"We've already found one that overlapped," said the detective. "They were both on the monuments committee at the museum. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No," said Bobbi, and Chiun had to signal her again that tennis would be later.
"Do you think you're strong enough to view the remains? We're going to have an autopsy tomorrow."
"I thought her heart was ripped out," said Bobbi. "Who needs an autopsy? That probably killed her."
"It was a homicide. This is routine."
The lieutenant pulled back a stainless steel square that looked like a file. It was a morgue slab. A white sheet, dotted with drops of brown, covered a series of rises like miniature Wyoming foothills.
"Brace yourselves," said the lieutenant, then he pulled back the sheet. Mrs. Delpheen's face was a frozen, waxy twist of flesh. The mouth was locked open, but the wrinkles, well hidden in life, now streaked down her face, obvious. Her aging breasts hung like melted marshmallows in loose cellophane sacks. And where the middle of her chest had been was now a dark coagulated hole.
"We believe some sort of dull knife and forceps were used," said the detective. "That's what careful scientific analysis told us about the congressman. And the FBI spared no avenue of investigation. Even brought in heart specialists and surgeons."
"What are forceps?" asked Chiun softly. "They're things you grab with, like pliers," said the detective. Chiun shook his head precisely once. The wisp of beard created a floating wave within itself, then quieted.
"No," said Chiun. "They are wrong. This wound was made by a stone knife."
"How the hell can you tell that?" said the detective disbelievingly.
"Because I look," said Chiun. "If you look, you will see no long tear of murder, which is what happens when the body is torn apart in anger. No. There are small horizontal tears across the arteries, and these are made by a stone knife. Have you ever made a stone knife?"
The detective allowed as he had not. "A stone knife," said Chiun, "is made by chipping to sharp edges, not grinding straight like metal. And these sorts of knives are sharp at some points and not sharp at others. They are used more like saws after they go into something. Do you see?"
"No kidding?" said the detective. A cold ash fell from his unlit cigar into the chest cavity as he peered into the body. "Sorry," he said. The detective puzzled a moment.
"Maybe you can help us with something else," he said. From the left breast pocket in his shiny seersucker jacket he took a photocopy sheet rolled up like a scroll.
It was about eight inches wide but twenty-four inches long and had twelve dark sections of writing when it was unrolled.
"What's this?" asked the detective, handing the sheet to Chiun. "We made it from an original found under the head of the body."
Chiun looked at the long sheet carefully. He examined the edges. He felt the surface of the paper, then nodded wisely.
"This is a copy of a document produced by an American machine that makes such copies."
"Yeah, we know it's a photocopy, but what does the note mean?"
"It is in twelve different languages," said Chiun. "And one of them I do not understand, nor have I seen. The Chinese I know, the French and Arabic I know, the Hebrew and Russian I know. Here it is again, in real language. In Korean. The Sanskrit and Aramaic I know. The Swahili and the Urdu and Spanish I know. But the first language I do not know."
"We think it's a ritual-murder and the note is part of the ritual. Death for kicks sort of thing," said the detective. Remo glanced over Chiun's shoulders at the note.
"What do you think, Remo?" asked Chiun.
"Is he an expert?" asked the detective.
"He is learning," said Chiun.
"I don't know," said Remo, "but I'd guess all those languages say the same thing."
Chiun nodded.
"But what is this symbol here?" Remo pointed to a rough rectangular drawing in the middle of the text of the unknown language.
"In the other languages on this paper, it is called an Uctut," said Chiun.
"What is an Uctut?" asked Remo.
"I do not know. What is a Joey 172?" Chiun asked.
"I don't know. Why?" said Remo.
"Because that is in the note, too," Chiun said.
"So what does it all mean?" asked the detective. "We've had trouble making heads or tails out of it."
Chiun raised his delicate hands and signaled ignorance.
Outside, in the muggy, grimy New York City streets, with traffic jammed to a horn-blaring standstill, Chiun explained.
"It was a note of demand for reparations," he said. "It was not clear because it was written in the lofty language of a religion. But whoever wrote it demands that a 'Joey 172' be punished for some sort of offense to an Uctut. And until this country punishes this Joey 172, then the servants of Uctut will continue to ease his pain with blood."
"I still don't understand," said Remo.
"Your country gives up Joey 172, whatever that is, or more will die," said Chiun.
"Who gives a shit?" asked Bobbi.
"I do," said Remo.
"This bright, beautiful, and charming young woman makes much sense," said Chiun.
"If you care, then do your thing," Bobbi said to Remo. "Find Joey 172."
"She makes sense," Chiun said, "when she is not talking stupid. Like now."
Remo smiled. "I think I know how to find Joey 172. Have you ever ridden on a New York City subway?"
"No," said Chiun, and he was not about to.
CHAPTER FIVE
Antwan Pedaster Jackson felt he had an obligation to bring wisdom to whites. For example, the old woman with the frayed brown shopping bag riding on the rear of the "D" train after seven p.m. Didn't she know that whites weren't supposed to ride the subways after that hour? She sure enough seemed to realize it now. as he moseyed into the empty car with Sugar Baby Williams, both seniors at Martin Luther King High School, where Sugar Baby was going to graduate as valedictorian because he could read faster than anyone else and without moving his lips either, except on the hard words. But even the teacher couldn't read the hard words at Martin Luther King.
"You know where you is?" asked Antwan.