Profiler (Fang Mu Eastern Crimes Series Book 1)

by Lei Mi

Tai Wei was baffled. "What's wrong with this kid?" he mused, looking at his cell phone. His good intentions had been taken for malice, and now he felt more than a little angry himself.

  Fang Mu kept his head down on the way to his dorm. Doing his best to remain inconspicuous, he took the long way back, walking along the campus wall.

  The assembly had ended by now. All around him packs of students were rushing to the dining hall or back to their dorms. They shot him curious looks when they recognized him. Staring at his shoes, Fang Mu hurried back to Room 313.

  It seemed like an inordinately long walk, but he finally reached his dorm room. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, only to be confronted by a room full of people.

  They seemed to have been in the midst of an intense discussion, but as soon as they saw him, they went silent. Seconds later, however, they all crowded around him and began asking a million questions at once.

  "Fang Mu, was what the provost said true?"

  "What did the guy look like?"

  "I heard he even sucked their blood; is that true?"

  "Did the public security bureau give you a cash reward?"

  Pushing them forcefully aside, Fang Mu walked over to his desk. Then he turned back, his gaze sweeping across the hopeful faces of the crowd. When he spoke, his voice was suddenly cold. "Get out."

  When some of them still seemed about to say something, he roared, "Get out!"

  Everyone leaped in surprise. Dissatisfied, some of them began to grumble.

  "What's the big deal?" one mumbled. "All you did was crack the case, right?"

  Fang Mu turned away from them and sat at his desk. He did not look back.

  The crowd stood there awkwardly until Du Yu quietly ushered them out. "He's not feeling so well today," he said. "You guys had better go."

  At last Fang Mu and Du Yu were the only people left in the room. Fang Mu took out a cigarette, lit it shakily, and took several deep drags. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, exhausted.

  Du Yu cautiously watched Fang Mu’s expression. After a thoughtful moment, he spoke. "That provost is too much, making you go onstage like that and say something. No matter what, he should have at least given you time to prepare. Doing it cold is just too awkward."

  "Thanks," said Fang Mu listlessly, "but please shut up or else I'll have to leave, too."

  Taken aback, Du Yu seemed about to respond. Thinking again, he said nothing more.

  The phone rang. Seeing that his roommate wasn't about to move, Du Yu walked over and picked it up. After asking who was calling, he handed the phone to Fang Mu.

  "It's Professor Qiao. He wants to speak to you."

  Rousing himself, Fang Mu took the phone. "Hello, Professor. How are you?"

  "Hi, Fang Mu. Are you busy now?" Professor Qiao's voice was as deep as ever, but today it was also very stern, with none of the warmth Fang Mu had come to expect.

  "No, I'm not busy."

  "Good. Then please come over to my house." Before Fang Mu could respond, Professor Qiao had already hung up the phone.

  Professor Qiao Yunping sat in his living room smoking one cigarette after another. Before long he began feeling a tightness in his chest, so he stood up, walked over to his French window, and looked off into the distance. Dark clouds filled the gray sky. It was not a sight to make one feel at ease. Looking down, he saw Fang Mu haggling with the boss of the fruit stand just outside his building.

  The youth’s face was dripping with sweat. It looked like he had run the whole way. After bargaining a little longer, he bought a bunch of bananas, two pineapples, as well as several peaches and mangosteens.

  Seeing the anxious look on Fang Mu's face, Qiao Yunping's anger began to subside.

  Of all of his students, Fang Mu was his favorite. Qiao Yunping still remembered how Fang Mu's scores on the general Graduate Entrance Exam had been mediocre, but when he came in for the oral examination at the beginning of school, his performance had been genius. When Qiao Yunping asked him several questions about Western criminal history, Fang Mu responded without a hitch. Not only did his answers demonstrate a sturdy grasp of the fundamentals, but his personal opinions were unique and incisive. Qiao Yunping decided at once to be his graduate advisor. As he later found out, Fang Mu was much more hardworking than the majority of graduate students, many of whom simply idled away their time after getting into school. In addition to his required homework, Fang Mu would often comb through old cases in the judicial archives. Qiao Yunping wholeheartedly approved of this style of work, for he had always believed that when it came to criminological research, it was best to let the facts speak for themselves. Today, however, his most adored pupil had made him incredibly angry.

  When the doorbell rang, Mrs. Qiao was sitting on the couch watching TV. Seeing the somber expression on her husband's face, she sighed, stood up, and answered the door.

  "Oh, hello, Fang Mu. Please come in."

  "Hello, Mrs. Qiao," he said politely.

  "Oh my, what's all this?" she said, seeing the bags he carried. "You shouldn't have. Fang Mu, you're just too much!"

  "It's nothing. Anyway, I barely paid a thing for it."

  Mrs. Qiao took the two bags of fruit from Fang Mu. Then turning toward the living room, she called, "Old Qiao, Fang Mu is here to see you."

  Professor Qiao continued to stare out the window, saying nothing, a cigarette in his hand. There was a hard look in his eyes.

  Feeling a little awkward, Fang Mu forced himself to smile as he exchanged his shoes for slippers. Pulling lightly on Fang Mu's sleeve, Mrs. Qiao leaned in and whispered, "My husband is in a bit of a mood again today, so just humor him a little. No matter what he says to you, don't argue."

  Fang Mu nodded, and then walked into the living room.

  Looking away from the window, Professor Qiao glanced at Fang Mu only long enough to note his presence, and then rose and walked into the study. Fang Mu had no choice but to follow him. Once they were inside he paused for a moment, and then turned and shut the door.

  Professor Qiao took a seat in a swivel chair and puffed on his cigarette. He didn't say a word. Fang Mu didn't dare take a seat, so he just stood there with his arms hanging at his sides. When Professor Qiao finished his cigarette he motioned to the chair in front of him, then he lifted his cigarette pack and offered one to Fang Mu. After cautiously sitting down, Fang Mu hesitated for a moment, but then he removed a cigarette from the pack and lit it.

  As the two of them smoked in silence, the air seemed to grow heavy. At last it was Professor Qiao who was first to speak.

  "Is what Provost Qi said this afternoon true?"

  Fang Mu felt his heart skip a beat, although he had already guessed on his way over that this was why Professor Qiao wanted to speak to him. Of course, the events of the day had made Fang Mu plenty angry himself; Tai Wei giving his name to Xu Jie's family without permission, Provost Qi calling him onstage to speak in front of the whole school. In all fairness, he realized that helping the Public Security Bureau solve a case was nothing to be ashamed of; still, he didn't want to become famous for it. In other words, the real reason Fang Mu was so furious had everything to do with his own personality. But as to why Professor Qiao should be so upset about it, Fang Mu had no idea.

  "Um, so, about that…" Fang Mu didn't quite know how to respond.

  "Just be straight with me!" said Professor Qiao, his voice rattling the apartment. "Is it true or not?"

  "It's true."

  "So then tell me, what exactly happened?"

  Having no other option, Fang Mu related the details of the Ma Kai case to Professor Qiao, from beginning to end.

  After he had finished, Professor Qiao was silent for a moment. At last he asked,

  "Was this your first time doing something like this?"

  Fang Mu hesitated. Then he shook his head. "No."

  Professor Qiao snorted but said nothing. Then he took another cigarette from the pack, lit it, and began puffing away, a frown on his fac
e.

  Although Fang Mu wanted to ask him what he was so upset about, he didn't dare open his mouth. All he could do was sitting there, at a total loss.

  "Fang Mu," said Professor Qiao all of a sudden, "what is the essence of criminal profiling?"

  "Um," Fang Mu was momentarily taken aback, but he quickly recovered. "Criminal profiling is a way of making certain inferences about a crime that requires special training." He paused. "Its conclusions cannot be considered scientific fact."

  "In that case, do you believe you are a well-trained criminal profiler?"

  "…No," said Fang Mu quietly. He hung his head.

  Suddenly Professor Qiao was irate. "Then what were you doing giving your so-called 'conclusions' to the police, influencing their case," he yelled, "and profiling their suspect?"

  Fang Mu said nothing, but by now he had a pretty good idea why Professor Qiao was so angry.

  "A good criminologist reveres his discipline and object of study," said Professor Qiao, his expression heatedly animated. "This is especially true when he is using his knowledge to direct the police in solving real-life crimes. First, he must have a deep understanding of the fundamentals of theory, and second, he must take a careful, serious-minded approach. As you are surely aware, our opinions can affect people's rights, their freedom—even their very lives." Professor Qiao rapped his finger against the desk to emphasize his words. "This is not child's play. The measure of a criminologist is not found in the number of papers he has published, or the abstract problems he has solved, but by looking at whether he has taken his years of learning, ironclad grasp of theory, and rich experience and used these to serve the public." His glare met Fang Mu's stare head-on. "All of which has absolutely nothing to do with having read a few books, thinking oneself a so-called genius, and going out and trying one's luck!"

  Blushing bright red, Fang Mu still said nothing.

  "It might seem like you scored a huge victory with the Ma Kai case, but I can see it was all luck!"

  Fang Mu looked up.

  "Oh, so you disagree?" asked Professor Qiao, his eyes flashing with anger. "Well, first, Ma Kai was one of the most obvious cases of a Disorganized Serial Killer that I've ever seen, and I'll be amazed if he doesn't become a textbook example in the future. Second, what method did you use to determine where Tong Hui had been taken? Intuition? You were lucky enough to come across her eventually, but do you realize that the wrong judgment in a situation like that can lead to the victim's death? When you left the apartment to go searching for her, Tong Hui was probably still alive! And third, since you obviously realized that the kidnapping of Xu Jie was not the killer's style, why, instead of considering whether this might be a copycat crime, did you insistently believe that he was stockpiling blood reserves?"

  Cold sweat ran down Fang Mu's forehead as the details of the Ma Kai case raced through his mind.

  He's right, he thought. I was far too lucky.

  And too self-confident as well. If any of my guesses had been wrong, things could easily have turned out very differently.

  Tired from all the talking, Professor Qiao lifted his cup of Dragon Well tea and took a sip. It had long since gone cold. When he looked up and saw Fang Mu was still frozen in place, big drops of sweat rolling down his face, his heart softened and his tone became much less harsh.

  "Your dedication to empirical research is worthy of approval," he said. "But, young man, you're a little impatient. If you really want to work effectively with the police to solve crimes, you'll need to study hard for another twenty-plus years."

  Fang Mu forced himself to nod.

  Just then Mrs. Qiao opened the door. "I made some dumplings," she said. "Fang Mu, why don't you stay for dinner?"

  When he tried to decline, Professor Qiao gave him a look. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Can't take a little criticism?" Then he stood and pushed his student into the dining room.

  When Fang Mu was about to leave later, Professor Qiao slipped him a pack of expensive Hibiscus King cigarettes. Then he stood on the balcony and watched him disappear into the night.

  Professor Qiao sighed. What a good student, he thought. Although he had nitpicked the young man's work, he had to admit that what he felt most of all was admiration.

  He just hoped the same mistake wouldn’t be made twice.

  By the time Fang Mu reached campus he still didn't want to go back to his dorm. All those curious eyes staring at him—even the thought of it was uncomfortable. He hesitated for a moment, and then took the long way to the track and field stadium.

  After baking in the sun all day, the bleachers surrounding the track were still warm. Fang Mu sat down and enjoyed the feeling.

  Amid the darkness, he could see groups of people strolling leisurely around the track. Frequently the sound of cheerful laughter broke the night air, and Fang Mu couldn't help but smile.

  Suddenly he wanted to smoke. Taking the Hibiscus King cigarettes from his pocket, he lit one and inhaled.

  Actually, for a long time now Fang Mu had no idea what he was doing. It was as if he had been continuously chasing a particular kind of life, but when asked to describe what sort of life that was, he felt frequently at a loss. Ceaseless pondering. Snap judgments. Blood-soaked crime scenes. Terrifying pictures on the computer. And never-ending nightmares. All of this had followed him like a shadow for the past two years. And right now, it made him feel exhausted beyond reckoning.

  What exactly do I want?

  He looked up at the stars flickering in the night sky. It felt almost as if someone were winking down at him from the heavens.

  All of you up there…what should I do?

  Fang Mu made it back to the dorm just before it was locked for curfew. The moment he entered his room, Du Yu told him his mom had been calling all night.

  Fang Mu called her back. She picked it up on the first ring.

  She had probably been sitting beside the phone the whole time.

  "What are you doing getting back so late?"

  "Oh, I had to go out." Fang Mu didn't want to get into it. "Is something wrong?"

  "No, no, nothing's wrong. It's just that the last time you were home you were much too thin. Your father and I were both worried, and we wanted to talk to you about it, but then you left before we had a chance."

  "Oh, well, I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me. How are you and Dad?"

  "We're both doing very well." She paused. "Little Mu, can you tell me what exactly you've been doing lately?"

  "Nothing really. Going to class, reading."

  "Have you also been helping the police to catch criminals?"

  "No." Nothing was harder than lying to one's family. Fang Mu could feel the difference in his voice as he said it.

  His mother was silent for a moment, and then she sighed. "Fang Mu, I'm not so young anymore. Do you know how worried I get thinking of you doing these kinds of things all day, dealing with these kinds of people? Please don't make me worry like that again."

  He said nothing.

  "The last few days I've been having the same nightmare. In it that boy Wu Han murders you, and every time it scares me awake. Your father has asked me what's wrong, but I won't tell him."

  "Mom, you don't need to worry about that stuff anymore. It's history."

  "I know, but I can't help it." She sounded as if she were holding back tears. "Little Mu, promise me that you'll never do anything dangerous like that again, that you'll just be an ordinary person leading an ordinary life, okay?"

  "…Okay."

  "Do you promise?"

  "I promise."

  After hanging up the phone, Fang Mu remained seated for a moment, staring at nothing in particular. Then he grabbed his toiletries and went to the bathroom to wash up.

  Once there, the bathroom mirror reflected a young man's skinny frame. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his skin was pale white and his chest sunken.

  He moved closer to the mirror and looked at himself; short, spiky hair, broad forehead, pale, gaunt ch
eeks, blood-flecked eyes, black stubble on his chin, arched eyebrows, and deep crow's feet.

  Was this face really only 24-year-old?

  Fang Mu turned his head left and right, closely inspecting himself.

  At the sink beside him, a commercial law grad student named Zou Tuanjie was thoroughly washing his face. He looked over at Fang Mu, his face white with acne cleanser.

  "Are you breaking out?" he asked, squinting at Fang Mu, who was still gazing absently into the mirror. Offering his bottle of face wash, he asked, "Want to try using this?"

  "What? Oh, no. I'm fine."

  Zou Tuanjie continued scrubbing his face a little longer, and then used fresh water to wash away all the cleanser. Afterwards he dried off his face and looked in the mirror for a long time. At last he smiled at his reflection, and then walked away, satisfied.

  After watching this detailed face-washing process, Fang Mu thought for a moment, and then smiled into the mirror like Zou Tuanjie had just done.

  Jeez, he thought, I'd look less ugly if I cried.

  Still, it was better to smile.

  He filled his washbasin with cold water and then dunked his head.

  After all, there's more to life than just serial killers.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The Five-Pointed Star

  It was the night of June 30th, 2002, and in Yokohama, Japan, Brazil was playing Germany in the World Cup finals.

  From the start of the World Cup, all of the little restaurants outside the Jiangbin City University campus gate had been showing the games. Since tonight was the finals, every single one was now overflowing with people.

  Fang Mu and several of his classmates were eating at a Sichuan-style restaurant called Guang Yuan. On the table in front of them were a number of beer bottles, piles of peanut shells and edamame skins, and several plates of cheap fried food that had already been picked clean. This state of affairs was roughly replicated on all the other tables in the restaurant. Now all the customers were staring up at the 21-inch color TV hanging on the wall, while the owner stood behind the bar, obviously elated, his fingers flying over the calculator and punching the buttons like fireworks going off. The smug look on his face told everyone he wished there was a world Cup every month.