The Hua Shan Hospital Murders by David Rotenberg Page A

home.”
    “Fine. Where is he?”
    “Interrogation Room 3.”
    Fong entered the room and stood to one side examining the young man. His eyes were a little too close together and there was a definite nastiness that was nearer the surface than he probably knew. He ought to learn to cover it better and damn soon, Fong thought.
    Before Fong could speak, the man said, “I didn’t see anyone. It’s busy in the hospital, you know.”
    Fong said nothing, allowing the young man to simply sit in the silence. “Can I go now?”
    That Fong answered: “No.”
    “Great, is this the silent treatment or something? You old guys are all the same. Where’s your fucking Mao jacket – at the cleaners?”
    Fong almost laughed out loud. This boy was playing the role he traditionally played. But Fong understood, although grudgingly, that he was now part of the old guard. Part of what was perceived by the young as holding the country back. It felt uncomfortable. Fong looked at the young man and decided on a tack. “So what did you want to be?”
    “When I grew up?” he asked nastily.
    “Sure,” said Fong, “when you grew up.”
    “Not a fucking clerk in an abortion clinic, that’s for sure.”
    “What then?”
    “A doctor, if you must know.”
    “You’re young enough still . . .”
    “. . . to do whatever I want. I know. You old guys always say shit like that.”
    “Do we?”
    “Yes, you do.” He looked to his left as if there were something or someone there who could help him. “What do you want from me, anyway?”
    “I want to know how that note got on your desk?”
    “I’ve told them already.”
    “I’m sure you did. Now tell me.”
    The receptionist let out a breath then sort of threw his hands up in the air in the universal gesture of when-will-this-nonsense-end. “Fine. I saw nothing. I saw no one in particular. The desk was a mad house. As usual. When I had a moment to myself I looked down and there was that piece of paper with the English writing on it.”
    “How did you know it was English?”
    “I’m educated. I took primary English like everyone who wants to be anyone. So I recognized the letters – not their names – but that they were English.”
    Fong thought about that for a moment then asked, “How did you know they weren’t German or French of Spanish?”
    “Oh, very good, Inspector. You’ve caught me. I didn’t know that. Can I go now?”
    “Were there any Caucasians at the desk?”
    The young man looked at him but didn’t speak.
    “Come on. You work at a Chinese hospital.
Foreigners don’t go there. Or if they did even a moron like you would remember it.”
    “Moron?”
    “They never used to fight,” Fong thought. But what he said was, “Yes, moron, now did you see any Caucasians or not that day?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Very good.”
    “Thanks, asshole.”
    Fong looked at the man. “Do you really think I can’t hurt you?”
    “I don’t care what you do to me.”
    That was new. Fong looked at the man and what he saw clearly on his face were the unmistakable signs of surrender. At his age he’d already given up. So young to have already lost hope. So young to be so angry. Fong gave him a card. “Call me if you remember anything more. There had to have been a Long Nose at your desk – as you said, the note’s in English.”
    As a forensic scientist, Lily had dealt with many dead things – many mutilated things – many corroded, rotted, penetrated, scraped, cut, burned, strangled, scalded, blinded, poisoned things – but none of these had prepared her for interviewing the Hua Shan Hospital’s abortion clinic’s head nurse. She’d seen the heavy-set woman many times as she’d passed by the clinic and gone up the stairs to her lab. But before today they’d never exchanged any more than cursory greetings.
    The woman shrugged toward a chair in her small office. Lily sat. The nurse stood. “My supervisor says you have questions for me, officer.”
    Lily did her best