by Peter May
“So who’s doing the autopsy?”
“They’ve sent the body over to the Centre of Material Evidence Determination at the Public Security University.”
Chen looked thoughtful for a moment, then rummaged through some papers in an overflowing tray on his desk. Finally he drew out a sheet of paper, a circular from the Public Security Bureau visa section, and reread it with interest. He looked at Li. “The doctor of forensic pathology in Chicago who took my course on criminal investigation when I was at UIC last year? Just happens to be in Beijing at the moment—lecturing to students at the Public Security University.”
Li shrugged, not making a connection. “So?”
“The good doctor’s speciality is burn victims.”
III
Margaret’s nightmare had begun early. It started with a hangover about 2 a.m. She had fallen into a dead sleep after the banquet, but slept for only around four hours. At two she was wide awake with a headache the size of Lake Michigan. Back in Chicago it was early afternoon. She swallowed a couple of Advil and tried to get back to sleep. But two hours later, visions of Michael’s face at their last meeting swimming relentlessly into her consciousness, she was sitting up, fully dressed, watching Hong Kong kung fu flicks on satellite Star Movies. She had already watched an hour of repeat bulletins on CNN and was ready to throw the television set out of the window. How was it possible, she wondered, to be so tired and yet incapable of sleep? If this was how it felt to be an insomniac, it was a condition to which she fervently hoped never to succumb. At five she had gone down to the twenty-four-hour café and washed down another couple of Advil with stewed black coffee, and by six felt woolly-headed and exhausted.
By then it was time to pick up her hire bike and attempt the long and difficult journey to the University of Public Security. Whatever fears her observation of Beijing traffic the previous day had conjured up were as nothing compared to the reality. The roads were sheer and utter chaos. And if she had hoped an early start would avoid the worst of the traffic, then she was wrong again. The whole of Beijing, it seemed, was on the move. And no one, apparently, had priority—at junctions, at traffic lights, between lanes. It was survival of the boldest. Just go, and hope that the bus bearing down on you would give way rather than kill you. Strangely enough, it worked. And in the sticky hour it took Margaret to cycle to the university, she learned the golden rule of biking in Beijing—that there were no rules. Expect the unexpected and you would never be surprised. And for all the honking of horns (she soon realised their purpose was to alert you to a vehicle’s presence, or its impending manoeuvre), and the cutting between lanes, everyone on the road seemed remarkably even-tempered. Road rage had not reached China. It occurred to Margaret that all these drivers were so recently cyclists themselves, used to jockeying patiently for position in overcrowded cycle lanes, they did not automatically assume that they had priority simply because they were behind the wheel of a car, or bus, or lorry. These were Chinese exercising that most enduring of Chinese qualities—patience.
When finally she reached the university at around 7 a.m., there had been loud martial music blaring from speakers all around campus. Bob had found her in her office, window closed, elbows on the desk, fingers pressed to her temples.
“Got a bit of a hangover?” he asked. His tone made her glance up at him sharply, but there was no hint in his expression of the sarcasm she had detected in his voice.
“What is that goddamned music?”
“I wouldn’t go around calling it ‘that goddamned music’ if I were you,” he said. “It’s the Chinese national anthem. They play it every morning.”
“Then thank God I didn’t take an apartment here,” she said.
“Tried Advil?” he asked.
She glared at him. “I just bought shares in the company.” She leaned over to lift her rucksack on to the desk. “Listen, you said yesterday that after two years you still hadn’t managed to photocopy your lecture notes. I take it that was a joke?”
He shrugged. “Well . . . sort of. It was a kind of metaphor to illustrate that things here don’t always work like you would want them to. I did actually get my notes photocopied. Eventually.”
“Good.” She lifted a book out of her rucksack. “I want to photocopy a description of an autopsy.” She dropped the book on her desk. Bob turned it round to face him. EVIDENCE DISMISSED: The Inside Story of the Police Investigation of O. J. Simpson. “I take it they’ve heard of O.J. Simpson in China?” she said.
“Oh, yes,” Bob said. “They’ve made quite a study of the case here. They use it to demonstrate the failings of the American justice system.” She flicked him another glance to see if he was being facetious. “They may just have a point,” he added.
She railed protectively, “It wasn’t the system that failed. It was sloppy police work and incompetent prosecution. Theirs was the burden of proof. Theirs was the failure. Better that ten guilty men go free than that one innocent man is wrongly convicted. The presumption of innocence is still paramount.”
“Yeah, well, the Chinese have only just introduced that concept into their legal system. I don’t think they’ve quite got used to the idea yet.”
“What?” Margaret looked horrified.
“What you’ve still not grasped, Margaret”—Bob had become smug again—“is that culturally, historically, American and Chinese societies are a million miles apart. You can’t just come here and expect to apply American values to Chinese society. Or vice versa. The Chinese have always, since the days of Confucius, emphasised the need for the individual to suppress personal ambition in favour of social harmony. The rights of society are given greater emphasis than the rights of the individual. ‘The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.’ And that idea, and the practice of it, was around three thousand years before the communists ever came on the scene.”
“So what about the rights of the individual in law?”
“The accused, in the Chinese constitution, has plenty of rights. The trouble is that in China individual rights go hand in hand with a responsibility to society. There is no right without duty. So there’s built-in conflict.”
In spite of her increasing antipathy towards Bob, Margaret found her interest being engaged. “Like what? I mean, give me an example.”
“Okay.” Bob waved a hand vaguely towards the ceiling. “According to Chinese law a defendant has the right to defend himself. But he also has a duty to co-operate with the police and the court in uncovering the truth about his case. You might think that right to defend himself would lead automatically to a right to silence under interrogation, to protect himself, like Americans take the Fifth. Only he also has a duty—to the state, to society—to answer all questions faithfully and truthfully, even if that incriminates him.”
“Well, that’s crazy!”
“Is it?” Bob sat on the edge of her desk. “I mean, in America we’re so obsessed with protecting the rights of the individual, we sometimes forget about the rights of society. At least the Chinese are trying to accommodate both.” He sighed and shook his head. “The real problem with China is that while the defendant’s rights are pretty well protected in the constitution, they’re often neglected, or even abused, in practice. But there’s a lot of bright people in this country working hard to change that. And not without success. Things are improving.”
After her lecture from Bob had come her meeting with Mr. Cao. He had been very polite and smiled a lot, and told her that while they usually had access to a 35mm slide projector it was not currently available. In that case, she had told him, smiling fixedly in return, the substance of her lectures would be necessarily limited, since they were all based around the visual presentation of real-life material. Perhaps he would like to see if they could borrow a slide projector. He doubted if that would be possible, but said he would see what he could do. And yes, he agreed, it would be an excellent idea if it could be arranged for her students to witness an actual autopsy. Unfortunately, he thought, thi
s might be a little difficult to arrange. He told her he had timetabled three lectures a week, and she had shaken her head sadly and told him that, unfortunately, she had only brought material for twelve lectures. However, if he could arrange access to an autopsy, then she was sure she could fill in the other six hours without any difficulty. There was a further exchange of frozen smiles. He said he would see what he could do.
There had followed a brief period of relative calm before the nightmare resumed with the arrival of Lily Ping. She presented her unsmiling face at the door of Margaret’s office shortly after 9 a.m. “You got everything you need?” she had made the mistake of asking.
“Well, no, actually,” Margaret said. “I don’t have a slide projector, so most of my lecture material is redundant. I can’t find the photocopier anywhere . . .”
“You want something photocopy?” She held out her hand. “I arrange for you.”
“Oh.” Margaret was taken aback. This was new. Co-operation. “Sure.” She picked up the O. J. book. “I need about twenty copies.” Lily snatched the book from her and was halfway out of the door before Margaret could call after her, “Pages 108 to 111.” She crossed the office hurriedly and called down the corridor, “Before ten. I’ve got a class at ten.”
“Sure,” Lily said, without turning, as she disappeared into the bowels of the building.
At a quarter to ten Margaret went looking for her, eventually spotting her ten minutes later crossing campus towards the auditorium. Margaret chased after her, the glare and heat of the sun bouncing back at her off the tarmac. “Lily! Lily!” She was breathless and red-faced by the time she caught up with her. “Lily, where are my photocopies? I’ve got class in five minutes.”
“Oh, photocopy take time. Girl busy right now,” Lily said, and resumed her progress towards the auditorium.
Margaret chased after her. “That’s not good enough. I want them now. And I need that book back.”
“This afternoon,” Lily said without breaking stride.
Margaret stopped, fists clenched at her sides. “All right. I’ll do it myself. Where’s the photocopier?”
“No need you do it yourself. That what secretary there for.” And Lily disappeared into the auditorium. Margaret stood, stock still, the sun beating down on her like a physical blow, and felt the most powerful urge to scream at the top of her lungs.
The bleep on the hour from her digital watch had come as a sickening reminder that she should be somewhere else. She had hurried back to the office to collect her stuff and then literally run across campus to the red-brick building that housed the lecture rooms. It had taken her fully another five minutes to find her lecture room. Fifteen students, twelve male and three female, sat in patient and curious silence as the puce-faced and perspiring pathologist made her breathless entrance for her debut lecture.
Her attempt at composure, which consisted of a deep breath and a big smile, was met with blank faces. “Hi,” she said, confidence dissolving fast. “I’m Dr. Margaret Campbell. I’m a forensic pathologist from the Cook County Examiner’s Office in Chicago, Illinois. And over the next six weeks it had been my intention to take you through twelve real-life murder cases from the US. Unfortunately, a lot of the material I have is visual. Photographic slides. And, sadly, it seems the university is unable to provide me with a projector to . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw a 35mm slide projector on a table at the back of the room—at the same time as most of the students turned to look at it. “Ah,” she said. “Looks like they’ve been able to lay their hands on one after all.” A tense pause. “If they’d told me, I’d have brought my slides with me.” Her cheek muscles were beginning to ache with the effort of holding, for hours it seemed, a smile on her face. “I’ll just go and get them. Back in five minutes.”
That, she had reflected, as she hurried back to her office, was what the Chinese would have described as extreme loss of face. But she wasn’t going to be fazed by it. These were simply teething troubles and she was going to deal with them calmly and coolly. She passed Bob in the corridor. He smiled cheerily.
“Hey, I hear Mr. Cao managed to get you a slide projector after all.”
“Well, he might have damn well told me!” she snapped, and slammed the door of her office.
Later, as she sat in the gloom of the darkened lecture room, running through slides of burn victims from Waco, it occurred to her that Bob—and everyone else at the university—must wonder what kind of premenstrual maniac the OICJ had dumped on them. From somewhere in the depths of the depression that had descended upon her, a voice told her that one day she would be able to smile about it all. But at that moment, she doubted it very much.
When she had drawn the blinds she noticed that the fifteen faces in her classroom had gone quite pale. One of the girls asked to be excused and hurried out to the toilet holding a hand over her mouth. Margaret had smiled grimly. “These are just photographs. If any of you ever become real cops you’re going to see a hell of a lot worse in the flesh.” She had thrown the class open for discussion. But not a single student ventured a question or a view. And now, as they filed silently out at the end of the hour, she slumped back in her chair and let out a deep and heartfelt sigh of relief. A knock at the door made her turn her head. Her heart sank at the sight of Bob.
“How’d it go?”
“Don’t ask.”
He grinned. “Don’t take it personally. They’re like that with everyone at first.”
“What do you mean?” She sat up.
“Well, let me guess. You found them unresponsive, reluctant to answer questions, even more reluctant to ask them or discuss a point?” She nodded dumbly. “Chinese students aren’t used to the kind of interactive classes we have in the US. Here, they tend to be lectured to.”
I know the feeling, Margaret thought bitterly.
Bob continued, unaware of her growing desire to stuff her trainers down his throat. “The voice of the teacher is the voice of authority. Most students believe there is only one right answer to any question. So they just memorise stuff. They’re not used to discussing, or debating, or expressing a view. But I’m sure you’ll win them round.”
Margaret searched his face for that sarcasm she heard in his voice again. But again there was no sign of it.
“Anyway,” he said, “you’d better get back over to Administration. There’s an old friend waiting to see you in your office.”
Section Chief Chen Anming rose from one of Margaret’s plastic seats and gave her one of his rare, and warm, smiles. “Dr. Campbell. What a very great pleasure it is to meet you again.” He pumped her hand enthusiastically.
Margaret might have been hard pushed to place him had it not been for the yellow nicotine streak in his hair, and the fact that Bob had explained to her who he was. “Mr. Chen.” She inclined her head towards him. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“Perhaps you will not remember me?” he said.
She had only the vaguest recollection of him. So many students on short courses over the last three years. “Of course, I remember you well.” Then suddenly she did remember—a painting mounted on a scroll that hung on her study wall at home. He had presented it to her, almost ceremonially, on his last day. It was something she looked at often and appreciated, something that had nothing to do with her and Michael, but with her alone. An old man with a wicked grin and bristling beard, squatting on the ground dangling a pair of sandals in one hand. “You gave me the painting of the Chinese ghost.”
“Not a ghost, exactly. A good Chinese spirit.”
“I’ve never been able to remember his name.”
“Zhong Kui. He is a legendary figure.”
So many hours in his company, and only now did she know his name. “I had no idea when you gave me it how much pleasure it would give me.” She thought of those long, dark nights when Zhong Kui’s roguish smile was the only thing that seemed to keep her sane, when his presence in her home was the only company she could bear. It seemed extraordi
nary that she should now be reacquainted with her benefactor in this unusual circumstance. And she flushed with guilt at having almost forgotten who he was and, indeed, how the picture had come into her possession. “I am sure I must have thanked you at the time. But I am very pleased to be able to thank you again, this time with the knowledge of hindsight.”
“Forgive me, Doctor.” He seemed suddenly embarrassed. “I know you have only just arrived, and you must be very busy . . .” He hesitated. “I was wondering . . . could I, perhaps, ask you for a very special personal favour?”
“Of course.” She couldn’t imagine what it might be. “Anything.”
“This is not official, you understand. Just personal,” he stressed again, and it dawned on Margaret that she was witnessing guanxi in practice. He had presented her with a gift in Chicago. Now he was asking for something in return.
“We have a suspected suicide, but there are problems with identification. The victim set fire to himself, and the autopsy is, I think, a little specialised. He is very badly burned.”
“And you want me to do an autopsy,” she realised. “Well, of course. I’d be only too happy to help.”
He relaxed immediately and beamed again. But she was already thinking how she might turn this to her advantage. You’re going to have to start getting yourself a little guanxi in the bank, Bob had said. A window of opportunity was opening up for her students to observe an autopsy—without the help of Mr. Cao. Not the burn victim, perhaps. But that particular corpse would put some guanxi in the bank for later.
Mr. Chen took her arm and ushered her out into the corridor. “I am so very pleased you agree to do me this favour,” he said.
She was a little taken aback. “What, you want me to do it now?”
“No, no. I want you to come and meet my deputy. He is with Professor Jiang. I have, of course, already asked Professor Jiang for permission to ask you.”