Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Returning from the old town, Jiang Bo didn't go home but went straight to the Municipal Bureau. The lights in the Technical Section were still on, the fluorescent lights humming, the sound echoing in the empty corridor like countless flies buzzing in his ears. Xiao Zhou was still sorting through photos, zooming in frame by frame, looking at each one. The screen was full of images of the old lady's room—the face lying on the floor, the purplish-black ligature mark, the scattered fragments. His eyes were red, his lips were chapped, and several empty coffee cups sat on the table. Liu Tong sat in front of the computer, with the old lady Wang Xiulan's files spread out before him: copies of her ID card, household registration book, social security card, and some old black and white photos, yellowed at the edges, the paper brittle, as if they would crumble at the slightest touch. In one photo was a young woman, with two braids tied with red ribbons, wearing a floral blouse, standing by the river, smiling gently. Her eyebrows and eyes are very similar to those of Sooyoung when she was young, so similar that it makes people's hearts tighten, and people dare not look at her for too long.

"Mr. Bo, this is a photo of the old lady when she was young. Look, who does she look like? Does she look like your mother?" Liu Tong handed over the photo, gently tapping the paper with his finger.

Jiang Bo took the photo, his hands trembling. It looked like Xiuying. Like his mother. Like those women who died by the river. Eyes, nose, mouth, face shape—it was all the same. Not exactly identical, but resembling. That resemblance wasn't deliberate; it was ingrained. The same eyebrows, the same features, the same smile. That man was looking for her. He searched his whole life, killed his whole life. He killed one woman after another who resembled her, one woman after another named Xiulan. He couldn't stop. He went mad. He killed for decades, dozens of people, from youth to old age, from black hair to white hair. He was still killing.

"What about her son? Have you contacted him? Any news?"

Liu Tong shook his head. He opened his notebook, which was filled with dense notes. "We can't get through on the phone, it's switched off. It's been switched off since last night. We found out where his son works, in Shenzhen, at an electronics factory, on an assembly line. The factory said he took a week's leave, saying there were family matters. We don't know where he went. We can't reach him on his cell phone, no one's in his dormitory, and his coworkers don't know where he is either. He might already be on his way, or he might still be on the train. We've contacted the railway police and asked them to help us find him. They'll notify us as soon as they have any news."

Jiang Bo put the photo down and tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "Check the old lady's call records. Who has she contacted recently? Any unknown numbers? Any out-of-town numbers? Any long calls? She's an elderly woman living alone, she doesn't usually make phone calls. It's not normal for her to suddenly receive a call from an unknown number and talk for more than ten minutes."

Liu Tong tapped a few keys on the keyboard, his fingers flying across the keys. "Officer, the old lady's call history is very short. She almost never makes or answers the phone. Only two or three calls a month, mostly from her son. In the last month, there have only been three calls. One was from her son, they talked for five minutes, asking how she was doing and if she needed money. Another was from an insurance salesman, which she didn't answer. The third was from an unknown number, which she answered and talked for over ten minutes. We checked the unknown number; it's a virtual number, we can't find the owner or the owner. But the cell tower signal shows it's near the old pontoon bridge. That little house. The one where the gentleman lived. The login time was the night the old lady died, around 7 PM. She was murdered at 8 PM. After making the call, the murderer went out. He went to the old town, killed her, and then came back."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched tightly. His nails dug into his flesh, but he felt no pain. The old pontoon bridge. The old pontoon bridge again. That little house. The one where the gentleman lived. That person used the gentleman's computer, used the gentleman's IP address, used the gentleman's number. He's still there. He's still in that little house. He's still using that name. He's still waiting. Waiting for whom? Waiting for him? Waiting for those women named Xiulan? Or waiting to die?

"Let's go to the old pontoon bridge. Let's go now."

The car reached the old pontoon bridge; dawn was approaching. The moonlight shone on the ruins, a ghastly white, like a layer of frost. The door of the small house was open, the light still on. A dim, warm glow shone through the window, like an eye that refused to close. The gentleman sat in the doorway, wearing his dark overcoat, his hair completely white, fluttering in the morning breeze like reeds on the river. Before him lay a notebook, its blue cover badly 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. Seeing Jiang Bo's car, he stood up, gripping the doorframe, and made way. His movements were slow, his knees creaking like rusty iron doors or an old staircase.

"You're here? So early? Any progress in the case? Another death?"

Jiang Bo got out of the car and walked over. His legs were a little weak; he hadn't slept all night, and his eyes were terribly sore. "Sir, the old lady, Wang Xiulan, is dead. Seventy-eight years old, lived alone. She was strangled in her home. A silver, heart-shaped pendant was found at the scene, engraved with the letter J. It's exactly the same as the previous ring. There's a photo of the old lady when she was young; she looks like my mother. She looks like Xiuying. That person is looking for her. He's been looking for her his whole life, killing his whole life. He's killed one woman after another who looks like her, one woman after another named Xiulan. He can't stop. He's gone mad."

The man paused. His hand hovered in the air, the pen tip pointing at the notebook, not falling. His fingers trembled slightly. "He's still here. He's still killing. He thought you arrested Chen Zhiyuan and the case was closed. He didn't. He's still here. He'll continue. He'll continue searching. He'll continue killing. He's killed his whole life, for decades, dozens of people. He can't stop. He doesn't want to stop."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, who is he? Do you know him? Has he come to see you? What did he ask you? What did he say to you? Why won't you tell me? What are you waiting for? How long are you waiting?"

The man looked at him, for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "He came to see me. He asked me, 'How long will you keep remembering?' I said, 'Until I die.' He laughed. He said, 'You've kept remembering for so many years, written for so many years. Has the person you've been waiting for come?' I said no. He said, 'The person I've been waiting for hasn't come either. I've waited for so many years, and it hasn't come. When you finally do, tell me. Let me know too. Let me close my eyes in peace.' He asked me, 'Who is the person you're waiting for?' I said, 'I'm waiting for someone who can come and catch me. I'm waiting for someone who can end my life.' He laughed and said, 'I'm waiting too. I've waited for so many years, and it hasn't come. When you finally do, tell me.'"

Jiang Bo stood before him. "Who is he? What's his name? Where does he live? Why did he kill those people? Why is he looking for Xiulan? Who is Xiulan? Is she his wife? His mother? His daughter? Why does he hate so much? Why can't he stop?"

The man lowered his head. His tears dripped onto the notebook, soaking a name. "His name is Chen Zhiqiang. He is Chen Zhiyuan's twin brother. Like his brother, he stood at the door watching, unable to do anything. His wife also died, also by the river. His wife's name was also Xiulan. He went mad. Like his brother, he killed women who resembled Xiulan. His brother took the blame for you. His brother died for you. He is still alive. He is still killing. He kills one after another, unable to stop. He doesn't want to stop."

Jiang Bo turned and walked out of the small house. Tangyuan didn't follow; it was old. It couldn't run anymore. It stayed home with Xiuying. He walked alone on the ruins, his footsteps echoing on the broken bricks, each beat like a heartbeat. The wind blew, cold, making his clothes flutter. He thought of those names, those apologies, those people standing at the door watching. Chen Zhiqiang. 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. He killed Wang Xiulan, a seventy-eight-year-old woman, someone he had no grudge against, someone simply named Xiulan. He killed her because of her name. He went mad.

He got in the car and started the engine. The car 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 and looked at the river. The river shimmered silver in the moonlight, 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 was still there. The murderer was still there. He was still killing. He had to find him. He would.

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

"Officer Bo, the old lady's son has been found. He's on the train, almost to Jiangcheng. Our people went to pick him up at the station. When he heard his mother had died, he cried so hard he couldn't speak. He cried on the phone for a long time. He said he had spoken to her on the phone last week, and she said she was fine, told him not to worry, to focus on his work, and not to think about her. He never expected... When he left, his mother even made dumplings for him to eat on the journey. They were pork and cabbage dumplings. He couldn't bear to eat them and kept them in the refrigerator."

Jiang Bo gripped the steering wheel. "Did he mention anyone his mother knew? Did he mention someone named Chen Zhiqiang? Or anyone with the surname Chen? Or someone from Lao Fuqiao? She lived in Lao Fuqiao when she was young, did she mention those days to him?"

Liu Tong was silent for a while. There were sounds of papers turning and keyboard typing on the other end of the phone. "He said his mother used to live near the old pontoon bridge. When she was young, she worked as a waitress in a riverside restaurant. She knew a man named Chen Zhiqiang. He was a fisherman who fished on the river and often brought her fish—live river fish, strung together with straw rope. She said he was a good person, very honest, not talkative, but kind-hearted. Later, she got married and moved away. She never contacted him again. She mentioned him to her son a few times, saying that he was a good man and she didn't know if he was still alive. Her son said that every time his mother mentioned him, she would sigh."

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. Chen Zhiqiang. He was also at the old pontoon bridge. He was also by the river. He was also waiting. Who was he waiting for? Was it Xiulan? Was it those women like Xiulan? Or was it him? He had waited for so many years, and he had finally found Jiang Bo.

At daybreak, Jiang Bo went to the old pontoon bridge again. Next to that small house, there was an even smaller, more dilapidated, and more inconspicuous one. Sandwiched between the two ruins, it was like a patch, like a forgotten corner. Most of the roof tiles were missing, covered with a torn plastic sheet that rattled in the wind. The plaster had peeled off, revealing the red bricks underneath, which were also weathered and crumbled at the slightest touch. The door was wooden, the paint completely peeled off, revealing the grayish-white wood grain. The doorframe was crooked, and the door itself was warped, unable to close properly. The door was closed, the window was dark, and a piece of the windowpane was broken and covered with a plastic sheet.

Jiang Bo walked over and stood at the door. He knocked. No one answered. He knocked again. Still no one. He pushed the door open. The hinges creaked loudly, especially clear in the quiet morning.

The room was dark, without a lamp. Only light streamed in from the doorway, casting a narrow strip of light on the floor. Dust motes danced in the beam of light, like countless tiny stars. A man sat on the edge of the bed, his back to him. He wore a dark overcoat, his long, completely white hair cascading over his shoulders like reeds in winter. His back was hunched, like a withered old tree, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers slightly curled. He heard the door open and slowly turned around. His movements were slow, like a slow-motion scene in a movie, like a withered leaf in the wind. A very old face, wrinkles as deep as if carved by a knife. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, his face hollow, like a skeleton covered in skin. But his eyes were bright, like the cold, deep waters of a winter river.

"You've come. I've been waiting for you for a long time. I've been waiting since the day you started investigating those cases. I knew you would come to me. You're just like your father. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you don't look back."

Jiang Bo walked in. "You are Chen Zhiqiang."

The old man nodded. The nod was slow and soft. "Yes. It is I. You look exactly like your father. You've come. You asked me. I answered. You can go now. Arrest me. Sentence me. Kill me. I deserve to die."

Jiang Bo stood before him. "You killed Wang Xiulan. You killed those women. You killed so many people who looked like Xiulan. Why did you kill them? They just had the same name, they just looked alike. They weren't her. Why did you kill them? If you killed them, could your wife come back to life? Can you stop hating? Can you sleep soundly? Can you stop dreaming?"

Tears streamed down the old man's face. They welled from his sunken eyes, flowing down his wrinkles, like dried riverbeds, drop by drop, onto his coat, onto the ground. "Because I hate. I hate this city, I hate this river, I hate the people who are alive. My wife is dead, but they are alive. Their name is Xiulan, they resemble Xiulan, but they are not her. I hate them. I killed them. I hated for so many years, killed so many people. Now I don't hate anymore. I waited for you for so many years, and now I don't hate anymore. You've come. You asked me. I answered. You can leave now. Arrest me. Sentence me. Kill me. I deserve to die."

Jiang Bo handcuffed him. The handcuffs clicked shut, the sound particularly loud in the quiet little house. The old man stood up and followed him out of the house. His legs were trembling, his hands were trembling, and he looked like a lamp about to go out. Sunlight shone on him, casting his long, thin shadow on the ground, like a withered old tree.

They walked to the car, and the old man stopped, glancing back at the small house. The lamp was still on, dim and warm, shining through the window like an eye that refused to close.

"I'm leaving. Let that light stay lit. People will come back. Mr. will come back, Dong Zhenhua will come back. They will still write those names, and they will still say those apologies. That light cannot be extinguished. If it's extinguished, those names will be lost. If it's extinguished, no one will say those apologies."

Jiang Bo helped him into the car. Tangyuan wasn't there; the back seat was empty. The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the little house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still there. The light was still on. Like a star, like an eye, like someone who had been waiting for a long time.