by P. D. Martin
“Hi,” he says.
“Morning. Sorry to get you out here so early. I really appreciate it.”
“That’s okay. If your killer really is using dim mak…” Lee trails off, lets out a deep sigh and then leads the way into the building. Inside, he opens the door to his glass office and takes a seat.
On the desk sit four books. I glance at the titles—all of which include the word dim mak—while pulling out a two-page table I drafted last night. The table contains all nine victims I think may be related, arranged in date order. The last entry is Jun Saito’s murder. In all, there are eight headings—Date, Location, Name, Age, Association, Cause of death, Other injuries and Status. I’ve blacked out the victims’ names in the copy I’ll go through with Lee.
“This table summarizes the victims’ injuries, as well as locations and other investigative elements.” I place the stapled pages in front of Lee.
He puts on small-framed glasses and taps the top book in his pile. “I’ll swap you. This book goes through all the medical stuff. You might want to have a look at it, even contact the author. He’s the one who talks about the heart concussion, too. The timing has to be precise—in between heartbeats—but it is possible by a skilled practitioner. I’ve marked some of the key pages, the key symptoms and medical explanations.”
I nod. “Thanks.” I flick through the book, while Lee reads through the table.
Once he’s finished he looks up at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “Sophie, this is not good.”
I presume he’s stating the obvious—but maybe I should check. “As opposed to any other type of murder?”
“Sorry, what I mean is it’s not good for you, for the FBI or anyone else trying to bring this man to justice. Your killer is extremely skilled.”
“So there’s no doubt in your mind that the injuries listed are most likely caused by the Ten Killing Hands?”
“No.” He pauses. “Although I would like to know more about the breaks for the victims that had broken ribs and broken elbow joints…not to mention your 2001 victim with the broken coccyx. Exactly where were the breaks? What types of breaks were they?”
I’ve already carefully analyzed the breaks myself, but a second opinion can’t hurt. I take him through each person and their injuries, describing the exact locations and angle of force determined by the forensic pathologists who worked each case. “Well?”
“Most definitely kung fu.” He nods reluctantly. “Some of these patterns of injuries are quite unique.”
“That’s what I thought.” I sigh. “But the pressure points…that’s a whole new level. A new layer.”
“Yes, it is. And it makes your killer all the more dangerous.”
“We think the perpetrator might be from China. Flown in for these jobs. Given we’re dealing with organized crime and the upper echelons of it, the person putting out the contract is more likely to bring in someone external.”
Lee nods. “A Chinese national might tie in with the dim mak, too. Here, dim mak is seen as a party trick or the stuff of movies. But in China, where acupoints are ingrained in our society, it’s a much more practiced and treasured form of martial arts…and healing arts.”
“Healing?”
“The points are struck to cause pain and death, but they can be massaged or stimulated with acupuncture for healing purposes. They go hand in hand, for use as a weapon or as a healing tool. Yin and Yang.”
I’m already screening for my briefing. I think Yin and Yang might go over as well as psychic visions with Petrov and the others. And I’m also thinking about the investigative part of this case. Latoya’s already told me China’s going to be a tough cookie to crumble, maybe Lee can help.
“Did you train in China? Or do you know someone over there who might be able to help?” I don’t bother explaining that China’s not part of Interpol, making direct contact difficult for me.
“I trained in China from the time I was five to fifteen, when we emigrated. But that’s many years ago now. I’m not sure if any of the people I trained or competed against would still be active. Or that they’d be able to help us in any way.”
“But they might?”
He clasps his hands together. “I’ll see what I can do.” He leans forward. “I also have a cousin who’s a police officer in Beijing. Maybe he can help you. He could see if anyone’s been killing in China using kung fu and dim mak. Maybe there have been similar attacks over there.”
“It’d be great to have direct contact with the Chinese police, thanks. I’ll put together some key elements of the type of person we’re looking for, and maybe then you could contact your cousin. That will be faster and easier than using official channels.”
He nods. “Yes, I’m sure it will be. China is not exactly open to sharing sensitive information.” He leans back in his chair. “I’ll check with Chung. He may want to keep it unofficial.”
“Fine with me.”
“And as for here, I can probably give you some names in the US—you know, who I think would be capable of inflicting these types of injuries. Would that be helpful?”
I think about the offer. Petrov’s sure the hitter is international, but it’s always good to keep our minds open. Petrov may be wrong. “Yeah, that’d be great. You think it’ll be a long list?”
“Yup. And it will take me some time to compile.”
I nod.
“It won’t be exhaustive, but I’ll give you as many names as I can.” He raises his eyebrows. “Not many people are skilled enough to perform the acupoint applications, not as precisely as a professional killer. Many people may try this technique, but not many could kill efficiently with it.”
Dim mak…is it really possible? I’m certainly looking forward to reading the books and talking to Grove about it. Or maybe finding evidence to support Lee’s theory.
“I’ve been thinking about how to prove it,” I say. “The only real evidence would be bruises at the acupoints, correct?”
“Yes, but that’s still not going to give you proof. If we’re dealing with delayed death, the bruises would be long gone. And if death was instant you wouldn’t see a bruise—they take at least a few hours to show up.”
Not entirely true. “We can’t check with these first victims, but our Little Tokyo victim is still at the morgue. And a forensic pathologist can check under the skin, can see bruises that didn’t have time to show up on the skin’s surface.”
“Really? Then you’re right, you can confirm if his attacker used pressure points.”
“If I know where to look, yes.”
“Tell me everything you can about this victim, and I’ll give you some likely points to check.” He fingers his glasses. “Many of the points attack nerve bundles—they may show signs of trauma, too.”
“The vagus nerve.” I instantly visualize Grove pointing to Saito’s vagus nerve and commenting on its condition.
“Yes, that is one of the pressure-point targets. Your victim showed signs of this?”
“Yes. The forensic pathologist described it as inflamed. He thought it was from the trauma to the throat in general, but maybe it was more specific than that.”
Lee’s nodding. “It was probably targeted by your killer. It’s one of the death-touch strikes.”
Fifteen
At 8:40 a.m. I swing into the FBI’s lot, armed with my four dim mak books and an anatomy chart Lee gave me with key pressure points circled. But before I can talk to Grove, I have to brief the team. I race up to the meeting room Petrov booked on the fifteenth floor, where most of the Gang Impact Team resides. Special Agents Hana Kim and Joe De Luca are already there.
“Hi, Sophie. How’d you do last night?”
“Good, good. I’m pretty sure the two maybes are related, so that’s nine in total. But there may be even more.”
“More?” Hana’s face crumples and De Luca looks up, also intrigued.
“Long story. I’ll tell you about it in ten minutes?”
“Sure.” Hana looks at De Luca
. “Joe and I were just about to flip for the coffee run. Maybe now we should draw straws.”
“I’m desperate for a coffee, but do you guys mind flipping for it? I need to set up in here. I’ll get the next round.” The Federal Café runs a coffee cart right at the front door of our building so it shouldn’t take them too long.
“You’re on.” Hana lets the coin fly into the air.
“Heads,” De Luca calls as the coin reaches its peak. It lands and spins around a couple of times, before coming to rest on tails.
“Yes.” Hana pumps the air, like a tennis player who’s just won a long point.
“Man, you must rig this.” Despite the complaint, De Luca stands up.
“I’m just lucky.”
De Luca turns to me. “That’s her tenth straight win.” He shakes his head. “And the killer is that the loser pays. My kids are never gonna get to college at this rate.”
Hana laughs. “Sophie’s getting the next one. You can put the few bucks you’ll save into their education fund.”
He rolls his eyes and points casually at Hana. “So, a mocha for you.” He turns to me. “What about you, Agent Anderson?”
“You going downstairs?”
He nods.
“I’ll have a strong latte. Soy milk.”
“Done. And don’t start without me.” Even though I’m the one doing the briefing, he gives the warning look to Hana.
Once I’ve distributed the printouts around the table, I sit down. In front of each seat I’ve laid out ten sheets of paper. The first two pages are stapled together and feature the summary table of the nine victims I showed Lee this morning—the eight from ViCAP and Saito. In these copies, the names aren’t blanked out and some columns, like the Association one, will be more important for us. Lee didn’t need to know if the victim was Mafia, Yakuza, Russian. The other eight pages cover the previous eight attacks in more detail, one page per victim. I summarize crime-scene location, the forensic pathologists’ reports, any witness statements and general comments from the law-enforcement personnel involved. It took me three hours to draft last night, but it was worth it. I feel like I have a good preliminary grasp of all the victims, and through them an insight into our killer. Maybe even enough to draft a profile. I haven’t added anything into my printouts about dim mak, but I will cover it during the briefing.
The task force team members arrive one by one, and by 9:00 a.m. everyone’s here except De Luca and the coffee. Then again, his progress was hampered by a couple of last-minute additions to the order. Ramos arrived just as De Luca was leaving and Hana added an espresso to the list, and then decided to keep the boss happy, so she rang De Luca a minute later to request Petrov’s cappuccino. His kids’ college funds must really be hurting now.
It’s only three minutes past the hour when De Luca walks in and distributes the coffees. “Sorry, Williams.”
Williams shrugs and holds up his cup of brewed coffee from the Bureau’s kitchen. “I’m covered.”
We all sit down.
“Okay, people. Now that the caffeine’s here, let’s get started.” Petrov takes the top folder from in front of him. “This is everything our IT people could find on Mee Kim and her mother, Sun-Mi Kim. We’ve got birth certificates, death certificates, driving records, bank accounts, immigration records…the works. The father on Mee Kim’s birth certificate is listed as unknown. So it doesn’t get us any closer to discovering if the connection between Saito and Mee Kim was father and daughter. However, now that Kim’s gone missing, we’ve swabbed for DNA in her house. It’ll take a few days, but we will be able to compare her DNA to Saito’s and uncover any blood relationship that way.”
We all nod.
Petrov continues. “We also found that when Sun-Mi Kim was alive, she received regular monthly payments, probably directly from Jun Saito.”
“That sounds like maintenance,” I say.
Petrov nods. “It looks likely that Saito is Mee Kim’s father, but until we have the DNA there’s no proof. I’m going to update you on our progress on who, or what organization, might be behind the hit, and Anderson’s also got some ViCAP results she’ll take us through. But first up, last night’s developments.” Petrov summarizes our discovery of Mee Kim’s disappearance and the forensic tests currently in the lab’s queue, before asking if anyone else has got any general updates.
Ramos raises his forefinger into the air. “I found out yesterday that Saito booked his flight, under the name of Jo Kume, three days prior to travel. This ties in with what we already knew from his hotel and the State Department—that he booked his hotel online three days prior to arrival and that he flew out of Singapore.”
“So it wasn’t a planned trip?” Williams says, writing it down.
“Probably not.” Ramos looks up. “The November 24 Singapore flight was the first he could get when he called the airline on November 21…. My officers have also finished interviewing everyone whose car was in the lot at the time of Saito’s murder. I’ve had a look through all the notes myself but nothing looks suspicious. Certainly no cars registered to people with organized-crime ties.”
“Does it need any more follow-up?” Petrov’s hand hovers over his notepad.
Ramos shakes his head. “We can go back to it in the future, if need be.”
When we’re all silent for a few seconds, Petrov says, “Anything else, people?”
The others shake their heads.
“Okay, Anderson. You’re up.”
I take a deep breath. “I believe that our killer, our hit man, is using the Ten Killing Hands as his primary method of attack. The Ten Killing Hands are ten strikes or series of kung fu strikes that are meant to either severely disable or kill your opponent, sometimes with one blow.”
Ramos lets out a whistle. “Sounds charming.”
“It is. Most of these strikes only work to their full potential if they’re completed by someone extremely skilled.”
“So how many people are we talking here?” De Luca takes a sip of his coffee.
“Hard to say. As an arbitrary line in the sand, I’d say black belt and above. But it’s likely the person we’re dealing with has trained to the highest level of kung fu, reaching master level.”
Petrov rests his elbows on the table and interlaces his fingers. “I suggested to Anderson that we might be looking at someone from outside the US. Someone brought in as an external contractor to carry out the hits.”
Louis Williams nods. “That’d fit with the historic MO of a hit. Particularly if some of these victims are high up in the chain of command.”
“Which they are,” Petrov says.
“I was going for the more interesting angle.” I smile. “Hollywood kung fu expert. Until Petrov set me straight.”
“Anything’s possible, Anderson. It’s just with organized crime, they tend to follow patterns.”
I move back to the Killing Hands. “So, to give you some examples—some of the nondeadly strikes include a double strike on the opponent’s ears to burst their eardrums, striking the back of a straight elbow to dislocate and damage that joint, or gouging out the eyes and breaking the floating ribs.”
“All one-strike hits?” Ramos asks.
“If done correctly, yes, those ones are. Some of the other techniques can be two or three movements in combination. For instance, the Squeeze and Crush.” I stand up and move to the nearest person, Hana. “In this one, you strike and grab their throat like this.” I hold my hand out in a tiger shape, with Hana’s throat between my thumb and forefinger. She instantly coughs. “I’m barely putting any pressure on,” I explain. “It’s just that the correct position blocks the windpipe instantly. Sorry, Hana.”
She gives me a smile. “I’m all right. Keep going.”
I nod. “Then you apply pressure until the blood supply to the brain is cut, or until the windpipe closure blocks the victim’s oxygen supply, and then twist.” I take my hand away from Hana’s throat and twist it in thin air. “That’ll dislocate or
break their neck.”
“But the strength required to do that, with one hand…” Williams shakes his head. “The killer must be extremely strong.”
“Not necessarily.” I sit back down. “Combining your own body weight with speed helps to deliver the intensity of the strike.” When Lloyd Grove first talked about Jun Saito’s throat wound and the force required to produce the injury, I also pictured a heavyset and strong attacker. But now that I know kung fu’s involved, it’s a different story.
“What do you mean?” Williams asks.
I stand up again and move back to Hana. “Can you stand up, Hana?”
“Sure.” She’s a couple of inches shorter than me, and now that we’re side by side, it’s much more noticeable.
“Okay. So I start off in a horse stance, side-on to Hana.” I position myself in front of Hana, but while she’s facing me, I’m side-on to her. “Then when I strike, I twist my body around.” In slow motion, I twist so I’m facing Hana but in dragon stance, with my front leg bent in a slight lunge. “The strike’s strength comes more from my lower body than my upper body.” I repeat the maneuver to show them again. “I use the twisting motion of my hips to propel the strike, and I hit fast, so the opponent is instantly struggling for breath.”
“Okay,” Williams concedes, “but our guy’s still gotta be strong, right?”
“Yes and no.” I scrunch up my face. “I can tell you’re envisaging someone tall and bulky, but in this case it’s more likely to be lean muscle than bulk.”
“We’re more genetically predisposed to that anyway,” Hana adds. “If we’re assuming the killer is Asian.”
“True.” I think of someone to give as an example for Williams and the others. “Agent Williams, have you ever seen any Bruce Lee movies? Or Jet Li?”
“Sure.”
“If you look at them in clothes, they look slim—maybe you’d even say slight for a man. But when you see them with their shirts off, they’re extremely muscular and every single muscle is defined. Yet they’re not bulky like, say, Schwarzenegger.”