The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

by David Rotenberg

  “They presuppose that a doctor . . .”

  “. . . must be male.” Fong completed his wife’s statement. “Just like we presuppose an American must be white.”

  Suddenly there was energy in the room. Wu Fanzi’s eyes shone.

  “You mean . . .?”

  “What if the American we’re looking for is Asian – Chinese.”

  “He could pass as a garbage collector and get the fetuses that he uses.”

  “He wouldn’t have been questioned in our hotel sweeps.”

  “He could go in and out of hospitals and put nasty notes on receptionists’ desks without being noticed.”

  “And he wouldn’t stand out in the video of the crowd outside the Hua Shan Hospital.”

  Fong picked up the phone. “I want as many of the Hua Shan Hospital workers as you can find to view the VHS tape. Be sure to get the receptionist who found the note. I want them to ID every face on that tape. Got it?” Fong put his hand over the phone and turned to the people in the room. “At the very least we should be able to eliminate some faces – maybe we’ll even get lucky. That would be a first in this case.” He spoke into the phone again, “Use the biggest auditorium you can find and do it fast. I want a report in two hours.” Fong hung up and turned back to the room. “Okay, that’s part one but he didn’t show up on our money transfer checks either.” The others readied themselves. “Check my thinking,” Fong began to pace. “We know the bomber is a foreigner – probably an American – perhaps a Chinese–American.”

  Lily, Wu Fan–zi, and Chen nodded.

  “We know that what he does costs big money.”

  “That first blast could have cost well in excess of ten thousand US dollars,” said Wu Fan–zi.

  “That’s the reason we’ve been chasing down big bank transfers.”

  “Maybe he brought the money with him.”

  “He wouldn’t dare, Chen. Knowing what he’s going to do he wouldn’t chance breaking our currency restrictions. Our bomber must make his money inside China.”

  A silence followed as each considered this new possibility.

  “But how would he make that kind of money in Shanghai?” asked Lily.

  “Drugs?” Chen suggested.

  “Women,” Lily chimed in but gave up on the idea before it was even out of her mouth.

  Fong turned toward the shattered window facing the new Pudong Industrial Area across the Huangpo River. “What’s hanging on our apartment on the left side of the window, Lily?”

  “The fresco . . . He’s trading in antiques?”

  “Why not? If he bought from locals and sold to tourists the profits could be astounding. And it’s not hard to get antiques, is it, Lily?”

  “No, Fong, it’s not.”

  “So, we’re looking for a Chinese-American who has been dealing in antiques. How hard can he be to find?” asked Lily.

  “Very hard if he’s smart,” said Fong.

  “And I think he’s smart,” added Captain Chen.

  Fong whirled quickly, “I want every smuggler in Shanghai rounded up, Chen – all of them – now!”

  Six hours after Fong ordered the round-up of smugglers, Robert Cowens was standing on the crowded sidewalk outside of the new apartment block on Hu Qin Road. The building didn’t give a hint of what had been demolished in 1985 to make way for it – the Beth Aharon Synagogue. Robert ignored the curious looks he was getting from the Chinese passersby. He was desperate. His three years of searching had led to tantalizing bits and pieces but nothing substantial. Nothing that changes one’s life – no proof of the need for revenge.

  The Beth Aharon Synagogue was one of the last stray pieces of information that Robert had been able to track down. It had been built by Silas Darfun in 1927. But it was what had been in the synagogue during the war that infuriated Robert. Silas Darfun had paid huge bribes to the Nazis to lift, intact, the famous Mir Yeshiva from Europe. All four hundred Jewish scholars had been moved to Shanghai where they spent the war in Silas’s Beth Aharon Synagogue continuing their studies.

  It made Darfun a fucking hero. He was no hero. “You can’t buy your way into heaven, you old fuck,” Robert thought. Then he wondered at himself. He’d never given heaven a second thought before. Maybe Tuan Li was right – there is a time in a man’s life for faith. It was exactly at the moment he felt something hard hit him in the base of his spine. He began to call out but his face hit the cement with such force that he momentarily lost consciousness. When he managed to swim back to the present, a young aggressive police officer was cuffing his hands behind his back just as another one yanked him to his feet.

  Then a middle-aged cop with delicate features stepped out of a waiting car.

  “Are you Robert Cowens?”

  Robert was surprised at how good the man’s English was. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Detective Zhong Fong, head of Special Investigations, Shanghai District – I believe we have much to talk about.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANGEL MICHAEL TWO

  Matthew stands at his floor-to-ceiling hotel room window and allows the sun’s rays to pass through his fingers. But now it is just light through fingers. Not like the day in April of his sixth year when the splayed fingers in front of his eyes cut the dazzlingly bright light into dozens of dancing pieces. The light was somehow closer that day than the day before, just as it had been closer the day before that than it had been the day before that.

  But all those other times the light came in silence. He drew back into his pillows and buried his head but the light was now inside his six-year-old head. And it talked – whispered – invited – took away the pain from behind his eyes.

  It was like the matches. That had really made the man he called his father angry. “You could have burned down the whole house. What were you thinking? Were you thinking? Answer me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking because I was watching the flame. The fire makes me feel . . .”

  He hadn’t even seen the open-handed slap coming. Only felt the crashing pain and wished the man he called his father were dead. It wasn’t the first time he’d had such thoughts. They came most often when the man made him play chess without the chessboard or the pieces. “Think. Concentrate and you can see it all inside your head. Train your mind to be still, to dwell on one task at a time. There’s lots of brain space in a little head like yours. Enough space that there is no need for a chessboard or chess pieces to play this simple game.”

  And there was enough space. And more. Enough space to learn hard-line computer programming before he was nine. To become fluent in Mandarin and Russian before he was thirteen. To be able to accomplish every task that the man he called his father set out for him. And there was still space left for his private investigations – investigations into the light.

  Snap and a match ignites off his thumb. And light – and the pain behind his eyes recedes.

  Click and a circuit is completed that sets a detonator that ignites the RDX. And light. Much light – and the pain vanishes.

  But none of the light was as bright as the light inside his head that first time when it talked to him so soothingly, “Matthew, we have been punished for centuries. They have tried to stamp out the light but they cannot. The famous Augustine tried to demean Faustus but couldn’t. Armies have been used and the power of popes, but we still exist. And our writing is still here. The secrets of the faith are in the scrolls that we hid in the great desert along the Silk Road. They will answer all your questions – end your pain. They are waiting for you. In the light – just for you.”

  The light didn’t return the next day. Nor any day for eight years. And the light of matches and even explosives seemed dull and senseless to him – and the pain behind his eyes intensified and sharpened.

  Then Matthew walked into his first class in ninth grade English and saw the reading list for the term on the board. Everyman, Gamma Gurton’s Needle, The Wakefield Crucifixion, Othello, Twelfth Night, Dr. Faustus – Faustus. He almo
st swooned when he heard the sweet voice in his head after all those years, “Faustus was in the light, from the light, for the light.”

  He didn’t remember fainting or being revived by the school nurse. But he did remember the hours he spent on the Internet that night following search engines to the source of the name Faustus. The first references were all to the play Dr. Faustus. He went to a text site and read the play quickly. Boy, these guys had an axe to grind against this poor dude. Sure he made a deal with the devil but get over it! He read through several critiques of the play and finally came across a strange reference: “name perhaps derived from a leading proponent of the Manichaean heresy, Faustus.”

  He drew back his fingers from the keys as if they suddenly had teeth.

  He sensed that he was at a gateway. The time had moved by so quickly that he was sitting in pitch darkness in the room. He heard a heavy-fisted knock on the door. At least he had taught the man he called his father that much. “Bedtime, soldier. We’re going to church early tomorrow morning before school, remember?”

  “Right, sir.”

  Matthew put the filter over the monitor. It cut out almost 65 percent of the light. “Good boy. Say your prayers. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Matthew heard the footsteps moving away from the door and disappearing down the hall. His sense of hearing and smell were acute. Odd that his sense of taste and touch were so dull. To the point that he didn’t understand why people were concerned with good restaurants or for that matter why they wanted to touch the skin of Marcia Levinski who always managed to sit beside him in history class. Matthew wasn’t interested in touching other people or in other people touching him.

  The French teacher had been enough of that.

  “You’ll have to stay after class, Monsieur Matthew.”

  “Why, Madame Fastile?”

  “Don’t be a bad boy, mon petit Matthew.”

  And he hadn’t. She had stared into his eyes and told him the colour of his skin might disgust many but she found it beautiful and what did he think of the colour of her skin?

  “It’s very white,” he said as the vein behind his left eye began to throb.

  “Yes it is, Matthew. And beautiful don’t you think? You want to touch it don’t you, Matthew?”

  He’d touched where she showed him to touch. She was teacher. The wetness surprised him. Her sounds made him feel sick. But she had his hand caught there somehow. Then whatever it was ended and her face returned from a faraway place. She released her thigh’s grip on his hand and she smiled. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to wash his hand. He wanted the voice in his head to tell him that he hadn’t sinned against the light. He wanted the terrible pain behind his eyes to stop.

  But none of those things happened. He did his best in the future to stay away from French class. Until he was caught and the man he called his father found out.

  “Don’t like French, huh?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Stupid language anyway. Don’t you agree?”

  He didn’t. He liked reading Flaubert and Zola, but he was frightened of Madame Fastile and angry with her for her offence against the light. Finally he answered, “Oui, c’est une langue stupide.”

  The man he called his father smiled and told him that he would look after this for him. The next day Matthew was called to the principal’s office. The elderly man handed him a new schedule with Latin instead of French. As he took the schedule, the man’s old hand accidentally touched his. Matthew felt the same disgust he’d felt when Madame Fastile had put his hand between her thighs.

  Thereafter, Matthew did his best not to touch anyone or allow anyone to touch him. That was when he started to climb. He learned how from sites on the Net and from magazines. He’d started with indoor walls in DC and quickly moved to rock faces in the valleys of the Appalachian Mountains. Just him and his rosin bag and his flexible climbing shoes. There wasn’t a face, no matter how vertical, that he couldn’t negotiate. Climbing was his personal saviour, his only relief – then had come the name Faustus on the blackboard.

  “Say your prayers,” he said in perfect mockery of the man he called his father. Then he turned to the screen and it occurred to him that what he was doing was a lot like praying. He called up a stronger search engine and punched in “Manichaean Heresy.”

  The initial offerings were academic treatises. He scanned them quickly. He got the basic facts. A man calling himself Mani, born in 216 AD in Mesopotamia (modern-day Iraq), proclaimed himself a new messenger of Light that heralded the arrival of the one true religion – the Religion of Light. All life was a pitched battle between the light and the dark. The light had created the world but the darkness had come and encased the light. The soul was light encased by the darkness of the body. That’s where pain came from – the light tries to free itself from the darkness – but the body encases the light. It causes the pain, like the pain behind his eyes – and the sense of falling. Babies were light itself before they entered the world, then they became small hard cases keeping the light locked in endless darkness.

  At the end of the document there was a recitation of the persecutions of the Manichaeans and a reference to original scrolls that had been lost. It was speculated that these scrolls contained the Manichaean secrets for releasing the light and that the scrolls probably travelled east into China with the Manichaeans maybe as early as the ninth century in their desperate effort to avoid increasing persecution from Rome.

  Matthew found himself sweating as he read page after page on website after website.

  Finally he came upon the phrase, “The Religion of Light is the true, original Christianity.”

  Something inside him relaxed, as if the final tumbler of a lock had fallen into place and the safe had opened as it had when he was six years old on the day the light first talked to him. From then on he folded his hands and prayed in church to please the man he called his father, but in his head he was on a quest – to free the light.

  Several of the web files mentioned original texts. It took some doing but he found what remained of the documents of the Manichaean faith and downloaded then printed them. They made a thick pile. In the dim glow of the computer screen he sat and read the thoughts of Mani – all two hundred pages – in one sitting.

  The next morning, after church, he said goodbye to the man he called his father, and rather than taking the bus to his exclusive private school, he headed downtown.

  By two that afternoon he had the parts he needed.

  By four he set off the first explosive of his life – the light reflected off the even-sided Manichaean cross he’d bought and bounced up to his face. He was ecstatic.

  The thudding pain behind his eyes – retreated.

  When, years later, the man he called his father broached the possibility of going to the People’s Republic of China and becoming an arm of God he had said, “Like Angel Michael with his flaming sword, you can bring an end to the darkness and allow back in God’s light.” Matthew had heard the rest of the familiar rant about secularism and society’s failure to follow the laws of God. He had even agreed with some of it.

  “Are you listening to me?” the man Matthew called his father asked.

  Matthew had nodded and mentioned casually, “I speak Mandarin.”

  The man had chuckled and muttered, “And Latin.” Matthew nodded although he didn’t like the chuckle from the man he called his father. “Why do you think I had you learn Mandarin, Matthew?”

  “Not because I’m Asian,” Matthew thought, but he said nothing. His mind was racing. The man he called his father was wealthy and could have adopted a baby of any race, but he had chosen a Han Chinese baby. Now Matthew knew why. The man Matthew called his father was a chess player – Matthew was his end game. He was being sent the length of the board to become a king – or an angel. Matthew nodded and thought, “Fine. But you have no idea that I have experienced the light.” For a moment Matthew wondered if it would ma
tter to the older man. Then Matthew put it aside. The light was his concern; it was his secret.

  The older man laid out the bare facts of the abortion rate needed to keep the single child policy in effect in the People’s Republic of China. The figures were new to Matthew but the idea was obvious. As was the man’s insistence that there be extensive newspaper coverage of the “acts of revenge” in Shanghai – there was a Congressional election approaching, after all.

  Matthew had nodded again, his mind already at work. China – a step closer to the hidden scrolls. All he insisted on was that “I’m to do it alone.” The man Matthew called his father thought about that for a moment then agreed. It made sense – the lone gunman.

  They quickly discussed logistics, then Matthew disappeared to his room. It only took him thirty minutes to get the data he needed on currency regulations, immigration requirements, and web access from the Middle Kingdom. Then he opened the secret panel in his desk, stared at the book on modern explosives he had secreted there, and wondered how he would get his hands on this sort of thing in Shanghai.

  Two days later, Matthew found himself on a flight to Taipei with a list of contacts who could help him get established in Shanghai. He knew of Taiwan’s fundamentalist community and decided to use the members as a resource but tell them nothing. They were probably infiltrated by State agents.

  He picked the code name Angel Michael, took the permitted amount of currency (just under US$10,000) that he would not have to declare, shook the hand of the man who he called his father, took his two hundred pages of the wisdom of Mani, slipped his equalsided cross around his neck, and set out for the airport.

  That was exactly six months ago – to the day.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IN AMERICA, IN SHANGHAI

  Joel sat in his Washington office at the FBI building and thought about the e-mail from his old Yale roommate, Larry. It was well past midnight. The silence in the room was only interrupted by the sound of the night-shift data processors down the hall. There were three stacks of newspapers on his desk. The first reported the initial bombing in far-off Shanghai of an abortion clinic, complete with its grotesque photograph and the warning: THIS BLASPHEMY MUST STOP. The second stack of newspapers was from two days later. The stories in these papers were all about information of an imminent second bombing but that no bombing had taken place. The papers, with much self-righteous posturing, had refused to run the photo, which they all agreed this time was grotesque, and all were angered that this may be some kind of a hoax. Then the third stack of papers wrote about a fire in a Shanghai hospital that was reported by their stringers in the city. But there had been no previous e-mail. No cage. No note. No message of any sort.