Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

On the third day after Mr. returned, Jiang Bo took him to the old pontoon bridge.

The sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low like a worn-out gray cloth covering the entire city. A wind blew from the river, carrying the chill of early winter and the distinctive fishy smell of the river water, like rust, like an old rag. The small house was still there, the door open, the light still on. The bulldozer stood nearby, its rust deepened, its tracks stuck in the mud, like a dead beast, motionless, even rain dripping from its steel body, drop by drop, like tears. The weeds had grown taller, some withered, lying flat on the ground, yellow and dry. Some were still green, swaying in the wind, making a rustling sound, like countless hands whispering, or countless mouths sighing.

The man stood in the doorway, watching for a long time. He didn't speak, just looked. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still a light. That kind of light—the kind that comes from seeing too much, remembering too many names, and saying too many apologies. His lips moved slightly, as if he were saying something, or perhaps reciting something. His hands gripped the doorframe, his fingers slightly curled, his knuckles thick, veins bulging, and his nails trimmed short. The light from the lamp shone on his face, making his wrinkles appear deeper, line by line, like a dried-up riverbed, like knife marks.

"Sir, would you like to go in and take a look?"

The man nodded. He walked slowly, holding onto the doorframe, step by step. His knees creaked like rusty iron doors, like an old staircase. The kerosene lamp was still burning, its flame flickering, casting swaying shadows on the wall like countless hands gesturing something, or beckoning someone. On the table lay the notebooks, the photos, the letters. They hadn't taken them. They had left them for him. The notebooks were stacked together, some tall, some short, some thick, some thin. The photos were scattered on the table, some black and white, some color, some yellowed, their edges curled. The letters were folded together, tied tightly with a yellowed rope, the knot as if afraid they would come undone.

He went in and sat down at the table. The chair was the same one, old and wobbly, one leg slightly crooked, a crack running through the seat. He opened the notebook; the blue cover was worn, the edges curled, revealing the gray cardboard inside. He had filled most of it, the handwriting neat and precise, each stroke like an engraving. He looked at it for a long time, his fingers slowly tracing the pages, as if caressing the names, as if caressing the dead. His tears dripped onto the pages, spreading a small patch of ink. Then he closed the notebook and stood up.

"Let's go. It's time to go back."

Jiang Bo helped him out of the small house. He stood at the doorway and glanced back at the lamp. Dust had settled on the lampshade, and the light was somewhat dim, but it was still on, a warm, yellowish glow, like a star that refused to go out, like an eye that refused to close.

"Let it stay lit. Someone will come back."

Jiang Bo didn't ask who it was. He knew the man was referring to himself. He would come back. He would write those names again, and write those apologies again. He would write until he could no longer write. He would write until he died. He didn't know how much longer the man could write, how much longer he could remember. But he knew that as long as the man was still alive, those names would not disappear, and those apologies would not stop.

After returning from the old pontoon bridge, Jiang Bo took his husband to Xiuying's place. Xiuying had already prepared dinner: dumplings, pork and cabbage filling. Several plates of dumplings sat on the table, steaming hot, white and plump, lined up neatly like soldiers, like names on a whiteboard. Beside them were several dishes of vinegar and minced garlic, and a bowl of dumpling soup, a few drops of oil floating on the surface. His husband ate very slowly, one dumpling at a time, as if counting. He had lost several teeth, and the remaining ones were loose, making chewing difficult. He chewed slowly, as if savoring something, as if memorizing something. After finishing, he sat on the sofa, holding his notebook, and closed his eyes.

Jiang Bo stood at the door, looking at his teacher. His hair was completely white, like snow, like reed catkins, like winter frost under the lamplight. His face was deeply wrinkled, like a dried-up riverbed, like knife marks, like the names he had memorized for over thirty years. His hand rested on the notebook, his fingers slightly curled, as if grasping something unseen. He was asleep, his breathing light and even. His chest rose and fell gently, like a leaf falling in the wind, like a lamp about to go out. His brow was slightly furrowed, as if he were dreaming. What was he dreaming of? Those names? Those apologies? Or the river? The river flowed in his dream, rushing, like someone speaking. The names floated on the water, one by one, like buoys, like tombstones. He reached out to grab them, but couldn't. He called out to them, but they couldn't hear him.

Xiuying walked over and stood beside Jiang Bo. Her hands, apron, and hair were still covered in flour, white as snow. She looked at her husband for a long time. Her eyes reddened. "He's old. He should rest. He's remembered for so many years, written for so many years. He's tired. He should rest. He's only done one thing in his life: remembering those names, writing those 'I'm sorry.' He's done. He can rest now."

Jiang Bo nodded. "Mom, I'm leaving. There's another case tonight. Another person died at Jinghu Park. Liu Tong called and said it's the same as the previous cases. Same method, same posture. Even the way the body was placed is the same. Hands folded over the chest."

Xiuying paused. Her hand hovered in the air, forgotten to come down. "How come more people are dying? Weren't they all caught? Zhang Jianjun was arrested, Chen Weiguo was arrested, and his brother was arrested too. How come there are still people dying? Weren't those cases all closed?"

Jiang Bo didn't answer. He put on his coat and picked up his car keys. Tangyuan followed behind him, its tail wagging, its eyes sparkling. He went out and downstairs. The stairwell light was still off, and he groped his way down five flights of stairs in the dark. The car was parked downstairs, its roof glistening with dew, like a layer of crushed diamonds, like countless tiny stars. He opened the car door, and Tangyuan jumped in, nestled in the back seat, its head resting on its paws. He started the engine, drove out of the residential area, and onto Changjiang Road. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood at the door watching were also in his heart. They were back, the killer was still there. He was still killing. He thought the case was closed, thought those women who jogged at night could finally rest in peace. But they weren't. Another one was dead.

The night at Mirror Lake Park was quiet. There was no wind, no chirping insects, only the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore, each ripple like a heartbeat, a sigh, or someone crying. Moonlight shone on the lake, shattering into countless silver fragments, dazzlingly bright, like countless eyes blinking, staring at him. The willows by the lake had lost all their leaves, their bare branches drooping like an old man's hair, like countless hands, swaying gently in the wind. The lights in the pavilion in the middle of the lake were on, a pale white, illuminating the stone benches inside. A woman lay on the bench, in her thirties, wearing a pink tracksuit and white running shoes. Her hands were folded over her chest, her legs neatly together. Her eyes were closed, her hair loose, draped over her shoulders, as if she were asleep. But on her neck were two deep, purplish-black marks, like a twisted snake, a tightly bound tie, two curses.

Jiang Bo crouched down, looking at the face. Round face, short hair, gentle eyes and brows. He didn't recognize her. Her expression was calm, without fear or pain, as if she were having a sweet dream. The corners of her mouth were slightly upturned, as if she were smiling. Was the murderer arranging her like this to let her rest in peace, or to show off? Was it guilt, or mockery? He reached out and gently brushed the hair from her face. Her hair was wet, clinging to her forehead with dew. Her forehead was cold, like ice, like a winter stone. His fingers touched her skin, and in that instant, without using any special abilities, he still felt something. A coldness spread from his fingertips throughout his body, chilling him to the bone. That coldness wasn't the cold of winter; it was the coldness of death. It was the coldness left behind by those who had died. It condensed in the air, condensed on the stone bench, condensed on her skin. It waited for someone to touch it, for someone to feel it, for someone to remember it.

He stood up, looking at the lake. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Now there was another name. The killer was still there. He was still killing. He thought the case was closed, thought the women jogging at night could finally rest in peace. But they weren't. Another one died. Another woman, wearing a pink tracksuit, lay dead on the stone bench in the lakeside pavilion, her hands clasped over her chest. Her phone was thrown into the lake, her chat history deleted, her traces erased. But it couldn't be completely erased. There would always be something left. There would always be traces.

Liu Tong walked over and stood beside him. His eyes were red, his lips were chapped, and his face was wet with rain. He held an evidence bag in his hand, inside which was a cell phone with a shattered screen, like a spider web, like a face that had been crying. "Officer Bo, we've found her identity. Her name is Wang Xiaochen, thirty-five years old, a nurse. She works at the First People's Hospital of the city. She's also a member of the night running group. She's been a member for three years, a veteran. The last person she contacted was a WeChat account called 'Jiang Shui.' IP address: Old Floating Bridge. That small house. Login time: 8:45 PM. She arrived at Jinghu Park at 9 PM. Fifteen minutes from the Old Floating Bridge to Jinghu Park, just enough time by car. After the murderer sent the message, he went out. He came, killed her, and then went back. He might still be there. He might still be in that small house."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "It's 'Jiang Shui' again. It's the old pontoon bridge again. It's that little house again. That person is still here. He's still using that name. He's still waiting. He's still killing. He killed Fang Min, Li Hongmei, Xu Yanran, Lin Xiaoxue, Zhao Xiaoyun. And now he's killed Wang Xiaochen. He's killed so many people. Who is he? How does he know those details? How can he imitate them so perfectly? How can he always avoid the surveillance cameras? How can he always find those women? Is he right next to us? Is he always watching? Is he also standing at the door watching? Is there nothing he can do? Did he also say sorry?"

Liu Tong lowered his voice, as if he were speaking of a secret, afraid of being overheard. "Officer, we've searched that small house. Nobody's there. Mr. [Name] isn't there, Dong Zhenhua isn't there, Sun Jianguo isn't there, Zhang Jianjun isn't there, Chen Weiguo isn't there. But someone went in. There are footprints on the ground, new, size 42, sneakers. The computer on the table is warm, it was just used. That person left not long ago. He might still be nearby. He might still be watching us. He might be in that ruin, behind that pile of bricks, behind that wall. He might be watching us."

Jiang Bo turned and walked out of the pavilion in the middle of the lake. Tangyuan followed behind, running ahead, stopping every few steps to look back at him. He walked to the car and glanced back. The lake water shimmered silver in the moonlight, flowing slowly. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. He had to find that person. He would.

He got in the car and started the engine. Tangyuan jumped into the passenger seat. The car drove out of Jinghu Park and onto Changjiang Road. He gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those people standing at the door watching were also in his heart. They were back; the killer was still there. He was still killing. He had to find him.

My phone rang. It was Liu Tong calling.

"Officer, we've recovered part of Wang Xiaochen's chat history. The last person she contacted was a WeChat account called 'Jiang Shui.' The person asked her if she wanted to go for a run at Mirror Lake tonight. She said yes. The person said, 'Meet me at the pavilion in the middle of the lake at nine o'clock.' She said okay. And then she went. She didn't tell anyone. She didn't mention it in the group chat, didn't post it on her WeChat Moments, and didn't tell her husband. She went alone. She thought the person was a friend, an acquaintance, a good person. She didn't know he would kill her. She smiled and talked to him, and walked with him. She didn't know he would grab her from behind and choke her. She didn't know he would throw her onto the stone bench and fold her hands. She knew nothing. She died without knowing why."

Jiang Bo hung up the phone and stepped on the gas. The car sped through the night. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those people standing at the door watching were also in his heart. They were back; the killer was still there. He was still killing. He had to find him. He would.