Night of the Phantom Banquet

 April 1, 2005, Wuhan, Overcast April Fool's Day—a day of torment for fools, who can only grin awkwardly when deceived, and a paradise for liars, who can cheat with impunity. "Today's lies are just games," they comfort themselves, whether or not they get caught. So students trick teachers into believing their homework was lost (when they never did it), kids tell parents a thief stole their money (after buying *Mir 2* game credits), and husbands lie about working late (while popping Viagra, waiting for their mistresses to step out of the shower). But for a group in this ordinary suburban area, self-deception is a luxury they can't afford. What they're facing is no illusion. This is a verdant meadow, its grass ankle-deep, evidence of long neglect. On most days, it's a spot only destitute lovers might choose for dates; otherwise, even if ten thousand people walked by, none would pause. Today, though, it's chaotic. Police have cordoned off a 30-square-meter area, but reporters swarm beyond the tape like flies, their camera flashes flickering as if photographing a celebrity's nude photoshoot. In a sense, it *is* a "nude photoshoot"—though the poses of the "models" are ones no celebrity would ever strike. Thirteen naked corpses lie stretched across the grass, their blood turning the green field crimson. Coroner teams, masks on, examine the bodies, but no one can guess the expressions on the victims' faces in their final moments—each skull is missing, leaving only the pale cervical vertebrae protruding. Even rookie officers retch at the sight. Just then, the crowd parts as a middle-aged man vaults the police tape, a handkerchief clamped over his nose and mouth. Uniformed officers skip ID checks at the sight of his gleaming special police badge—he's a big shot from the National Security Bureau, someone even the police chief would fawn over. Sensing his importance, reporters pivot their lenses, snapping nonstop. To them, "news" is all that matters, whether it involves the living or the dead. The man crouches beside a corpse, his gaze sharpening into focus. His salt-and-pepper hair is likely a casualty of his "bad habits." "Male, 20–25 years old, physically fit, Asian. Engaged in sexual activity before death. Died instantly—no struggle, no resistance. Probably didn't even know he was dying. A 'happy' death, you could say?" He runs a bare hand over the corpse and rattles off details, earning nods from an elderly coroner beside him. "But the killer's a savage," he continues, finger resting on the fatal wound—the severed neck. His mouth twitches under the handkerchief, a faint smile playing there. "Tore the head off with their teeth, no 'dining etiquette' whatsoever." He stands with a sigh, leaving his words hanging in confusion. He weaves through the crowd and enters a police van, where the portly Chief of the Municipal Public Security Bureau waits, sweating profusely. The chief's face lights up like a client spotting his desired companion as the man climbs in. "Mr. Ouyang, have you examined the bodies? Any conclusions?" the chief asks obsequiously. "What conclusions could there be? You'll get the coroners' report soon enough. Why ask me?" Ouyang doesn't lower his handkerchief, as if both the dead and living repulse him equally. "I mean… could your department take over the case? Thirteen headless corpses—we can't handle the public pressure…" The chief's voice borders on pleading, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his rank's star insignia. "You're lucky. This isn't your jurisdiction. It's now under the Paranormal Investigation Division. Your job: full cooperation. First, assign me an office. Second, lend me your phone." Another sigh—Ouyang finds no satisfaction in work, for it always means someone has died. "Yes, yes!" The chief nods eagerly, pulling out the latest Samsung slider phone. "With your build and this fancy phone, you must've embezzled plenty, huh?" Ouyang dials a number, his tone cutting. The chief can only smile through the insult—he's in no position to object. "Rat, grab your gear and bring the team to Wuhan. We're 'on duty'." The moment Ouyang speaks, he holds the phone a foot from his ear, as if it's toxic waste. A deafening cheer erupts from the other end, making even the chief jump. "My apologies—they lack discipline…" Ouyang hangs up and types a text: *"On duty."* Five minutes later, the phone rings with a tone resembling a woman's moan. "Sorry! Sorry! My son must've played with it yesterday!" the chief babbles, sweat reappearing—this time from embarrassment. "Doesn't bother me. I like it." Ouyang checks the reply: *"In a bad mood. Recovering…"* "This is serious. You'll regret it if you skip." He hits send, pocketing the phone—much to the chief's bewilderment. "Since I used your number to contact my team, I'll 'borrow' it for their calls. Here's my list of equipment." He hands the chief a white envelope. The chief's eyes bulge as he reads aloud: *"Ten Pentium 4 LCD computers, five color printers, twenty MP4-enabled phones, five luxury sports cars (red only), ten jin of Dongding Oolong tea. Firearms, ammunition, various first-aid supplies…"* "Mr. Ouyang, this… this is outrageous!" the chief stammers, clutching the list. "Questions?" Ouyang asks, all politeness. "Computers, phones, sports cars—since when are these part of an investigation? With all due respect, even if I need your help, this is extortion! We're both civil servants—where am I supposed to get this money?" "Not my concern, Chief." Ouyang glances at the reporters swarming outside. "I may wear an NSB badge, but I work in a windowless basement. No bonuses, not even bus fare reimbursed. My salary is barely more than a janitor's. Why nitpick? A month of your 'side income' would feed me for a year. "As the saying goes: Take from what's at hand. Now that you've called me in, accept the terms. If you're unhappy, I'll leave—and you can deal with the corpses yourself." "No, no! I was just joking! Let's negotiate—Ferraris okay?" the chief panics, seeing his lifeline slipping. "Now *that's* the spirit of a 'public servant'." Ouyang claps the chief's shoulder like an old friend. "Oh, is that Audi A6 yours up front?" "Y-yes, why?" the chief's voice trembles. "Skip the five sports cars—make it four. I'm forty; flashy cars don't suit me. I'll take your Audi. Keys are in the car, right? Saw them earlier. I'll drive back to the station to pick an office. Wrap up here and join me soon." He steps out, basking in the sunlight—a rare comfort. "Bandit!" the chief hisses, watching Ouyang leave, fists clenched. "Likewise," comes the faint reply on the wind.