Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

The day my husband passed away was March 3rd. His birthday. He had waited for this day.

He ate the dumplings Xiuying had made, three of them, pork and cabbage filling. He couldn't eat anymore; he was old, his appetite had faded. He looked at Jiang Bo for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still a light in them. That kind of light—the kind that only someone who has seen too much can have, that only someone who has remembered too many names can have, that only someone who has said sorry too many times can have.

Jiang Bo knelt before him, and he reached out to touch Jiang Bo's head. His hand was thin and cold, skin and bones. His nails were cut short, his knuckles were thick, and the veins stood out. He touched Jiang Bo slowly, from his forehead to his eyebrows, from his eyebrows to his eyes, from his eyes to his cheeks, and from his cheeks to his chin. As if confirming something, as if remembering something.

"Xiao Jiang, you look exactly like your father. The first time I saw you, I knew who you were. You stood by the river, looking at the water, just like your father. The way you investigated cases was also just like your father. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you don't look back."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, please stop talking. Take a rest. You've talked too much and you must be tired. Close your eyes and sleep for a while. I'm here, I won't leave. When you wake up, I'll still be here."

The man shook his head. "I'm not going to sleep anymore. If I sleep, I won't wake up. I want to look at you again, look at Xiaoya again, and look at that lamp again. It's been with me for so many years; I can't leave without seeing it one last time."

He turned his head and looked at the kerosene lamp. The flame flickered, casting a swaying shadow on the wall. Ash settled on the lampshade, making the light somewhat dim. A slight smile played on his lips, revealing a satisfied expression.

"How many years has it been lit? More than thirty years. It started lighting up the day I moved in. It kept me company when I wrote those names. It kept me company when I said those 'I'm sorry's. I'm getting old, but it's still here. It won't get old. You should come often and add oil to it. Don't let it go out."

Tears streamed down Liu Ya's face. "Sir, we will. We come every week to add oil and clean the lampshade. We won't let it go out. Don't worry."

The man nodded. "Okay. Hello. Take care of yourselves. I'm relieved. I'm entrusting that lamp to you. I'm entrusting those names to you. I'm entrusting those 'I'm sorry's to you. Please remember for me. Please say for me. I'm tired. I'm going to find Yizhou. He's waited for me for so many years, he's getting impatient."

He looked out the window. Outside were the ruins, and the river. The setting sun cast a golden-red glow on the river. A breeze rustled through the reeds, like whispers or calls.

"Yizhou, I'm here. You've been waiting for me for so many years, haven't you? I'm here. Let's drink and eat dumplings. Pork and cabbage filling. Your wife made them. Delicious."

His hands fell to his sides, and his eyes closed. A slight smile played on his lips, as if he were having a sweet dream. His breathing stopped. The flame of the lamp flickered, then steadied.

Jiang Bo knelt there, motionless. His tears dripped onto the ground, drop by drop. Liu Ya burst into tears. She hugged Jiang Bo, trembling all over. The wind blew, it was cold. The lamp was still on, the flame flickering, it hadn't gone out. It wouldn't go out. It would shine for many more years to come.

Jiang Bo had been kneeling for a long time, his legs were numb. Liu Ya helped him up. He walked to the table and picked up the notebook. The blue cover was badly worn, the edges curled, revealing the gray cardboard inside. He turned to the last page and saw the last line written by the teacher: March 3rd, birthday. Xiao Jiang and Xiao Ya came. They brought dumplings. Delicious. Yizhou, I'm here. He drew a smiley face below. Curved, like a crescent moon.

Jiang Bo closed his notebook and held it to his chest. He went to the bedside, laid his husband down, and covered him with the blanket. The blanket was old, the cotton stiff, but it was very clean. He tucked the corners of the blanket in and stood up straight.

"Sir, please have a safe journey. Go find my father. He has been waiting for a long time. He will be happy to see you. He will smile. His eyes will crinkle when he smiles, just like the smiley face you drew."

He turned around and looked at Liu Ya. "Let's go. Let the master have some peace and quiet. He's tired. He can't write anymore. He needs to rest."

Liu Ya helped him out of the small house. He stood at the doorway, looking at the lamp. It was still lit, dim and warm. He reached out and touched the lampshade. The glass was hot, burning his hand. He withdrew his hand, stood there, and stared for a long time.

"Tangyuan, your master has left. He's gone to find you and your grandfather. You must listen to him over there. He's old and can't walk much. Slow down and wait for him."

The wind blew, and the reeds rustled softly. It sounded like the dumplings responding.

He closed the door, but left it ajar for ventilation. He knew the light needed air. He couldn't let it go out.

It was already dark when they returned from the old pontoon bridge. Xiuying sat on the sofa, holding the notebook. She saw Jiang Bo enter and stood up.

"Where's your husband? Has he eaten? Are there enough dumplings? He loves my dumplings, so I made extra. Did you take them with you?"

Jiang Bo went over and hugged her. Her body was very thin and light, like a piece of paper. "Mom, Mr. is gone. He went to find Dad. He went to find Xiulan. He went to find the dead. He waited for many years, and finally he has found them."

Xiuying's tears streamed down her face. She didn't cry out loud, but the tears just kept flowing, and her shoulders trembled. She hugged Jiang Bo tightly. "He's gone. He waited. He waited for you, waited for all those names to be remembered, waited for all those 'I'm sorry's' to be said. He can go now. He's going to find Yizhou. Yizhou waited for him for so many years. He should go now. Yizhou will be happy to see him. Yizhou will smile. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle like crescent moons. Like you."

Liu Ya came over and hugged them. The three of them shed tears together.

That night, Jiang Bo didn't sleep a wink. He sat at his desk, several notebooks spread out in front of him. His teacher's notebook, Dong Zhenhua's, Sun Jianguo's, Zhang Jianjun's, Chen Weiguo's, and Chen Zhiqiang's. He flipped through them all. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. He closed the notebooks, stood up, and walked to the window.

Outside the window lay the night view of Wuhan, the car lights on the distant Yangtze River Bridge forming a river of light. 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. Of the nine cases, he had investigated three; six remained. Dong Zhenhua's mark, J, was still there. That light wouldn't go out; he couldn't let it go out.

The next day, Jiang Bo went to the old pontoon bridge. He went alone. He didn't bring Liu Ya or Xiuying. He went to the teacher's small room to add oil to the lamp. The oil pot was under the bed, half full, enough for a while. He filled it, wiped the lampshade, and lit it. The flame flickered, then settled. The lamp was lit.

He sat in the chair his teacher had sat in and opened the notebook. He turned to a blank page, picked up a pen, and wrote a name: Lin Xiuying. Next to it was the date, and below it, "I'm sorry." He wrote slowly, each stroke deliberate, as if his teacher were carving characters. When he finished, he put down the pen. The pen slipped from his hand, rolled to the edge of the table, and stopped.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the river. The water shimmered in the sunlight, flowing slowly. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those people standing at the door watching were also in his heart. He remembered his teacher's words: "You must remember. You must remember for us. Those names, those apologies, someone must remember them. If no one remembers, they are truly gone."

He remembered. He won't forget.

On the seventh day, Jiang Bo and Liu Ya went to sweep Mr. Zhou's grave. The cemetery was halfway up the mountain, with rows and rows of tombstones stretching from the foot to the top. Mr. Zhou's grave was next to Lao He's, chosen by Xiuying. She said that Mr. Zhou and Lao He were old colleagues and old friends, so being together meant he wouldn't be lonely. The tombstone was made of black marble, inscribed with: "Tomb of Zhou Yuanshan." Next to it was a line of smaller characters: "The river flows on, the mirror lake remains forever young." These were two lines from the couplet he had written.

Jiang Bo knelt before the grave and kowtowed three times. Liu Ya also knelt down and kowtowed three times.

"Sir, please rest here. It's windy by the river, but you won't feel the wind here. You can stay here quietly. No one will disturb you. Jiang Bo and I will remember those names and those apologies for you. Don't worry."

Liu Ya wrapped the scarf around the tombstone. It was gray, soft, and warm. "Sir, wear this if you get cold. We knitted it for you. You like scarves, so we knitted one for you. Wearing it will keep you warm."

Jiang Bo stared at the tombstone for a long time. He remembered the first time his teacher taught him how to solve cases; he was fifteen. His teacher took him to the old pontoon bridge, pointed to a stone, and said, "Bloodstains were found here before. You must remember this place. The dead are watching you. You cannot let them down." He remembered. He always remembered.

After returning from the cemetery, Jiang Bo went to the old pontoon bridge. He added oil to the lamp, cleaned the lampshade, and lit it. He sat down, opened the notebook, and continued writing. He wrote one name after another: A-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, Wang Xiulan, Lin Xiuying. He wrote page after page. His hand ached, he shook it, and continued writing. The pen ran out of ink, he changed it, and continued writing. He wrote until his hand trembled, until his eyes blurred, until the lamp oil was almost gone. He stopped and looked at the lamp. The flame flickered, weak, but still shining.

He stood up and added oil. The lamp was lit again.

He sat back down in his chair, gazing at the river. The water shimmered silver in the moonlight, flowing gently. 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 he remained. He had to continue. Those cases, he would still investigate. Those Js, he would still search for. That lamp, he would keep it lit. Always lit.

He thought of Tangyuan. If it were here, it would be lying at his feet, its head resting on his lap, eyes half-closed. It couldn't speak, but it could hear. It would nuzzle his hand with its head and lick his face with its tongue. It would be here. It's gone. It went to find its master. It went to find its father. It's not alone.

He stood up and walked out of the hut. He stood in the doorway, looking at the lamp. A gust of wind blew, and the flame flickered but didn't go out. He turned and walked back. Reaching the car, he glanced back. The door of the hut was open, and the lamp was still on. Like a star, like an eye, like someone who had been waiting for a long time.

He knew he would always come back. To add oil, to wipe the lampshade, to write those names. When his children grew up, he would bring them. To let the children write, to let the children remember. To let the children say those apologies. To pass it on, without interruption.

Liu Ya is five months pregnant, her belly is big. She walks slowly, and squatting is difficult. But every week she still goes with Jiang Bo to the old pontoon bridge to add oil to the lamps and sweep her husband's grave. Jiang Bo tells her not to go, but she insists. She says that when her husband was alive, she promised him that she would visit him often. She can't break her promise.

One evening, while Jiang Bo was sorting through the files left behind by Dong Zhenhua, he discovered a detail he had overlooked. In a folded compartment of one file was a small, folded note; the handwriting was blurred but still legible. It read: "Jintan City, Huayang Road, Lao Zhang." Below it was an arrow pointing to a date: 2005. That was the period when Dong Zhenhua was most deeply infiltrated into the J organization.

Jiang Bo stared at those words, his hands trembling. Jintan City, in southern Jiangsu, four hundred kilometers from Jiangcheng. Huayang Road, Old Zhang. What did this mean? Was it a location, or a person? He remembered the J marks left by Dong Zhenhua, and the unsolved cases. Perhaps this "Old Zhang" was a contact, a clue, a thread that hadn't yet been broken.

He didn't tell Liu Ya. He didn't want her to worry. He took a picture of the note and sent it to Liu Tong, asking him to check if there were any noteworthy people or events on Huayang Road in Jintan. Liu Tong quickly replied: "There used to be an abandoned shipyard on Huayang Road in Jintan around 2005, which was later converted into a logistics warehouse. It has now been demolished and turned into a residential area. But in the tenant records from that time, there was a person surnamed Zhang with the name Zhang Yuan, but I couldn't find any more information."

Jiang Bo lit another cigarette. He remembered what his boss had said: "J is still around. The light won't go out." This wasn't just a sentiment; it was a warning. The J organization was still active. They were like water—you couldn't hold onto them, you couldn't stop them. You could only follow them and wait for them to surface. Those unsolved cases, those missing women, those J marks—all told him the same thing: it wasn't over yet.

He stubbed out his cigarette and went into the bedroom. Liu Ya was already asleep, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, her breathing soft. Jiang Bo lay down beside her and gently took her hand. Her hand was warm and soft. He hadn't told her about Jintan. He wasn't sure yet, he couldn't act. He needed more evidence, more clues, more preparation. But he knew that sooner or later, he would have to go to Jintan. That connection couldn't be broken.

He closed his eyes, the names flashing through his mind again. 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, Wang Xiulan, Lin Xiuying. He added Zhang Yuan. The last name wasn't a victim, but a clue. Perhaps a way out.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Outside the window, the moonlight was bright. In the distance, the headlights of cars on the Yangtze River Bridge formed a river of light. That river, flowing for so many years, was still flowing. So many cases were closed, yet new ones remained. That lamp, in that dilapidated little house by the old pontoon bridge, was still burning. He hadn't told Liu Ya, but he knew in his heart that the undercurrents of the J organization had never truly subsided. Of the nine cases left behind by Dong Zhenhua, he had investigated three; six remained. And this lead in Jintan might unravel an even larger web.

He rolled over, facing Liu Ya's back. Her body heat radiated through her pajamas, a warm and comforting sensation. He gently placed his hand on her belly, feeling a tiny life moving inside. It was his child. He hadn't seen the child yet, but he already loved him.

"My child," he said to himself, "your grandfather was a good policeman. Your grandfather's teacher was a good policeman too. They were the ones who stood at the door watching, but they both went through that door. Your father will go through that door too. And you will go through that door someday. That light must not go out."

(End of the book)