Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

The alleys in the old town were narrow, lined with densely packed residential buildings, their walls peeling away to reveal the red bricks beneath. Electrical wires tangled overhead like countless black snakes, some hanging down within reach. Jiang Bo parked his car at the alley entrance and turned off the engine. It was almost dark, and the streetlights weren't on yet; the alley was pitch black, save for a few dim yellow lights from distant windows, like half-closed eyes. He got out of the car; Tangyuan didn't come with him. It was old, staying home with Xiuying. It could no longer walk or run. He walked alone into the alley, his footsteps echoing on the cobblestones, each beat like a heartbeat. The cobblestones were worn smooth and shiny, moss growing in the cracks, making them slippery.

Liu Tong waited deep in the alley, a flashlight in his hand, its beam swaying on the ground. He saw Jiang Bo, waved, and the flashlight beam drew an arc in the darkness. "Jiang Bo, this way. Third floor, 302. The old lady's surname is Wang, she's seventy-eight years old, and lives alone. Her husband died more than ten years ago, and her son lives in another city, only coming back once a year. The neighbors hadn't seen her leave the house for three days, and today they smelled something was wrong and called the police. The locksmith opened the door, and she had been dead for several days. The neighbors said she didn't usually go out much and didn't socialize. Every morning she would go to the market to buy groceries, and in the afternoon she would sit downstairs in the sun, chatting with a few other old ladies. They hadn't seen her come down for the past few days and thought she was sick. They never expected..."

Jiang Bo followed him upstairs. The stairs were steep, and several motion-activated lights were broken, leaving only a dim, yellowish light filtering in from the windows, illuminating the small GG logos on the wall and the stair railing. The plaster on the walls had peeled off, revealing the red bricks underneath, covered with layers of GG logos, obscuring the original writing. Locksmiths, plumbers, movers, doctors—red, green, yellow—looked like patches. The railing was iron, the paint peeling off to reveal rust underneath; it felt rough to the touch and had a metallic smell. They reached the third floor. The door to apartment 302 was open, and the light inside, a stark white fluorescent light, illuminated the narrow living room. Two police officers stood in the doorway; seeing Jiang Bo, they made way for him.

Technician Xiao Zhou was already inside, taking photos. The flashbulbs illuminated every corner of the room. Su Min squatted beside the body, wearing rubber gloves, conducting a preliminary examination. She wore a white lab coat, her hair tied back, her expression focused. The old woman lay on the floor, wearing an old, dark gray cotton-padded jacket, the cuffs worn and revealing the yellowed, stiff cotton inside. Her hair was completely white, messy, like a clump of withered grass. Her face was turned towards the ceiling, her eyes half-open, her mouth slightly parted, as if she were saying something, or perhaps shouting something. There was a ligature mark on her neck, purplish-black, deeply embedded in the skin, like a twisted snake. Scattered around her were some things—an enamel mug, shattered, shards scattered on the floor, the white porcelain pieces imprinted with the red double happiness symbol. A pair of old cloth shoes, one here, one there, the soles worn thin, the heels crooked. A pair of reading glasses, with broken lenses, a crooked frame, and a broken temple, lay nearby. A palm-leaf fan, made of bamboo, with several holes in its surface, also lay on the ground.

Su Min stood up, took off her rubber gloves, and fine beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. "The time of death is probably three to five days ago, but we'll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure. The weather's cooler now, so decomposition is slower, making it difficult to determine the exact time. The cause of death is mechanical asphyxiation, strangled. The murder weapon is likely something like a rope—thin and stiff, possibly nylon or electrical wire. No murder weapon was found at the scene. There were no signs of forced entry on the doors and windows, and the locks were intact. The perpetrator likely knocked to get in, or she had a key. It's highly probable that it was someone she knew. The old lady recognized the perpetrator, so she wasn't on guard and let him in."

Jiang Bo squatted down, looking at the old woman's face. Her wrinkles were deep, like a dried-up riverbed, crisscrossed by deep furrows. Her lips were chapped, peeling with white skin, and bore an old scar, as if from a long time ago. Her hands were thin, veins bulging, nails trimmed short, almost bare, with dirt under them. Her fingers were curled, as if grasping something, or holding something unseen. He reached out and gently took her hand. It was icy cold, like a winter stone, like ice in an ice cellar. Her skin was loose, feeling like a thin sheet of paper, revealing the bones beneath, each one clearly visible.

He closed his eyes. Touch—Special skill triggered.

The scene flashed through her mind. The room was dimly lit, the lights off. Only the streetlights from outside shone in, casting a narrow, yellowish glow on the floor. The old woman sat in a chair, her back to the door, fanning herself gently with a palm-leaf fan. The breeze from the fan ruffled her gray hair. Three knocks, neither too loud nor too soft, neither too fast nor too slow. She stopped, listening intently. Three more knocks. She stood up, slowly, supporting herself on the chair armrests, her knees bent, and straightened herself little by little. She went to open the door. A person stood in the doorway, backlit, their face obscured. The person wore a dark-colored garment and a hat pulled low, revealing only half a chin. The old woman took a step back, as if recognizing the person, or perhaps fear. Her hands gripped the doorframe, her fingers white. The person entered, closed the door, and the lock clicked shut. The old woman turned to leave, stumbling and kicking an enamel cup. The enamel mug tipped over, rolled a few times, and spilled water all over the floor. The man chased after her from behind and strangled her with a rope. She struggled, grabbing at it, her nails scratching the back of his hand. She grabbed something, a pendant, which she had torn from his neck. The pendant chain broke, falling to the floor with a clink. Then she collapsed, motionless. The enamel mug fell from the table, shattering into pieces. The man stood there, watching, head bowed, staring at the old woman's face. He stood there for a long time. Then he turned and left. The door wasn't closed, just ajar. A breeze blew in, making the curtains flutter.

The screen disappeared.

Jiang Bo leaned against the wall, his head throbbing with a sharp, stabbing pain. It radiated from the back of his head to his forehead, like a red-hot iron rod churning inside his brain. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Liu Tong came over and supported him, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Jiang Bo, are you alright? Do you need to rest? You look terrible."

Jiang Bo shook his head. "It's nothing. Look around, is there a pendant at the scene? Silver, heart-shaped, about this size." He gestured with his hand. "The old lady tore it off the killer's neck. The chain broke, it should have fallen nearby. Maybe under the sofa, maybe under the table, maybe in some corner. Look carefully."

Xiao Zhou searched the room carefully. He lay on the floor, shining a flashlight under the sofa, under the bed, and under the cabinets. Several police officers also helped search. A few minutes later, Xiao Zhou found a pendant under the sofa. It was silver, heart-shaped, with scratches on the surface and some wear on the edges. The chain was broken, and the clasp was open. The front of the pendant was engraved with the letter J. It was exactly the same as the rings in the previous cases. The J was engraved deeply, with thick strokes, as if deliberately made visible. Under the light, it gleamed coldly.

Jiang Bo took the pendant, his hands trembling. J. J again. That symbol, that organization, that person. He thought the case was closed, thought those women jogging at night were the last, thought Chen Zhiyuan was the last. No. There was more. He was still there. He was still killing. He killed a seventy-eight-year-old woman. A lonely old woman, a person waiting to die, an ordinary old woman who went to the market every morning, sat downstairs in the afternoon sunbathing, and chatted with a few other old women. What enemies did she have? What bad people did she know? What secrets did she know? Why did he kill her? Did she know him? Had she seen his face? Did she know his secrets?

"Check the old lady's identity, her social connections, her family, her neighbors, everyone she knows. Check her call records, her bank statements, her delivery records. Who she recently met, who she spoke to on the phone, who she had conflicts with. All the information is needed. Don't miss anyone."

Liu Tong nodded and started making a phone call. His voice was very low, and it was difficult to hear what he was saying in the quiet room.

Jiang Bo stood by the window, gazing at the night outside. The alley was pitch black, save for a few streetlights casting a dim, yellowish glow on the empty street. A stray cat darted past a corner and disappeared into the darkness. On the distant Yangtze River Bridge, traffic was sparse, with the occasional car headlight streaking across like a fleeting meteor. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood watching at the door were also in his heart. They were gone, but the murderer remained. He was still killing. He thought the woman jogging at night was the last, he thought Chen Zhiyuan was the last. No. There were others. He was still there. He killed a seventy-eight-year-old woman. A person with whom he had no grudge. A person who might know nothing. Why did he kill her?

The phone rang. It was Xiuying calling. Her voice sounded anxious and distressed.

"Xiao Jiang, when are you coming back? What time is it? The dumplings are all made and we're waiting for you. Your husband is here too; he's waiting for you to eat. Tangyuan is hungry too; she's lying by my feet, staring at the pot, her mouth watering. If you don't come back soon, the dumplings will get cold. If they get cold and then warmed up, the wrappers will fall apart."

Jiang Bo held his phone. "Mom, you guys eat first. Don't wait for me. The case isn't over yet. I'll be back later. You guys eat, don't go hungry. Mr. is getting old, he can't go hungry. Tangyuan is old too, she can't go hungry either."

Xiuying sighed. "Another incident? Another death? Weren't they all settled? Weren't the killers of those women who went for night runs all caught? How come there are still more?"

"Yes. In the old town, an old woman died. She was murdered. It wasn't during her night run; it's another case. I can't leave."

Xiuying was silent for a moment. "Then you go ahead with your work. Don't go hungry. I've saved some dumplings for you. They're warm in the pot. You can just heat them up when you get back. Don't stay up too late, take care of yourself."

After hanging up the phone, Jiang Bo stood by the window and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted in the lamplight, like those names, like those apologies, like those people who would never return. He thought of the pendant, that J. He thought of those rings, those names, those apologies. The J organization was still around. They were still around. They were still killing. He thought he had found everyone, thought all the cases were closed. No. There was one more. He was still around. He was still in the shadows, still watching, still waiting. He killed an old woman, a seventy-eight-year-old woman living alone. Why did he kill her? What did she see? What did she know? Or was she just unlucky, like those women jogging at night, just passing by, just seeing something she shouldn't have seen?

He stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside. Su Min had already put the body into a body bag and zipped it up. Xiao Zhou was still taking photos; after finishing the last set, he started packing up his equipment. Liu Tong finished his phone call and came over. "Officer, the old lady's ID card has been found; it's in her bedroom drawer. Her name is Wang Xiulan, she's 78 years old, a retired worker. Her husband's name was Zhang Desheng, and he died 15 years ago. Her son's name is Zhang Jianguo; he works in another city, and we don't know his exact address, so we need to check. The neighbors said she usually lives alone and rarely goes out. Every morning at seven o'clock, she goes to the market to buy groceries and comes back. At two o'clock in the afternoon, she goes downstairs, sits in the small garden downstairs, and chats with a few other old ladies until four or five o'clock before going home. In the evening, she watches TV and then goes to sleep. Her life is very regular, nothing unusual."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. "Wang Xiulan? Xiulan? It's Xiulan again. Her name is Xiulan. The same name as Chen Zhiyuan's wife. The same name as those women. Does she look like her too? Does she also wear floral blouses? Does she also wear braids?"

Liu Tong was stunned. "Officer, what are you saying? She just has the same name. It's a coincidence, isn't it? There are many people named Xiulan. It's impossible for every person named Xiulan to be involved in the case."

Jiang Bo shook his head. "It's not a coincidence. It's intentional. That person is looking for Xiulan. Looking for women named Xiulan. He killed Chen Zhiyuan's wife, he killed women who resembled Xiulan, and now he's killed an old woman named Xiulan. He's gone mad. He's still searching. He's still killing. He can't stop."

He turned and walked out of the house. The stairs were steep, and he walked quickly, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. He went downstairs, out of the alley, got into his car, and started the engine. The car drove out of the old city and onto Changjiang Road. 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 the murderer was still there. He was still killing. He had to find him.