The Mao Case

hoop around his forehead.

FIFTEEN
    TWO HOURS LATER, DR. XIA was writing out a prescription in his office, his silver brows knitted in a frown, after having taken both a CT scan and
     X-rays of Chen.
    Dr. Xia had been on the forensic staff of the police bureau. After retirement, he started working part-time as an “expert”
     at a clinic close to his home. He and Chen had known each other well in the bureau.
    “Really touch and go,” Dr. Xia said seriously, examining the X-rays one more time. “Your shoulder injury isn’t too bad. No
     bone was broken. But I’m worried about the impact on your head. You have to rest for a week. Keep away from work and take
     good care of yourself. Don’t forget your breakdown not too long ago.”
    “You know the work at the bureau —”
    His cell phone rang before he could finish the sentence. It was Gang. Chen had to speak under the glare of Dr. Xia.
    “I have already contacted Feng, my assistant during the Cultural Revolution. A Big Buck now, he still calls me Commander in
     Chief.”

    “That’s good,” Chen said. “Did he recall anything about the special team from Beijing?”
    “They came to get something Shang might have had, but were unsuccessful. She committed suicide.”
    “Did Feng know what they were looking for?”
    “No, he didn’t. The special team probably didn’t either, but they wanted to prevent any local Red Guards from coming near
     her, so that was why they contacted Feng for cooperation. It could have been top secret. Also, it seemed to be a different
     group from those sent by Madam Mao from Beijing. Feng had met with some of those other teams.”
    “What was the difference?”
    “Those other teams knew what they were looking for. Newspaper clippings and pictures concerning Madam Mao in the thirties.
     They were not that secretive or stealthy, either. In fact, Feng went in with them, helping to turn everything upside down
     in the houses of those target families. But the special team for Shang didn’t request any help like that, nor were they interested
     in those things from the thirties.”
    “That is surely different. Did Feng recall any team member’s name or keep in touch?”
    “One of them was surnamed Sima. A rare surname, that’s why Feng remembered it. Probably from a cadre family, that Sima, and
     he spoke with an authentic Beijing accent.” Gang added, “Among other things, Sima mentioned Shang’s dresses and shoes, two
     closets full of them, and the cameras and film-developing equipment at her home, which were rare in those years. So he was
     impressed. That’s about all Feng could remember.”
    After so many years, that was probably about all anyone could have remembered. Still, it was a sort of random harvest to Chen,
     particularly the part about the special team looking for something at the request of someone other than Madam Mao. That explained
     the urgency after so many years. Madam Mao had long turned into “dog shit,” and some additional “shit” on her head wouldn’t
     have mattered to the Beijing authorities. So it had to be, as they had said, something directly concerning Mao.

    “Thank you so much, Gang. That’s very important to my book. And I’ll come back to the eatery soon.”
    But how could he get in touch with Sima, or any other member of the special team? It would be futile to contact the minister
     or anybody in Beijing for help. On the contrary, the moment his investigation into “the Mao Case” was revealed, the chief
     inspector would be suspended.
    Dr. Xia had been shaking his head the whole time.
    “Sorry about the interruption, Dr. Xia. Police work, you know —”
    “Tell your ‘police work’ to others, Chief Inspector, not to me. Now, listen to me carefully. If you suffer continuing giddiness
     or sickness, you have to come back to me. You must stay completely off work for one week.”
    “For a week,” Chen echoed, wondering if he would be lucky enough to take off one day. Still, given the outcome of his skirmish
     with the gangsters, he should consider himself lucky — only his luck might not hold the next time. “Not a single word about
     my visit here to the bureau people, Dr. Xia,” he said, rising to leave, when his cell phone shrilled out again.
    The number indicated it was a long distance call from Beijing. It was Wang, the head of the Writers’ Association there, whom
     Chen had touched for information about Diao, the author of
Cloud and Rain in