On August 16, 1998, the twenty-fifth day of the sixth lunar month, rain fell without letup. At the funeral home in the northern suburbs of Xiangcheng, mournful music played softly and luxury cars filled the entrance. Groups of men and women dressed in subdued colors came and went, their faces solemn or grief-stricken. A light blue taxi screeched to a stop in front of the funeral home. The rear door opened, and a young man wearing glasses stepped out. He looked to be in his twenties, not yet thirty, with a short crew cut and a cool, composed face. Wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and white sneakers, he stood still and gazed up at the black plaque hanging above the entrance, its white characters reading: We Mourn the Loss of a Hero...
