Dragon Bones (Red Princess 3)

“Pathologist Fong….”

“Yes, of course he lost his shirt. If he’d been wearing a T-shirt maybe it would have lasted, but a dress shirt would not have held up in those conditions. He was wearing jeans. Levi’s 501s. Very strong material.”

She leaned in to get a closer look. All the river muck couldn’t disguise the red color of his hair. She asked, “You’re positive he’s a foreigner?”

“I can guarantee you that he’s not Han Chinese.”

In Sichuan Province alone there were more than forty ethnic minorities, but red hair was highly unlikely.

“I’m sure you’ve also noticed his size,” Fong went on as he picked up a chart. “Once you allow for bloating and such, I figure he stood 182.8 centimeters tall and weighed 77.2 kilos. Since he’s a foreigner, I put that into American measurements. It may make identification easier. He was a little over six feet and about 170 pounds. He may have been young. You know those foreigners and how fat they get. No”—he broke into his unintelligible English—“beer belly, no extra tire around the gut.” He put down the chart and waited.

“What else?”

“He had some papers in his pockets.”

“How could they have stayed with him?”

“You ever get your jeans wet, Inspector?” When she nodded, he went on. “First the water swelled the fabric. Once the body began to bloat, what was in the pockets became fully trapped.”

“Anything more you can tell me?”

“You mean was there foul play?” Fong asked.

“You’re watching too many American TV shows.”

He beamed as though this had been a compliment and once again spoke in English. “Foul play, John Doe, perp, jacket….” He switched back to Mandarin. “It’s important to learn these terms as part of globalization.”

She stared at him until he finally answered her question. “You see this body. You see the damage to the head and face especially. How am I supposed to know if someone or something hit him on the head before he entered the river? He was hit on the head many times after he was in the river. On this I would testify in court. I ran a toxics screen, but it was inconclusive for poison, alcohol, or drugs. A better question might be, did he commit suicide?”

“And?”

“He was dead before he entered the water.”

“No water in the lungs?”

“The presence of water in the lungs and even the stomach would not be a surprise given the duration of submersion. However, the lack of hemorrhages in the lung tissue indicate he did not die from drowning.”

“Murder?”

“Too much postmortem damage to determine how he died,” Fong answered, “but you can definitely rule out suicide. A corpse can’t dispose of itself after all.”

“Can you tell how long he’s been dead?”

“Ten days, maybe more. If we get the rate that the river travels, I might be able to pinpoint a location for you.”

“That won’t be necessary. Once we have identification, I’m sure we’ll know where he died.”

“We have many new ways to work on identification….”

“Don’t tell me you’re another of our compatriots to travel abroad.”

He smiled crookedly. “I go to pathology conventions wherever I can. Between those and CSI on my satellite, I’ve learned a lot. I call my method Chinese Forensics with Capitalist Tendencies.” He paused and looked down at the body with an expression that seemed almost sympathetic. Had the pathologist softened over the years? “We have other tests we can run—”

“Hold off on that for now.” Seeing Fong’s deflation, she added, “But I’d like to see the papers you found.”

Once out of the lab, Fong was all brisk business again, and he hustled down the hallway. Although his lab was orderly, his office was a mess, with piles of journals on the floor, files in haphazard stacks around the room, and books jammed into shelves. Fong flung himself into the chair behind his desk. The only other chair in the room was filled with papers. Hulan stood, remembering not to touch anything. Pathologist Fong was funny that way.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a large plastic bag, and dropped its contents on the desk. Each piece had been wrapped in its own plastic sleeve.