The successful completion of a major political case, involving Baoshen, the vice mayor of Beijing, had led to unexpected repercussions in his professional work, and in his personal life, too. He was still emotionally as well as physically drained. In a recent letter to his girlfriend Ling, he had written, “As our ancient sage says, ‘Eight or nine out of ten times, things go wrong in this world of ours.’ People are no more than the chance products of good or bad luck in spite of their intentional efforts.” She had not replied, which did not surprise him. Their relationship was strained because of that case.

A gray-Mao-jacketed figure appeared behind him and addressed him in a serious, subdued voice, “Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”

He recognized Zhang Hongwei, a senior park security officer. In the seventies, Zhang had worn a Mao badge on his jacket, patrolling energetically as if steel springs had been installed under his feet, casting mistrustful glances at the English textbook in Chen’s hand. Now a bald, wrinkled man in his fifties, Zhang walked with a shuffle, his gray Mao jacket unchanged, except for the missing Mao badge.

“Please come with me, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”

He followed Zhang to a corner partially obscured by a cluster of evergreens level with the embankment, about fifteen feet away from the back gate. Lying on the ground, supine, was a mutilated body with multiple wounds, from which blood had spread in a surreal web. A line of red spots led from the bank to the place where the body lay.

Chief Inspector Chen had never dreamed that he would be called to examine a murder scene in Bund Park.

“I was making my morning round when I came upon it, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. You often come here in the morning, we all know,” Zhang said apologetically, “so-”

“When did you make your rounds this morning?”

“At about six. Immediately after the park opened.”

“When did you make your rounds last night?”

“Eleven thirty. We checked several times before closing. No one was left here.”

“So you’re sure-”

Their conversation was interrupted by a peal of laughter ringing from the bank near the gate. There, a young woman posed with a Japanese umbrella for a young man’s camera. Sitting on the embankment wall, she leaned her upper body out over the water. A dangerous pose. Her cheeks flushed, and the camera flashed. Possibly a young couple on a honeymoon trip. A romantic day starting with picture-taking in Bund Park.

“Vacate the park and close it for the morning,” Chen ordered, frowning. He wrote a number on the back of a bookmark. “Dial this number from your office. Detective Yu Guangming’s number. Ask him to come here as soon as possible.”

As Zhang hurried away, Chen began to examine the body. A male in his early forties, of medium height and build, dressed in expensive-looking white silk pajamas. His face was blood-smeared and bore deep cuts, and the left side of his skull had been smashed by a heavy blow. It was hard to imagine what he might have looked like alive, but it did not take a medical examiner to see that he had been hacked more than a dozen times with some sharp and heavy weapon, heavier than a knife. The cuts on his shoulders were deep, to the bone. Considering the multiple wounds, there was surprisingly little blood on the ground.

There was only one pocket in the pajama top. Chen reached into it. Nothing there. Nor could he see any clothes label. Carefully, he touched the parts of the corpse’s lower jaw and neck not covered in blood. Rigidity was noticeable, but the rest of the body was still relatively soft. There was some lividity in the legs. At the pressure of his finger, the discolored purplish spots blanched. So death had probably occurred four or five hours earlier.

He pulled up the dead man’s eyelid-a bloodshot eye stared at the sky, which was dappled with clouds. The corneas were not yet opaque, reinforcing his estimate that death was recent.

How did such a body come to be found in Bund Park?

There was one thing Chief Inspector Chen knew about the park’s security management. The security officers as well as the retired volunteer workers made their evening rounds diligently, looking in all directions, shouting over loudspeakers, “Hurry up! It’s time!” and flashing their flashlights at lovers in shadowy corners before the gate was closed. They had once made a special report to the bureau about it, trying to justify extra funding for their night work. With the severe housing shortage in Shanghai, the park lent itself to the romantic yearning of young people who had no privacy at home and could easily forget the passage of time and the public nature of the space. Security did a thorough job here. Zhang had been adamant in ruling out the possibility of anybody hiding in the park before it closed, and Chen believed him.

Alternatively, people could have sneaked in after closing time; it would not have taken much effort to climb over the walls. One could have killed the other, then fled. However, traffic and pedestrians passed the area all night. Surely such an incident would have been seen and reported. The scene around the bushes did not support this hypothesis, either. There was no sign of a struggle. Two or three broken twigs were about all Chief Inspector Chen could discover. The fact that the body was dressed in pajamas further suggested that the murder had occurred earlier, in a room, from which the dead body had been moved into the park. Perhaps the body had been thrown from the river. The embankment was not high. At night’s high tide, a body hurled from a boat could have landed on the embankment and rolled down into the bushes, which would also explain the line of the dark spots left on the bank.

But there was something puzzling Chen. No one would have tried to dispose of a body here without foreseeing its immediate discovery. The park was at the center of Shanghai, visited daily by thousands of people. Why transport the corpse here?

It was then that he saw the familiar figure of Detective Yu striding through the haze with a camera slung over his shoulder. A tall man of medium build, with a rugged face and deep-set eyes, Yu was his well-seasoned assistant, though Chen’s senior by a couple of years. Yu was also his only colleague who did not grumble behind his back about the chief inspector’s rapid rise, attributable to Deng Xiaoping’s new cadre policy favoring those with a formal education. Yu had been a friend to him since they had solved the National Model Worker case.

“Here?” Yu said, without formally greeting his boss.

“Yes, here.”

Yu started shooting pictures from different angles. He knelt by the body, zoomed in for close-ups, and examined the wounds carefully. Producing a ruler from his pants pockets, he measured the cuts on the front of the body before turning it over to check the wounds on the back. Yu then looked up at Chen over his shoulder.

“Any clue to his identity?” he asked.

“No.”

“Triad killing, I am afraid,” Yu said.

“Why do you think so?”

“Look at the wounds. Ax wounds. Seventeen or eighteen of them. There’s no need for so many. The number may have a specific meaning. A common practice with gangsters. The blow to his skull would have been more than enough for the job.” Yu stood up, putting the ruler back in his pocket. “An average wound length of two and a half to three inches. That bespeaks a steady hand with a lot of strength. Not amateur work.”

“Good observations.” Chen nodded. “Where do you think the killing took place?”

“Anywhere but here. The guy’s still in his pajamas. The killer must have brought the body here. As a special warning. It’s another sign of a triad killing. To send a message.”

“To whom?”

“Perhaps to somebody in the park,” Yu said. “Or somebody who will learn about it in no time. To spread the news fast and wide, there is no better place than the park.”