The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

CHAPTER SEVEN

The commissioner stood in the window of his office watching the moon set as Fong waited for the man to acknowledge his presence. When he finally turned he seemed oddly distracted.

There were two newspapers on his desk. One was the New York Times, the other the Manchester Guardian. Both had screaming headlines about the bombing in the People’s Twenty-Second Hospital. Both quoted the arsonist’s note in the cutline beneath a picture of the fetus in the cage.

The commissioner gestured toward the papers. “The last time the West paid so much attention to us, Mao was claiming to have swum across the Yangtze.” His voice was light. Surprisingly breathy, as if he were about to faint.

Fong was tempted to quip back, “The good old days.” But he thought better of it. He didn’t know this man well enough to chance a jest. And the man’s voice was frighteningly uncentred. So Fong said nothing. It’d been a long day and he was almost asleep on his feet.

“Tired, Inspector Zhong?” The voice was suddenly very high, almost falsetto.

Fong nodded, still unwilling to speak.

The commissioner pointed at the newspapers, “I really don’t care how long you’ve been awake or how many more days you need to go without sleep.” Stabbing his finger at the cutline he barked out, “This outrage must stop!”

It took Fong a moment to realize that the man wasn’t mocking the newspaper headline but giving an order. Fong checked a second time but there wasn’t a trace of irony or sophistication in the liquid depths of the man’s eyes. Just fear. A lot of fear.

“The year 2008 is not far away and the West is now watching us closely.”

For a moment Fong couldn’t figure out what 2008 had to do with an explosion in an abortion surgery. Then he remembered – the Olympics were going to be staged in Beijing in 2008. He smiled inwardly. Beijing must be up the man’s ass so far that he could hardly breathe.

Fong hesitated. Desperate men were often difficult to approach but he didn’t care. “My arson inspector needs more money to complete his investigation and we could use assistance from Hong Kong. They’ve had more experience with arson than we have.”

For an instant he thought the man was going to scream at him but that passed.

“Fill out the forms and I’ll sign them.”

Fong nodded. That was easier than he had anticipated. Now let’s go for broke he thought. “There’s a young captain in Xian who helped me with the investigation into the murders on Lake Ching. I could use his assistance on this case . . . sir.”

It seemed like the commissioner had either not heard or not understood. But just as Fong was about to repeat his request, the man said, “What’s his name?”

The man’s voice was suddenly sad.

Tough. We make our choices in this world and yours have led you to this dark place. Fong held no sympathy for those who rode the wave of politics when they were tossed broken and bleeding on the rocks.

“Chen. The man’s name is Captain Chen.”

Four hours later, at first light, a very young officer approached Fong at the entrance to Special Investigations. “The guy who found the note is here, sir. We let him spend the night at home.”

“Fine. Where is he?”

“Interrogation Room 3.”

Fong entered the room and stood to one side examining the young man. His eyes were a little too close together and there was a definite nastiness that was nearer the surface than he probably knew. He ought to learn to cover it better and damn soon, Fong thought.

Before Fong could speak, the man said, “I didn’t see anyone. It’s busy in the hospital, you know.”

Fong said nothing, allowing the young man to simply sit in the silence. “Can I go now?”

That Fong answered: “No.”

“Great, is this the silent treatment or something? You old guys are all the same. Where’s your fucking Mao jacket – at the cleaners?”

Fong almost laughed out loud. This boy was playing the role he traditionally played. But Fong understood, although grudgingly, that he was now part of the old guard. Part of what was perceived by the young as holding the country back. It felt uncomfortable. Fong looked at the young man and decided on a tack. “So what did you want to be?”

“When I grew up?” he asked nastily.

“Sure,” said Fong, “when you grew up.”

“Not a fucking clerk in an abortion clinic, that’s for sure.”

“What then?”

“A doctor, if you must know.”

“You’re young enough still . . .”

“. . . to do whatever I want. I know. You old guys always say shit like that.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, you do.” He looked to his left as if there were something or someone there who could help him. “What do you want from me, anyway?”

“I want to know how that note got on your desk?”

“I’ve told them already.”

“I’m sure you did. Now tell me.”

The receptionist let out a breath then sort of threw his hands up in the air in the universal gesture of when-will-this-nonsense-end. “Fine. I saw nothing. I saw no one in particular. The desk was a mad house. As usual. When I had a moment to myself I looked down and there was that piece of paper with the English writing on it.”

“How did you know it was English?”

“I’m educated. I took primary English like everyone who wants to be anyone. So I recognized the letters – not their names – but that they were English.”

Fong thought about that for a moment then asked, “How did you know they weren’t German or French of Spanish?”

“Oh, very good, Inspector. You’ve caught me. I didn’t know that. Can I go now?”

“Were there any Caucasians at the desk?”

The young man looked at him but didn’t speak.

“Come on. You work at a Chinese hospital. Foreigners don’t go there. Or if they did even a moron like you would remember it.”

“Moron?”

“They never used to fight,” Fong thought. But what he said was, “Yes, moron, now did you see any Caucasians or not that day?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Very good.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

Fong looked at the man. “Do you really think I can’t hurt you?”

“I don’t care what you do to me.”

That was new. Fong looked at the man and what he saw clearly on his face were the unmistakable signs of surrender. At his age he’d already given up. So young to have already lost hope. So young to be so angry. Fong gave him a card. “Call me if you remember anything more. There had to have been a Long Nose at your desk – as you said, the note’s in English.”

As a forensic scientist, Lily had dealt with many dead things – many mutilated things – many corroded, rotted, penetrated, scraped, cut, burned, strangled, scalded, blinded, poisoned things – but none of these had prepared her for interviewing the Hua Shan Hospital’s abortion clinic’s head nurse. She’d seen the heavy-set woman many times as she’d passed by the clinic and gone up the stairs to her lab. But before today they’d never exchanged any more than cursory greetings.

The woman shrugged toward a chair in her small office. Lily sat. The nurse stood. “My supervisor says you have questions for me, officer.”

Lily did her best to smile, then said, “I do.”

“About the bombing?”

“Not directly. I need to understand more about abortion ORs.”

“Fine,” the nurse said curtly, “the clinic is filling up, so please be quick.”

Lily didn’t like the woman’s tone but that made things equal. Clearly, the woman didn’t like Lily’s very presence in her office.

The woman quickly went over the basic scheduling of an abortion surgery – the time involved on the table, prep times, clean-up regimes, etc. When she finished, she looked at Lily, “Anything else?”

“In the bombing, a human fetus was found . . .”

“. . . in a cage. Yes, I heard.”

“It had to have come from somewhere.”

“Clearly.”

“Could it have come from your surgery?”

That seemed to put the nurse back on her stubby heels. When she found her voice it was not nearly so assured as before, “How would I know?”

Lily’s head quickly filled with a terrible image. She forced it aside and asked, “Is an inventory kept?”

“Of what?”

“Of . . . the product.”

The head nurse looked as if she’d been asked if she’d visited Mars lately. Finally, she said, “No. No inventory is kept.”

“So what do you do with . . .?” Lily couldn’t find the word she wanted – or was willing to use.

The nurse nodded and said simply, “The detritus? What do we do with the detritus?”

“Yes,” Lily answered, aware that the nurse had helped her. “Thank you,” Lily said.

The nurse nodded and then said, “Nothing very sophisticated, officer. If the ‘product’ is big enough – if it can’t be flushed – we double-bag it and it goes out with the hospital’s trash. It’s the same at all the hospitals, I expect.”

Lily thought about the constant comings and goings of trash collectors. She had no idea where garbage eventually went – incinerated she guessed. But she suspected that whoever took this detritus didn’t wait til the final drop point. She knew it wouldn’t be difficult to don a garbage collector’s overalls and pick up the refuse from one of the many abortion clinics around town as long as you were Chinese, but things here pointed toward an American.

“Has your clinic received any threats?”

“No.”

“Have there been any Caucasians around the clinic?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen.”

“This is my card . . .”

“I know where to find you if I need you, Lily.” The woman turned and headed out to the crowded, angry waiting room.

Lily watched the woman go and wondered how she managed to deal with so much sorrow on a daily basis.

Fong looked around the conference room. They already appeared as tired as he felt. A folder was open in front of Wu Fan-zi; the new head of CSU was to his left. Six detectives were seated around the room completing their interview notes. Lily sat to one side, sipping from a steaming jar of cha. Her exhaustion carved deep patterns on her face making her look severe, stern. Fong knew she’d rushed home yesterday to settle Xiao Ming in for a night with her mother and then returned to the lab to get ready for the meeting. He didn’t know about her early morning meeting with the head nurse of the Hua Shan Hospital’s abortion clinic.

All eyes slowly turned to Fong, and what little chatter there had been in the room died.

The silence that followed was rife with possibilities. Everyone at the large oval table knew that this was Fong’s first big case since his return from west of the Wall and his still shadowy success at Lake Ching. In the corridors of Special Investigations these events were collectively referred to as The Resurrection. Everyone also knew that there were many in the department anxious to see Fong fall on his delicately boned face.

The meeting room smelled of pungent cigarette smoke. Fong instinctively reached for his pack of Kents. But they weren’t there. He hadn’t smoked since he’d killed the assassin Loa Wei Fen in the construction pit in the Pudong. Fong cleared his throat and tossed two newspapers onto the large oval table. Instantly he was flooded with a memory of another time. Another newspaper he’d tossed on this very table. That newspaper’s headline had screamed: Dim Sum Killer at Large. Of course that had been over five years ago. Back when he still smoked Kents.

Lily’s voice cracked his reverie with her slightly lisped English, “Talk time, short stuff.”

That reminded Fong of yet another time – another table – another investigation. He smiled at his wife, then asked in English, “How’s our little girl?”

“Mother mine with. Miss you, though,” Lily replied in English.

Fong wanted to reply, “No. She misses you, Lily,” but didn’t when he saw a darkness cross the new CSU guy’s face. This was a multiple murder investigation, not a family gathering. Fong straightened his jacket, reminded himself that he had to lead all of them, not just Lily. As if he could ever really lead Lily! He turned to Wu Fan-zi, his fireman, and said in Mandarin, “You’re up.”

The block-like man looked haggard as he shuffled his papers. He opened his mouth then decided something or other and closed it. He smiled for no discernible reason, then said, “I’ve had to ask for help on this one. With Fong’s permission I sent my preliminary results to Hong Kong and they’ve responded with an initial critique. But they don’t want to work at a distance from the investigation.”

“What does that mean?” asked Lily drily.

Fong sighed, then said, “They want one of their people on the investigation team.”

“Well, they can’t have it,” snapped Lily.

Despite the People’s Republic of China’s takeover of Hong Kong, most of the officers around the table had been raised on a steady diet of hatred for the old English Protectorate.

“They can’t insist on being a part of this investigation, can they, Fong?” Lily asked.

“They can and I’ve already arranged for them to send over their man.”

Turning away from Lily’s angry face, he returned to Wu Fan-zi, “What’ve you got so far?”

Wu Fan-zi went through the complex mathematics of the blast. They all listened carefully. Finally Wu Fan-zi stopped reciting numbers and said simply, “It was a very strong, very controlled bomb – unlike anything we’ve seen here. It’s sophisticated in both its components and its execution. Only its detonation was simple. Then,” he said, “there’s this.” He took out a plastic evidence bag and emptied out three short metal threads on the table. “Phosphorus threads,” he said. “They were around the table – in a circle. Obviously those that ignited we don’t have, although we were able to spot several that had only partially burned. The pattern is clear. A circle around the operating table.” He pushed his chair away from the table and looked at Fong. “Phosphorus makes no sense. It couldn’t be part of the bomb but it must have been scattered by the bomber. The threads are small enough that I doubt anyone working in the operating room would have noticed them.”

“So, is there a question here, Wu Fan-zi?” asked Fong.

“Why would he bother, Fong? Phosphorus converts energy into light so quickly that it hardly gives off any heat at all. There’s almost no force released because all the energy is immediately converted into high intensity light.”

“So the phosphorus has nothing to do with the bomb?” Fong asked.

“Not as far as I can tell,” replied Wu Fan-zi.

Fong thought, “Maybe nothing to do with the bomb but definitely something to do with the bomber,” but all he chose to say was, “Okay. Let’s leave the phosphorus for now. Could the bomb have been purchased here?” asked Fong.

Wu Fan-zi thought about that then nodded. “Yeah, it could if you have the money and the contacts. It’s rare that a white man could be so well connected in the Middle Kingdom. Shit, even if Silas Darfun were alive today he’d have a tough time getting his hands on that stuff.”

The others gave short chortles, not real laughs.

“What we do know is that the bomb isn’t homegrown. We’ve got a pretty tight lid on all that. Government stockpiles are cross-checked constantly and it’s almost impossible to get the kind of materials necessary to make that kind of bomb here. Just try buying a large amount of bicarbonate of soda and watch what happens. The Internet sites are all monitored and all hits are traced. Hey-ka-ka-ka-kaboom.com seems to be the biggest but there’s seldom anything they get by us. The site has, in fact, been extremely cooperative – don’t ask me why. Besides, even if you ordered something from the Internet it still has to be delivered and we have that covered too. So that leaves us with an importer. My guess is the bomb came across the Russian frontier. But I doubt if it was Russian. They were never very clever with explosives. They always left that to the Czechs.”

“And the Bosnians,” added the CSU guy.

“True,” Wu Fan-zi responded.

“But it would still be so much easier to find this explosive in the West – and the note was in English, wasn’t it?” asked the CSU guy.

Fong ignored the question but asked one of his own: “Would it be hard to smuggle the bomb through airport security, Wu Fan-zi?”

“Yeah.” Wu Fan-zi wasn’t about to supply any more information on that topic but his terse answer bespoke inside knowledge.

“Hard or impossible?” Fong prodded.

“Impossible, Fong.”

The CSU guy looked away as Wu Fan-zi continued, “And the detonator, the timing device, the metal cage – all that couldn’t be smuggled in either. So it would all have to be obtained locally.”

“So the bomber’s entire kit would have to be bought here?”

“Yep,” said Wu Fan-zi, “maybe not homegrown but definitely home bought.”

Fong turned to one of the detectives, “Start with the cage the baby was-”

“Not a baby, Fong.” Lily’s voice was icy cold. In English she continued, “Xiao Ming is baby. This not.”

Fong quickly translated to the men around the table. He saw clearly that they were not interested in the difference that Lily was pointing out. Lily saw their resistance and slammed her hand, palm down, on the table and then said loudly in English, “Important, this!”

Fong both understood and didn’t understand what Lily was so upset about but now was not the time to explore it further. He looked past his wife and pointed to the young detective at her side. “Start with the cage. Someone made that thing. I want to know who.”

The young man nodded. Fong handed him a photograph of the cage, sans fetus, and a piece of paper. “Here are the specs.” He turned to Wu Fan-zi. “What’s that metal called again?”

“Titanium,” said the fireman.

“Is that why it didn’t shatter – being made of this titanium metal?” asked the young detective.

“That and its position beneath the base of the steel surgical table,” said Wu Fan-zi, then added, “and of course there was the planch.”

“The what?”

“The planch. This is all that’s left of it,” Wu Fanzi said, putting a badly dented very thick piece of metal plate on the table. “Some explosives can be given directionality by shaping the material. But it’s a crude method and not totally reliable. The placement of the planch adds to the accuracy. The planch forces the energy of the explosion up and out.”

“Away from the thing in the cage,” said Lily.

“Away from the message in the cage,” Fong corrected her none too gently.

There was another silence, then Fong barked at the young detective, “Go!” The man quickly headed toward the door. Before he got there Fong added, “I want an update on my desk by noon tomorrow.” The man stopped, went to protest, then thought better of it as he noted the grim set of Fong’s face.

He left, slamming the door harder than was absolutely necessary to close it.

“Another happy camper,” Lily said in English.

Fong’s textbook English couldn’t decipher the meaning of the phrase. Why was Lily inferring that the detective could be hitched to the back of an automobile or for that matter that the man was happy?

Fong put aside these questions and turned to the CSU guy. He nodded his head. The man began his report, “All the people in the operating room left identifiable remains. The doctor, the technicians, the-”

“Who did the hair belong to?” Fong demanded.

The CSU guy checked his notes. “The head nurse.”

“And the pool of blood?”

“Hers as well but I don’t-”

Fong cut him off again, “Nothing else from the head nurse? No bones? No body parts? No teeth?” Fong was speaking fast, clearly angry.

“None,” said the CSU guy slowly.

“But there were bones and body parts, teeth, and clothing from all the others?”

“Yes, we found-”

“Find her,” Fong shouted.

Instantly there was chaos in the room. Cries of protest and anger over the apparent disrespect for the dead. Fong allowed the anger to crest, then as it began to fall he said simply, “She’s not dead. You three, find her.” He was pointing to a group of detectives. “Here,” he said tossing the hospital administrator’s data sheet onto the table. “Use this to start.” Then he turned to the window. As one of the detectives took the sheet the other two quickly compared notes with the new CSU man. Then the three detectives headed out. They made no effort to hide the fact that they were happy to leave the room. Once the detectives were gone, Fong turned back to the CSU guy.

Lily had never seen Fong so angry. His words came out as little more than a hiss, “Leave your notes. You’re off the case.”

The man glared at Fong then left the room quickly. Lily turned to Fong but before she could ask her question he spoke to those remaining in the room, “There was no way to miss the fact that the hair and blood must have been planted there. He didn’t want to know. He thought the people in that abortion surgery got what they deserved.”

After a moment of silence one of the remaining detectives said, “Abortion is still a complicated subject.”

Fong felt himself enveloped in dizziness, a world spinning. Fu Tsong, his first wife, dead in his arms, their unborn child on her belly. A yawning pit beneath them. Oh yes, Fong knew that abortion is a complicated subject. He knew that.

He caught Lily’s sidelong look. No. He would not share the death of his first wife with her. “Forensics,” he snapped.

Lily took the note that had been left behind. It had been carefully dusted then resealed in the evidence bag: THIS BLASPHEMY MUST STOP.

Fong translated the messages for the men around the table.

“What is blasphemy?”

“I’ll explain later. Tell us what you found on the note, Lily.”

“The paper is pretty standard issue bond paper. Made here. Probably in the new factory across the river in the Pudong. But there’s nothing to follow up there. The note is clean of fingerprints except for a thumb and forefinger of the guy at hospital reception. The lack of other fingerprints is rare since paper is such a good medium for prints. The ink is from a cheap disposable pen much like Fong uses. The words – are the words.” She shrugged. “I know it’s not much but it’s all I’ve got on that.”

She pushed forward the titanium cage. “The cage was fabricated recently and with a high level of skill. Titanium is hard to work with and the welding joints can be complicated because they need such high heat. The bars are almost exactly symmetrical and the base is nearly a perfect circle. No prints. No fabric or hair traces. Not much to go on really but I’ll get a copy of this to the investigating detective.” She reached for the two newspapers on the table. “Both papers have stringers in Shanghai but there are no credits given for either the stories or the pictures. As well, there is no way of telling if the picture is of the actual cage that we found. Personally I doubt it.”

“How could the papers get the pictures, Lily?”

“They could have been dropped off with the stringers but we’ve checked. They both deny it. Both also deny they wrote the story. They claim the story and picture arrived at their head office in America by e-mail before the bomb went off. When the stringers confirmed the facts of the blast, their papers ran the story. There is no traceable e-mail traffic from the Middle Kingdom to these newspapers so we have to assume the e-mail came from somewhere else. This bomber could have an accomplice or he could have set his computer in America to send e-mails on a certain day to certain papers.”

“Can e-mail do that?”

“If you have the right software it’s no problem.”

“How about these stringers?”

“What about them?”

“You believe these guys – these stringers – Lily?”

“I do. They’re both old China hands. They both have good reason to want to stay here and therefore play by the rules.”

“And the reason they want to stay here, Lily?”

“One is married to a Chinese girl, the other has a weakness for Chinese women.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed, Fong.” Lily smiled at her own cleverness.

“Is that all, Lily?” Fong prompted her in English.

She shot him a hard look. “Not all, Fong, and it know you!” she retorted angrily in her version of English. Her hands trembled as she opened a small transparent folder. She put on a pair of reading glasses. She didn’t look up as she read the Mandarin characters. Her voice was soft – distant – so un-Lily-like.

“The fetus was of a seven-month-old male. Two pounds three ounces. Han Chinese. It seems to have been partially mummified. Perhaps by the blast. No matching DNA markers with known suspects or other victims. No way to tell how long ago it died-” She stopped, realizing the implication of what she had just said. If it had died it must at one time have been alive. She shook her head. Fong was frightened she might break into tears. She didn’t. “The fetus was wrapped in a flame-retardant metal sheathing with an asbestos lining – industrial strength, easy enough to find at any construction site. The lining, that is. The metal was titanium.” She turned the page and continued to read. It took five more minutes for her to complete her report – all very dry, very accurate – pretty much useless and she knew it. She closed the folder and reached for her tea. When she brought the steaming liquid to her lips her glasses misted over. It hid the tears in her eyes.

Fong allowed a moment of silence, then said, “Find out what the hospital does with discarded fetuses.” No one moved. No one wanted that assignment.

“They flush them or throw them in the garbage,” said Lily, her voice thickening. “I checked this morning assuming that none of the men around this table would mind if I did this part of the investigation.”

“Thanks, Lily,” he said in English.

“Hey, please aim do I.”

“Right,” Fong thought but said nothing to her. He turned away from her. “You,” he said pointing to the nearest cop, “find the route between the People’s Twenty-Second Hospital and the nearest incinerator. It may even be in the hospital. Now.”

“Fine,” said the cop getting to his feet. He strode to the door and pushed it open. A muffled “ouch” came from the other side. A stubby rat of a man poked his head around the door and smiled when he saw Fong. Then he saw Lily and he positively beamed.

Lake Ching’s Captain Chen had come to the big city.