Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

When the old man was brought into the interrogation room, it was already broad daylight. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating his gray hair as if it were plated with silver. He was wearing his dark overcoat, sitting in a chair, his handcuffs removed, revealing two red marks on his wrists, purplish-red, like two scars, or two thin snakes. His hands rested on his knees, his fingers slightly curled, his head bowed, looking at his hands. Those hands were thin, veins bulging, knuckles thick, nails trimmed short. They hadn't killed anyone, but they had pointed the way. They had pointed in the direction of those women.

The interrogation room lights were bright, a stark white, making the wrinkles on his face appear as if sculpted by a knife. His skin was thin, almost translucent, revealing the veins beneath, winding like rivers. His lips were chapped, peeling with a layer of white skin, and his chin had unshaven stubble, white and stiff, like withered grass in winter. He didn't speak, didn't move, like a statue. His eyes were half-open, half-closed, his lips moving slightly, as if he were saying something, or perhaps reciting something. It was his wife's name. Xiulan. He had recited it for over thirty years, tens of thousands of times. Until his lips were calloused, until his tongue bled. He was still reciting it.

Jiang Bo sat opposite him, a notebook spread out in front of him. Liu Tong sat beside him, fingers on the keyboard, waiting. Tangyuan lay by the door, head resting on his paws, eyes half-open, occasionally twitching his ears. The interrogation room was quiet, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, like countless flies swarming around their ears. The sound was annoying, but no one turned it off. They were used to it. The clock on the wall ticked away, the second hand leaping, each second feeling like a year.

"What's your name?" Jiang Bo asked. His voice was calm, but every word was heavy.

The old man looked up at him. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still a light. That kind of light—the kind that only those who have waited a long time possess, the kind that only those who have finally waited for something possess. His lips trembled, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down a few times, as if he were swallowing something. "What's my name? I've forgotten. No one has called me that in so long. Decades. No one has called me by my name. I don't call it myself anymore. I only remember her calling me Zhiyuan. When she called me Zhiyuan, I answered. Now that she doesn't call me that anymore, I don't need a name anymore."

Jiang Bo gripped the pen tightly. "So what do you remember? What do you remember? Do you remember your home? Do you remember your parents? Do you remember your past?"

Tears streamed down the old man's face, flowing down his wrinkled face, like a dried-up riverbed, drop by drop, onto his coat, onto the table, onto the floor. "I remember her. Her name was Xiulan. She was my wife. She died. Died by the river. Pushed into the river. I saw it. I stood at the door watching. I didn't save her. I couldn't do anything. I owed her my life. I waited so many years, waiting for you to come and arrest me. You didn't come. I couldn't wait any longer. I killed those who looked like her. I went mad. I went mad for so many years. Now I'm not mad anymore. I've waited for you for so many years, and I'm not mad anymore."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "What's your name? What was your original name? Where do you live? What did you do before? How did you meet your wife? How did she die? Why did you kill those women? Answer me. Look me in the eyes and answer me."

The old man looked at him for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still a light. That light was like the last candlelight in the darkness, the last fishing lamp on the river. "My name is Chen Zhiyuan. I am her husband. I used to be a fisherman, fishing on the river. I lived in that little house by the old pontoon bridge. When I met her, she was eighteen, washing clothes by the river. She wore a floral blouse, with two braids tied with red ribbons. She had a beautiful smile, her eyes curving like crescent moons. Every day when I came back from fishing, I would pass by her house. She would see me and smile. I wouldn't say anything, just glance at her and walk away. Then one day, I told her, 'Xiulan, I want to marry you.' She blushed and said yes. We got married. We had no money, no banquet, no photos. We just bowed by the river." Heaven and earth bore witness. The river was our witness, the moon our matchmaker. She gave birth to two children for me, both of whom died. The first, a boy, died instantly at birth. The second, a girl, lived for two days. She held her and cried all night. She was in poor health; after giving birth to her second child, she remained ill. I took her to see a doctor, who said she was beyond saving; her body was too weak, she wouldn't last much longer. On the day she died, she went to the riverbank to wait for me. She didn't wait for me. She waited for that person. He pushed her into the river. She died. I hated. I hated for so many years. I killed so many people. Now I don't hate anymore. After waiting for you for so many years, I don't hate anymore.

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the window. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into dazzling golden fragments. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Now there was another name. Chen Zhiyuan. He, too, was standing at the door watching. He couldn't do anything. He, too, had said sorry. But he had killed people. He had killed so many people. He deserved to die. He turned around. "You killed those people, do you regret it? Do you dream of them every night? They ask you, why did you kill me? Can you answer them? Can you tell them it's because your wife died, you went mad, so you killed them? Will they forgive you?"

The old man lowered his head. Tears dripped onto the ground, one drop at a time. "Regret. I've regretted it for so many years. I dream of them every night. They stand by the river, looking at me. They ask me, 'Why did you kill me?' I can't answer. I've waited for you for so many years, waiting for you to ask me. You came. You asked me. I answered. I regret it. I'm sorry. I can say it as many times as I want. I can say it for a lifetime. Even if they can't hear me, I will still say it. Even if they don't forgive me, I will still say it. I will say it until I die. I will say it until I can't hear anymore. They will not forgive me. I don't deserve their forgiveness. I only ask that they remember me. Remember that there was a madman who killed them for his dead wife. It's better for them to hate me for a lifetime than to forget me."

Jiang Bo walked back to the table and sat down. His legs were a little weak, and his voice trembled slightly. "Do you know Mr. Zhou? Do you know him? He's remembered those names for over thirty years. He wrote so many 'I'm sorry.' Have you gone to see him? What did you ask him? What did he say to you? Has the person he's waiting for arrived?"

The old man nodded. The nod was slow and gentle, as if a thousand pounds were pressing down on his neck. "I know him. He used to be my neighbor. He also lived near the old pontoon bridge, in that little house. His wife died too, by the river. Like me, he stood at the door, watching, unable to do anything. I went to see him and asked, 'How long are you going to keep remembering?' He said, 'Until I die.' I laughed. I said, 'You've kept remembering for so many years, written for so many years. Has the person you've been waiting for come?' He said no. I said, 'The one I've been waiting for hasn't come either. I've waited so many years, and he hasn't come. If you've waited for him, tell me. Let me know. Let me close my eyes in peace.' He asked me, 'Who are you waiting for?' I said, 'I'm waiting for someone who can come and arrest me. I'm waiting for someone who can end my life. I've waited so many years, and he hasn't come. If you've waited for him, tell me.'"

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Who are you waiting for? You've waited all these years, who are you waiting for? Is it your wife? Or the person who killed your wife? Or those people who resemble your wife? Or me? You've waited all these years, who exactly are you waiting for?"

The old man looked at him. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "I've been waiting for you. I knew you would come. Your father investigated those cases, and he died. You will continue investigating. You will find me. You will come to arrest me. I've waited for you for so many years. You've come. You asked me. I answered. You can leave now. I've waited. I've said everything I needed to say. I've paid my debts. I should die now. Arrest me. Sentence me. Kill me. I won't appeal. I've waited so many years for this day."

Jiang Bo stood up and walked out of the interrogation room. Tang Yuan followed behind. He stood in the corridor and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted under the light, like those names, like those apologies, like those people who would never come back. He remembered what his husband had said: "Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they are truly gone." He remembered. He remembered everyone. Chen Zhiyuan was one of them. He was also one of those standing at the door watching. He couldn't do anything either. He also said sorry. But he killed people. He killed so many people. He deserved to die. His fingers trembled, and the cigarette butt trembled with them. He took a deep drag and coughed twice, choking on the smoke.

Liu Tong came out and stood beside him. His eyes were red, and so was the tip of his nose. "Officer, he confessed everything. He killed those people. He used the name 'Jiang Shui.' He used Mr. [Name]'s computer. He waited all these years, and now it's finally happening. He deserves to die. Let's write the case report. This time it's for real. There are no survivors. He killed all those women who were jogging at night. He killed them all by himself. He stood at the door watching. He couldn't go in. He couldn't do anything. He waited all these years, and now it's finally happening. He deserves to die."

Jiang Bo stubbed out his cigarette, pressing the butt several times in the ashtray until he was sure it was completely extinguished before letting go. "That's it. Write the case report. Arrest those who should be arrested, sentence those who should be sentenced. He's sentenced to death. He killed so many people, he deserves to die. Those women who jogged at night can rest in peace. Those who stood at the door watching can let go. The man can let go too. He waited so many years, and he's finally here. He deserves to rest."

Liu Tong nodded and walked into the interrogation room.

Jiang Bo stood in the corridor, looking at the sky outside the window. The sky had cleared, and sunlight shone on the river, shattering into countless pieces of gold. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood at the door watching were also in his heart. They were gone, but he remained. He wouldn't stand at the door watching. He would go in. He would.

In the afternoon, Jiang Bo went to visit his husband at the detention center. He wanted to tell him that Chen Zhiyuan had been caught. He had confessed. He was the murderer. He killed those women. He was also one of those who stood at the door watching. There was nothing he could do. He had also said sorry. But he had killed people. He deserved to die. He wanted to tell his husband that the person he was waiting for had arrived. He had waited. He could finally let go.

The detention center gate was still the same color, iron gray, with peeling paint. The guard recognized him, glanced at his ID, and let him through. He parked his car in the yard and turned off the engine. He sat in the driver's seat, not getting out immediately. He looked at the gray-white building, at the windows sealed with iron bars, at the rings of barbed wire on the walls. Sunlight shone on it, gleaming coldly. He remembered his husband's words: "Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone." He remembered. He remembered everyone. He would also remember his husband.

The meeting room was on the first floor, in a long corridor with the fluorescent lights humming softly. Jiang Bo's footsteps echoed on the tiled floor, each beat like a heartbeat. Tangyuan followed behind, its paws tapping lightly on the floor, making no sound. The police officer on duty saw him, nodded, and pointed to the second room. He pushed open the door and went inside.

The gentleman was already seated inside. He was wearing that orange vest, his hair completely white, even whiter than before, as white as snow, as white as paper. He had lost a lot of weight, his cheekbones high and prominent, his eye sockets deep-set. The vest hung loosely on him, like it was on a clothes hanger. But he sat very straight; although his back was hunched, his spine was still strong. On the table in front of him lay the notebook, its blue cover worn and the edges curled, revealing the gray cardboard inside. He had filled most of it, the handwriting neat and tidy, each stroke like an engraving. He saw Jiang Bo and smiled. The smile was light and faint, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart.

"You're here? The case's closed? You look better, and your eyes aren't red anymore. Did your mom make dumplings for you again? Eat more, you're too thin."

Jiang Bo sat down opposite him. "It's over. Chen Zhiyuan has been caught. He confessed. He's the murderer. He killed those women. He was also one of those who stood at the door watching. There was nothing he could do. He apologized. But he killed people. He deserved to die. Those women who went for a night run can rest in peace. Those who stood at the door watching can let go of their guilt."

The man paused. His hand hovered in the air, pen tip pointing at the notebook, not falling. His fingers trembled slightly. "He waited. He waited for you. He should die now. Those who have died can rest in peace. Those who stood at the door watching can let go. He can let go too. He's remembered for so many years, written for so many years, it's time to rest."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, what about you? Did you wait? What did you wait for? You waited for so many years, wrote for so many years. What did you get?"

The man looked at him. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "I've waited for you. You've come. You asked me. I answered. I've written what I needed to write, said what I needed to say. I've waited. I can let go now. Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' someone remembers. You remember. You remember for me. You remember for all of us. Even when I die, you must remember. When you're old, let your children remember. Keep remembering, never let it stop."

Jiang Bo stood up, walked to the door, and glanced back. The gentleman sat there, holding the notebook, looking at him. His eyes were bright, like the waters of a river in winter. He waved. Jiang Bo waved back. Then he turned and walked out of the meeting room. Tangyuan was waiting for him outside, lying on the floor of the corridor, its head resting on its paws. Hearing the door open, it raised its head, stood up, and wagged its tail.

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming gently in the dim light of the corridor. "Tangyuan, the case is closed. Those women who used to jog at night can rest in peace. Those who stood at the door watching can let go. And the gentleman can let go too." Tangyuan called out, its voice echoing in the detention center corridor.