The Death Launcher: Stopping at Nothing, for Money, Revenge and Power

By Andersson Bradley

The body of Tiger, a gangster, was found on the roof of a building.

Two days later, the body of his mother was dumped in the exact
same place.

Seven more people were killed in a week.

Who was Tiger and who killed him? Why did his murder set off a
killing spree?

Tony, the detective in charge, soon finds himself mired in two
inexplicably entwined mysteries that involve his mentor, a housewife,
and the city’s richest tycoon.

Is a crime more horrific than murder going to see the light of day?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Singapore
• Release date: Feb 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781543756135

Andersson Bradley

ANDERSSON BRADLEY was brought to the world in Hong Kong. He is a fan of English fiction. Having consumed hundreds of them, he considers it a sin not to make some contribution. Living in Asia’s most expensive yet unhappy city, Andersson has breathed the kind of life where money is the predominate motive in everything that people do. He also believes that the time will always come for score to be settled. Andersson would love to hear from you: [e-mail]

Book preview

THE DEATH

LAUNCHER

Stopping at nothing, for money, revenge and power

ANDERSSON BRADLEY

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Copyright © 2020 by Andersson Bradley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

www.partridgepublishing.com/singapore

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

PROLOGUE

H ey, honey, how are you today?

I stroke your hair back from your forehead, gently first and more pressure as I repeat, until I am pressing your head down into the pillow. I hold it there for a while; I observe you, checking if you will give me anything that can be construed as a response.

Not a wince.

But I am not disappointed; I know better than to expect one. After all, this has gone on for five years and thirty six days. I take the notebook from the drawer of the bedside table, pinch the tail of the string and spread the book to the last opened page.

It is a beautiful notebook by the way: threaded binding, exposed spine, Midori paper, the whole nine yards of marketing shit. What I like most is the grid. I don’t know, I have a thing for grid. I can’t write on a blank page. I need grid.

Like the page I am looking at, a page of grid. And numbers.

I write down 1862.

Right after 1861.

See, how can I get it wrong?

The page is almost full. Time for a new chapter. I turn to the next page and write down 1862 again.

A new beginning. Maybe of a count-down.

I place the string on this page, close the book and return it to the drawer. I sit back on the chair and sigh, like it has been an exercise of utmost exertion. I look at you again.

Let’s talk, honey.

Can you actually hear me? I still wonder sometimes. But in a way, I am sure you can’t. No one in the world has a stomach for so much bullshit! I mean, listening to me for a whole five year. It is enough to make one die and come back and die again.

Lately, I have been thinking of all the sacrifices I have made for you. I know what you would say in response to that. I can almost hear your sniff from here, so, don’t pretend you are not listening.

Okay, sorry for depriving you of the opportunity to live out your life like most people. I mean, married life. Not everyone is like us. In fact, most are not like us. But you should count yourself as the lucky few. Now listen, let my bullshit flow. Human beings have been roaming the earth for over 200,000 years, and civilisation, maybe about 6,000 years. What has changed?

6,000 years, billions of lives, men and women, just two sexes, have we figured out a clue to make it work?

No, we are none the wiser. Tell you what, my dear, we are not unlike the first time Adam saw Eve, or was it Eve saw Adam?

Am I digressing? Sorry, dear. I don’t know why I am talking about that. Let me go back to us.

Yes, what I want to say is: you have been spared all these experiencing and witnessing of the pains of human life because of me, of my sacrifices. We have loved and hated and fought, like every couple. But for uniquely different reasons. Ours are reasons the world has never seen. Aren’t you even proud of that?

Never mind, honey.

Our fights are over since a long time ago. We have made amends, compromised and reconciled. We have made peace. No more wars.

Isn’t that good?

I think you will shout your agreement if only you are awake.

But you are not waking up.

Waking up! That very thing.

Before I kiss you goodnight, one other thing you have to know. Something not very nice happened lately. Something actually rather bad. No use crying over spilled milk. Point is, I didn’t spill that milk. It just happened. So, nothing I can do to undo it. But there are things I have to do because of it. Not something I enjoy doing. But something that has to be done.

Again, like everything in life, no matter how bad, there is always a bright side to it as long as we are willing to open our eyes. And then it becomes something not just good, but worth celebrating. I am welcoming the next best thing because of this fucking shit.

But honey, I have to tell you one thing now. So that you can be prepared. If I am not known for anything else, I am a fair person. But this has nothing to do with my being fair or not; you simply have the right to know this since it concerns you. It is basically about you.

Our relationship has to end if that good thing I just mentioned is going to happen.

Do I finally see that you wince?

I lean forward and scrutinize your face for a long moment. I conclude that it is just an illusion of mine.

You don’t care if we are to end or to continue. Maybe you prefer the former. I confess I am a little hurt.

Goodnight then, baby.

I hope you know how much I have loved you.

CHAPTER 1

T iger’s hobby was toying with the idea of how he would die.

The when and where, he did not care. Living long and dying old on a sick bed, most people’s dream of a fulfilled life, sickened him. He would make sure that never happened, not to him.

At thirty five, he was the head of a gang division in Mong Kok, running networks of loan and prostitution businesses, netting over 3 million dollars a month. Life was interesting and good, full of excitement.

He did not call himself Tiger for no reason. He was a predator. He hunted, he hurt and he killed, figuratively mostly, literally when needed. He would be killed one day, he was damn sure about it. That was why he lived every day as if there was no tomorrow. His motto— living in the moment, to its fucking full. And he walked the talk.

That hobby thing crept into his mind again as he walked out of the local tea restaurant after he had just got his business done. But this time, he refrained from dwelling on it. This was one of his best days and what was awaiting him filled him with heightened excitement and trepidation. It was the heartbeat of someone about to see their loved one, about to take that relationship to the next level. Yet unsure if the other was willing. And if willing, what the consequences would be. Yes, there would be consequences. Severe ones. Fucking the woman of another gang boss. It would not be free lunch. But you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it.

As he walked, he could not help giving himself a chuckle of approval. He could even feel an invisible hand giving his back a pat of approval. He licked his lips when he recalled the look on that woman when he told her what he wanted her to do. It was a look of extreme fright and hate, and rage, of course. He had not expected anything less. For a second, he was sure she was about to pounce. But she calmed down. What a shame!

If it was not a tea restaurant, he would have demanded that she give him a blowjob right there. Comments from every one of her clients, her blowjob was Michelin 3 stars, worth a special journey.

He had forgotten the first time when making people suffer and do things against their wish gave him the kind of thrill he could not find elsewhere. Nothing excited and fulfilled him more than watching the fear in others. If forced to make an analogy, he would liken it to ejaculating for a full minute!

Making a school teacher help him recruit girls for his trade! If that was not brilliant, what was? He was sure he could take that idea to IPO.

He loved his businesses. Sex and loan, a great service to the world, solving the two most basic and pressing problems of all men—money and women. Men, what else?

But this chuckle and patting on his own back did not last long, at least not long enough. The thought about death struck him again as he neared the end of the street. He guessed he knew why and he shrugged. His line of work aside, the place gave many people the creeps.

Mong Kok.

Paradise and hell and in-between. All in one.

It is a district in Hong Kong smaller than one square mile; yet, it is probably the most crowded place on the planet. If it is really one square mile, it will have 340,000 people in it. In other words, it is 10 times more crowded than New York, even 4 times more than Mumbai!

The place is so symbolic of some values that the word MK has become an adjective. If you are being called MK in how you look, talk and behave, you are not being commended to have the style of Michael Kors; you are being ridiculed for being cheap, vulgar, uneducated or low class. Whatever it is, it is not a compliment.

Split left and right by Nathan Road, Mong Kok comprises 10 intersecting short streets lined with buildings mostly built in the 50s. Some streets are better known by their nicknames than its official ones, such as the Ladies Street, Sneakers Street, Photocopy Street, Goldfish Street, etc. You know what they sell by their very names.

But these are retail businesses under the sun. All the fun was up on the floors in the buildings: nightclub, sauna, hourly hotel, video game centre, snooker joint, sex toy shop, and of course, loan shark office. Tiger had interest in over twenty such outfits in the area, where his businesses were conducted.

In short, Mong Kok is the place for shopping, for everything that can solve a problem, satisfy a need or quench a pressing urge. You can shop or indulge yourself until you drop. It offers wares by day and something more carnal by night. A place like that is not for the faint-hearted.

CHAPTER 2

T iger walked on.

He knew the place like the back of his hands. He grew up there. He also knew that he did not belong to the glamour of Nathan Road. He belonged to the several streets acting as the base and hub of activities conducted on the fringes of law, where anyone seen wandering around at night was surely up to no good.

He was walking towards that area; a place he called home.

It was early evening, a clear day with light autumn breeze. The walk evoked a host of memories. He had walked on this particular street for over thirty years. It had the kind of smell and ambience unique to the seasons of the year and to the happenings in his life. Just like today and at this particular hour, the light breeze brought to his nostrils the mixed smells of street food from the neighbourhood. It transported him back to that day when he witnessed his father being chased down the street by a few men with raised knives and cleavers.

They were walking to sweep the streets, the same concept of bar-hopping, but instead of whisky and wine, the indulgence here was curry fish balls, octopus, turnip cakes, deep fried chicken wings, pork and dumplings. His father and his buddy were strolling in front, leading the way. All of a sudden, he heard his mother scream, and the next thing he knew, they were pushed aside to the wall of a building. His mother stood facing the wall, shielding him with her body. Tiger peeped from the little space his mother left for him to breathe and saw his father running for his life with two tough guys on his heels. They turned around the corner and disappeared from view.

But on the ground less than ten feet from them, he saw his father’s buddy fending off the showers of knifes and blades with his bare hands and arms. Blood was splashing about amidst the shouts of obscenity. After what felt like an eternity, the two attackers ran away, leaving the man writhing on the ground. Silence fell as people quietly deserted the street after watching the scene. It was as if nothing had happened, like it was the normal order of business that warranted only a passing look.

Tiger gave his mother a nudge. She turned and then they watched as his father’s buddy got up, cursed and stumbled away, blood dripping from his hands, leaving a sparse trail. Without another word, his mother lifted and carried him in her arms and ran home.

That was the first time Tiger witnessed violence. It awakened something in him. One, he did not feel scared. Two, he did not worry about his father. He did not even care. Three, he would have to learn to survive in a life of violence.

He quitted school at the age of twelve. He hated school, hated books, hated other kids and hated discipline. Despite this, he had not failed any examination, he even did well in subjects like language and mathematics, which he instinctively knew was the only knowledge he ever needed. If he had any regrets in life, quitting school at an early age was not one of them. In fact, he now looked back with not a little smirk of pride when most graduates of today preferred staying jobless, and those who had no choice but to work, worked for humiliating pay. Some of his loan clients were university graduates! Think about that!

CHAPTER 3

H is career started at the age of ten when he began following gangsters. It was an age that gave him distinct advantage—first and foremost, the chance of his being stopped by the police was small. Therefore, his main job as a rookie was running drug errands. To perform well in this role, age aside, he still had to learn and master the skill of disguise. Looking suspicious and self-conscious, would not help, aged ten or twenty!

His track record in drug logistics earned him a place in taking up more challenging dealings when he grew older, and stronger. Debt collection and extortion. To practise, Tiger went to parks, picked some kids bigger than him, drew them aside, beat them up and pissed on them. He learned to punch and take punches. Most of all, he had learned to master fear.

When the time came to go on his own, he chose sex and money lending as his business focus.

Drug was the most lucrative, but packaged with it was the fiercest competition, highest risk of being caught and most severe sentencing.

But he had decided long ago to abstain from its lure of profit. Not because of the fear of competition or being caught or even the severe sentencing. And definitely not for moral reasons.

The true reason was: he hated druggies. He was interested in people he could further interact with, to exploit and manipulate. And most of all, to have further fun with. For him, druggies were zombies, and zombies had no fun.

His business strategy was simple. Those who came to him, seldom came to him once. Money and sex, who would ever have enough? At the interest rate he was charging, the problem of his loan clients would only get worse. The chance would present itself to help them further by giving them some little things to do, such as wearing spy glasses while doing it with the hookers working for him! One stone killing two birds. From then on, both would be forever under his control. Fun and business, two in one.

It had been a busy day, he reflected while he continued his walk towards his destination, a building he liked to go up to once in a while after a busy day.

The day started off normally until around noon. Then two messages appeared on his phone almost at the same time. Message one was from Nick, a money client requesting an urgent hundred thousand. In fact, Nick messaged him the night before and this was just to confirm the time and place. The second message was from Kathy, the school teacher who worked for him in his prostitution business, demanding an urgent meeting.

The meeting with Nick was concluded without a hiccup. At around 6 p.m., he parked his car at an empty slot on Shanghai Street and walked to the tea restaurant to meet Kathy. The result was all that he had expected. Bottom-line, it was all about cost and benefit and self-preservation. And in this case, the cost to her of not doing what she was told was too high; so was the benefit of doing it. No choice at all.

Despite having a day of good business, he still could not shake the uneasy feeling that had been bothering him all day. He stopped, turned and looked around and did a quick scan of his surroundings.

Nothing.

He turned back and in the flash of a second, saw something loom far ahead, something dark and formless and shifting, something like a dark cloud of smoke, or dust. But it was gone the moment he forced his eyes to blink and re-focus. He stood still, took a deep breath and stared ahead.

Nothing.

An illusion maybe. Or something in his eyes. A fly that just flew across his line of vision. It could even be the migraine that had been bothering him lately. Except that he felt the cold sweep of a caress down his back that made all his hairs stand on end.

CHAPTER 4

T iger shuddered involuntarily and doubled his pace.

He reached the entrance of the building, the place he had yearned for the whole day, from the moment he opened his eyes until this very moment. He had been hurting all day for the clock to spin faster. Over twelve hours of turmoil which he now thought he would not have survived if not for all the happy distractions.

He started climbing the stairs. It was a six-storey building, old and abandoned without the luxury of a lift. He did not live there, but he liked going up to the roof once in a while to have some me-time. Today, he really had that unspeakable urge to be there.

Other days, the view offered him a good look of where he was from and where he wanted to go to. Today, he relished the thought of what was coming.

His heart was pounding when he got to the roof, a little because of the exertion, but more from the anticipation. The light autumn breeze was brushing his face gently. He stood in front of the parapet, took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. It was exceptionally clear. Though night had not yet fallen, he noticed scatters of stars, winking at him. He was transfixed by the rather rare view.

He breathed in and breathed out, he closed his eyes, he smiled, and he waited. She was late, that only meant she would be here any minute. That thought made his heart race again, like it never had.

Nothing distorted reality like anticipation.

He felt the body that pressed against his back. He felt the hand that touched his forehead. He felt joy. His heart danced. A forbidden love.

Next he heard, it was his blood erupting from his neck. When the knife entered his neck deep, he did not feel any pain. The stab was quick and deep and precise, puncturing his carotid artery together with all other veins, blood vessels, tendons and tissues that met the blade. Thick jets of blood shot forward and far; the walk up the six floors had not lost its resulting vigour. In those brief few seconds, funnily, what crossed his mind was not the who or why. It was as if he was too certain of his fate.

This acceptance had even obliterated his instinct to stop the blood loss. Instead, he was intent on listening to the sound made by the flying jet of his own blood. The movie Ashes of Time came to his mind, the scene where the swordsman commented that when the enemy’s sword was fast enough, one could hear the sound of one’s blood shooting out. Sweet like music. He loved that movie, he had watched it numerous times, he could recite every line.

His legs went limp. His body slid down on its own until it rested on the floor, blood jetting from his neck slowed to oozing, leaving a big dark pool around his head and neck and shoulder.

It was a violent death, but he found consolation knowing that he would not be dying old on a sick bed.

CHAPTER 5

H ow often did people dream about memory?

KK wondered, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Not often enough, according to his research on the internet. At least not as far as actual memories went. Dreams invariably distorted what really happened, not that memories themselves were good records of reality in the first place.

But this was different. This, he knew he had a copy of its reality stored in his brain. A memory that was as clear and distinct and real as the actual event. Not because it was the first time he killed a man. He had killed many, most in his line of duty. Gun and bullet. People on the run, shoot-outs. But that one was different. That one that had become his memory. That one he dreamt about, once in a while in the past ten years or so. But almost every week lately.

That was the first time he tortured a man to death, taking him two days; he had tried, but failed, to make it last a week.

Or perhaps it had something to do with what he did to the man and what the man said when he took his last breath. To say that the man ‘said’ something was rather a stretch.

He remembered the cuts on the face of his six-year-old son, done by the man before him. He decided not to reciprocate; he chose fire. Using a jet lighter, he seared the face of the man, bit by bit, spot by spot, patch by patch. Then the lighter became pen, fire became ink, he drew lines on the man’s bare skin, maps of them. Only then did he start to beat. Soon, it was a mess, as skin and tissue and blood came off and flew in the air with every whip. Burn and beat, he should have reversed that order.

He had not gagged the man; he needed to listen to the man’s screams of pain—the only words of apology he would accept from him. It sickened him, but it thrilled and energized him no less. He thought of the mangled faces of his wife and son, he cried and laughed as he burnt and beat. So, it was indeed a miracle when the man could still get the words out at the very end. If anything, forty-eight hours of screaming should have his vocal cords pretty messed up. Why did he take so much pain to utter those words at his last moment?

You took my money!

What the hell did he mean?

He had not been torturing the man for information or a confession. He knew what the man had done to his family. So, this was pure, raw revenge. In fact, he had said nothing himself during the two days of burning and beating. He just wanted the man to last longer, to suffer and to loathe the day his mother did not miscarry.

Was this actually a bad dream?

A question KK had no answer to as he rolled out of bed and made coffee. Then his phone rang.

CHAPTER 6

C hief Inspector of the Hong Kong Police Force (HKPF) Tony Tong got down from his car on the opposite side of the street and looked around. His team had not arrived. No one was there except the two uniformed officers guarding the building entrance. It was his habit to survey every crime scene from a distance and preferably alone. He could not bring himself to say that a crime scene talked to him, he just felt that every place looked and felt different once a murder was drawn into the picture.

But he was rather struck by what he saw. It took him a long moment, standing there, rolling his head, left and right, up and down, before he could have a grip on what it was that was assailing him as odd.

This block of the Fa Yuen Street was so unfamiliar, so without life, so without the spirit of the Mong Kok that he knew. He had not seen any street like that in this district. That it was lined with abandoned buildings, waiting for re-development, that it was early morning, waiting for life to rouse, and even that it was where a soul had left a body, waiting to be retributed, did not explain the feeling washing over him as he lifted his right foot and started crossing the street. He searched in his head for the word to describe it and came up with the one that he disliked and had always tried to avoid.

Ghostly.

Tony started his career with the HKPF in the detective branch. Fresh out of Police School, he was handpicked to join the District Crime Squad (DCS), a branch in every district headquarters responsible for the investigation of serious crimes. After five years on the job and demonstrating his unique talent in solving crimes, mostly homicide, he was posted to the Western Kowloon District and had never left. His next promotion would place him in a higher rank than a team leader in the DCS, but he chose to stay on the role. While he felt good about adding stars and stripes on his shoulders, he liked what he was doing more. He wanted to be in the front-line, not back office. He wanted to solve crime, not talk about solving crimes. The HKPF was fine with that, and those who worked with him even adored him for this. By staying where he was, he was actually making way for other more ambitious colleagues and as a result, making many friends in higher places who had later proved to be very helpful when the time came to pull some strings.

A truth seeker.

Tony was an orphan. When he was found at the entrance of Po Leung Kuk, one of the oldest charity organizations in Hong Kong, he was barely one year old. He was wrapped in layers of cloth and placed inside a rectangular rattan basket. That was it. Nothing else. No letter, no paper, no memento; not a message of thanks, or apology, or explanation. It was a neat and clean and no-return dumping of a baby. The police ran the records of birth in the past one year and found nothing. All possible leads were followed up, all to no avail.

He was then raised as an orphan, a status that was going to stick like an imprint seared deep in his heart that felt also like a tattoo on the forehead. Not that the world really minded, but the mention of it was always followed by looks of empathy and then words of sympathy. Tony did not want or need either.

He did well academically and trained himself very hard physically. It was as though he had unspent energy all the time. His mentor ascribed it to a kind of anger originated in his being abandoned without a reason. From her experience, dead parents were sometimes easier for kids to accept as the reason for their ending up as orphans.

When the time came for Tony to contemplate his career, he jumped to law enforcement. It was not as if he had done detailed soul searching and questioning and counselling and arrived at this conclusion. Nothing like that. It was something that had simply sprung from his core.

Later in life, knowing himself better, he had the answer. It was not the calling of justice, or the authority that came with the rank or uniform, or the need to be looked up to as officer, versus being looked down on as orphan. None of these.

He liked problems. He liked mystery. And he liked unravelling and solving them. The only books of leisure he read were crime and mystery, and he read them not a bit leisurely. His idol was Sherlock Holmes. He did not just read the whole collection; he digested every scene and wrote down his theories before reading on. He made notes and summarised the skills and techniques and knowledge of Holmes and put them into practice.

His unspent energy was like a sun burning inside him, driving him forever in the pursuit of truth.

And where else did truth genuinely matter as in life and death? Every death needed to be truthfully accounted for. The world belonged to the living. And there was only one thing the living could do for the dead—find the answer.

So, let’s find some answers, he thought to himself as he marched across the street, shaking off the feeling that had been giving him goose bumps.

Just at this moment, three cars appeared from the corner and sped straight at him. His team was arriving. An ambulance, a van with the forensic team and his team of four in a Toyota Corolla. After the meet and greet and putting on gloves and booties, Tony led the way, his assistant Chris following right behind and the whole squad of nine professionals in crime investigation walked warily up to the roof.

CHAPTER 7

"O kay, folks, tell me what you see," Tony asked, his eyes fixed on the body on the concrete floor.

A dead man, to start with, Ron muttered.

A dead scumbag, to be precise, Terry added.

You know him, Tony turned and looked at Terry.

His name is Tiger, dubbed son of Mong Kok. We have a file on him three inches thick. Terry was transferred from the Organized Crime and Triad Bureau(OCTB).

What else?

Cause of death. Neck wound. A rather rugged cut, doesn’t look like the work of a pro. It was Ron again.

Doesn’t look like there had been a fight, or the body moved. Maybe he knew the killer and the attack caught him off guard. Or the killer crept up from behind, Terry said.

What do you see, Chris? Tony asked, he knew Chris never thought out loud, but time was up for keeping thoughts to oneself.

No weapons lying around, so it could not be suicide. And judging from the bulges in the pockets of his pants and jacket, robbery could be ruled out. A guy like that was basically not easy to rob anyway. Look at the build of his body.

Meaning what?

Meaning it is hard to imagine why there is no sign of a fight or struggle? It could be what Terry said, someone was having a good time with him and suddenly decided to kill him, or someone from behind, a very quiet killer. But still? Or it could be more than one guy, holding him by force while the other stabbed and cut.

I don’t quite get it, it was Candy, the youngest and newest in the team.

About what? Tony turned to her with an encouraging look.

The struggle thing, Candy continued, cautiously. Even if he was restrained, there still should be signs of struggle. If more than one killer was involved, how could he be so blind and deaf? There should be a fight.

All right, so, the number one mystery is how he got killed here like this, Tony concluded. No one responded to that. Tony continued, Cause and time of death, let’s leave them to forensic and post-mortem. My guess: less than a day, maybe around 12 hours, rigor mortis and all. Cause of death is obvious, unless P.M. finds something else. He could have been drugged. Let’s take a step back and look at what we do not see from here. Tony said. Why was he here? Did he come here alone?

Maybe forensic can find that out too, Ron said.

Let me have a word with James. Tony turned and saw James standing behind him, waiting. They had finished setting up the gears and were now ready to start. Tony’s team moved away from the body, giving enough space for them to work.

James Wu was the head of the Scene of Crime Unit under the Forensic Science Division. Tony had worked with him numerous times and there was mutual respect. James knew Tony was hard to work with, not because he was bad in any way, but because he was demanding, and sometimes his requests seemed totally unreasonable. But more often than not, those unreasonable requests were what finally solved cases.

James, not telling you how to do your job, Tony drew him aside as the M.E. and Evidence Officers started their work, just some suggestions—

Seriously, Tony? Cut the crap and shoot. I am listening, James said, ready for any bombshell.

The exchange of views took a little over ten minutes. Satisfied, Tony gave James a strong pat on the shoulder and literally pushed him to get on with his work.

Halfway to his team at the far corner of the roof, Tony’s phone rang. He stopped to take the call. He listened, mumbled a few words and hung up, shook his head and continued walking to his team.

I just got a call from your former boss, Terry. News of death travels really fast. He stared at Terry, who shrugged with a nonchalant look.

You can’t imagine how many eyes he has in this area! What does he want? He must be pissed Tiger died without first telling him, Terry said with a snort. He hated his former boss to the bone.

They will send someone to attend our case meeting this afternoon at three. They have set the time too. Fine with me, let’s start at two. Now, what do we have, Chris?

Before we look at what we will get from here, we have made a list of things and divided it up. First, the gangster angle, see if it has anything to do with turf, money or woman. Terry will be on this. Second, I will canvass the area. This building is empty, so, save us the trouble. I will start with the several buildings taller than this one with a good angle on this roof. See if anyone saw anything. Third, we will need his contact list, so, once we have his phone, his next of kin will be contacted; also, the messages and calls in his phone. I am sure those will be interesting. Candy will be on this. Four, Ron will run all the shit we have on him in the government database, companies, tax, vehicle license, home address, criminal records, the whole nine yards. Chris paused. No one spoke.

He continued. The CCTV. I want to see all his appearances in the area, three street radius from here, in the last twenty-four hours. Public ones and private. We need to check shop by shop, teahouse by teahouse, 7-11 by 7-11. Anything else, anyone? A moment passed in silence.

Then Tony took over. Everyone, we don’t have much right now except an identified dead body who was brutally killed in the last 24 hours. I know what’s on your mind, and naturally on the mind of most people. The world is a better place without a scumbag. But you know that’s not what I see. A murder is a murder, a victim is a victim, who he was, whatever he had done in his life, I don’t care if he just pissed or spat at you. Our job is to find the killer, solve the case. And we do it the same way whether he was the richest man in town or the filthiest scumbag on earth, Tony stopped, and looked around, intent and solemn. After having the nod of agreement from everyone, he commanded, Let’s get to work.

CHAPTER 8

T ony stayed and watched the M.E. and forensic team go about their work. Death was no stranger to Tony, but the darkness of each death was like a black cloud hanging over him, blocking all rays of light until the case was solved. A dead body was heavy. Tony had experienced people dying in his arms, had experienced life ebbing away and finally gone. It got heavier by the second. His thoughts were interrupted when he saw the M.E. beckon him over.

Cause of death, the M.E. began once Tony squatted beside him, was obviously the severed carotid and jugular. What is rather unusual is how it was done. It was not a slash, as is most often the case in this kind of wound. He pointed, You see here, this is like an entry. And this is right where the carotid is. This stab has actually done the job. Then the knife was pushed across the neck, rather unnecessarily.

What does that mean? Tony asked.

The attack was probably from behind. Still, it is a rather unusual way to slit someone’s throat. Slashing is more common, and easier, if done by a pro. But you know what, people always think it is easy to slit a throat by a quick slash.

What are you trying to say, Thomas? Tony cast him an enquiring look.

"That means this was not done by a pro,