The Mao Case

simply young, warm
     bodies in a cold night. Shang was different from Mao’s usual type. But then a celebrated actress would have her attractions.
     It was nothing for an emperor to have dozens of imperial concubines.
    The book confirmed what Chen had learned from other sources. Like an emperor, Mao set no store by his women, taking them as
     nothing but the means to satisfy his “divine” sexual needs.
    A blue jay flew by. Chen thought he caught a flash of the afternoon sunlight on its wings.
    whatever Mao might have done as the supreme Party leader, what he did to Shang was inexcusable, not to be easily written
     off, not even from a policeman’s perspective. Chief Inspector Chen was too depressed to think long along these lines.
    He took out the smaller envelope, in which Ling might have left a note for him.
    To his surprise, he found, instead of his poems, a manila folder marked, “Records of the Special Team from CCPC Cultural Revolution
     Group: Shang.”
    How could Ling have got hold of this crucial information? It must have been at great risk to herself, as in another case years
     ago.
    Only there was no stepping twice into the same river.
    He started reading what was in the folder. It consisted of reports submitted by the special group. Most of them were written
     in the “revolutionary language” of the time, so he had to guess at the meaning couched in the political slogans and jargon.
    According to Sima Yun, the head of the group, they were responsible
to a “leading comrade” in Beijing, who was working in collaboration with the CCPC Cultural Revolution Group. They were instructed
     to deal with Shang in whatever way necessary to make her give up something important, possibly related to Mao, which had
     never been defined or explained to them. So they resorted to beating and torturing her. Shang said that Chairman Mao, had
     he known, wouldn’t have allowed them to do so. Sima told her that Madam Mao knew, and that was as good as from Mao himself.
     After that, Shang never said anything about Mao until her suicide. The team was summoned back to Beijing, bringing with them
     whatever they had found, including several albums.
    It confirmed a couple of points on the case that Chen had speculated about.
    First, the special team hadn’t been sent directly by Madam Mao, but by someone else. No name was given, but the “leading comrade”
     wasn’t she, who was only “in collaboration.”
    Second, the special team itself wasn’t clear about what to extort from Shang. Except that the Party’s interests were at stake — some
     Mao material. So they interrogated Shang the hard way.
    Rubbing the ridge of his nose, Chen checked another report in the folder, written on a somewhat smaller paper, possibly by
     another member of the team. To his astonishment, it was written at a much later date — as late as the end of 1974.
    Apparently, Beijing remained concerned about the Mao material. In 1974, the year when Tan and Qian were caught in their attempt
     to flee across the border, some of the original special team members were summoned back to find more information. So the young
     lovers were brutally interrogated. It was suspected that they intended to smuggle something out, which also was not defined.
    According to the statement made by Tan, the pair tried to go to Hong Kong because they saw no future in the mainland. He took
     all the responsibility. Because of his death, the investigation came to an abrupt end, even though an interview list had been
     made by the local committee concerning the close contacts of Tan and Qian.
    Chen was about to read the last page in the folder when he was
startled by an apparition, a grizzled man shuffling over from the far end of the garden, green canvas satchel slung across
     his shoulder. He checked around, picking up a fallen leaf with his free hand, and putting it into the satchel. He didn’t appear
     to be a gardener, nor did the satchel look like a proper tool. Chen hastened to put the book and the folder back into the
     large envelope.
    “Who are you?” the gray-haired man demanded with an air of authority. “How did you get in here today?”
    “I’m Chen. I’ve always dreamed of coming here — ever since childhood,” Chen said. “A friend of mine works here, so she let me
     in.”
    “So you’ve come to pay homage to Mao? That’s the spirit, young man. People still worship him today, I know. Oh, I’m Bi. I
     served as Chairman Mao’s bodyguard