“Still, tell me about the psychological approaches in those books. Like Liao’s method, it may help narrow down the range.”

“Well,” Chen said, “let me try to recall some points. We’ll examine them in the context of our red mandarin dress case.”

“I am all ears, Chief.”

“Now, the identity of the second victim suggests something frequently read in those books. A goal-oriented serial killer characterized with an obsessive-compulsive mindset. He has deep-rooted psychosexual problems, psychotic, but not delusional. He is obsessed with the desire to rid the world of the people classified in his mind as undesirable and unworthy. The three-accompanying girls can be so categorized. The goal is to deal a crushing blow to the sex industry, and the victims also happen to be the most vulnerable, easy to pick up. When such a murderer is finally apprehended, he usually turns out to be an upstanding citizen fitting with Liao’s material profile.”

“So there may be something in Liao’s focus,” Yu said, nodding.

The waitress came back to their table with a tray of desert samples. Chen ordered a wedge of lemon pie for himself, but Yu chose a steamed bun of barbecued pork. The bar was a mixture of East and West, at least in its desert tray.

“Now, believe it or not,” Chen resumed, “the sex killers in those mysteries are often impotent. They experience a mental orgasm without a physical ejaculation. So the medical examiner may not find semen in the victim.”

“Yes, our forensic people have already excluded the possibility of the assailant being a condom user. No condom lubrication left on the victims. So the killer does fit that profile so far. With both victims stripped, yet not raped, he could be a psycho like that.” Yu added thoughtfully, “In one of the books you translated, it has something to do with sexual abuse in his childhood. He grows up all twisted. Impotent.”

“According to Freud, the importance of one’s childhood experience can never be exaggerated. In most cases, such a killer has experienced some sort of sexual abuse that influenced his behavior.”

“But how can it help our work?” Yu said. “In China, no one talks about childhood sexual abuse. Admitting it is worse than abuse itself. The very concept of face.”

“Yes, it’s a taboo, cultural as well as political. Too much face loss,” Chen said, wondering if there was such a term as face loss in Western psychology. “In recent years, it has become quite popular for people there to talk about their traumatic childhood, but it is still unimaginable in China. Also, some childhood traumatic experience here may be taken for granted-in a Shanghai family, with three generations squeezed in the same room, exposure to parental sex, for instance, can be a matter of course. No one talks about it.”

“Yes, it reminds me of a story from my old neighborhood. A young bridegroom could not consummate because of the creaking sound of his bed, which would be audible to his parents staying at the other end of the room partitioned by a bamboo screen. In his childhood, he had heard his parents’ creaking bed, and he didn’t talk to anybody about it. But he didn’t turn into a killer. After two or three years, he moved into a new room, and all his problems were solved.”

“But if he had consulted a doctor, he could have gotten immediate help.”

“Well, I happen to know him, so I can guess at some cause of his problem. But we have no clue at all as to the identity of the murderer.”

“We do know that he kills his victims and disposes of the bodies in basically the same manner. And that he won’t stop until he is apprehended.”

“How does that help us, Chief?”

“If we aren’t sure how he picks his victims, I think we may at least assume that he’ll probably dump a new body in another public location. And on Thursday night. And that’s where and when we have to heighten our patrolling activities.”

“But in a city like Shanghai, we can’t put our people in every possible corner.”

“If we are shorthanded, the neighborhood committees aren’t. There are quite a lot of people being laid off nowadays. Not to mention all the retired workers. So we could pay them ten or fifteen Yuan for just one night, Thursday night. Keep them walking about all the time, and checking every suspicious car, possibly with a man and an unconscious woman inside, especially when it pulls up or parks at those public locations.”

“Yes, that’s something we can do,” Yu said. “I’ll go back and discuss with Liao. He may be grumpy about you, but he’ll take a good suggestion.”

“No, keep me out of it,” Chen said, draining his coffee. “I have to finish the paper in time. I have promised Professor Bian.”

ALONE IN HIS OFFICE, Detective Yu tried to size up the situation. It was worse than hopeless, he admitted to himself. Worse with the certainty of another killing in three days, and with his inability to do anything about it.

Since early morning, he had been overwhelmed by a deluge of reports and statements. The telephone kept ringing, somehow like the funeral bell in a half-forgotten movie. After only a few hours’ sleep last night, having skipped breakfast for a teleconference with a Beijing forensic expert, he began sweating in his cotton-padded uniform. Like the other cops in their group, he already felt jaded in the morning, brewing another cup of extra-strong tea-a cup half full of tea leaves.

Liao seemed discouraged, no longer talking about the profile or the garage. Nor about his sex business scenario, which had been vetoed by Li. The sex industry in the city was an open secret, but no one was supposed to talk about it, especially not in connection with a sensational serial murder case.

As for the psychological approach expounded by Chen, Yu didn’t even mention it in the bureau. He didn’t think anyone would take it seriously. Psychological studies would help only after the criminal was caught, but not when he remained unknown and at large. Still, Yu recommended heightening security with the help of the neighborhood committee on Thursday night. For once, Li agreed readily.

Yu was preparing to make a second cup of tea, putting another pinch of oolong tea leaves into the old cup, when the phone rang again.

“May I speak to Detective Yu Guangming?” It was an unfamiliar voice, possibly that of a middle-aged woman.

“This is he. Speaking.”

“My name is Yaqin. I worked with Jasmine. You came to our hotel the other day. I saw you talking to the front desk manager.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Is the reward for information about Jasmine still available?”

“Yes, two thousand Yuan, if it leads to a breakthrough.”

“Jasmine had a boyfriend. She met him several months ago. He stays at our hotel when he comes back from the United States. He’s a regular customer here.”

“That may be something,” Yu said. “Can you give me more details, Yaqin?”

“His name is Weng. He’s not that rich, or he wouldn’t stay at our hotel, but he has bucks, at least enough so that he’s capable of staying here for months at a time. And he has a green card, which is enough for many a Shanghai girl to have hooked up fast and furious. Anyway, they hit it off. People have seen them dining outside, her hand grasped in his.”

“Have you seen them together?”

“No, but I saw her sneaking into his room late one afternoon, about a month ago. It was not during her shift that day.” She added, “He was a realistic choice for the girl. He’s about fifteen years older, but he could have taken her to the United States.”

“Have you noticed anything suspicious about him?”

“Well, nothing that I am sure of. His family is still in Shanghai, but he chooses to stay at a hotel. Why? That’s beyond me. No one knows what kind of work he does, nor where his money comes from. The cost of a hotel for three or four months is a sizable sum.”