The notion was
ludicrous
. Sure, it was conceivable that even an unidentified body could be used for medical experimentation and teaching purposes; however, no doctor in their right mind would cut out a random body's organs for transplant just like that. Meaning, the killers' true objective could not have been simply to force the victim to donate his organs, but rather to use the victim's body to express an emotion of some kind.
This had been another ritual.
The question now was which of those three people had been the ritual's protagonist?
Fang Mu's gut told him it had been Huang Runhua. If his guess was right, the ritual with Tan Ji as its protagonist had already been completed; furthermore, if the protagonist of this one had been Luo Jiahai, then everything would point to the victim as having been the man who had raped Shen Xiang all those years ago. From what he could see, however, there were no clear signs that this had been a retaliatory murder.
After a detailed inspection of Huang Runhua's body, he discovered several scars in addition to the hole left by the gunshot that killed him. Based on their positions, they appeared to have been the result of self-harm. People who knew Huang Runhua had not described him as one who was dealing with an excessive amount of anxiety; perhaps he had had a masochistic nature, or had loathed himself for some reason, and thus felt a need to physically abuse himself. The thought gave Fang Mu an idea: What if the one who had wanted to donate his organs had been Huang Runhua himself?
Without delay, he arranged for someone to go and interview Huang Runhua's wife. Meanwhile, Fang Mu took a photograph of Huang Runhua around to the major metropolitan hospitals. After two long days of groundwork, he learned from two of the hospitals (one of which was Medical University Hospital) that Huang Runhua had approached them with a request to donate his organs. Judging him to be too emotionally unstable to make such a decision and therefore not suited to be an organ donor, officials at both hospitals had turned him away. In the interview with Huang Runhua's wife, she had verified that she had witnessed her husband cutting himself with a knife in their home on multiple occasions.
It seemed Huang Runhua had hated his body with a passion and had wanted desperately to destroy it. From a psychological standpoint, the cause of such an intense emotion was often intense guilt. And with the possibility that Huang Runhua had been planning to leave his victim's body in the hospital as an organ-donating cadaver hinted at a deep psychological crisis, and a need to transfer guilt.
So it seemed there could be a light at the end of the tunnel for at least one of the questions that had been plaguing the task force; perhaps the reason for the establishment of this fellowship of murderers had been so that they could cure themselves of certain psychological disorders.
Fang Mu stared at the photograph in his hand of Huang Runhua's corpse. Dead from a gunshot wound, his brow was tightly knit and his mouth was wide open; he looked like a man unwilling to take his fate lying down. Perhaps he had been convinced that after ridding himself of what afflicted him, he would be able to start life anew.
Fang Mu closed his eyes, exhausted. It was a pity; Huang Runhua most certainly had taken many secrets with him into the land of the dead, secrets that he would never utter again.
The identity of the deceased was soon discovered. Nie Baoqing, 33-year-old, university graduate. Profession: actor. Actually, his career had comprised of a handful of vulgar skits performed at various entertainment venues around the city. On the day he was killed, Nie Baoqing had been planning on going to the Jinda Hotel for a performance. At around 6:00 p.m., a neighborhood security guard saw him leave his apartment building; however, by 8:00, when the performance was supposed to start, Nie Baoqing had still not showed up at the hotel. The tentative conclusion was that Nie Baoqing was kidnapped during this time.
The deceased worked in the performing arts at various entertainment venues, so his day to day interactions tended to involve people from all walks of life. However, Huang Runhua's wife and colleagues all insisted that Huang Runhua had been one to keep to himself, and thus had never set foot in these sorts of venues. So what was the relationship between the deceased and the killer? What connection did he have with Huang Runhua's extreme dislike of his own body?
The riddles were piling up one after another, and of the five people who knew the answers, one was dead, one was in a coma, one was on the run, and the remaining two still would not talk.
Ten days passed in the blink of an eye, and Tan Ji still showed no signs of waking up. It was less than two weeks from the end of the 30-day mandatory period of detention; if no further hard evidence turned up, they would have no choice but to change the criminal detention sentence to a release from custody, subject to provision of a surety, or possibly even residential surveillance. At most, they would be subject to monitoring for 12 months. The task force was under an enormous amount of pressure.
After Jiang Dexian and Qu Rui had been detained, they were immediately sent to separate interview rooms. Both suspects, however, declared their intention to apply to be released from custody subject to provision of a surety, and since then had endeavored to keep their mouths shut. But after the prosecutor's office denied them bail, they had acted differently. Jiang Dexian sat in his cell every day resting with his eyes closed, and during each interrogation session he only answered questions that were absolutely insignificant and had nothing to do with the case. Qu Rui, on the other hand, used every chance she got to ask the investigators how Tan Ji was doing. Though no details of the case had been divulged to either suspect, it seemed obvious that they had already guessed that Tan Ji was still in the hospital unconscious, which was probably the reason Jiang Dexian was able to remain so calm while waiting for his period of detention to end.
A total of four cell phones had been found at the scenes, and their call logs had yielded six different numbers. According to the technical surveillance division, two of the numbers belonged to Tan Ji and Huang Runhua, and the other four calls had last been made from locations that included the teahouse (and so were likely to have been from the phones used by Jiang Dexian and Qu Rui), the vicinity of the bridge where the accident had occurred, and a bar in the north part of the city. Based on these records, the task force came to the tentative conclusion that after Luo Jiahai had escaped on foot, he must have called an unknown individual in the bar, and then that person had probably instructed Luo Jiahai to turn off his phone, extract its SIM card, and throw the phone away. After that the unknown individual had contacted Jiang Dexian and Qu Rui and had probably told them to get rid of their phones immediately, and he would have done the same. But no prints had been found on the two cell phones discovered in the teahouse, so there still was no admissible evidence that could be used against Jiang Dexian and Qu Rui.
It was entirely possible that the mysterious individual in the bar was the head of the organization, but with no clear way of pursuing him, the only hope was to capture Luo Jiahai as soon as possible.
The Municipal Bureau reported Lu Xu's deed to the provincial government and put in an application for the glorious title of "Martyr of the Revolution" on his behalf. The provincial government did not approve it, however, giving the reason that Lu Xu had "abandoned his post" to participate in the police operation to apprehend the suspects, and that he therefore was not worthy of being treated as a revolutionary martyr. It took a fuming Xin Zhisen, with Zheng Lin in tow, making a special trip over to the provincial government offices to hoot and holler and threaten resignation before those in charge finally approved the Municipal Bureau's request.
Lu Xu's funeral was held in the Dragon Peak Cemetery. Apart from a skeleton crew left behind to run things, practically the entire city police force was there to pay their respects to Lu Xu.
In the main hall of the funeral home, Lu Xu's body lay peacefully among enormous bouquets of flowers, dressed in full uniform. A plastic police training pistol had been stuck inside the holster at his belt; this had been Fang Mu's parting gift to him. He had sacrificed his life to get his gun back, so it made sense to let him take a gun with him into the afterworld. As Fang Mu kowtowed to Lu Xu's body three times, hot tears in his eyes, he noticed the hands. They looked exactly the same as they had looked when Lu Xu had grasped Fang Mu's hands in the little street-side eatery that time.
"My brother, my brother."
If there is such thing as an afterlife, we'll be brothers there, too.
After Lu Xu's body was cremated, the ashes were buried in the Revolutionary Martyrs Plot. For days an endless stream of people had come to pay their tributes, including policemen who had not been able to make it to the funeral as well as city residents who had spontaneously come to visit upon hearing news of the now somewhat famous motorcycle cop's death.
Fang Mu had kept watch in the Dragon Peak Cemetery the entire time, but his attention had not been on Lu Xu. He was waiting for Luo Jiahai to appear.
January 23 was Shen Xiang's birthday. If Luo Jiahai was still in the city somewhere, then perhaps he would come to the cemetery in the next few days to pay homage to Shen Xiang. The police had installed hidden video surveillance equipment near her grave and had placed several undercover officers around the cemetery posing as grounds workers, ready to arrest Luo Jiahai as soon as he showed his face.
For a few days nothing happened. On the morning of the 23rd, the surveillance equipment captured a man and a woman visiting Shen Xiang's grave, but they were soon identified as the girl's parents. Patiently, the elderly couple swept and pulled weeds around her grave, then set out offerings and murmured prayers while kneeling before her headstone. Finally they left, arm in arm and with tears running down their cheeks. No one else was spotted by the cameras, and the only news transmitted by the various undercover officers from their positions around the cemetery was the simple message, "everything's normal." Bian Ping ordered everyone to remain on high alert in case Luo Jiahai was planning a night time visit.
The sun set and day gradually gave way to night. Upon Bian Ping's repeated insistence, Fang Mu, who had spent the entire day in front of the surveillance camera monitors, finally picked up his long-cold box lunch and began stuffing bite after bite of it into his mouth. As he chewed, the officer who had taken over in front of the monitors suddenly perked up and shouted that someone was there at the grave.
Fang Mu tossed his meal aside as he stood to lean close to one of the monitors. Although it was now quite dark outside, the camera's night vision function had kicked in, and the image of the area around the grave was very clear. In front of the marble gravestone a white-haired old man was slowly bending at the waist, bowing deeply to Shen Xiang.
"That's not Luo Jiahai," Bian Ping drawled, his voice thick with disappointment. "Damn. I was just about to put out the order to arrest him."
Fang Mu did not move and his eyes remained glued to the image on the monitor in front of him. The sight of the elderly figure bowing before Shen Xiang's grave sent an icy jolt straight through his heart.
CHAPTER
32
Skinner's Box
E
ven though the knock on the door came with the familiar pre-established sequence, Luo Jiahai still peered through the peephole cautiously. Distorted by the fish-eye glass, Mr. Z's anxious face and knobby nose stared back at him from the apex of a weirdly arced hallway.
Luo Jiahai unlocked the door, sheathing the dagger he had in his hand.
Mr. Z dashed inside, placed the cake box he had been carrying on the table, and sat in a chair, chest heaving.
"What happened to you? You look beat."
"Oh," Mr. Z gasped, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I took the stairs."
"What's wrong with the elevator?"
"Some elevators have surveillance cameras in them. They're not safe."
The two sat in silence for a few moments. Finally Luo Jiahai asked, "So, what's the situation?"
"J and Q are still at the detention center, and T's still bed-ridden in the hospital." Mr. Z lowered his voice. "H was cremated yesterday morning."
"He must've been trying to protect me," Luo Jiahai groaned, hugging his head and pulling at his hair. "He had plenty of opportunity to get out of there."
"Don't dwell on it. It was an unforeseeable mishap." Mr. Z placed a hand on Luo Jiahai's shoulder. "Besides, H always felt like he owed you one."
Luo Jiahai shook his head forcefully and shrugged Mr. Z's hand off.
"The rest of us are safe. We should count our blessings." Mr. Z paused. "Assuming T regains consciousness, I have faith he will keep his trap shut. Otherwise Q will be finished, and he knows it."
"Can I do anything for them?" Luo Jiahai looked up, his face streaked with tears. "I'll do anything!"
"The only thing you can do right now is keep yourself safe." Mr. Z reached over and squeezed Luo Jiahai's shoulder. "We all knew what we might be getting into when we decided to do this together. As I said, don't dwell on it too much. When the time comes we'll scrape some money together and give it to Mr. T's and Mr. H's families."
Luo Jiahai wiped his eyes and nodded.
Mr. Z smiled and pointed at the cake on the table. "I bought you that cake you wanted."
"Oh, thank you."
"What did you want it for? Is it your birthday or something?"
"No, it's Shen Xiang's birthday."
"Ah," Mr. Z said, and nodded sympathetically. "I'll leave you to it then."
"Z," Luo Jiahai said. "My thing... When will we do it?"
"I'm afraid we'll have to wait a while." Mr. Z sighed. "Things are way too hot right now, and J and Q won't be able to participate in any operations for quite some time. But be patient; I'll let you know when the time is ripe."
After Mr. Z left the room was again plunged into stillness. Luo Jiahai sat staring into space for a while, and then turned his gaze to the cake box on the table. The sight of it filled him with renewed vigor.
He tore open the lid, inserted the candles that had been included, and lit them one at a time. After he was finished he reached up to turn out the light.
The flickering light from the candles brought a cozy atmosphere to the dark little room. Luo Jiahai stared blankly at the tiny points of light as they danced and wobbled about, blurring his eyes until they had morphed into a pretty girl in a delicate white dress. He smiled, and a pair of tears trickled down from his eyes and dripped from his chin.
"Happy...birthday...to you... Happy...birthday...to you..."Luo Jiahai sang in almost a whisper, clapping softly along, but soon was so choked with sobs that he could not continue.
Happy birthday, Shen Xiang…
It dawned on Bian Ping that Fang Mu had been acting very strange over the past few days. He had spent an entire work shift at the Bureau of Civil Affairs and then the next day he had spent from morning to evening in the Household Registration Division. On the odd occasion that he had seen him in the Municipal Bureau, Fang Mu had sat quietly by himself the whole time, staring into a computer screen. Thinking he might have made an important discovery of some sort, Bian Ping had asked him what the good news was, but Fang Mu's response had been evasive. Bian Ping wondered moodily what sort of game Fang Mu was playing, but he decided to resist the urge to confront him. Instead he waited patiently for Fang Mu to come to him; after all, Bian Ping was not only his elder but his superior as well, so that had to count for something.
When Fang Mu finally came into his office to look for him, the first words out of the young officer's mouth left Bian Ping speechless.
"Captain, I need a gun."
The heavy piece of iron was digging uncomfortably into Fang Mu's hip as he sat in the jeep. A little while ago, while in the armory, Fang Mu had chosen not to take one of the smaller, more compact models such as the 64 or the 66; instead he had opted for the 54, which was the largest and heaviest model available. His only reason had been that it had looked practical and reliable to him. It was not just that, however; the word among policemen on the street was that this sort of gun had a relatively low malfunction rate and was easiest to use. When the crucial moment came to pull the trigger, those things were more important than any other consideration.
Fang Mu was carrying a gun just to play on the safe side, but in his heart he hoped with all his being that he would not need to use it.
A loudspeaker had been installed in the tree just outside the fence in front of Angel Hall, and from it a cold metallic voice was repeating its obligatory mantra: "Becoming aware of the overall situation, actively cooperating with the work of the government, and conscientiously working toward a successful demolition and relocation—all these are every citizen's bounden duty…"
When Sister Zhao saw Fang Mu's vehicle stopped near the gate, her tightly-knit brow loosened a little and she hurried over to greet him with a forced smile on her face. "What brings you here today?" She opened the iron gate for him. "Drive on in; don't park outside."
Deep in thought, Fang Mu was too distracted to engage in any pleasantries. "Why?" he asked simply.
"Because I'm worried that gang of bastards might damage your vehicle." Sister Zhao made a face in the direction of the loudspeaker. "Quite a few families around here aren't going to leave without a fight. They've been smashing windows willy-nilly."
"Ah, okay." Fang Mu picked up a thick folder from the dashboard and closed the car door behind him. "Is Teacher Zhou here?"
"He sure is," Sister Zhao chirped. "Go on in; I'll watch your car for you."
Fang Mu nodded his thanks, looked up at the two-story building, sighed heavily, and strode toward it.
Teacher Zhou was in one of the children's rooms repairing a bed. When Fang Mu entered, he looked up and laughed a startled greeting. "Ah, what are you doing here?"
Fang Mu did not smile. He said bluntly, "Teacher Zhou, you and I need to talk."
"All right," Teacher Zhou said, seeing the seriousness written on Fang Mu's face. He motioned for him to sit. "Is it about Liao Yafan?"
"No," Fang Mu said slowly. "It's about Shen Xiang."
Teacher Zhou's body shook as if it had been struck by lightning, causing the wrench in his hand to clatter to the floor.
The old man's reaction made Fang Mu feel even more convinced that his gut had been right. "You knew Shen Xiang, correct?"
All the strength seemed to have suddenly drained from Teacher Zhou's body as he slumped against the bed frame. A long minute passed before he finally opened his mouth. "How did you know?"
"On the night of January 23rd, you went to Dragon Peak Cemetery to visit Shen Xiang's grave, correct?"
Teacher Zhou began to tremble. After a moment he whispered, "Give me a cigarette."
Fang Mu got out a pack of cigarettes and handed it to him, then watched as he took one out with a shaking hand, lit it, and began puffing furiously on it.
"Teacher Zhou," Fang Mu said, staring at his haggard eyes. "Who in the hell are you?"
Teacher Zhou looked extremely uncomfortable. His eyes were half-closed and he was shaking his head, as if trying desperately to shake free of some memories that he had tried hard to forget.
Fang Mu knew he would get no answer. "Zhou Zhenbang, male, born in Changhong City on September
7, 1945. In 1964, he tested into the School of Psychology at Beijing Normal University; in July 1971, he was given a teaching position at Changhong City Normal University. In 1983, the Institute of Psychology was established at the Changhong City Academy of Social Sciences, and Zhou Zhenbang was appointed its director. In 1999, Zhou Zhenbang resigned suddenly, and ever since his whereabouts have been unknown." Fang Mu closed the folder in his hands. "But from what I've been able to gather, five years ago Zhou Zhenbang changed his name to Zhou Guoqing, and later established Angel Hall orphanage. And he himself is sitting right in front of me."
Teacher Zhou gave a wry laugh. "Well, I see you've got your facts straight."
"The first time I ate dinner at Angel Hall, you mentioned that you had attended a lecture in the tallest, white-stoned structure at Harvard." Fang Mu retrieved a photograph from the folder. "Harvard's tallest building is the William James Hall. From the outside it resembles an office building constructed from white stones, and it also just happens to be where the psychology department is. I did a search of all the psychologists in Changhong City with the surname Zhou and had no trouble finding your information."
"If you know so much about me, then why bother asking?"
"What I want to know is, what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Shen Xiang?"
Wordlessly, Teacher Zhou slid another cigarette from the pack, lit it, and sat puffing in silence. Fang Mu waited.
When he had finished the cigarette, Teacher Zhou exhaled heavily and lifted his head. "Little Fang, I can tell you what you want to know. But please regard this as nothing more than an old man's repentance for mistakes he made when he was young. I don't know whether or not you'll be able to forgive me after you've heard what I have to say, but you must believe me, from the day I founded Angel Hall I had already decided to use the rest of my life to atone for my sins."
Fang Mu gazed into his turbid eyes and at once he saw tears that were both remorseful and full of sorrow. He nodded gently.
"All right." Teacher Zhou clenched his hands into fists, as if to encourage himself to divulge an unspeakable secret. "Have you ever heard of Skinner's Box?"
"Skinner's Box?" Fang Mu's eyes widened. "Are you talking about Burrhus Frederic Skinner?"
"Yes," Teacher Zhou exclaimed, taken aback. "Are you sure you're just a regular cop?"
Fang Mu did not answer. Skinner had been one of America's most renowned psychologists and behaviorists. He had opposed the idea that psychoanalysis was the only method worth using to probe a person's psyche, and advocated predicting and controlling human behavior rather than speculating on human psychological states and processes. He proposed a theory of "operant conditioning," believing that people and other animals would behave in certain fixed ways in reaction to their environment in order to achieve specific goals. When a behavior resulted in an external reward, then that behavior would reemerge in the future with increasing frequency; when it resulted in something unfavorable, then that behavior would diminish or completely disappear. Thus, according to this theory, people could manipulate the outcome of certain behaviors by way of positive or negative reinforcement and thereby gradually correct those behaviors. These were the basics of Skinner's behavior modification theory. His earliest use of the theory had been on animals, and to that end he had created what was to become known as the "Skinner Box." The box contained such devices as levers, a feeding tray, and tiny pedals. Skinner would place an animal – usually a pigeon or a mouse – inside the box and study its behavior in reaction to specific stimuli. Rumor had it that he had even used his own daughter as a test subject and had placed her in a large version of the box.