The Mao Case

carefully examined as part of the crime scene.
     whatever was hidden inside could be discovered.
    The sound of a siren pierced the night, when Chen was seized by the impulse to do something — something not expected of an exceptional
     cop.
    “When I rushed out, I tripped over this broom and fell out of the closet,” he said, stooping to pick up the broom. “Let me
     put it back.”
    “Well,” Old Hunter said reflectively, “you don’t have to explain anything to Internal Security. We came in together. I had
     the master key from neighborhood security. You know what I mean, Chief.”
    Chen understood the subtle suggestion. It seemed to Old Hunter that it wouldn’t be easy for the chief inspector to explain
     his presence in the closet, and his subsequent failure to stop Hua from killing Jiao. So he might as well say that he had
     rushed in alongside the retired cop. Hua might contradict his story, but no one would pay much attention to a deranged man.
    It was a fact, however, that Chen had been in the closet, and that, but for his zeal to retrieve the Mao material, he might
     have been able to save Jiao’s life.
    But Chen was putting the broom back in the closet for a different reason. He shook his head. “No, the broom isn’t really part
     of the crime scene. It belongs in the closet.” Chen picked up the long scroll box. “I’ll have to turn it in to Beijing.”
    whatever happened to the broom now, it would be beyond his control. And not his concern.

    He wasn’t taking an action that would be against Jiao’s will, not with his own hands. At least, so he could tell himself.
    Nor was he involved in any effort to cover up for Mao, regardless of other people’s judgments or interpretations.
    The broom, like a lot of stuff in the room, would eventually be thrown away. Somebody might pick it up, use it as a broom
     and nothing but a broom, until dirty and worn-out, it would finally turn into dust …
    There was a chance that the thing inside would come to light one day. By that time, no one would be able to tell that the
     Mao material — whatever it was — originally came from Jiao. When he was no longer in charge of the case, he would have no objection
     to seeing it. He, too, was curious.
    But for now, as long as he didn’t see it with his own eyes, he wasn’t witholding information. That was something he had learned
     from Xie.
    “Don’t worry about me, Old Hunter. I am authorized by Beijing to investigate in whatever way I choose. And I’m notorious
     for my eccentric approach.”
    Outside the window, he heard police cars coming nearer with their sirens wailing and horns honking. Old Hunter walked over
     to the window and looked down into the street below, suddenly noisy like boiling water.
    Looking up, Chen saw a crimson-colored moon riding high in the night sky, as if covered in blood, but being washed by pale
     clouds and chilled rain.
    He began murmuring, almost to himself.
    The horses galloping, the horn sobbing.
    The mountain pass may be made of iron,
    but we are crossing it all over again,
    all over again,
    the hills stretching in waves,
    the sun sinking in blood.

    “What’s that?” Old Hunter said, looking over his shoulder at Chen.
    “ ‘The Lou Mountain Pass,’ a poem by Mao,” Chen said, “written during the first Civil War.”
    “Leave Mao in peace,” the retired cop said shivering, as if having swallowed a fly, “in heaven or in hell.”