Skinner's Box (Fang Mu (Eastern Crimes))

by Lei Mi

  CHAPTER

  21

  Memory

  "Look, I'll get a couple of guys to come down and give you a hand." Xing Zhisen glanced from Fang Mu's sweaty forehead back at the huge pile of quilts and pillows awaiting loading into his nearby jeep.

  "No, it's fine, Deputy Chief Xing; you've already helped me plenty."

  "It's no trouble at all, young man." Xing Zhisen rapped the headquarters reception window with his knuckles and the policeman on duty came over immediately. "Go and get a few guys to come out and help move some stuff."

  Xing Zhisen was an old acquaintance of Fang Mu's. Before becoming a deputy police chief in the Changhong City PSB, he had served as director of the Economic and Cultural Defense Association. Fang Mu had gotten to know him while they were both investigating the serial killings that took place on the Changhong City Teacher's College campus. Afterward, Fang Mu had helped him out quite a bit on cases such as the Huang Yongxiao serial murders. After Fang Mu graduated and decided to become a cop, Xing Zhisen had made a special phone call to him with the express purpose of convincing him to join the Municipal Bureau's Criminal Police Division. Later it was Bian Ping who took the initiative to transfer Fang Mu's file over to the PSB. By way of apology, Bian Ping had treated Xing Zhisen to a very nice seafood dinner.

  This time Fang Mu had come looking for a favor from him. Because Xing Zhisen had served as director of the Economic and Cultural Defense Association, he was quite familiar with bigwigs from every college and university in Changhong City. Fang Mu had asked for some secondhand bed quilts discarded by university graduates. When Xing Zhisen had asked what they were for, Fang Mu had explained that he wanted to give them to an orphanage. Upon hearing this the deputy chief had been eager to help out, and just a couple of days later he had obtained a huge pile of old bed quilts and pillows, and had even gotten his wife, who worked in a hospital, to wash every last one of them.

  With the help of his colleagues, all the quilts and pillows were promptly crammed into Fang Mu's jeep. As Fang Mu wiped the sweat off his brow, Xing Zhisen tossed him a cigarette and then lit one for himself as well.

  "So Sun Mei's daughter is over there?"

  Fang Mu lit the cigarette. "Uh-huh."

  Xing Zhisen fell silent and leaned against the jeep, smoking alongside Fang Mu. When they were finished with their cigarettes, Fang Mu clapped the dust off his hands and said, "Deputy Chief Xing, thanks for your help. I'd better head off now."

  "Wait a second," Xing Zhisen said as he retrieved an envelope full of cash from his inside pocket. He counted out ten 100-yuan notes and stuffed them into Fang Mu's hand. "For the children."

  "No, that's way too generous," Fang Mu said as he tried to hand the money back.

  "I'm asking you to take it, so take it." Xing Zhisen forcibly held Fang Mu's hands at bay and shoved the cash into his jacket pocket. "In the future, if there's ever anything else I can do, always feel free to give me a call."

  Fang Mu had no choice but to accept the gift. He nodded goodbye to old Xing, turned, and got into his jeep.

  The weather was getting colder. Though it was already early afternoon, thin patches of ice could still be seen here and there on the streets. In this climate, the threadbare quilts at Angel Hall would certainly not be enough to get them through the winter. As Fang Mu glanced at the load of bed quilts and pillows in the rearview mirror, he felt pleased.

  In the little bungalow attached to the right side of Angel Hall's main two-story building, Teacher Zhou and Sister Zhao were supervising some of the older children as they cleaned out the boiler. The boiler was connected to the crude warming vents throughout the bedrooms of the orphanage; this was the only system they had with which to heat the place during winter. Next to the boiler room was a medium-sized pile of coal. A few children were working at it excitedly, their bodies covered from nose to toe in soot.

  When Teacher Zhou saw the vehicle full of bedding, he appeared both surprised and grateful. Clapping his hands on Fang Mu's shoulders, he said, "How can I ever thank you…"

  Fang Mu felt a little embarrassed. "No need to thank me, Teacher Zhou. They're just a bunch of secondhand ones, that's all."

  Sister Zhao was all smiles as she called the children over to help carry the bed quilts and pillows inside. Erbao, grimy black from the coal pile, charged over with a shout that he wanted to help, too. Sister Zhao swatted his butt and moved him aside to keep him from touching the clean quilts.

  Once the vehicle was unloaded, Fang Mu offered to help clean out the boiler. The job took more than two hours, and by the time they were finished it was after four o'clock. He washed his hands and face, dusted the black soot off his clothes as well as he could, and joined Teacher Zhou in the courtyard for a chat.

  Sister Zhao yelled at the kids still playing in the coal pile to hurry inside and wash up.

  Fang Mu nodded at the coal and asked, "Did you just buy that?"

  "Sure did."

  "Will it be enough?" Fang Mu made a quick calculation. "It'll need to last until March, at least."

  "We'll see." Teacher Zhou knitted his brow. "Besides, there's no telling how long we'll be able to keep this little building of ours."

  Fang Mu was about to ask what he meant when he heard someone calling for Teacher Zhou at the other end of the courtyard.

  It was an old man, and by his clothing Fang Mu guessed him to be one of the neighbors. Teacher Zhou trotted over to have a few words with him. When he came back, the creases in his brow had tightened.

  "What's wrong?" Fang Mu asked.

  "He was reminding me about tomorrow's meeting." Teacher Zhou sighed.

  "Meeting? What meeting?"

  "A demolition and relocation meeting," Teacher Zhou said, shaking his head. "This neighborhood's local residents think I'm relatively educated, so they want me to negotiate the terms with the developers."

  "What?" Fang Mu widened his eyes. "This neighborhood's getting demolished?"

  Teacher Zhou grimaced and nodded his head, but said nothing more.

  Fang Mu's heart sank. Seeing the glum look on Teacher Zhou's face, he searched for words of comfort. "Don't worry about it. You'll get a big compensation payment, and then we can rebuild Angel Hall."

  "It's not that simple, unfortunately. What shall I do with the children while the orphanage is being demolished?" Teacher Zhou turned to gaze at the little courtyard and two-story building that made up Angel Hall. "Not to mention, now we have to buy a plot of land and build a new orphanage. There's no telling how much that will cost."

  "If you can't afford a plot in the city you might have to head to the countryside and buy there."

  "Rural properties aren't all that affordable these days, either." Teacher Zhou shook his head. "And if we're too far outside the city, it becomes inconvenient for the children to get to school. It would have a big impact on their education."

  Fang Mu fell silent. He was racking his brain to come up with some ideas for Teacher Zhou. After a long moment, he ventured, "Teacher Zhou, you should petition for charitable donations from the public and from the government. I'm afraid you won't be able to get through this just on your own resources."

  "No." Teacher Zhou chortled, taking in the grounds with a sweeping gaze. "If I were willing, I would have taken that route long ago. As I've said before, I cannot allow my children to grow up with feelings of inferiority." He turned to Fang Mu and said in earnest, "Poverty of the soul is much more terrible than any material poverty could ever be."

  "Okay, but wouldn't you consider me a donor of charity?" Fang Mu asked, hoping to persuade Teacher Zhou to see it in a different light. "There's no difference between me and anyone else."

  "No, that's not the same." Teacher Zhou smiled at him. "You merely represent yourself, and you would never ask for anything in return."

  The thought of charity suddenly reminded Fang Mu of the task with which Xing Zhisen had entrusted him. He took the envelope full of 1000 yuan from his inside pocket and handed it to Te
acher Zhou.

  "What are you doing?" Teacher Zhou exclaimed. "You've already given me money this month, not to mention all the bedding you just brought."

  "It's not from me." Fang Mu told him of Xing Zhisen, and explained the sincerity of his intention.

  Teacher Zhou weighed the cash in his hand, deep in thought. At length he glanced around and lowered his voice. "Fang, my lad, there's something I've never quite understood that's been bothering me lately."

  "Yeah?"

  "Why is it exactly that you want to help Liao Yafan?"

  Fang Mu looked into Teacher Zhou's eyes. They stared back with that familiar gentleness and unselfish warmth, and he knew the old man could be trusted.

  "Because I knew her mother." Fang Mu struggled a moment, and then continued. "While I was still at university, her mother was our dorm's RA. In 1999, when I was a junior, I...I met with a sudden tragedy, and she sacrificed her life to save mine."

  Fang Mu had no intention of giving Teacher Zhou a blow by blow description, and the old man apparently had chosen not to ask about it further. After brooding a while, Teacher Zhou patted his shoulder and said, "You understand your debt, and are repaying it. I've always known you were a man of high moral character."

  "It's the least I can do. Liao Yafan's mother paid with her life, and the girl lost her childhood as a result. Compared to that, what I'm doing for her is nothing." Fang Mu glanced back at Teacher Zhou. "If anyone here is of high moral character, it's you."

  Teacher Zhou's eyes went suddenly and inexplicably dark. "No, I'm different." He gazed westward to the setting sun and muttered quietly, "I'm different from you."

  Memory can be a very strange thing. Out of the blue, it can cause a person to leap straight into a river that has already flown its course; and once in, it can be very difficult to get back out. Fang Mu had no idea what sort of recollection Teacher Zhou was lost in at the moment, and he knew, too, that the old man could guess just as little about Fang Mu's own memories. Perhaps they both had experienced things that were hard to talk about, and recalling them had put the two men into depressed state of mind.

  After dinner Teacher Zhou's gloomy mood had not lightened, and Fang Mu's followed him all the way home.

  The jeep sped along the flat streets of Changhong City past neighborhoods and clusters of buildings that were at once familiar and strange. For Fang Mu, this city had far too many memories: a carefree childhood, a befuddled adolescence, a university tenure that was fraught with a mixture of loneliness and joy, happiness and fear. In 1999, soon after he turned 21, a lifetime of innocent bliss had come to a screeching halt. And this tragedy had continued after he left home to pursue his studies in Jiangbin City.

  Fang Mu recalled the first time he had met Lu Xu. In his eyes had been a look of despair mixed with panic. That was it; that was the same look Fang Mu used to carry around with him. And that led directly to the question that Fang Mu had never been willing to face: Ever since the series of murder cases that happened at the Teacher's College, had he himself been a sufferer of PTSD?

  Had he closed himself off? Had he been unable to tear himself away from that knife for even a moment, dreaming nightmares over and over? Had he been unable to face the scent of burnt flesh? Was his guilt over those people's deaths still tearing his heart and wrenching at his guts…?

  As he passed through the early evening city, lights from shop signs lit up the inside of the jeep. Fang Mu saw his eyes in the rearview mirror. The fear, anxiety, and self-denial had disappeared from them long ago to be replaced by a cool tenacity. Without the help of Stages I, II, III, or IV, and without the help of a psychodrama, Fang Mu was still able to live quietly and fall into a deep sleep every night.

  Everything had ended the moment he had aimed his gun at the knife-wielding Sun Pu in that basement and pulled the trigger.

  Many things can be impossible, or at least difficult, to face. As soon as one can turn around and try to take a hard look at those things, one can be taken aback by what was once considered to be an incontrovertible fact.

  Is killing a man actually a way to solve problems after all?

  Fang Mu lay on his bed later, staring out the window at the cool moonlight as it spilled quietly over the city and traced the objects on his desk in shadow. Due to how it was tilted, the only thing glistening was his police badge.

  Perhaps Tai Wei had had another reason for declaring him unfit for police duty.

  Guessing what another person was thinking was truly a difficult thing to do. But it was even harder to face one's own innermost thoughts.

  That night Fang Mu was unable to sleep.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Mr. J's Story

  It couldn’t have been more painful.But he begins. Mr. J takes a deep breath. "Today I am going to tell you all something that is very hard for me to talk about. Before I begin, I want you to know that I've psychologically prepared myself for your disdain, even your revilement. Mr. Z, go ahead and show everyone the photographs. "

  Photographs out, his secret laid bare, he continues.

  "Okay. As you might guess, these photos were taken without my knowledge. The person in the photos – me – is masturbating. "

  Reactions are as expected.

  "I beg your pardon, Miss Q, for making you have to see such vulgarity. But the thing I must explain, the thing I have no choice but to explain, is this: those panties you see in my hand belong to my daughter.

  "Ahh... " he says, emitting an uncomfortable chuckle. "I know you must all be very surprised; perhaps you are even cursing me in your hearts, thinking that I am an animal, or worse than an animal. I know I am an animal. But please believe me; to this day I have never laid a finger on my daughter—not once. The worst I have ever done is what you see in these photographs. "

  Mr. J lifts his teacup with a trembling hand, causing half of it to slop over his shirt. Miss Q hands him a napkin.

  "Thank you, Q. I'm much better now… No, Mr. Z; I am completely fine to continue with my story. Trust me.

  "As with the rest of you, this contemptible mental state of mine had its origin in an encounter. It was something that happened nineteen years ago.

  "At the time I was fifteen-year-old. I was an extremely unsophisticated second year high school student who had no life outside of studying. I knew that if a person of my humble background did not work hard in school, there was no way on earth I would amount to anything. Back then things might not have been as liberal as they are these days, but nevertheless here and there around the school you could see couples off in a corner somewhere, hugging or exchanging furtive kisses. I myself was too busy to even glance at any of my female classmates, let alone talk to them, so the idea of finding a girlfriend was absolutely foreign to me.

  "During summer vacation before junior year, unlike most of my classmates who were out playing and having a great time, I spent my days studying alone in the practically empty high school. It was not a very fun time for me, as you might imagine. I was a strong, healthy young man sitting alone in a deathly still classroom, working on math problems day after day, and my only other pastime was to stare out the window at the nearby playground in a daze. Now that I think of it, I wish I had partied hard all that summer instead; who cares if I wouldn't have been able to get into any advanced placement classes or test into a good university. I'd be perfectly happy now, even if I were unemployed. At the very least I would be a healthy, upright father of sound moral character! "

  Mr. J places his palms on his forehead and arches his back painfully, obviously stressed at the revelation. Luo Jiahai is about to get up to walk over and comfort him, but Mr. Z signals for him to stay put. Everyone waits in silence for Mr. J to calm down.

  "“I gradually came to notice that every afternoon,"” he says, "“a father and his daughter would come to spend time together in the school's playground. The reason I know the girl was his daughter was I heard her call the man '‘Daddy.'. ’ She was about twelve- or thirteen-years-old, ver
y pretty, and her hair was done up in a pair of long pigtails that came most of the way down her back. She usually wore a colorful skirt, often patterned with flowers. Her daddy was quite handsome; he wore a pair of silver-rimmed glasses that lent him a refined look.

  "Back then the classrooms were in single-story buildings, and right outside were rows of flowerbeds. In summer, their fragrance wafted right in through the windows. Sometimes the father and daughter would be over on the other side of the playground, fooling around with the horizontal bars; sometimes they would be closer to my window, picking flowers in the flowerbeds, catching dragonflies, and so on. Every time I heard the sound of the girl's laughter, it would remind me that I should take a break. For me, taking a break meant sitting next to the window and watching the father and daughter play. Sometimes they would see me and beam a friendly smile at me. Whenever they did that, it made me feel how beautiful life was. Just think! In the gorgeous afternoon sunshine, a father taking his daughter out to play in the flowers. It was such a moving tableau, and sometimes it led me to daydreaming about my future—a life of comfort and plenty, me looking smart and elegant as I take my daughter outside to play to our hearts' content, and off to the side is a poverty-stricken boy throwing envious glances our way. Every day I looked forward to seeing the father and daughter come to the playground, because only then could I pull myself away from my mundane reality and daydream for a few minutes. It was great satisfaction for me at the time. "

  Mr. J appears lost in thought, a slight smile touching his features. At the same time he is trembling, as if remembering a bittersweet scene.

  "I remember it was an extremely hot afternoon, without even a hint of a breeze. I was sitting in my empty classroom, sweat running down my back, and it felt as if the very air had congealed. I remember thinking there was no way they would venture out again on such a hot day. But a little after three in the afternoon, the father and daughter again appeared in the playground.