The Killing Hands by P.D. Martin

touched, personally, by murder. For me it was mybrother when I was eight, and for Darren it was his aunt, over ten years ago.
    â€œWhat’s your case about?” Darren asks.
    Cases are confidential, to a point, but there’s no harm in discussing the basics with a fellow law-enforcement professional.
    â€œLittle Tokyo murder. No ID and the guy’s got a weird throat injury. You?”
    â€œNothing that interesting. Gunshot wound and we’ve got a jealous ex-boyfriend we like for it. We’re waiting on evidence from the lab, but the ex isn’t that bright. I think the forensics will nail him.”
    â€œSo you’ve got your man.”
    â€œLooks that way.”
    â€œI’m just starting out on this one. No suspects yet.” I swing into a parking space just outside the studio. “Listen, Darren, I’ve got to go. Kung fu class.”
    â€œOh, yeah, Monday night. You can tell me all about the weird throat wound another time. Go kick some ass.”
    I laugh. “Will do.”
    I rush into the school right at 7:00 p.m., but still have to get changed. The place is quiet, with only three people here so far—my teacher, Sifu Lee; his assistant, Steve; and Marcus, one of the other advanced students. Lee is on the warm-up mats going through a series of blocks and strikes, and Steve and Marcus are both stretching in one corner. Lee looks up when I burst through the door.
    â€œSorry I’m late. I’ll be out in a second.”
    He nods. Lee’s in his forties and half-Chinese. His five-eleven frame is muscular, but not bulky, and extremely strong. He trained in China and Hong Kong in many different kung fu forms before choosing Tiger and Crane. He then trained to sifu —master—stage and has been teaching in L.A. for over fifteen years. And, L.A. being L.A., he’s also had some involvement with the film business, training students who’ve gone on to become stunt doubles in movies.
    In the changing room I pull on my uniform: baggy black pants, a black T-shirt with the school’s logo on thefront and my black sash. I also slip into my special martial arts shoes before running out to join Lee.
    â€œI take it you’re not warmed up?”
    â€œNo, sorry.”
    While Lee continues his own training, I do some quick stretches to warm up my legs and follow through with rotations of most of my joints. I pay particular attention to my shoulders and elbows, knowing how easy it is to jar those joints or hurt the surrounding muscles if you’re not warmed up.
    When I’m ready I give Lee a nod. We start with punches, which he counts out as I strike the pad he holds in front of me. Once we’ve done straight punches, arrow punches and leopard punches, we move on to blocks. Lee gently throws pre-arranged punches and kicks my way, which I defend.
    We’ve been going for fifteen minutes when Lee says, “Ready to spar?”
    â€œSure.” I’m definitely warm…and sweaty. I take a drink of water and suit up in my protective gear, putting on my shin guards, gloves and helmet. My groin guard is underneath my uniform from when I was getting changed. Lee only puts on a helmet and a groin-piece over his clothing—his hands and shins are rock hard from thirty-five years of conditioning. Once we’re on the mats, Lee and I bow to each other.
    â€œOkay, try to hit me.” He gives me a teasing smile.
    Our individual sparring time always starts off this way and, as usual, the invitation is enough for my competitive spirit to hit overdrive. I stand side-on to him, in horse, guard up. He mirrors this position, waiting for the first incoming strike.
    I go with a left jab, followed quickly by a right, then a left, then a right. He blocks them all effortlessly and with precision, but I don’t let this discourage me. A right hook punch followed by a straight kick and then a roundhouse kick still leave me no closer to hitting my target,