Profiler

CHAPTER 14

The Jin family household was already in a panic.

Holding a cordless phone in his hand, Jin Bingshan anxiously paced back and forth in his living room. On the sofa behind him sat his wife, Yang Qin, her eyes red from crying, along with several female coworkers who were supporting her limp frame and babbling all sorts of worthless words of consolation.

Jin Bingshan looked at the clock on the wall. It was already almost 10 p.m. He turned his attention back to the phone and dialed forcefully. Seeing this, Yang Qin stopped crying and struggled upright, looking expectantly at the phone in her husband's hand.

The call went through. After speaking briefly to the person on the other end, Jin Bingshan hung up. He turned toward his wife, but unable to meet her eyes, just shook his head.

With the piercing wail of an injured animal, Yang Qin collapsed back on the couch. As the sobs reached her throat, she began to choke and her face went bright red.

Jin Bingshan hurried over and began hitting his wife soundly on the back. A moment later she coughed violently, and then burst out crying once more.

"I don't care what you have to do, Jin Bingshan," she said, pointing a finger as skinny as a chicken's talon at her husband, "you are finding our daughter and bringing her home! What kind of father are you, ignoring your child for the sake of some goddamned clients?" Grabbing a pillow, she hurled it at him.

Jin Bingshan let the pillow bounce off of him and drop to the floor. At that moment, his normally dignified, understanding wife, an assistant professor at the university, had become little more than a screaming shrew. Looking at her, he felt his heart fill with immense grief.

Turning away, he glanced quickly around the room and then yelled, "Little Chen!"

Little Chen, his driver, immediately scurried out of the kitchen. Wiping instant noodle soup from his mouth, he said, "I'm here, Boss Jin."

"Do we still have more missing person notices?"

"A few."

"Then let's go. We're going to make one hundred more copies and then paste them up."

Saying this, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. While putting on his shoes, he looked back at his wife. She was crying soundlessly on the shoulder of one of her coworkers. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out.

By the time he returned, it was already two in the morning. Jin Bingshan quietly opened the door to his apartment. The light in the living room was still on, but the room was empty. He tiptoed to his bedroom door and quietly pushed it open. His wife was already asleep on the bed, her face streaked with tears. In one hand she clutched a piece of their daughter's clothing.

Jin Bingshan's heart was seized with pain. After a moment, he carefully shut the door and returned to the living room. He stood there dazed for a moment, and then took off his ripped jacket and lay down on the couch.

While posting the notices, he had gotten into an argument with several security guards, and one of them, a young punk, grabbed one of his daughter's missing person photos and ripped it to pieces. Enraged, Jin Bingshan struck the kid, and as a result he and his driver Little Chen were beaten up. Later, after they were dragged into the local police substation and questioned, the officers on duty decided not to give Jin Bingshan any more trouble, and let him off with only a warning.

After sleeping restlessly on the sofa for a few hours, Jin Bingshan got up and decided to post the remaining notices in a more distant location. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to open the door, only to discover that something was blocking it from the other side. Then with a strong push he opened it. In the hallway sat a large cardboard box.

Jin Bingshan froze for an instant, and then, instinctively, began tearing off the tape sealing it closed. As soon as he peeled back the lid, a putrid scent shot forth.

His daughter, Jin Qiao, was curled inside, her body stark naked and covered with wounds.

In the courtyard of the Public Security Bureau, Tai Wei and his fellow officers had just switched on their sirens and were about to leave when Tai Wei saw Zhao Yonggui rush out of the building and into another police car. Hurriedly rolling down the window, Tai Wei called out. "Where are you off to, Old Zhao?"

"HegangCity," he said, and then without another word stepped on the gas and peeled out.

Seeing the smug look on Old Zhao's face, Tai Wei figured the guy must have finally gotten a lead.

Tai Wei thought about the still-unsolved hospital murder case, and then about his destination that night. At last he gave a tired wave of his arm and said, "Let's head out."

Once more they were driving to JiangbinCityUniversity. Tai Wei didn't know what in the world was wrong with this school, but in the last three months, two students and the wife of a staff member had already been killed. And from what he had heard, this time the deceased was a professor's daughter.

It can't be a curse, thought Tai Wei. That kind of thing just doesn't happen.

The squad cars flew through the city and before long they had reached the JiangbinCityUniversity campus. Tall buildings stood on either side as far as the eye could see, giving the campus a very modern, impressive air. But to Tai Wei, these peaceful ivory towers now appeared enshrouded by a dense and gloomy haze, which, although it was a sunny morning, seemed to be spreading a somber chill through the air.

Tai Wei knew that because of the nature of their work, many of his fellow officers carried some sort of protective talisman on them, and in the past he had always been quick to laugh at their superstitious nature. But now, speeding toward JiangbinCityUniversity, he felt a nameless terror come over him, and deeply wished he had some good luck type of object to hold and calm his fears.

Several officers from the local substation were waiting at the entrance to the JiangbinCityUniversity residential area when Tai Wei arrived, although he hardly needed to be told where to go, for as he drove into the courtyard he saw a large crowd had already formed outside of one of the buildings.

Feeling for the gun on his waist, Tai Wei roused himself and called out, "All right, let's get to work!"

Zou Tuanjie told them the news at dinner. While playing soccer that afternoon, a philosophy student had told him that Assistant Professor Yang Qin's daughter had been murdered.

"What the hell?" said Du Yu, smacking the table. "This is happening way too often."

"I heard the girl was only seven-year-old," said Zou Tuanjie, shaking his head. "How could anyone be so goddamn cruel?"

Just as Du Yu was about to say something else, he suddenly turned and prodded Fang Mu.

"Look over there," he said.

Holding a tray of food, Deng Linyue was looking all around for an empty seat.

"Come on, Tuanjie, let's go sit somewhere else," said Du Yu, hurriedly grabbing his tray and standing up. "Once we're gone," he said to Fang Mu, "you've got to quickly call her over."

"Stop acting crazy," said Fang Mu, blushing. "Sit down and eat your food."

"Damn, too late," said Du Yu regretfully, as he craned his neck for a better view.

Fang Mu looked back to find that Deng Linyue had already found an empty table, and was in the process of cleaning it with a tissue from her bag.

"Let's just eat in peace, all right?" said Fang Mu as he sighed and poked at the potatoes on his plate.

"What? I don't believe it!" Du Yu was still looking back at Deng Linyue, his neck stretched like a giraffe's.

Again Fang Mu turned to look, only to see that Liu Jianjun was now sitting opposite Deng Linyue, and the two of them were chatting freely. This did not seem to be their first meeting.

"See, this is what happens when you wait," said Du Yu, his voice thick with annoyance. He retracted his neck and looked at Fang Mu.

"There's a kind of person who will do anything to help set-up his friend with a girl," said Fang Mu, glaring back at Du Yu, "when all he subconsciously wants is to be with that girl himself."

His mouth full of food, Zou Tuanjie tried to keep from cracking up.

"Bastard!" yelled Du Yu, his face scarlet.

On the way back to their rooms, the three of them ran into Liu Jianjun in the dormitory hallway. A huge smile on his face, he greeted them loudly. Although Fang Mu and Zou Tuanjie responded, Du Yu just stared at the ceiling.

"You see that? What did I tell you!" said Fang Mu to Zou Tuanjie with a smile.

Du Yu smiled as well, and then punched Fang Mu in the shoulder.

The victim was a seven-year-old girl named Jin Qiao. She had been in class three of the second grade at the JiangbinCityUniversity employees' elementary school. Her father, Jin Bingshan, was 42-year-old and the president of the Metropolitan Culture Company. Her mother, Yang Qin, was 41 and an assistant professor of philosophy at JiangbinCityUniversity.

When her body was returned, Jin Qiao had already been missing for over 50 hours. According to her parents, on the night Jin Qiao disappeared, her father was supposed to have picked her up from school, but because he was dealing with some clients at the time, he arrived late and she was no longer there. After alerting the police, the parents papered the city with missing person notices, but for the next two days there was no news, up until the victim's corpse appeared on her parents' doorstep.

At the time of discovery, the victim's corpse was completely naked and covered with wounds. According to the medical examiners, the cause of death was shock resulting from painful, large-scale tissue damage. In other words, Jin Qiao was tortured to death. The examiners also determined that after she was dead, her body was raped. However, because no trace of semen was discovered inside, they suspected that her killer used a condom.

The corpse had been placed inside a large cardboard box, which was soon identified as an old Adidas packing box. In addition to the body, two other objects were found inside, both seemingly inexplicable. One was a videotape, the other a broken piece of some ceramic object.

The videotape was of the standard variety compatible with the average family VCR. No fingerprints were found on its exterior. The tape itself was only 15 seconds long and consisted of a single close-up on a young girl's genitals. She was lying on a black sheet (probably to conceal the colors and characteristics of any other objects in the room), her legs were spread wide, and from beginning to end the camera never moved. The girl didn't either, and this coupled with the color of her skin suggested that she was already dead. Based on her physiology, she did not appear to be older than 14. Later, after the victim's parents were shown the video, they noticed a birthmark on the girl's thigh that identified her as their daughter Jin Qiao.

In her right hand the victim was found holding a piece of an unknown ceramic object, with a surface area of eight-square-inches. This was soon determined to be a broken piece of pottery, likely part of some sort of container, and it appeared to be decorated with pictures of naked men and women. The police then sought the advice of the chairman of the Jiangbin City Ceramic Artists Association. He responded that based on the images on the broken pottery, it looked very much like the work of Grayson Perry, the British ceramic artist who specialized in vases. However, it was extremely unlikely that this was an original.

To begin their investigation of the case, the police decided on the following steps:

First, visit the victim's elementary school, making sure to interview the students and teachers she came in contact with on the night she went missing.

Second, because the crime was so savage, it was very likely to have been done out of revenge. Therefore, a comprehensive investigation needed to be made of Jin Bingshan and Yang Qin's social relationships.

Third, because the box in which the victim was found was fairly large, her killer would probably have needed a car to transport it to her doorstep, but because the driveway was laid in cement, it was impossible to obtain any trace of tire tracks. Therefore, immediate interviews would need to be made with everyone living nearby, to determine whether any suspicious cars were seen on the morning of the murder. At the same time, car rental agencies across the city would need to be investigated for news of any suspicious renters.

Fourth, although the box in which the victim was found likely originated at either an Adidas company store or specialty shop, the killer had already removed any label that might have identified the place from where it was purchased or shipped. This was obviously done to conceal its origin, so a citywide search would need to be made for the source of the box.

Fifth, while undergoing intense torture, the victim had probably attempted to dodge or resist her killer, and police suspected that it was during one such attempt that the victim grabbed the piece of pottery. This meant that the vase from which the piece was broken had likely belonged to the killer. Therefore, all markets in the city that sold this kind of pottery would need to be investigated for clues about its purchaser.

Coughing. Insuppressible coughing.

And then endless vomiting.

Leaning on the rim of the toilet, grabbing for the toilet paper. Ripping off a piece and carelessly wiping away the vomit and then throwing it into the toilet and flushing. The filthy paper swirling out of sight.

So dizzy.

With difficulty standing up. A familiar face in the mirror. Skin pallid, unkempt hair.

Smiling at the face.

Eyes shut as the lips curl upwards.

No-must not look at that monstrous smile.

Stumbling back into the living room. Collapsing on the couch. Tightly shut living room windows, thick curtains blocking out the sun. Pale yellow light from a single bulb on the wall. The air stiflingly hot. But then, why does it still feel so cold?

Hair soaked with cold sweat, plastered uncomfortably to the forehead. Forcefully pushing it back with a damp palm. Sniffing.

The room smells of rot.

Striding quickly to the window, throwing back the curtains with a whoosh, and then, as if burned by the sunlight, immediately drawing them closed. Over to the desk now, tearing open the drawer, pulling everything out. At last, a bottle of air freshener. Psh. Psh. Psh. Spraying until there's not a drop of liquid left.

The dense lemon scent burns, but now everything is much more comfortable.

Falling back onto the sofa. Grabbing a book from the floor, flipping through the pages. On one: a large fold-out drawing of the human anatomy.

Get the fuck away!

The book is thrown hard against the wall, hits with a thunk, and falls to the floor with a rustle of paper. Innocently, it lies open.

Body going limp, sliding to the floor. Instantly chilled by the cold tile.

Hands propped at sides, trying to rise, feeling something cold, damp and oily beneath one palm.

Lifting it from beside the sofa. One glance. A small piece of someone's ruined skin.

Throat suddenly clenching. And then mouth covered, scrambling to the bathroom, no time to get the toilet lid up before the horrid sound of retching echoes off the walls.

Although bent like a bowstring, although stomach twitching violently, only a few mouthfuls of yellowish liquid fall into the bowl. Despite tear-blurred vision can still feel drops of mucus trickling down the lips.

Again that face in the mirror. Tiredly wiping long trails of saliva hanging from the mouth. Staring at the face.

It was someone else, the face was just as pale but it was someone else.

Laugh! Open your mouth and laugh.

The stranger in the mirror cackled right back.

Looking back into the living room, at the photograph on the computer screen.

You'll never defeat me.