Skinner's Box (Fang Mu (Eastern Crimes)) (2 page)

Just as he was trying to think of an excuse to politely decline the invitation, his cell phone rang.

"Fang Mu, where are you?" Bian Ping's tone of voice was urgent as Fang Mu answered the call.

"I'm out. What's up?"

"Be at the dormitory of the Kuantian District Paper Mill in fifteen minutes!"

Fang Mu was about to ask what had happened, but the call ended. Not daring to delay, he hurriedly said goodbye to Teacher Zhou, got in his jeep, and sped off, siren blaring.

Kuantian District was in the oldest part of the city and had at one time been a center of heavy industry. Before urban environmental awareness became vogue, the place had been booming. But along with the city's constant expansion and the relocation of factories, Kuantian District had gradually turned into a quiet corner left far behind by high urban culture. Its ubiquitous bungalows and three-story buildings already looked out of place compared to the rest of the city's architecture. But whether they resided in a new city district or an old one, people's curiosity remained the same everywhere.

A crowd of onlookers stood packed around the front of an old three-story building. Police cars had been parked haphazardly wherever there was a spot, so getting anywhere close was quite a challenge. Fang Mu ended up parking the jeep a block away and trotting over.

A space in front of the building had been cordoned off with police tape. People wearing plain clothes or police uniforms were busy inside, their faces solemn with concentration. Fang Mu attached his ID badge to the front of his shirt, lifted the police tape, and ducked inside. Bian Ping was conversing with a constable wearing an Armed Police uniform; upon seeing Fang Mu, he waved him over.

"This is Officer Fang from our precinct," Bian Ping said by way of introduction. "This is Constable Duan from SWAT."

Fang Mu reached out to shake hands with Constable Duan. The other man's hand felt coarse and hard and he had a very strong grip.

"I'll give you a run-down of the case so far." Bian Ping pointed up at the third floor. "This afternoon, a camera crew from the local television station took one of their audience members to apartment number three-hundred-one on the third floor to shoot a scene for their program. This viewer had claimed his name was Luo Jiahai, and said he wanted to see his teacher today, which is of course Teachers' Day. After entering the apartment, he drew a knife and stabbed his teacher. The woman's current condition is unknown, but based on descriptions by eyewitnesses, our guess is that she's dead. The real kicker is that there's also a girl inside, about nine-year-old or so, and our preliminary deduction is that she's being held against her will—which is why we haven't stormed the place yet."

As he spoke, a policeman picked up a megaphone and began shouting through it at the building. "Whoever's inside, listen up! You are surrounded! Put down your weapon and release the hostage! Your only way out is to surrender immediately! I'll say it one more time…"

Fang Mu eyed the building. The windows remained shut tight; there was no response whatsoever.

"Did the perp list any demands?" Fang Mu asked Bian Ping.

"No, no demands at all; so our plan is to send someone up there to talk to him and figure out what he wants, and look for an opportunity to subdue him." He held Fang Mu’s stare. "I was about to send you."

Fang Mu was stunned. His mouth suddenly felt very dry. He returned Bian Ping’s stare for several seconds. "Me?"

"That's right." Bian Ping's response was curt but adamant.

Fang Mu glanced at Constable Duan, somehow hoping for at least a nod of confirmation from him, but the expression on Constable Duan's face remained one of bafflement mixed with a trace of distrust.

Bian Ping, too, noticed Duan's bewilderment. He turned to him and said, "Duan, ol' pal, this is our best guy in the precinct." Then he waved Fang Mu off and said, "Go ahead; go over there and get ready."

Fang Mu was led somewhat reluctantly to the front of a command car, where a female cop with nimble hands fitted him with a wireless earpiece and mic, and another cop rolled up his pants cuff and attached a gun holster to his ankle. Fang Mu surrendered himself vacantly to their administrations, his eyes drifting over to where Bian Ping was still standing. He was saying something to Constable Duan, and the latter kept nodding, his eyebrows slightly pinched. When Duan again turned to study Fang Mu, this time there was a look of expectation in his eyes.

"How are the preparations going?" Duan addressed the officers who were busy attending to Fang Mu as he joined them. After receiving a positive reply, he pulled a Type 64 pistol from his waist and raised an eyebrow at Fang Mu. "Know how to use it?"

Fang Mu nodded and accepted the gun. With practiced ease he undid the safety and checked the clip; after he'd loaded a bullet into the chamber, he bent and tucked it into the ankle holster.

Bian Ping walked over to them. After looking Fang Mu up and down, he said, "Now let's talk about plans. We've got three of them. Plan A: do your best to talk him down. Plan B: look for an opportunity to subdue him; if you get a clear shot, take it. Plan C: we've got a sniper hiding on the roof of the building across the street, but he hasn't been able to get a lock on him yet. We suspect he and the hostage are hiding in the interior room somewhere. If you don't feel confident that you can talk the perp down or subdue him, try to lure him over to the window of the room facing south. The closer to the window the better. Leave the rest to SWAT." He paused. "Any questions?"

Fang Mu thought a moment; it felt like he had a thousand questions turning through his brain, but he did not know which to ask, so he just shook his head.

"Okay, go for it." Bian Ping clapped him on the shoulder. "I won't bore you with the basics of negotiating; just be careful."

Fang Mu nodded, took a deep breath, and turned to go, but Constable Duan told him to wait.

The constable squatted down, drew Fang Mu's gun, and emptied it of all its bullets. He spread them out in the palm of his hand, then carefully selected three of them and put them back in the clip and inserted it back into the pistol.

"Three should be enough; any extra bullets would be useless, and they would just make things messier if one misfired. Anyway, the second we hear gunfire our people will charge in."

Constable Duan's words didn't make Fang Mu feel at ease; on the contrary, while he was replacing the gun with only three bullets into its holster, he felt even more nervous. Even though he knew Constable Duan's logic made good sense, he still felt a bit weak in the knees.

A dozen or so SWAT agents lay in wait along the hallway. With stilted steps, Fang Mu made his way past these brawny experts with their guns aimed and ready to fire, and could feel pair after pair of astonished eyes glancing up at his face. In truth, he looked nothing like the typical calm and composed negotiator, but more like a greenhorn university student.

In 2004, a hostage incident occurred in a certain city, and because it was mishandled, the suspect managed to sever the hostage's jugular vein and windpipe before being shot dead. In light of this event, Public Security Bureaus in other cities began to take seriously the importance of formulating contingency plans for sudden situations; however, they still suffered a lack of professional negotiators. So, for this incident they'd had to call on a guy from the Public Security Department's Criminal Psychology Research Institute to come give it a try.

The stairs underfoot were sticky with years of accumulated dirt and scum. The hallway was dimly lit; it seemed to Fang Mu that he was traversing an indistinct dreamscape, moving one step at a time toward Apartment 301 through a scene that was completely unreal. He stood in front of the rusty metal door for a few seconds, and for the duration his mind was a complete blank. He neither knew what to say nor what to do. Next to him, two SWAT agents holding SVD-79s at the ready exchanged glances. Fang Mu saw this minute movement out of the corner of his eye and felt a bit embarrassed. He cleared his throat and reached up to knock on the door.

A burst of unpleasant creaking tore at his ears as the metal door swung slowly open. Before him was a long, narrow living room and in the center of it the body of a woman lay prone amid a pool of coagulated blood. Next to her a video camera had been dropped, and it seemed to still be operating. Fang Mu stood in the doorway, slowly opening the door wider. After checking that no one was hiding behind the door, he carefully advanced until he was at the body. He squatted down and placed his finger against the woman's neck while scanning for any movement around him.

The icy stiffness of the flesh beneath his fingertip and the total lack of pulse confirmed his estimation that the woman was already dead. This being the case, he saw no need to waste any more time on her, so he stood up, looked around the room, and said out loud, "Where are you, friend?"

At the sound of his voice, Fang Mu heard a wave of sobbing erupt from behind a tightly shut door in front of him. It sounded like it was coming from someone whose mouth had been gagged. His heart was suddenly in his throat: that room was where the perpetrator and the hostage were.

Composing himself, he addressed the closed door in a loud voice. "Come on out, okay? Let's talk about it." He held his breath and focused all his concentration on the door, waiting for a response.

A few seconds later, or perhaps it was minutes, the door to the room slowly opened.

Walking in front was a girl whose hands were bound behind her back. She looked to be no more than 10-year-old. Her hair was in a mess, and her face was streaked with tear stains. A pair of wide, terror-filled eyes stared between red lids, swollen from crying. When the girl saw the corpse of the woman lying on the floor, she squirmed desperately and emitted a high-pitched whine muffled by the pillowcase stuffed in her mouth.

Behind her stood a man. He had one hand around her neck and the other at her back, so there was no way to judge what sort of weapon he might be holding. At a glance, Fang Mu could see that he was about 5'9" tall, had short hair, and appeared quite young. His cheeks were shallow and his eyes bloodshot. Fang Mu had been expecting to see a pair of violent, anxious eyes, but instead they looked calm. They also appeared utterly flat, however, and this made Fang Mu uneasy, for behind that look was a sort of resolve: a determination to die.

A person that does not fear even death is afraid of nothing.

"Luo Jiahai?"

Luo Jiahai said nothing. He was looking Fang Mu up and down.

When Fang Mu saw Luo Jiahai sizing him up, he very subtly straightened his back and stood with his legs apart, and then raised his hands to show his open palms. "Have a look; I'm unarmed. Let's have a chat, shall we?"

Luo Jiahai's attention returned to Fang Mu's face, where it lingered for several long seconds in silence. He opened his mouth. "Are you the police?"

Fang Mu put his hands down and nodded. "I am."

Luo Jiahai's expression relaxed a little, and something like curiosity took hold of his features. Fang Mu suddenly understood why Bian Ping had insisted that he be Luo Jiahai's negotiator; the people who had reported the case to the police had mentioned that Luo Jiahai was still attending the university. If they had sent an older police officer to try to talk to him, Luo Jiahai could possibly have felt more pressured and not be as trusting. Fang Mu looked about the same age as Luo Jiahai, and to a certain extent this might help lower his guard a bit.

Hearing the word "police" caused the nine-year-old girl to see hope from the depths of her despair. She struggled even harder and her eyes leveled a pleading look at Fang Mu that clearly relayed
Save me!

He saw that the girl's torn white T-shirt was crisscrossed with bloodstains. He quickly looked her over from where he stood to ascertain whether or not she had been harmed and how serious it might be.

Luo Jiahai noticed this and slowly shook his head. In a low voice he said, "She's fine. The blood's from her mom. I haven't touched her." After a pause, a wry smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "She wouldn't have that sort of smell."

Fang Mu froze. Smell? What smell?