Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Seven days after Chen Zhiyuan's death, Jiang Bo went to the old pontoon bridge again.

He went alone, without Tangyuan. Tangyuan had gotten old these past few days and couldn't walk anymore. It lay at home, head resting on its paws, eyes half-open and half-closed. It had been with him for so many years, solving so many cases, sniffing out so much blood, and chasing so many murderers. It was tired. Xiuying said that Tangyuan was old, had lost several teeth, and had difficulty eating. It used to be able to eat a big bowl in one meal, but now it could only drink some porridge and eat a few mouthfuls of soft rice. Jiang Bo stroked its head, and it licked his hand. Its tongue wasn't as wet as before; it was dry and rough, like a piece of old sandpaper. Its eyes were still bright, but there was a white film at the corners, like a layer of mist. It looked at him, as if saying, "Go, I'll wait for you to come back."

The car drove into the old pontoon bridge. The ruins, bathed in sunlight, resembled a forgotten battlefield. The bulldozers were still there, their rust deepened, their tracks stuck in the mud, motionless. Rainwater pooled in the grooves of the tracks, where moss grew. The weeds had grown taller; some were withered, lying flat on the ground, yellow and dry, easily broken by the wind. Others were still green, swaying in the wind, making a rustling sound, like countless hands whispering secrets. The small house was still there, the door open, the light still on. The kerosene lamp's light was faint in the daytime, almost invisible, but it still shone. Like a star that refused to go out, like an eye that refused to close. It had been burning for so many years, ever since the day the gentleman moved in, never extinguished. He himself couldn't remember how many times he had added oil or cleaned the lampshade.

The man sat by the door, wearing his dark overcoat, his hair completely white, whiter than before, as white as snow, as white as paper. He had lost a lot of weight, his cheekbones high and prominent, his eyes deeply sunken. The overcoat hung loosely on him, like a garment on a hanger. In front of him lay a notebook, its blue cover badly worn, the edges curled, revealing the gray cardboard inside. Several water stains on the cover were from rainwater seeping in through the cracks in the door on a rainy day. He had filled most of the notebook, his handwriting neat and precise, each stroke like an engraving. Seeing Jiang Bo's car, he stood up, gripping the doorframe, and made way for him. His movements were slow, his knees creaking like a rusty iron door, like an old staircase. But there was a light in his eyes, as if he were waiting for something, as if he were hoping for something.

"You're here? Why are you alone today? Where's Tangyuan? Why isn't it with you? It's your little tail, it follows you everywhere you go."

Jiang Bo walked over and sat down beside him. It was the same old chair, old and wobbly, one leg slightly crooked, with a crack in the seat. He reached out and touched the crack; it was rough and painful. "Tangyuan is old and can't walk anymore. It stays at home with my mom. It's lost its teeth, so eating is difficult. My mom cooks porridge for it, and it drinks very slowly, sip by sip, like you eat dumplings. After it finishes, it lies down at my mom's feet, squinting its eyes. It doesn't run anymore. It can't run anymore."

The man nodded. He gently patted the notebook. "It's getting old too. It's been with you for so many years, solved so many cases, it's time for it to rest. Dogs live shorter lives than people, it can't be with you forever. You must cherish it. It can't speak, but it understands everything. When you're happy, it's happy with you. When you're sad, it lies at your feet and nudges your hand with its head. It won't say sorry, but it will be with you for a lifetime."

Jiang Bo gazed at the ruins. A breeze blew, carrying the fishy smell of the river and the chill of early winter. The withered grass on the ruins swayed in the wind, yellow and dry, like an old man's hair. The wall still stood, and the New Year's picture on it was still there, the chubby baby holding a fish, smiling eerily. The colors of the New Year's picture had faded, the reds were no longer red, the greens were no longer green, but the chubby baby's eyes were still there, dark and bright, looking at the ruins, looking at the river, looking at the city.

"Sir, Chen Zhiyuan has been dead for seven days. The seven-day mourning period has passed. His case is closed. Those women who used to jog at night can now rest in peace. Those family members can now let go. What about you? Have you let go? Did you live to see the end?"

The man lowered his head, looking at the notebook. His fingers slowly traced the cover, as if caressing something precious. "I've let it go. I've kept this up for so many years, written it for so many years. I've written what I needed to write, said what I needed to say. I've waited for you. I can let it go now. But I still want to write. I'll write until I can't write anymore. I'll write until I die. Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone. As long as I live, I'll write. When I die, you'll write for me."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, how much longer will you write these names? You've written them so many times. Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiuying, Liu Xiaoqin, Sun Xiaomei, Zhang Jianguo, Li Mei, Gao Deming, Xiulan, Lin Xiaoxue, Zhao Xiaoyun, Wang Xiaochen. How many times have you written them? You've memorized them for so many years. How many more times will you write them? How many more years will you write them?"

The man looked at him. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "Write until I can't remember anymore. Write until I forget. Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're really gone. I've remembered for so many years, how many more years can I remember? When I die, you write for me. When you can't write anymore, let your children write for me. Keep writing, don't stop. If you stop, those names will be gone. If you stop, those debts will never be repaid."

Jiang Bo nodded. "Sir, I'll remember for you. I'll write it down for you. Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' I'll keep them in my heart, in my mind, in my bones. They won't disappear. They won't be gone. Even when I'm old and can't remember anymore, I won't stop. I'll keep writing until I can't write anymore. I'll tell my children to keep writing. Keep writing, don't stop."

The man smiled. It was a faint, gentle smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. "You're just like your father. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you don't look back. Your father investigated those cases, and he died. You kept investigating, and you found out. If he knew, he would be happy. He would be watching you from heaven, smiling. His eyes would crinkle like crescent moons when he smiled. Just like you."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, my father... what did he find out? Before he died, did he say anything to you? Did he leave any messages? What did he say to you the last time he saw you?"

The man looked at him, for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "He said, 'Teacher, those people are still dying. I can't stop.' He said, 'Teacher, if I don't come back, please take care of Xiuying for me. Take care of the children for me.' He said, 'Teacher, I'm sorry. I didn't listen to you. I still have to investigate.' After he finished speaking, he left. He never came back. I stood at the door, watching him leave. His back was very thin and straight. He didn't turn around. He didn't dare to turn around. He was afraid that if he turned around, he wouldn't be able to leave."

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the riverbank. The river water shimmered in the sunlight, flowing slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood at the door watching were also in his heart. He thought of his father, of those notebooks, those photos, those letters. He thought of his teacher, of Dong Zhenhua, of Sun Jianguo, of Zhang Jianjun, of Chen Weiguo, of Chen Zhiyuan. They were all those who stood at the door watching. They could do nothing. They all said sorry. But they were gone, and he remained. He had to continue.

He turned and walked back to the hut. The gentleman was still sitting there, holding the notebook. The wind blew, making his hair flutter, white and gray, like reeds on the river.

"Sir, I want to donate those notebooks to the archives. So that more people can see them. So that those names, those 'I'm sorry's, can be remembered by more people. That way, even when I'm old and can't remember anymore, someone will remember them for me. Even when I die, someone will say 'I'm sorry' for me. Those who have died shouldn't only be remembered by a few of us. Those who waited their whole lives shouldn't only be known by a few of us."

The man paused. His hand hovered in the air, the pen tip pointing at the notebook, not falling. His fingers trembled slightly. "Alright. Donate it. Let more people see it. Let more people remember it. Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' shouldn't be known only to a few of us. Those who died shouldn't be remembered only by a few of us. They came, they lived, they laughed, they cried. Some waited for them, some hated them, some wronged them. They shouldn't be forgotten."

Jiang Bo nodded. "Sir, I'll take care of it tomorrow. I'll organize those notebooks, make several copies, one to donate to the archives, one for the family, one for you, and one for me. That way, even if they're lost, there will be backups. Even if they're burned, there will still be a record. Those names, those apologies, won't disappear. They won't disappear."

The man smiled. "Alright. Go ahead and do it. I trust you. You're just like your father—meticulous and thoughtful. He won't misjudge you. He'll be happy if he knew you donated those notebooks so more people could see them. He spent his whole life investigating, wanting people to know the truth. You've done it for him."

The sun was setting, its rays shifting from golden-red to a dark red, shining on the ruins, on the small house, and on the two people. In the sunset, the ruins resembled a burnt-out piece of land. The light in the small house flickered on; in the sunset, the light was faint, but it still shone. Like a star that refused to go out, like an eye that refused to close.

Jiang Bo stood up. "Sir, I'm leaving now. I'll come see you again tomorrow. I brought dumplings. My mom made them, pork and cabbage filling. She said you're too thin and need to eat more. She said you live alone and no one cooks for you, so you'll probably have to make do. She said she feels sorry for you."

The man nodded. "Okay. I'll wait for you. I'll write those names and those 'I'm sorry's' here until you come. Now go. Be careful on the road. It's getting dark, drive slowly. Your mother is still waiting for you at home. Tangyuan is also waiting for you at home. They're all waiting for you."

Jiang Bo turned and walked back. Tangyuan wasn't there, and the dog wasn't following him; his steps felt lonely, empty. He reached the car and glanced back. The door to the small house was open, and the man stood in the doorway, hunched over, leaning against the doorframe, waving. His hand was thin, like a withered branch, but it was still waving. The lamp was still on. Like a star, like an eye, like someone who had waited a long time. He stood there, like a withered old tree, but its roots still firmly planted in the earth. He wasn't going anywhere. He was here, by this river, in this small house, on these ruins. He waited for people to come, waited for people to leave, waited for people to remember those names, waited for people to say those apologies.

The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the small house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still there. The light was still on. He drove onto the Yangtze River Bridge, looking at the river. The river shimmered red in the sunset, flowing slowly. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those people standing at the door watching were also in his heart. They were gone, but he remained. He had to continue. There were still so many cases, so many names, so many apologies.

The phone rang. It was Liu Tong calling. His voice was hurried, as if he were running, or chasing something.

"Officer, there's a new case. It's not about jogging at night, it's something else. In the old town, an elderly woman was found dead in her home. Her neighbors discovered her. It's been several days. The preliminary assessment is homicide. Would you like to come and take a look? The scene hasn't been disturbed yet; we're waiting for you."

Jiang Bo gripped the steering wheel. His fingers tapped lightly on it. "Send me the address. I'll be there right away. Have the tech team go first, don't wait for me. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He stepped on the gas, the car drove off the bridge, onto the road back to the city. 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 had to continue. So many cases, so many names, so many apologies. He wouldn't stand at the door watching. He would go in. He would.