Chen wondered whether it would be worthwhile for him to interview Fang. What the Wenhui journalist had said earlier in the day came back to him, echoing ironically in his mind as he sat in the solitary stillness of his room: There’s no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Zhou’s death could be anything other than suicide.
It was supposed to be a direct quote from Chief Inspector Chen, who hadn’t said anything close to that. Still, it didn’t appear to be that far from the truth. At least, not at the moment.
He got up to pour himself a small cup of whiskey, from a bottle he had brought back from the United States as a souvenir. He hoped that it would somehow reenergize him a bit, but he wasn’t a drinker. He took just one small sip and began coughing almost uncontrollably.
Another wasted day. He realized, looking back, that Lianping’s mention of poetry in her phone call was perhaps the only bright spot in a dismal day. That, however, was a fleeting moment: most of the conversation had been about his “statement” about the investigation.
He felt fatigued. A couplet by Du Fu came to mind: My temples frost-streaked through adversities, / Too worn out even to drink from the shoddy wine cup.
In his college years, Chen hadn’t liked Du Fu, who seemed to be too much of a Confucianist poet, telling rather showing, too serious and always worrying about the woes of the country in grandiose lines.
Time really flies. How long had it been since Chen started working as a policeman after graduation? At first, however reluctant to be a cop, he was still idealistic. What about now? Perhaps existentialist at best, like a mythological figure in an ever-repeating process of rolling a boulder uphill, only to watch it roll down. His reveries were interrupted by another call, this one from Detective Yu, who never hesitated to phone, despite the late hour.
“Look out, Chief. Internal Security has come into the picture.”
“The ones who police the police. Why are they now involved?”
“Well, you would know better than me.”
The fact was that Chen didn’t know, having been away from the bureau for most of the afternoon. Still, the appearance of Internal Security meant things had become too sensitive for the police bureau, or too sinister.
Or Internal Security had been brought in to watch over the cops.
Whatever interpretation was correct, it was an ominous sign.
And he felt really sick.
TEN
HIS MIND IN TURMOIL, Chen sat hunched in the bureau car, sweating profusely, making one phone call after another.
He had been sick all weekend and the following Monday, lying miserable and alone in bed most of the time, with the phone shut off.
Then Tuesday started with the news that Detective Wei had died the previous day in a traffic accident.
The chief inspector had no choice but to take a handful of aspirin, put a small packet of them in his pants pocket, and hurry out.
The bureau driver, Skinny Wang, a self-proclaimed fan of the chief inspector, invariably mixed up the real-life man with the one in his imagination, the result of having devoured many mystery novels. Wang had heard of the death of Detective Wei, and with one hand on the wheel, he was having a hard time restraining himself from asking Chen questions.
According to the report from Ruijin Hospital, Wei had been rushed to the emergency room as an unidentified victim of a traffic accident on the corner of Weihai and Shanxi Roads. He wasn’t carrying any ID on him or wearing his uniform. He died there shortly afterward. It wasn’t until after some traffic cops arrived the following morning that one of them noticed among his possessions a tie pin given by the police bureau. The officer believed he saw some resemblance between the corpse and Detective Wei and started making phone calls.
Wei’s wife had called the bureau about his not returning home the previous night approximately fifteen minutes before the homicide squad heard from the traffic cop.
According to Wei’s wife, Wei had left home the previous morning at eight a.m., wearing a beige jacket, a white shirt with a tie, and dress pants—which was too formal for a detective on duty. Still, he would occasionally go out of his way to dress well if an investigation called for it.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Wang managed to interject the moment Chen put down the phone. “Not in the very middle of his investigation.”
“Traffic is terrible and the city is teeming with reckless drivers. There are so many accidents every day. Don’t jump to any conclusions.”
“That’s true. Still—”
But Chen was already dialing Liao, the head of the homicide squad.
“I have no idea what he was up to that morning,” Liao said. “We discussed the case just the day before. He was inclined to believe it was murder, as you know, but he had nothing substantial to support it. So he could have been planning to push on in that direction.”