang Mu had a gift for understanding crime. But as Tai Wei saw it, this gift didn't seem to give him any pleasure at all. When Tai Wei tried to ask him why he was so interested in this stuff, he had said he didn't know. But that was obviously not the truth. Instead, it seemed to Tai Wei that the kid was constantly struggling with some memory he was powerless to shake. What terrifying experience was haunting him from the past?

If a person like Fang Mu wanted to choose an ordinary life, Tai Wei didn't know whether he should be happy for him or disappointed that he was wasting his talents. Take the case he was currently working on: if Fang Mu were there, Tai Wei was certain he'd never feel so stuck. But the way that Fang Mu had acted last time made him feel a little apprehensive about asking for his help. So although his advice about looking for a sexual dimension to the crime hadn't panned out, Tai Wei did not plan on consulting him again.

"If we see each other again, it means someone else has died."

Tai Wei just shook his head. That kid was a real piece of work. He truly hoped that one day the two of them could meet up for drinks when there was nothing else to worry about, and then get dead drunk together.

"Tai Wei," said Old Zhao suddenly.

"Huh?" grunted Tai Wei, quickly coming back to reality.

"You guys did a good job on that Ma Kai case," said Old Zhao, roughly smoothing his hair. "From the start, I've felt that our killer from the seven-one case is also abnormal, with some kind of mental disorder most likely, but I've been unable to figure a thing out on my own. Will you help me out with the psychological analysis?"

"Me?" asked Tai Wei, pointing at himself. "Stop kidding around. Since when have I had those kinds of skills?"

Still, Old Zhao's words made Tai Wei's heart skip a beat, because he was absolutely right. Constructing a criminal profile of Ma Kai had been hugely beneficial in cracking his case, so why not use a tactic like that again? The 7/1 double murder and the hospital heroin killing were both unusual crimes with seemingly unexplainable aspects. If psychological profiles could be made of their perpetrators, Tai Wei was confident this would greatly help to push both cases along.

"We should find an expert on psychology to help us out," said Tai Wei.

For an instant Old Zhao hesitated, clearly ill at ease. Then he tossed his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and crushed it roughly with his foot. "We'll see," he said. He glanced at his watch. "Shit, look how late it is. I'm not working overtime today. I need to head home and get some rest." He nodded to Tai Wei. Then turned and left.

Tai Wei watched Old Zhao's slightly hunched form disappear into the darkness at the end of the hallway. The guy was over 50 and had only just been promoted to deputy division chief. During this mess, the pressure had to be unimaginable.

At that moment, Fang Mu was sitting in class and spacing out, watching the same raindrops patter against the windowpane.

Rain always caused people to daydream-or at the very least, seemed to make it impossible to pay attention to what was going on in front of them.

It was Professor Song's class again. Because the professor worked as a lawyer during the day, he had no choice but to teach his graduate lessons outside of normal class hours. Dinnertime had already passed, but the professor showed no sign of finishing. Instead he just told everyone to take a short break.

Grumbling, some students braved the rain and sprinted to a nearby market to buy bread and other snacks to stave off hunger. The gutsier ones, on the other hand, covertly packed up their belongings and slipped out. After drinking some tea and smoking a cigarette in his office, Professor Song returned to class in great spirits, but when he saw how many students had left, his face went red and he pulled the attendance sheet from his briefcase.

The sound of students responding "Here" from every corner of the classroom brought Fang Mu back to reality, and he involuntarily glanced over at Meng Fanzhe. This was the first time the professor had taken attendance in a long time, and it had also been a long time since Fang Mu and Meng Fanzhe had sat next to each other. Meng Fanzhe was now too far away to help, and Fang Mu felt both worried for him and unwilling to watch another of those incredibly awkward scenes.

It was clear Meng Fanzhe was nervous himself. He sat stiffly, his back straight and his eyes focused unblinkingly on the attendance sheet in Professor Song's hands.

"Wang Degang."

"Here."

"Chen Liang."

"Here."

"Chu Xiaoxu."

"Here."

Unable to do anything, Fang Mu forced himself to look away.

It was good breeding not to knock over one's tableware at dinner. But when someone else knocked over their tableware, it was even better breeding to pretend not to see.

Next time, man. Right now there's nothing I can do.

"Meng Fanzhe."

Meng Fanzhe hesitated for about a second. Then he stood halfway up and spoke very clearly: "Here."

Astounded, Fang Mu looked back over, only to meet Meng Fanzhe's eyes. Meng Fanzhe smiled brightly at him, and gave a cheerful, victorious wink.

Before going to bed, Fang Mu ran into Meng Fanzhe in the bathroom. Meng Fanzhe was carrying two large kettles that he had just filled with boiling water.

"What are you doing with those?" Fang Mu asked, pointing at the kettles as he scrubbed his face at a sink.

"I'm giving Tom a bath," said Meng Fanzhe with a smile.

"Then you really don't need that much. It's a waste."

"You don't understand. Tom is so naughty. He always gets himself filthy from head to toe." Hearing Meng Fanzhe cheerfully complain about Tom, Fang Mu remembered how Liu Jianjun had called Meng Fanzhe Jerry, and he couldn't help but smile. Looking to either side, he made sure no one else was in the bathroom.

He turned to Meng Fanzhe and said quietly, "It seems like you're no longer afraid of roll call."

"Yep!" Meng Fanzhe nodded vigorously. "That seems to be the case." He placed the kettles on the floor and reached out to shake Fang Mu's hand, a serious look on his face. "Fang Mu, I want to thank you so much for the help you gave me."

Fang Mu smiled and shook his hand. "Don't mention it."

"When you're free, you'll have to come visit me in my room," said Meng Fanzhe. Then he waved goodbye, picked up his kettles and left.

Seeing Meng Fanzhe so relaxed made Fang Mu deeply happy. As he looked in the mirror, a slight smile gradually climbed his face.

That's right, he thought. Nothing is impossible.

It rained for two days straight, and as September began there was an unexpected chill in the air.

Umbrella overhead, Fang Mu carefully climbed the rain-slick library steps. He glanced at a piece of paper on the wall. It looked like a missing person notice. Momentarily distracted, he nearly slipped on some fallen leaves. He looked up. It seemed like only yesterday that the big tree had been covered in green. Now the leaves were all golden yellow, and as another gust of wind blew, several more floated down.

Five minutes earlier, he had received a call from Professor Qiao telling him to meet in the Psychological Consultation Room. He had not said what was going on, only that Fang Mu should hurry.

The Psychological Consultation Room was on the second floor of the library. It was the first of its kind to be located in any of the city's universities, and Professor Qiao was the man in charge. In 2000, the members of the Provincial Education Commission had held a meeting concerning university students' mental health, at which they called for all schools of higher education to establish mental health services for the benefit of their students. JiangbinCityUniversity administrators had then tapped several professors from the schools of law and education to form the staff of a psychological consultation room located at the university. Being the eldest staff member, Professor Qiao Yunping had been chosen to be the project's director. But in the two years since its founding, very few people had come in for a consultation. Of course, this did not in the least mean that no one at JiangbinCityUniversity had psychological issues; just that most would rather not confront them head-on. And since Professor Qiao usually had many things to attend to, he began showing up at the center less and less, until he was rarely there. So Fang Mu found it very puzzling that this was where the professor wanted to meet that day.

After Fang Mu knocked on the door, he heard Professor Qiao's distinctly calm voice. "Come in."

Fang Mu opened the door and walked inside, only to find that Professor Qiao was not alone.

On the sofa against the wall sat two visitors wearing police uniforms. One of them wore the stripes of a top-ranked officer. Both men turned to look at Fang Mu as he entered, obviously sizing him up.

Professor Qiao sat behind his desk. Several thick folders were stacked in front of him. He held one open in his hands. Glancing at Fang Mu from over the top of his presbyopic glasses, he motioned for him to sit in a nearby chair, and then handed him one of the folders.

The two policemen glanced at one another.

Without looking up, Professor Qiao said, "My student."

This didn't seem to ease their doubts in the least.

Feeling a little awkward, Fang Mu had no choice but to take a seat and open the folder.

Once he saw the first page, he knew exactly what they were: the files from the Qu Weiqiang and Wang Qian murder case.

Preliminary case notes. Autopsy reports. Crime scene investigation details and photographs. Interview transcriptions. Almost casually, Fang Mu flipped through it all.

Qu Weiqiang face down on the turf, arms extended, severed bones sticking out of either wrist.

His hands beside the goalposts, pale white and bloodless, like they had been chopped off a plastic mannequin.

Beneath his caved-in skull, his face wore a serene expression.

In a flash, Fang Mu’s mind returned to that night he had stood alone in front of the goal. Everything around him became quiet. The overflowing bookshelves, Professor Qiao and the two policemen sitting up straight on the sofa, the large oil painting of Sigmund Freud on the wall-all of it now seemed very far away.

A single person now slowly took shape before Fang Mu, as if raised from the pit of his stomach. The person extended his vine-like arms farther and farther until they were wrapped tightly around Fang Mu, and then they burrowed under his skin, without leaving a mark or making a sound. Then a moment later a piercing pain spread throughout his body, and with it a calm, clear sort of feeling gradually emerged from within.

Green turf. Goalposts. Both hands. Sharp blade.

Three stiff, hard knocks echoed through the room.

Someone was pounding loudly on the door. In an instant Fang Mu came back to reality.

"Come in," said Professor Qiao.

In walked Librarian Sun, a stack of books held in his arms. "Professor Qiao, these are the books you wanted."

"Put them over here," said Professor Qiao, pointing at his desk expressionlessly.

Librarian Sun carefully placed the books on the only open spot on the desk. Then he smiled at Fang Mu, turned and left.

After looking through the folder again, Professor Qiao took a few books from the stack and glanced at them. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair, deep in thought.

The two policemen sat respectfully on the sofa, not daring to say a word.

After some time, Professor Qiao suddenly sat up straight and said, "What do you make of this?"

Fang Mu was taken aback. It took him a moment to realize that Professor Qiao was talking to him. "Me?"

"Correct."

"I'm still sort of figuring it out; perhaps you should go first prof-"

"If I ask for your opinion then I want to hear it. Since when were you so timid?" Professor Qiao pointed at the top-ranked officer. "This is Bian Ping, director of the Criminal Psychology Research Division at the province-level Department of Public Security. He is also my former student, and therefore your shixiong. What do you have to be afraid of?" (Translator’s note: Shixiong means "elder apprentice to the same master," or in this case, graduate advisor. By the same token, Fang Mu is Bian Ping's shidi, or "younger apprentice to the same master.")

Bian Ping nodded at Fang Mu.

"After looking through that folder, what caught your attention?" asked Professor Qiao, staring straight at Fang Mu.

Fang Mu hesitated for an instant, and then said simply: "The hands."

Without betraying a hint of emotion, Professor Qiao said, "After murdering the victim, the killer chopped off both his hands and left them on the soccer field. What does that suggest to you?"

This time Fang Mu took a little longer to think through his response. "Deprivation."

"Oh?" said Professor Qiao, raising his eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?'

"When he was alive the deceased loved soccer and was the goalie for the school team. I don't know much about the sport, but I do know that the only player on a soccer field who can touch the ball with his hands is the goalkeeper. For him, hands are the weapons with which he defends the goal. So when you cut off a goalie's hands, you are implicitly depriving him of his most valuable objects. And behind this act of deprivation, I sense a kind of…" Fang Mu paused for a moment, and then said: "Jealousy."

Still expressionless, Professor Qiao pushed the pack of cigarettes toward Fang Mu. Then without looking at him further, he turned to the policemen on the couch.

"After the killer raped Wang Qian, the second victim, he strangled her to death and then dismembered her. Then, however, he pieced her back together. This is the most curious part of the case. If the symbols left by the killer at the crime scenes represent the fulfillment of a special need, and if, as Fang Mu said, the symbols left on the body of the first victim-the severing of the hands-represent jealousy, then what is meant by the fact that he dismembered the second victim and then pieced her back together?"

Fang Mu and the two policemen stared with bated breath at Professor Qiao, just as if they were back in class.

"I sense that the killer desired to construct Wang Qian anew. He seems to have simultaneously lusted after her flesh and despised it, and it was this inner contradiction that caused him, after he raped her, to strangle and dismember her. Then deep within him, the feeling that he needed to possess an 'all-new' Wang Qian led him to piece her severed limbs back together. I believe that while the killer was in the process of reconstructing the deceased, he must have felt extremely conflicted. The fervor of revenge and the delight of having conquered, yes, but also an irredeemable sadness and regret at everything he had done."

Pointing at the folder, Professor Qiao continued. "I've noticed that the Public Security Bureau has barely investigated whether Wang Qian's personal history might have something to do with the case. I believe this could be a breakthrough point. My idea is that one of Wang Qian's former suitors watched helplessly as the girl he was in love with went everywhere with another man-even to the point of living together. And when he imagined how the pure, well-bred young goddess of his heart-for I have noticed that Wang Qian was a notably attractive and innocent-looking girl-was having crazed-sex with this muscled, simple-minded young man in the couple's own apartment, his emotions must have erupted like a volcano. Thus he went mad, and did what he did. However," he paused for a moment, "these are merely a few of my thoughts on the matter, for there are still several questions I am unable to answer. The syringe, for example. Maybe it belonged to the victim, but wherever it came from, why did the killer plunge it into her chest?"

"Perhaps as a way of venting his conflicted feelings for the victim's body; the killer spontaneously grabbed the syringe and stuck it in her," interjected Bian Ping.

"Right now it's still unclear," said Professor Qiao, shaking his head. "But if you think there's some merit to my idea, then you should begin investigating this possibility. And you had better start with people who knew Wang Qian as far back as middle school. Such intensity of feeling does not simply emerge after a day or two-it takes many unfulfilled years."

The two policemen rose to their feet and said their goodbyes. But when they were about to leave, the one who had been silent throughout turned back to Professor Qiao and, pointing at Fang Mu, said: "So this one's your student, too?"

Professor Qiao raised his eyebrows. "That's right," he said, a hint of arrogance in his tone.

The policeman said nothing further, just glanced at Fang Mu one more time, and then turned and followed Bian Ping out of the room.

After returning to his room, Fang Mu sat at his desk for a long time, staring at nothing. Other than smoke cigarette after cigarette, he didn't move an inch.

Then the door opened and Du Yu appeared, a grin on his face. As soon as he entered the room he began to cough.

"Jeez, keep smoking like this and you'll get cancer if you're not careful," he said, opening the door to aerate the room. "Brother, if you're trying to kill yourself, you've picked an awfully slow method."

Fang Mu said nothing, just smiled bitterly, his brows knitted together.

Du Yu's appearance made him realize that this whole time he had been reflecting on the case files he had seen that afternoon. Even now his mental state was much as it had been while in Professor Qiao's office. It was as if a second Fang Mu had quietly emerged within him while he wasn't paying attention, and then had taken over his whole being. This feeling had changed the very nature of his thoughts, and just as any addictive habit that had taken a stronghold, it was difficult to break.

This lack of control was terrifying.

Du Yu walked over and cautiously looked down at Fang Mu.

"What's up with you?" he asked.

"With me? Nothing, I'm fine."

"Then why are you wearing that same gloomy look as before? If something's on your mind you should let it out."

Fang Mu shut his eyes, but then a moment later he opened them and smiled. "It's really nothing. Let's go get something to eat."