Marcus Shaw sensed something was off and followed her. Seeing he wouldn't give up, the woman grimaced and said, "Then don't say it came from me."
Marcus Shaw understood. He waved Viktor Dunn over, signaling him to disperse the onlookers, then pulled the woman to the end of the building, out of sight. He said, "Don't worry—we have regulations. We won't reveal witness identities."
She raised one eyebrow and said, "Last Friday at the market, I heard her arguing with the butcher. She said his scale was off, that he was shortchanging people, and she urged everyone to go to the big shed on the west side instead."
The butcher? Marcus Shaw's heart leaped—that aligned with the weapon. He quickly asked, "And what did the butcher say?"
The woman shrugged. "He was fierce. Vicious mouth, pointed his knife at her nose and cursed—language I won't repeat... I think he also threatened to kill her if she didn't shut up."
Marcus Shaw's eyes widened.
---
5. No Witness
Hearing they had a lead, Viktor Dunn perked up and charged ahead as if forging a path for Marcus Shaw.
They'd hoped the woman would come along, but she gave a general direction, rolled her eyes, and said, "I think I still have enough groceries at home. Don't need to shop after all." She turned and disappeared back into Unit 4.
It was near noon, and the small market was buzzing. The vegetable section hit them first—the air smelled of chives. Dodging the crowds, they walked several dozen paces to the seafood section, where blood and water puddled everywhere, forcing them to watch their step.
One vendor was crouched on the ground, scraping scales off a fish for a customer. Tiny scales flew onto his face; when he wiped them off, they glittered briefly before losing their shine.
When they found Luka Blackwell's meat stall, he was chopping pork ribs. A long rack lay across the block—two heavy whacks and it split into three sections, white marrow oozing at the edges. He slammed his cleaver into the chopping block, and only then did Marcus Shaw catch the raw meat smell, feeling it fill his lungs.
Noticing two men at his stall, Luka Blackwell raised his head. "Hey, little brother, buying meat?"
Viktor Dunn said, "We're police."
Marcus Shaw saw an indescribable emotion flash across Luka Blackwell's face. The butcher pushed the ribs aside, set his knife standing in the block, wiped his hands on his pitch-black, greasy apron, planted his hands on his hips, and asked, "What do you want with me?"
Marcus Shaw pulled out a photo and held it up. "Do you know this person?"
Luka Blackwell said casually, "No."
"Look carefully."
He glanced at it and still said no.
Viktor Dunn said, "You're lying. She bought meat from you all the time."
For an instant, something seemed to tunnel rapidly beneath Luka Blackwell's skin, but his face quickly settled back to calm.
"Hey, there are tons of people who buy meat from me. My memory's terrible. You two are asking the impossible."
Marcus Shaw said, "Here's a hint: last Friday, the two of you had a fight over the weight."
Luka Blackwell snatched the photo over, studied it carefully, then tossed it back onto the block. "Oh, that old bag—doesn't even look like her. Must be her maiden photo."
He tilted his head and spat on the ground.
Marcus Shaw frowned, his eyes locked on the butcher's shifting face.
"What happened to her?" Luka Blackwell asked, kneading his belly. A fly landed on his shoulder, its feet seemingly glued in place by body oil and sweat—it didn't budge.
Marcus Shaw said coldly, "She was murdered."
Luka Blackwell's eyes bulged. "Serves her fucking right! Running her mouth like that—instant karma!"
When both men stared back at him expressionlessly, he quickly said, "What are you looking at? Do I have flowers on my face?"
Nobody spoke.
Luka Blackwell slapped his belly. "Fuck, after all that, you two suspect me? You've got the wrong guy—nothing to do with me!"
Viktor Dunn tossed the evidence-bagged bone-cleaver onto the chopping block. It startled a few flies into frantic buzzing.
Luka Blackwell's face went white. He picked up the knife and said, "I lost this thing days ago. How'd you get it?"
Neither Marcus Shaw nor Viktor Dunn spoke.
By now, a few people had gathered—customers with shopping baskets and neighboring stall owners.
Luka Blackwell waved and barked, "Beat it, beat it, stop gawking."
Marcus Shaw asked, "Were you at your stall yesterday morning?"
"Yeah."
"Here the whole time selling meat?"
"That's a stupid question."
"Who can vouch for you?"
"These other stall owners, they all can."
At the shouting, the two vendors he'd just yelled at simultaneously rolled their eyes. One crossed his arms and looked ready to leave.
Luka Blackwell hollered, "Hey, come back, vouch for me, will you?"
Marcus Shaw tiptoed and whispered something in Viktor Dunn's ear. Viktor Dunn walked off mysteriously, leaving the butcher staring in confusion.
Various cuts of meat—all shades, some beef, some pork—lay on the block, covered by yellowish cloth. The flies, brazen as ever, landed again, extending their tiny proboscises to feast.
Luka Blackwell, too distracted to shoo them, craned his neck to track Viktor Dunn.
Marcus Shaw pocketed the victim's photo and took back the cleaver.
Luka Blackwell said, "My knife—why don't you give it back?"
"We suspect it's the murder weapon. We need to take it back for analysis."
Luka Blackwell gritted his teeth, the corners of his mouth nearly reaching his ears. He turned his face away and muttered, "Murder weapon my ass. Analysis my ass."
Marcus Shaw pretended not to hear.
They stood at an impasse for a while until Viktor Dunn returned, announcing in a gruff voice, "You lied. More than one person says you left your stall right after the morning market opened—for about forty minutes."
Luka Blackwell slammed the chopping block. "Who the fuck is talking shit behind my back? Have them say it to my face!"
Viktor Dunn glared. "What, you want to threaten a witness?"
Marcus Shaw's lips tightened. "The morning market opens at five. The forty minutes you were gone—that's exactly when the murder happened."
Luka Blackwell's features contorted, sweat beading on his forehead. "I had the shits! I was in the bathroom."
Viktor Dunn said, "Forty minutes? You crapping noodles?"
Luka Blackwell yanked off his apron, threw it on the block, and bared his torso. "I had diarrhea, couldn't finish, just stood up and had to squat again. My asshole's practically raw, and my stomach still hurts."
Marcus Shaw was about to speak when Luka Blackwell continued, "I don't know who can vouch for me. One person per stall, one stall per person."
He looked around and bellowed, "If any of you heard me or smelled me crapping, come tell them the truth! I'll thank your ancestors for eighteen generations!"
Someone stifled a laugh, but nobody stepped forward.
Marcus Shaw sighed. "For now, you're the prime suspect. The victim publicly accused you of shortchanging—giving you a motive for revenge. You even threatened to kill her on the spot. That's a motive. You left your stall for an extended period during the time of the murder, with no alibi. That's opportunity. And you just admitted the knife is yours. We haven't tested the blood yet, but there's a high probability this is the murder weapon."
Luka Blackwell was incensed. He instinctively grabbed the cleaver still standing in the block and began hacking at it—clang, clang!—yelling, "Someone framed me! Planted this! Who the hell would kill someone over an argument! I was blowing off steam!"
The onlookers gasped and backed away.
Marcus Shaw felt a jolt of panic. He remembered that Viktor Dunn, afraid of the hassle, hadn't requested a firearm before they went out. If the butcher lost his mind and launched himself at them, things could get ugly.
But Viktor Dunn stepped forward, positioning himself between Marcus Shaw and Luka Blackwell, lifted his chin, bared his teeth, and roared, "Who the fuck are you messing with? Put the knife down, now!"
That shout softened something in Luka Blackwell's eyes. He dropped the knife onto the block.
Marcus Shaw pressed the advantage. "Come with us to the station."
---
They hadn't had time to eat. Viktor Dunn ran to a convenience store and came back with bread rolls. The two of them washed them down with mineral water, half-choking them into their stomachs.
Luka Blackwell sat sprawl-legged in the interrogation room, his face creased with irritation. He'd been given a white undershirt—though calling it white was generous, as it was dirty as a rag, with two small holes at the collar.
Marcus Shaw looked at him, remembered he was also running on an empty stomach, and set the bread and water in front of him, telling him to eat something. The butcher didn't even glance at the food—he just hollered, "I need to take a shit! Probably still got the runs!"
Viktor Dunn swallowed his bread and glared at him.
Marcus Shaw waited for Luka Blackwell to come back from the bathroom. Seeing he still wouldn't eat, Marcus Shaw moved the food aside, sat across from him, and started the interrogation.
"What did you eat to give you diarrhea like this?"
Luka Blackwell thrust his chin out. "Fried cakes. Had two yesterday morning. God knows what that bastard fried them in—been shitting ever since. Medicine doesn't help."
Marcus Shaw didn't respond, then asked, "You live alone?"
"What, is being single a crime?"
Viktor Dunn leaned forward. "Just answer the question properly. Stop being a smartass."
The two glared at each other.
Marcus Shaw said, "The test results are back on that knife. The blood on it matches the victim's." He paused, then added, "Only your fingerprints are on the handle."
Luka Blackwell shot to his feet, the metal chair shrieking against the floor. "Bullshit! I don't know how this happened—this has nothing to do with me!" His eyebrows were twisted into an inverted V.
"You're the loudest one in the room. If you didn't do it, show us the evidence."
Luka Blackwell dropped back down, the chair creaking under him. He bared his teeth and said, "If I had the kind of evidence you're talking about, would I be sitting here taking this humiliation?" He tugged at his shirt and wiped his face.
Marcus Shaw said, "Hand over your keys. We're searching your place."
Luka Blackwell slapped his thigh. "I know who can vouch for me! The fried-cake seller on Yongping Alley. Yesterday evening, I went there to confront him. Ask him if you don't believe me."
Marcus Shaw said, "You had diarrhea, but we can't confirm when it started. Maybe the whole thing was a cover-up. You still had the time and ability to commit the crime."
Luka Blackwell kicked the table leg. "What cover-up? Yesterday I barely ate anything—just those two fried cakes in the morning—and I've been shitting since, my legs could barely hold me up. What ability are you talking about?"
Viktor Dunn seized the opening. "But you still went to confront someone? Looks like you had enough energy to put on an act for us."
Luka Blackwell's face and neck turned red. It took him a while to shoot back, "If I could act, would I be selling meat? Chow Yun-fat could retire." He scratched his head violently.
Marcus Shaw had no patience for his banter and asked for his keys again. Luka Blackwell still refused. Viktor Dunn moved to search him, and Luka Blackwell thrashed and roared, "Help! Police are beating someone! Forced confession! Touch me, I dare you!"
Marcus Shaw stopped him, pointed at the camera behind them, and said, "It doesn't matter—you're the top suspect now. I can get a search warrant and bring people to break in."
He noticed a flicker of panic in Luka Blackwell's eyes, but the man feigned composure and said, "That's breaking and entering. Do you know the law? I can sue you."
Before Viktor Dunn could respond, Luka Blackwell doubled over, clutching his stomach. "Fuck, here it comes again. I need the bathroom."
Marcus Shaw thought: He's definitely hiding something.