Blood Passage (8 page)

Josh looked at him speculatively. “You sure you’re a cop?”

“
Hey, I went to school too, you know.”

“
Police Academy, right?”

Hank pointed at him. “Don’t be condescending.”

Josh looked stricken. “I’m sorry.”

“
Fact is, son, I earned three university degrees and passed this state’s bar exams by the time I was 22 years old,” Hank said. “
Then
I went to the academy.”

“
Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you or anything.”

“
So do you have anything else I should see?”

Embarrassed, Josh deliberated for a moment, poking around in the files on his computer. Then he nodded. “Yes, there is, actually. I was just looking at my notes again. It’s not a video clip, just a piece of information. Actually, a couple of photos. Hang on a sec.”

“
Photos?”

“
Mmm.” Josh tapped the touchpad. “Taylor has a birthmark. Two birthmarks.” He looked at Hank. “This part of our research is really quite amazing. Sixty per cent of reported cases of past life memory by children include a birthmark or physical defect that corresponds in some way to a wound or blemish or other physical characteristic of the previous personality. These marks are checked against post-mortem records whenever possible.”

“
You’re saying these children have the same kind of birthmarks as the person they’re supposed to have been in the previous life?”

Josh shook his head. “No, what I’m saying is that the child often has a birthmark or other physical defect that corresponds to the cause of death of the previous personality. If the previous personality was shot, they have a birthmark where the bullet entered the body. Sometimes they have two birthmarks, one for the entrance wound and one for the exit wound.”

Hank stared at him. “I find that very hard to believe.”

“
I know, when you see the photos, it freaks you right out. I’ve looked at files with post-mortem photos of gunshot wounds right next to photos of a child’s birthmarks, and it’s uncanny, the resemblance between the two.”

“
I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“
It’s very strange,” Josh acknowledged, “and very hard to explain. Dr. Ian Stevenson, who pioneered this field at the University of Virginia beginning in the 1960s, did a lot of work in this area. In a book called
Reincarnation and Biology
he documented 225 of these cases. He compared the birthmarks to the Stigmata, the wounds people can develop that resemble the wounds of Christ, and he also compared them to known cases in which people develop blisters or burn marks through hypnotic suggestion. His point was that the mind can do things we really don’t understand very well. I could lend you a very interesting book by Dr. Jim B. Tucker that explains it a lot better than I can.”

“
I still don’t understand what you’re driving at. You’re saying that a person’s mind can somehow subconsciously reproduce wounds as birthmarks in their next life?”

“
It may be possible.”

“
But when a person dies, their mind dies too. I mean, blood stops flowing to the brain, the brain dies, it’s game over.”

“
The brain dies,” Josh agreed. “In a
mechanistic
world view this means that whatever went into the makeup of the person also dies. But it’s possible that the mind is not the same thing as the brain. What if the mind is a phenomenon that interacts both at the physical level with the brain and at the metaphysical level with the soul or some other mode of being that we don’t really understand very well right now?”

Hank shook his head. “I don’t see how anyone can answer that question.”

Josh leaned forward and gestured with his hands. “See, it could be that in some cases where the personality is very strong, the soul or the spirit of that person somehow holds on to self-awareness from one life to the next, long enough to articulate certain memories in early childhood after gaining the power of speech. Memories of a violent death would be particularly vivid, and it may be possible that these traumatic memories play themselves out in the new mind, while still in the womb, in such a way that wounds are reproduced as birthmarks just as burns or blisters can be produced through hypnosis, by the mind acting on the body in ways we don’t completely understand. Dr. Tucker refers to this as trauma transfer, the carrying over of traumatic emotion from one life to the next and the manifestation of that emotion in certain physical characteristics.”

Hank shrugged. “Pretty far-fetched. What does this have to do with Taylor Chan? Are you telling me he has a birthmark that matches the gunshot wound of Martin Liu?”

Josh turned the laptop around so that Hank could see the screen. “These are two pics of birthmarks that Taylor has on his left thigh. The one on the left is from the front; the one on the right is from the back. The one on the left looks like a round puncture wound, like an entrance wound, and the one on the right, on the back of his leg, is larger and more ragged, like a severe exit wound. Is this where Martin Liu was shot?”

Hank stared at the screen.

“
See, that’s what I was originally supposed to do today, come down and see you guys.”

“
See us guys?”

“
Yeah, the police. To request access to Martin Liu’s autopsy report. It’s something we try to do in each case where there’s some kind of physical defect or birthmark. To match them up. Can I do that?”

“
I’ll see what I can do,” Hank said after a moment. “Can I get copies of these pictures?”

“
Sure,” Josh said. He leaned down, dragged over his computer bag and removed a small photo printer not much bigger than his hand. He set it up on the table and plugged it into the laptop.

“
You guys must have some budget,” Hank said.

“
Oh, it’s just a little direct printer that runs off a USB port.”

“
Right, you can also use them with digital cameras.”

“
Yeah. This only prints four by six. I hope that’s okay.”

“
No problem.”

The printer came to life and began printing the first photo.

“
So when do you think I’ll be able to see the autopsy report on Martin Liu?”

Hank took the first photo from the printer and examined it as the second one began to print. “I think maybe we should do this in a particular order, Josh. First comes the active homicide investigation under the jurisdiction of the police and then afterwards a research case into reincarnation once all the shooting and assaulting and fun and games are cleared away. All right?”

Josh’s eyes fell. “Sure. I understand.”

“
Once the dust settles you can see whatever’s in the file that’s relevant to your research.”

“
Thanks.”

Hank nodded. “All right, then.” He tucked the photos into his manila envelope and stood up. “Do me a favor and stay put for a while. Order room service for your meals. I’m not exactly sure what those guys have in mind, but I think it’s better that they not find you again.”

“
Okay,” Josh agreed fervently. “I’m all for that. I have absolutely no desire to run into them again. I have a bunch of stuff to catch up on anyway, e-mails, updates to my reports, check in with Dr. Walsh. I’ll be busy.”

Hank left him in the hotel room. Waiting for the elevator, he pulled out his cell phone and called Karen.

“
You free?”

“
Yeah,” she replied in a disgusted tone. “Bastards kept me waiting while they had some fuckin’ meeting or other, then treated me like a droolin’ imbecile for wasting time cuz I waited around for them. Bottom line, I’m done.”

“
Great. Come pick me up at the Ramada. We’ll go talk to some people.”

“
Be there in ten.”

“
You’re a jewel,” Hank said, and closed his phone.

Peter Mah sat by himself at a small table in the back corner of the Bright Spot Restaurant near the swinging doors that led into the kitchen. It was a beat-up dump on Lexington Street in the heart of Chinatown that featured an old smoke-stained tin ceiling and booths with cracked red vinyl. A bar made of scrap wood and pieces of wall paneling ran down the middle of the seating area. The Bright Spot was owned by a numbered company controlled by Peter, and he used the entire top floor of the three-story building for his home and office. The second floor was split into a large apartment and several rooms. The apartment was used by the restaurant manager, Yi, and his family. The rooms were for other employees of Peter who needed a place to sleep while on call. Behind Peter was a staircase that led upstairs. There was also a fire escape in back. Security was not a problem, since Peter had installed state-of-the-art technology throughout the building that was backed up by a great deal of firepower in the hands of his employees.

A few old men sat at a table nearby amusing themselves with a game of fan tan, tea cups at their elbows and hand-rolled cigarettes dangling from their lips. Yi had emerged from the kitchen where Millie Lung, the cook, was overseeing preparations for the dinner rush. He sat on a stool at the bar reading a Chinese newspaper. The waiter, Yi’s brother-in-law Wu, was behind the bar talking quietly on the telephone to his wife, Yi’s older sister. The conversation was not going well. It was well known that Wu’s wife kept him constantly in debt. She seemed to be asking him for money for something. There was little that Wu could do about it except say yes, since Yi was sitting there listening to every word he said.

Peter was glad he was single. It kept his options open. He was 31 years old and very good-looking, with boyish tousled long hair worn in a fashionable retro Beatles cut that was carefully maintained on a weekly basis by his personal hairdresser in the salon above the Golden Dragon. He wore a thousand-dollar black suit, a crisp white shirt and a pearl grey Hermès tie. He wore a diamond stud on each earlobe and sported a Breitling chronometer on his wrist. He also had a Glock 27 sub-compact .40 caliber hand gun in a holster on his belt under his jacket. He liked the gun because it was small and light. His fingers were delicate and slender, and the gun fit comfortably in his hand without the need of a grip extender. He was not sure if there was a license around somewhere for it. His cousin Stevie had given it to him a year ago and he kept it because he liked it as a possession, just as he also liked the Breitling or the iPhone sitting on the table in front of him, propped up on an angle against a thick white napkin. His eyes were currently focused on the screen, watching a horse race on which he had wagered ten grand. He was listening to a Cantonese feed through the wireless earbud in his right ear. He was going to lose the ten grand. Whatever.

He started to think about ordering lunch. His personal chef, Daniel Chun, had said something this morning about fresh cantaloupes he’d just received and a recipe for
mut gua op sah lud
, roast duck and melon salad that he wanted to try. Peter thought it sounded good. He was looking forward to a quiet meal. However, it was not meant to be.

Footsteps across the floor of the dining area brought his eyes up as Billy Fung and Tang Lei slouched toward him. Billy had his hands shoved into the pockets of his plum-colored jacket. Tang’s hands hung empty at his sides. They were alone. Sighing, Peter removed the earbud and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

“
Imagine my disappointment when you did not return yesterday from the errand on which I sent you,” Peter said.

They stood at the edge of the table. It was understood they were not allowed to sit down. Billy was seven years younger than Peter and anxious to please. Tang, on the other hand, was an older man, in his middle thirties. He was stolid and stupid. Unimaginative in his leather jacket and cowboy boots. Also quite sadistic, particularly with his hands and feet. They stood side by side, eyes lowered. Although much younger than Tang, Billy was the one who was required to answer Peter’s question. He grimaced unhappily.

“
We went to the hospital but he was already gone. So we went to the hotel to see if he was there, but the police showed up right away. In the room, just when we started to search it.”

“
Was the student there?”

“
No. Just the cop. I have no idea why he was there. We ran out of the room. I fired a shot into the ceiling to slow him down when he tried to chase us. No one was hurt, though. Him and another cop, a girl, chased us around. When we got down to the car we didn’t want them to follow us back here so we drove across the river and stayed at my cousin’s place in Wilmingford last night until things died down.”

“
You couldn’t call? Let me know what was going on? Send a text?”

“
I was going to but my cell battery’s dead. I can show you.” He reached into his jacket pocket.

Peter shook his head sternly. “Was there anything in the room that would have been useful?”

“
I think there was a laptop computer on the desk,” Billy said, glancing sideways at Tang. “We were searching the desk when the cop came in. We didn’t have a chance to grab the laptop.”

“
I see.” Peter swallowed his disappointment and thought for a minute. “Who was the cop? Did you know him?”

Tang shook his head. “No.”

Peter did not acknowledge Tang, whom he felt was a burden around his neck. The son-in-law of someone important in Hong Kong, Tang had been here for just over a year. He needed a place to stay in America while some kind of trouble back home died down, and Peter had agreed to keep him for a while.