“It’s difficult to say what exactly he did to her-sexually, there was no real penetration or ejaculation. But he strangled her, put her into a dress similar to the one his mother wore in the picture, and dumped her body in front of the music institute-a location symbolically important to him. It was like a sacrifice, a statement, a message to his mother, in revenge for those wronged years, but also a message he could hardly analyze for himself. So many were entangled together in his mind.
“But the story doesn’t end there. As the girl breathed her last, he experienced something new and unexpected, something like total freedom. It was all he could do to hold on to the appearance of his old self. Once the demon was out, like the genie out of the bottle, it was beyond his control. Considering the repression or suppression he had suffered all those years, it’s understandable to an extent why the murder provided him a release. A satisfaction previously unknown to him. A sort of mental orgasm-I doubt he attacked her sexually in an exact sense. It was a sensation so liberating that it worked like a drug, and he craved the experience.”
“Now that reads like something from one of your mystery translations, Chief Inspector Chen,” Jia commented. “In those books, a madman kills for the thrill of it, like a drug addiction. It’s easy to write him off as a psycho. You don’t really buy such crap, do you?”
The mahogany clock started striking, as if in echo of his question. Chen looked up. It was eleven. Jia didn’t appear so eager to leave. Rather, he was talking in earnest. That didn’t bode too badly for Chen.
“Let me go on with my story first, Mr. Jia,” Chen said. “So he started his serial murders. It was no longer revenge, but an uncontrollable killing urge. He knew the police were on high alert, so he focused on three-accompanying girls, who were easy to pick up, and also suggestive of depravation. He was totally possessed, not caring that the women weren’t related to his revenge, that they were innocent victims.”
“Innocent victims,” Jia echoed. “Few would so describe them. Of course, a narrator has his own perspective.”
“Psychologically, it was also crucial,” Chen went on without directly responding to him. “He’s not delusional. Most of the time, he may be just like you and me, like ordinary people. So he still has to justify what he does, consciously or subconsciously. In his twisted mind, these girls, because of their possible sex service, deserved such a disgraceful ending.”
“You don’t have to launch into a lecture in the middle of a narrative. As you have said, it’s an age of the individual’s perspective.”
“From whatever perspective, serial murder is inexcusable. And he knows that too. He’s not so willing to see himself as a murderer.”
“You are full of brilliantly creative imagination, Chief Inspector Chen,” Jia said. “Let us say that you are going to publish the story, but what then? It’s not a work of high taste, not becoming a well-known poet like you.”
“A story is told for an implied audience, the audience that will be most affected by it. In the present case, that is, of course, J.”
“So it’s like a message to him? I know you did it, so you’d better confess. But what would be J’s reaction?” Jia said deliberately. “I can’t speak for him, but for me, as a common reader, I will say that the story doesn’t hold up. It’s conjecture about things that happened over twenty years ago, and all based on a psychological theory totally foreign to Chinese culture. So do you think J will turn himself in? There is no evidence or witness. It’s no longer the age of proletarian dictatorship, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
“With four victims in the city, evidence will be found. I’m working on it.”
“As a cop?”
“I am a cop, but I’m telling a story here-at the moment. Let me ask you a question. What makes a story good?”
“Credibility.”
“Credibility comes from vivid and realistic details. Here, except for a couple of paragraphs, I’m only giving you something like an outline. For the final version, I’ll include all the details. I don’t have to use abstract terms like Oedipus complex. I’ll simply elaborate on the boy’s sexual desire for his mother.”
Jia rose abruptly, poured another cup for himself, and drained it in one gulp.
“Well, if you believe your story can sell, that’s great. It’s none of my business. You’ve finished, and I think I’d better leave-to prepare for the trial tomorrow.”
“No, don’t leave in such a hurry, Mr. Jia. Several courses are not served yet. And I need more of your specific opinions.”
“I think you are trying to tell a sensational story,” Jia said, still standing there, “but people will take it as a sordid fantasy embraced by a cop without a shred of evidence. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have resorted to storytelling.”
“When they learn that the story is written by a cop, they will pay more attention to it.”
“In China, a story from official channels would more likely than not be discredited.” Jia added, “In the last analysis, your story has too many holes. No one would take it seriously.”
Their talk was once again interrupted by the arrival of White Cloud. This time she was dressed like a country girl, wearing an indigo homespun top, shorts, and a white apron. Her feet were bare. She was serving them a live snake in a glass cage.
At their first meeting in the Dynasty karaoke club, Chen recalled, she had also served a snake platter, but now she was preparing the snake before their eyes.
She proved to be up to the task, swooping the snake out in a quick motion, striking it like a whip on the ground, and slicing open its belly with a sharp knife. With one pull, she took the snake’s gall bladder in her hand and put it in a cup of spirits. She must have received professional training.
Still, her bare arms and feet were splashed with snake blood, and the blood spatters looked like peach blossom petals falling on her fan-shaped apron.
“This is for our honored guest,” she said, handing Jia a cup that contained the greenish gall in the strong liquor.
The scene produced little effect on Jia, who swallowed the gall in the liquor in one gulp, producing a hundred Yuan bill for her.
“For your service.” Jia reseated himself at the table. “He must have gone to great lengths to find you.”
“Thank you.” She turned to Chen. “How do you want the snake cooked?”
“Whatever way you recommend.”
“In Chef Lu’s usual style then. Half to fry, half to steam.”
“Fine.”
She withdrew, treading high-footed on the carpet.
“It’s not so convenient to talk in a restaurant,” Chen said to Jia. “But you were talking about holes in the story.”
“Well, here is one hole,” Jia said. “In your story, Jasmine must have had opportunities of getting out from under of his control, yet he managed to keep control of the situation all those years. Why not this time? He’s a resourceful attorney; instead of resorting to killing, he could have thwarted her plans some other way.”
“He might have tried, but for one reason or another, it didn’t work out. But you have a point, Mr. Jia. A good point.”
It was obvious that Jia was trying to undermine the whole basis of the story, and Chen welcomed his engagement in the exercise.
“And here is another such hole. If he were so passionately attached to his mother, then why would he strip his victims and dress them in such a way? That kind of attachment is a skeleton in the family closet, to say the least-one he would be anxious to keep hidden.”
“A short, simple explanation is that things are twisted in his mind. He loves her, but he can’t forgive her for what he considers to be her betrayal. But I have a more elaborate explanation for this psychological peculiarity,” Chen said. “I’ve mentioned the Oedipus complex, in which two aspects are mixed. Secret guilt and sexual desire. For a boy in China during the sixties, the desire part could be more deeply embedded.