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

by Lei Mi

  The door swung open, and Bian Ping and Zheng Lin came striding in. When they saw Fang Mu with his hand on his holster, red-faced and boring holes into Yang Jincheng's eyes with a look of absolute hatred, they both froze.

  "Fang Mu, what's going–?"

  Fang Mu raised a hand and Bian Ping fell silent. As he let go of the holster, all the energy seemed to drain from his body. He wobbled past his startled comrades and slowly made his way to the door.

  "Officer Fang!" Yang Jincheng suddenly cried in a sorrowful tone. "Professor Zhou's death breaks my heart, too, you know."

  Fang Mu marched straight out of the office without looking back.

  The police investigation into the homicide committed at the Changhong City Academy of Social Sciences' Institute of Psychology was soon concluded, and video files found at the scene proved that Zhou Guoqing (formerly known as Zhou Zhenbang) was the man who had murdered Chen Zhe. Due to the fact that the criminal suspect Zhou Guoqing had obviously committed suicide in order to escape legal prosecution, the case was closed.

  The case of the Skinner's Box serial murders was officially adjudicated to a temporary hiatus. Due to lack of material evidence against them, Jiang Dexian and Qu Rui were released, subject to residential surveillance. If no further evidence was found within 12 months, all enforceable measures against the two suspects would be revoked.

  In a small teahouse near the Medical University Hospital, Fang Mu sat at a table across from Jiang Dexian and Qu Rui.

  Qu Rui had an aloof look on her face and was staring out the window. Across the street stood the drab gray building that housed the inpatient department. Jiang Dexian, his complexion a sickly yellow, sat talking with Fang Mu, but was unwilling to meet eyes with him the entire time.

  "And that's everything that happened." Fang Mu placed Chen Zhe's photograph face-up on the table between them. "That's Mr. Z, am I right?"

  Qu Rui gave the photo the most cursory of glances, and then returned her attention to the building across the street. Jiang Dexian stared at the photograph for a long time. Fang Mu studied his face, and within seconds he knew without a doubt that Yang Jincheng had not been lying.

  Jiang Dexian finally opened his mouth to speak. "Why would you want to tell us all this stuff?"

  "No reason." Fang Mu lit a cigarette and leaned back against the wooden paneling. "As a lawyer, you've probably guessed that we don't have enough evidence to put you away. But none of that matters; I just feel it's important that you two know the truth."

  No one spoke for a long time. Suddenly Qu Rui stood and grinned at Fang Mu and Jiang Dexian. She had shed so much weight since Fang Mu had last seen her that her once beautiful smile now appeared horribly twisted and desolate.

  "Visiting hours are about to start." With that she picked up her purse and walked briskly out of the teahouse.

  Through the clean glass of the window, Fang Mu watched her skinny figure dart across the street and disappear through the front door to the inpatient building.

  "Officer Fang."

  "Yes?" Fang Mu turned.

  Jiang Dexian was looking straight at him for the first time and seemed on the verge of saying something, but then stopped himself.

  "Go ahead," Fang Mu said, understanding his hesitation. "I don't have any sort of recording equipment on me."

  Jiang Dexian smirked and looked out the window. "Actually, killing my volunteer did not make me feel better at all. And I believe the others felt the same way."

  Fang Mu forced himself to remain calm and stared at him with the best poker face he could muster.

  "We'll take responsibility for everything," Jiang Dexian said quietly. "Just give Qu Rui some time."

  Fang Mu stubbed his cigarette butt out in the ash tray and exhaled in a long, drawn-out sigh. "However much time she needs."

  He stood and left the teahouse.

  On Platform No. 2 of the Changhong City train station, Liao Yafan stood with an anxious look on her face and her school bag hanging from one shoulder. She glanced up and down the platform and occasionally at the plastic digital watch she wore on her wrist.

  With a sharp electronic whistle, another long-distance train entered the station. Throngs of people carrying bags of various sizes swarmed out of the train's door-less access ways as even more people tried to push their way in, desperate to find a seat.

  From the platform loudspeakers, a flat, emotionless recorded voice droned on monotonously. "May your travels through the Chinese New Year season be harmonious. For your safety, will each passenger please…"

  The dispatcher's whistle sounded, and a male train attendant barked impatiently at Liao Yafan. "Are you getting on or not?"

  Liao Yafan took one last look at the crowds of people weaving in and out through the train station entrance, turned, and hopped onto the already slowly moving train.

  Wisdom Park District.

  Yang Jincheng's apartment was a complete mess. Clothing, books, and papers were scattered across the floor and piled into the corners of every room. Sweating furiously, Yang Jincheng was using the weight of his body to press closed a suitcase that was packed to the point of overflowing.

  Behind him, a din of noise was coming from Yang Zhan's room. The sharp sounds of bottles smashing against the wall gave way now and then to the rapid clicking sound of little hands trying desperately to force open the deadbolt.

  Ashen-faced, Yang Jincheng picked up another suitcase and began to stuff it with various folders and certificates from the study. He had just succeeded in latching it closed when he heard a knock at the door.

  He tiptoed over and peered through the peephole. It was the neighbor.

  Yang Jincheng cursed under his breath as he opened the door. "What do you want?" he growled, impatience burning in his eyes.

  "Uh, Dr. Yang, uh, hi… There's been so much noise coming from your place over the past few hours, and I can hardly hear my TV, and –"

  "Go and file a property complaint then!" Yang Jincheng interrupted him and slammed the door in his face.

  As soon as he returned to the living room, he heard Yang Zhan's muffled screams coming from behind the door of his bedroom again. "Let me out! Let me out!"

  Yang Jincheng roared distractedly. "Shut your goddamned mouth!"

  The shouting stopped. Yang Jincheng breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Picking up a portrait of his wife from the floor, he dragged a chair over, sat down heavily, and gave the photo a quick wipe. Then he carefully placed the picture into a shoebox full of little polystyrene peanuts and replaced the lid.

  There was a sudden burning smell in the air. Yang Jincheng sniffed a moment, then realized the odor was coming from his son's room.

  Hastily, he fumbled for the key to the outside lock on the bedroom door. The first thing he saw as he swung the door inward was Yang Zhan, dressed as if planning to go somewhere, holding a plastic lighter to the corner of his bed sheet.

  In that instant, Yang Jincheng lost complete control of his faculties. He stalked over, grabbed his son by the hair, slapped him twice brutally across the face with his other hand, and then kicked him into the corner of the room.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing, little boy?"

  His upper lip bloody, Yang Zhan struggled to his feet and screamed hoarsely at his father. "I'm not going! I won't go abroad with you!"

  Fire in his eyes, Yang Jincheng picked up the fish bowl on the dresser with one hand and hurled it at his son.

  The fish bowl shattered against the wall right over Yang Zhan's head, showering the boy with water, glass, fish, and pebbles. Screaming in fright, he grabbed his head with both hands and crouched down against the wall, shivering.

  "If I get any more goddamned trouble outta you, boy, I'll beat you to death!" Yang Jincheng ripped the smoldering bed sheet from the bed and stalked off in the direction of the bathroom.

  Still fuming, he crammed the sheet into the sink, and then returned to the living room to
continue packing suitcases, all the while muttering and cursing.

  "Stupid little piece of shit! Just what do you think your old man's been busting his ass for all these years, anyway?” he shouted. “For you, god-dammit! And how is it you repay me? Huh? Insolent little fucker, you're absolutely useless!..."

  He rummaged through the piles of books and papers on the floor. Some he tossed into the pile he had designated as trash, some he packed directly into a suitcase. He did not notice Yang Zhan slipping across the room as quietly as a ghost to stand directly behind him.

  Nor did he see the revolver Yang Zhan was holding in his little hand.

  Yang Zhan stood there sobbing silently, eyes red from hatred and despair.

  Slowly, he raised the muzzle of the gun.

  A shot rang out.

  Followed by a second shot.

  * * *

  The policeman in charge of patrolling the train station platforms had been seeing the kid for a few days now. Every day the boy would appear on one of the platforms at the exact same time and stare at the passengers boarding their train, as if searching for someone.

  On the fourth day, after the train pulled away from the station, the boy seemed to have given up all hope. He stood quietly for a while on the empty platform, looking completely dejected, then wandered over to the kiosk, purchased a hamburger and a can of soda, and plopped down on a bench to eat. When he was finished, the child put the pull-tab from the soda can around his finger like a ring, held it up in front of his face, and studied it for a long time. Finally he threw the empty can far away from him.

  The empty can rolled across the tiles until it fell off the edge of the platform and came to rest in a spot between the rails.

  The policeman watched as the child walked leisurely toward him with a tranquil expression on his face.

  EPILOGUE

  Some Scenes from the Reverse Side of the City

  A news excerpt from the February 6 edition of the Changhong City Morning Times:

  ...Master Yang confessed that he had dumped the gun in the city's largest reservoir, North Lake. The police immediately organized a search team to dredge the lake, but at the time of this printing they still have not found the gun. The case is pending further investigation.

  A news excerpt from March 10:

  ...In light of the fact that Master Yang was under the age of 14 when he shot his father to death, he will not be tried as an adult. Because he does not have any other direct family or relatives, the Changhong City Public Security Bureau has decided to send Master Yang to the Changhong City Juvenile Detention Center to undergo an extended reeducation program...

  A news excerpt from March 22:

  ...Seven employees, including a certain Mr. Hou, the company's vice chairman of the board, were arrested by the Municipal Bureau under suspicion of arson and the illegal use of explosives. Immediately afterward, Eternium Real Estate issued a statement to the effect that Mr. Hou and his cohorts had acted alone, and that their behavior therefore had nothing to do with Eternium Real Estate. Sources indicate that a certain Mr. Wu is now facing charges of intentional homicide (attempted)...

  A month after Teacher Zhou had died, Jiang Dexian and his wife filed for divorce. All property, shared or otherwise, went to his wife. Three days after the settlement, Jiang Dexian's ex-wife and daughter immigrated to Singapore.

  A week later, Tan Ji passed away peacefully in his bed at the Medical University Hospital. The next day, Jiang Dexian and Qu Rui arrived at the Changhong City Municipal Bureau to give themselves up. The Indoctrination Field serial murder investigation was subsequently closed, and its case files were transferred to the Changhong City People's Procuratorate pending trial.

  An elementary school somewhere in Changhong City. Dusk.

  There was not a soul in sight on the playground. Night was beginning to fall, slowly engulfing the red dirt tracks and the plastic turf. Beneath the swing set in the northeast corner of the yard, a tiny figure was faintly discernible.

  Summer sat on the swing, swaying slowly backward and forward. There was no light around to reflect, so his eye sockets looked like black holes in the dim twilight. He was quietly singing to himself. The melody was an odd one, the lyrics unclear; it sounded more like someone talking in his sleep than any actual song.

  Every time his feet came close to the ground, they rolled over the body of a small dog, causing it to flop back and forth to the rhythm of his swinging.

  A street somewhere in Changhong City, late at night.

  As Fang Mu drove slowly down the street in his jeep, he continuously looked left and right, searching. Every time he saw what looked like a young girl, he would slow down and take a closer look. As soon as he saw she was not her, he sped back up and continued his search.

  His cell phone rang and buzzed from its spot on the dashboard. Now and then Fang Mu glanced indifferently at the caller ID, and then tossed the phone into the backseat.

  As yellow streetlight and shadows chased each other over and over across Fang Mu's face, he looked tired. His eyes were as keen as ever, however, and shone with an anxious but persistent light.

  Inside the front gate of the Changhong City Juvenile Detention Center, 20 or so inmates were carrying baskets full of glass beads and loading them into the back of a truck. When they were finished, the truck started its engine and rumbled off. All the inmates lined up, and once the guards had done a head count, they jogged back inside, chanting in rhythm the whole way.

  In the pitch black of the truck trailer, something suddenly began to stir inside one of the large baskets of beads. Dozens of the tiny glass spheres tumbled out as a wooden board was pushed upward from inside the basket and a child climbed out from underneath.

  The truck came to a stop at a red light. When the light turned green and the truck began to move again, an on-duty motorcycle cop noticed suddenly that the doors at the back of the truck were wide open, and a few baskets full of beads were pouring out onto the pavement.

  Wide-eyed, the motorcycle cop flipped on his siren, gunned his engine to life, and took off after the truck.

  A tiny figure in gray dashed to the other side of the street and scurried into a narrow alleyway.

  When he emerged again, he had replaced the Juvenile Detention Center gray with some casual clothes that were several sizes too large, and began walking along the sidewalk at an unhurried pace.

  The fence around the courtyard of Angel Hall had been torn down, and the little two-story building was already riddled with holes. Various heavy duty construction vehicles were hauling great loads of bricks and debris away. The once lush gardens and flowerbeds were now buried under piles of rubble, and only a few hardy bits of green could be seen here and there struggling to poke a tendril or two out into the open.

  Amid the rising dust, a child stood staring at the now unrecognizable Angel Hall, his face and clothing covered with a thick layer of soot and sand.

  A shrill whistling sound trilled out across the worksite, and the demolition workers made their way in twos and threes out to the sidewalk. Moments later a mobile wrecking ball crane rumbled over toward Angel Hall's little two-story building, its driver a gruff, lively sort with half a cigar hanging from his mouth. He stopped just shy of what used to be the front door. The workers took off their hardhats and leaned on their tools, joking and guffawing and sharing cigarettes as they waited patiently.

  The crane's motor whined to life, and the huge iron ball hanging from its chain began to sway. The driver adjusted the angle, and moments later the heavy sphere was arcing down directly toward the building.

  A crash echoed. The two-story building shuddered. Several shards of brick and tiles cascaded down, but the building stood firm.

  The on-looking demolition workers booed raucously. The driver spat his cigar out the window, adjusted the angle again, and sent the giant iron ball swinging at its target once more.

  Another crash.

  The little building was unable to withstand the force of
the wrecking ball. With a horrible wrenching sound, it collapsed in a cloud of dust and debris. As it billowed outward, the cheering workers ducked for cover.

  Only the child still stood there, unmoving, staring as the dust came rushing straight at him.

  A few minutes later the dust had settled.

  The demolition crew returned to the yard, again in twos and threes, and got back to work. The child wiped the dust from his face, breathed a deep sigh, picked up his step, and strolled over to the tallest tree in the courtyard.

  Spring had arrived. The big tree, having endured the winter in drab monochrome, was now bursting to life with tiny sprouts of green everywhere the child looked. He climbed to a spot where a large branch met the trunk, stood on his toes, and reached up to a long abandoned bird nest, from which he retrieved a black plastic bag.

  Slowly, he lowered himself to the base of the tree and sat with his back against its trunk.

  Inside the plastic bag was an object wrapped in several layers of newspaper that were held together by a strip of yellow tape. Patiently, the child peeled away the layers, revealing the jet-black metal of a revolver.

  With practiced hands, the boy opened the cylinder and emptied its six bullets from the chambers into the palm of his hand. Their copper-clad steel casings glistened just as yellow and shiny as they had before, cool and polished like they were brand new. The child dropped the bullets to the ground, and then gently stroked the cold steel of the gun barrel. He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger, then did it again, and again, over and over. The smooth rotation of the cylinder and the crisp rapping of the hammer against the empty chambers made him feel happy, satisfied. The child continued fiddling with the gun until he was in high spirits. He was thrilled at the discovery that the long winter had not caused it to rust or corrode at all.