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.”