The Killing Hands Page 11

  The Hungry Tiger Catches the Lamb is next on my list. The injuries would vary greatly for this strike, as it can be used on the groin, the face or as a way to gouge out the victim’s eyes. While ViCAP returns some results, I decide they’re not in line with the Ten Killing Hands, so I move on.

  The Angry Tiger Descends the Mountain targets the opponent’s elbow, delivering a crushing blow to dislocate or permanently crush this vulnerable joint. Like the Heaven Piercing Fist and Double Back-fist, it’s used to soften the opponent for the next set of strikes and to inflict permanent damage rather than to kill. Two of the victims I’ve found to date had this injury—the 2004 New York victim and the 2004 Chicago victim—and a new ViCAP search brings back one more match from 1998. I’m about to check the entry when my phone rings. I’m annoyed by the interruption, but can’t let it ring out.

  “Anderson.”

  “Hey, it’s Ramos. I just heard back from Sam Gould. The DNA on the cigarette butt matched the victim’s, Jun Saito.”

  “Damn. It would have been nice to have the perp’s DNA.”

  “Real nice.” Ramos sighs. “What you working on?”

  “I’m searching ViCAP for similar attacks.”

  “And?”

  “Not much so far.” I’m still not ready to go public with the theory. I really need to do a detailed analysis of the files and autopsy results first. “I better get back to it. Speak to you later?”

  “Sure.”

  I hang up and go back to my ViCAP screen and the Angry Tiger Descends the Mountain. The additional victim I’ve found is from San Francisco. However, the cause of death was cardiac arrest. I put this file with the 1996 New York victim’s file for closer examination, they may not be related to our hit man.

  The next technique is translated as the Squeeze and Crush; the victim’s blood supply is cut off at the neck and then a twist of the hand breaks the victim’s neck. One match comes back from 2000 in Chicago, and the victim was tagged as having links to the Yakuza. A grumble of my stomach breaks my concentration and a glance at my watch confirms it’s well and truly past my usual lunch hour. The day’s running away from me. I duck out to the Federal Café at our building’s entrance and grab a tuna sandwich, which I gobble down at my desk while I keep typing. I resume the search with the seventh Killing Hand, called the Reincarnation of the Fulfilled Crane. In this strike, your hand forms a beaklike shape and you strike at your opponent’s eyes. In ViCAP, I search for major eye damage, but the results are all ones that have come up previously.

  The next technique is translated into Monkey Steals the Peach, and is another hard-hitting but nonlethal technique. The idea is to grab on to your opponent and twist their digits or limbs to the breaking point. Nothing in the ViCAP database looks likely.

  The ninth of the Ten Killing Hands is called Double Flying Butterfly, and is used to dislocate or break the tailbone, the coccyx. I get one match, this time from 2001 in Philadelphia. The victim’s name is obviously Italian and I can’t help but wonder if he’s a mobster. I scan through the case file and soon come across the magic word Mafia. I print out all his details before moving on to the final Killing Hand, the Tiger Leopard Fist. For the ViCAP search I type in burst eardrums as the injury. In Tiger Leopard Fist, you slap both hands on the opponent’s ears. The hands are slightly cupped, and the striking points are the palms, a blow that bursts the eardrums and leaves your opponent disorientated and in pain. I’ve practiced this strike in kung fu as a defense against a front bear hug when my hands are still free. In real life, an attacker might pick me up to throw me into a car. The Tiger Leopard Fist would hurt them enough that they’d release their grip, allowing me to either escape or counterattack.

  I get four hits on burst eardrums. Two of them involve only one eardrum—in both cases the forensic pathologists hypothesized that the injury occurred during a fight. But with only one, we’re looking at a regular punch, not a Killing Hand. The other two look plausible—one from 2007 in San Diego and the 1996 New York victim who survived. While the 2007 San Diego file prints out, I look at the collection of cases on my desk. I think I have enough for Petrov now. I dial his cell, not bothering with his extension in case he’s not at his desk.

  “FBI, Petrov.”

  “Hey, it’s Anderson. I’ve got something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “In kung fu there’s something called the Ten Killing Hands. They’re basically ten different strikes that someone skilled in kung fu can use to severely disable or kill their opponent. I think Jun Saito was killed using an adaptation of one of these strikes and I’ve found quite a few other victims in ViCAP that match, too.”

  “Go on.” Petrov’s all ears.

  “One of the ten principles is to take your opponent’s breath away. Some of the strikes simply wind the opponent, allowing you to dominate and then kill them with other strikes, but some are enough to kill.”

  “One strike?”

  “If it’s done right, yeah. Like Saito.”

  “Damn.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Saito’s throat wound? Take me through it.”

  “It would be easier to demonstrate in person, but I’ll try to talk you through it. Hold your hand out, but bend the top half of your fingers so they’re flush against the bottom part of your fingers.”

  “Yup.”

  “Now spread your hand out a little, making the gap between your thumb and index finger as wide as possible.”

  “Okay.”

  “They should almost be at right angles, forming an L-shape.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Now imagine that hand shape strikes Saito’s throat, then squeezes on either side, targeting the carotid artery to block the blood supply to his brain. The killer then retracts his hand, strikes again, but this time it’s a hard and fast strike, and he grabs the skin and muscle on either side of the neck, tearing out Saito’s throat.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And the broken rib?”

  “Again, that fits perfectly. The technique our killer would have used is called Piercing Heaven Fist.” I use the English translation. “It’s basically a strike to the floating ribs. It steals their breath away, and breaks a rib…or two.”

  “Okay. What else you got?” I’m not sure if Petrov isn’t convinced, or if he just wants me to cut to the chase. I go with the latter and read out the victims’ names and the cities in which the murders took place. When I get to the 2004 murder of Li Chow in New York, Petrov interrupts.

  “Li Chow? Really?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “He was the number two in New York’s Hip Sing Association. It was huge news, Anderson.” Petrov seems shocked that I don’t know the case.

  “I was in Australia in 2004. I’m afraid it didn’t make the news, or the law-enforcement rounds there.”

  “Of course…sorry. I forget sometimes.”

  “Guess my accent’s softening.”

  He gives a little laugh. “Maybe.” He pauses. “Okay. Leave this with me. I need to let it sink in. Could be the hits are only related by the killer, and not the underlying employer, but I need to cover all bases.”

  “Is it possible our guy works in Hollywood? As a kung fu consultant, stunt man or the like.”

  “Possible. But my time in organized crime tells me that if they’re hitting someone big, they fly in the killer.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you ready to brief the others on this?”

  “Not yet.” I chew on my bottom lip. “I really need to take a closer look at the autopsy reports, and I’d like to touch base with my kung fu teacher, too. Just to triple-check a few things.” I want to run my hypothesis past someone who knows more about kung fu and the strikes than I do.

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “That should be okay.” I still want to speak to Mee Kim today, but I can call Sifu Lee tonight and go through all the files in detail then, too.

  “Let’
s make it nine. Then you can brief everyone on the Ten Killing Hands and these ViCAP results.”

  “Sure. One other thing, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “The 1996 victim, Corey Casey…he survived.”

  “What?”

  “I know…but I can’t be sure it’s related, especially given he wasn’t killed.”

  “Well, let’s make sure before we contact New York and start asking the cops there questions,” Petrov says.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow morning.”

  Did Corey Casey survive the Ten Killing Hands? And if he did, was he meant to for some reason?

  Twelve

  I swing by the fifteenth floor to pick up Agent Hana Kim.

  “Sorry I had to keep pushing the time back.” I rang her twice to change our meet time while I was going through the ViCAP results.

  “That’s okay. You’re onto something?”

  “Maybe.” I play coy, still wanting to confirm my theory with medical backup and someone more knowledgeable about the Ten Killing Hands. In the elevator I glance at my watch. “Hopefully we’ll make it before school breaks.” It should take us about forty minutes to get to Montebello High School, but at this time of day an hour is more likely.

  “Even if we don’t, Ms. Kim and the other teachers will probably hang around for a little while.”

  “Did you call them?” I ask Agent Kim.

  She shakes her head.

  “Good.” The elevator doors open and I lead the way to my car. “How long you been working with the Gang Impact Team, Agent Kim?”

  “Two years now. I worked in our San Francisco office for a couple of years before I was assigned to the Safe Streets program and L.A.”

  I nod. “You like it?” I unlock my car and slide into the driver’s seat.

  Once she’s in the car she replies, “Yeah. Plus my sister lives in L.A., so it’s nice to be around her.”

  “You guys close?”

  “Uh-huh. We live together and all.”

  “That is close.” I drive out of the parking lot and head west on Wilshire Boulevard.

  “Yeah.” She pauses. “The people in the Gang Impact Team are real nice, too. Especially Joe. He’s awesome.”

  “Do you work with him a lot?” I wouldn’t mind finding out more about Joe De Luca, including why he and Petrov seem so chummy.

  “When I first came to L.A. he was my partner. Then he got promoted and now he only consults to the task force. But I’m still one of his official reports.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s good at what he does, but he can have a laugh, too. You need that, especially if you’re doing surveillance.”

  “I hear you.”

  Surveillance is dead boring ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s all about sitting on your ass waiting for something to happen. And even if something does happen, you mostly just take a few photos, ready for analysis the next day. I know a lot of cops prefer it to canvassing an area or a building, but I figure even if you’re asking the same questions over and over, at least you’re out and about. Not sitting in some freezing or boiling car, hoping that if all hell breaks loose your legs aren’t asleep from hours of inertia. Give me the door-knock any day. Still, surveillance can be an adrenaline-high if something goes down on your watch.

  “So what did you think of the Saito file, Agent Kim?”

  “Please, call me Hana. Calling everyone by last names is so macho.”

  I shrug. “There are more of them than us.”

  “Tell me about it. DEA’s only got around twelve percent female agents. And you don’t want to know the percentage of Asian females.”

  I laugh. “I can imagine. If it makes you feel better, I’m the only Australian in the Bureau.”

  Now she laughs. “Not quite the same, but I’ll take it. Sophie, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.” I take a right and merge onto I-405, heading south. The road is rough and in need of a major resurfacing, but how could they close even one lane of such a busy freeway? The interstate comes to a halt during peak hour as it is. “So, Saito?”

  “Didn’t look like a nice way to go.” Hana tucks her hair behind her ears.

  “No. Give me a bullet any day. Well, actually I’d prefer a heart attack at the ripe old age of ninety.”

  Hana laughs. “I’m with you on that one.” She stares out the window and doesn’t turn back to me until about five minutes later, when I’m taking the I-10 exit. “So you really aren’t going to tell me what was so important you had to bump our meeting back?” She smiles.

  I guess there’s no harm in giving Hana a sneak peek.

  “I’ve still got to confirm a few things, but my theory is that our hit man kills his targets using specific kung fu strikes that make up something called the Ten Killing Hands. And I found a few matches in ViCAP to back it up.”

  “Really? How many?”

  “There are eight cases that could be related, plus Jun Saito.” I pause, checking the signs. I punched our destination into my GPS before we headed off and remember most of the turns, but I glance down again now to double-check my route. For the moment its speaker is off, but I can easily flick it back on if things get hairy. “I haven’t had a chance to thoroughly review each file.” I keep my eyes on the road. “If they’re all related, it’s nine targets over the past twelve years, and for a professional hit man that figure’s quite low. Not even one a year.”

  “That we know of.”

  Hana’s hit the nail on the head. Our hit man may have killed dozens, maybe even hundreds of victims that we just don’t know about. Some murders may not be logged in ViCAP. And who’s to say he always uses the Ten Killing Hands? Plus, if we are talking about an international, freelance hit man, only some of his jobs would be US-based.

  I fill Hana in. “Petrov thinks our hitter may be international. Flying in from overseas for each job.”

  She doesn’t seem surprised. “Maybe somewhere in Asia? That’d tie in with the martial arts skill.”

  I shrug. “Could be. But you don’t have to live in China to train in kung fu and to know the Ten Killing Hands. I mean, I know them.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I train three times a week. Going for my third-degree black belt later this year. What about you?”

  She shakes her head. “I never got into it. My folks sent me for tae kwon do lessons when I was about eight, but it didn’t take. I quit after a year.”

  “Well, you’ve got to enjoy it, right?”

  “Yup.” She looks in front again. “The ViCAP results sure sound promising.”

  “More victims, more crime scenes…more information on our killer.”

  Finally at 4:00 p.m., I swing into West Cleveland Avenue from Twenty-first Street, hitting the outskirts of Montebello High School. “That’s it.” I nod toward the high school and slow down to a crawl, looking for a parking space. We cruise by the main entrance, which features Home of the Mighty Oilers in large lettering on the wall. The homage includes the team’s mascot, a man with overalls and a paintbrush in hand. I park just around the corner, on Twentieth Street.

  “TV parking,” Hana says.

  “What?”

  She laughs. “We got a parking spot right out front. And in L.A., that usually only happens on TV…TV parking.”

  I smile. “I like it.”

  We head toward the buildings, following the signs to reception.

  “Do you speak Korean?”

  “Yeah, but not as well as I should…according to my folks, at least.”

  I smile. “It’s hard to maintain when you’re brought up in an English-speaking country.”

  “Yeah. My parents always spoke Korean at home, so at least I could practice.”

  I pull a heavy wood-and-glass door open and we’re greeted by a matronly woman on the phone. She gives us a nod and puts her forefinger up, letting us know she’ll be with us soon.

  Within less than a minute she’s off the phone,
giving us a huge but somewhat labored grin. “Good afternoon, ladies. What can I do for you?”

  Hana makes a move for her ID, but I put my hand on her arm and fish out my ID. I want to confront Mee Kim into telling us as much as she knows, but a DEA badge at a school could cause her too many problems for my liking. Hana seems to jump with me on the logic, immediately retracting her hand.

  I hold my ID open. “I’m Special Agent Anderson from the FBI, and this is Special Agent Kim.”

  The woman eyes the ID, her curiosity instantly aroused. “Yes?”

  “We’re here to see Ms. Mee Kim.” I put my ID away.

  “I’m afraid Mee’s not in today. She called in sick this morning.”

  “Oh.” That is interesting. I wonder if our visit yesterday afternoon had anything to do with her sudden illness. At least her absence will make it easier for me to speak to those around her. “How about your principal? He or she in?”

  “Regarding?” Her voice has a ring of authority, one that would work on most people.

  “I’m afraid I’ll need to talk to your principal about that.”

  She nods reluctantly. “His name’s Graeme Merry.” She dials an extension on her phone. “Graeme, you’ve got two FBI agents to see you. Something about Mee…Okay, will do.” The receptionist looks up. “You can go on through. Second door on your right.” She points down a small corridor.

  “Thank you.”

  I knock on the designated door, which is also marked Principal, and a deep male voice says, “Come in.” Graeme Merry stands as we enter. His five-ten frame is lanky and everything about him looks weathered—his skin, his posture, his facial expression, his clothes. He looks anything but merry. He moves to us quickly, holding out his hand. I take it and introduce myself, then Hana, again leaving out which agency she works for.