Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo woke up at daybreak.

He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling, grayish-white, with a thin crack running from the corner to the lamp base. He stared at the crack for a long time, his mind both empty and full. Empty was the dazed feeling of just waking up, full of those lingering images—Xiuying's face, Jiang Yizhou's photo, Dong Jianhua's letter, and those yellowed pieces of evidence.

The crack, like a dried-up riverbed, meandered from the corner of the wall to the lamp base. He remembered the gullies beside the old pontoon bridge, eroded by rainwater, some deep, some shallow, crisscrossing the landscape. He also remembered the wrinkles on his mother's face, etched by thirty-one years of wind, frost, rain, and snow; each line a story, a tale told.

Tangyuan, already awake, lay on the edge of the sofa, looking up at him with bright, sparkling eyes. Those eyes shimmered with a golden light in the morning glow, as warm and smooth as two pieces of amber. Jiang Bo reached out and stroked its head; its tail wagged. The tail brushed against the floor, making a soft rustling sound.

There was movement in the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans clattering softly, as if afraid of waking him. There were also footsteps, very light and slow, one step at a time. Jiang Bo sat up, put on his coat, and went over.

Xiuying is cooking.

She stood before the stove, her back hunched, a spatula in her hand, frying eggs. Sunlight streamed in through the window, casting a golden glow on her graying hair. Her hair was almost translucent white, like the frost of early winter. Her movements were slow but steady, as if she were doing something very familiar. First, she used the spatula to lift the edges of the egg, letting the oil flow in, then gently swirled the pan to ensure the egg heated evenly. Her technique clearly showed she had done this countless times.

Jiang Bo stood at the door, watching her back, a strange feeling welling up inside him.

Thirty-one years. For the first time, someone made him breakfast.

Xiuying's back was straighter than yesterday. She had recovered a bit during her hospital stay, and her complexion had improved. But she was still thin, heartbreakingly thin. Her old cotton-padded coat looked loose on her, as if it were just hanging on a hanger.

She seemed to sense something and turned around. Seeing him, she smiled.

The smile was light and faint, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. He remembered what Lao He had said: "She smiled. She smiled beautifully." It was true. His mother's smile was truly beautiful.

"Awake? Just a little longer, it'll be ready soon."

Jiang Bo walked over and stood beside her.

"Mom, let me do it."

Xiuying shook her head. The movement was light, but firm.

"No need. You sit down. Mom will cook for you."

Jiang Bo looked at her, his eyes stinging. He remembered those years when he ate alone in the cafeteria, ordered takeout alone, and just made do with whatever was available. No one had ever cooked him breakfast.

Xiuying ladled out the fried eggs and two bowls of porridge, placing them on the table. It was a simple meal, but steaming hot and comforting. The porridge was made with white rice, cooked just right, the grains bursting open, thick and creamy. The eggs were fried to a golden brown on both sides, with slightly charred edges, just the way Jiang Bo liked it.

"Eat up," Xiuying said. "When you were little, I never cooked you a meal. Now I'll make up for it."

Jiang Bo sat down, picked up his chopsticks, took a piece of egg, and put it in his mouth.

The egg was fried to perfection, the edges slightly browned, the center still tender, and the yolk still runny. As he chewed, tears almost welled up in his eyes.

It's not because the eggs are so delicious. It's because it's a meal made by my mother.

Xiuying watched him eat, a look of satisfaction in her eyes. That satisfaction was like someone who had been starving for a long time finally getting a meal; like someone who had traveled a long way and finally arrived home.

"Is it tasty?"

Jiang Bo nodded. He nodded very firmly.

"tasty."

Xiuying smiled.

"Then eat more."

She ate slowly, chewing each bite carefully. Jiang Bo watched her and noticed that she ate very politely; even after so many years of hunger, she didn't wolf down her food. It was a refined upbringing ingrained in her.

After dinner, Jiang Bo washed the dishes. Xiuying sat on the sofa, Tangyuan lying at her feet, and she stroked its head gently. Sunlight streamed in, making the room warm and cozy. Tiny dust particles danced in the sunlight, like countless tiny stars.

After Jiang Bo finished washing the dishes, he came over and sat down next to her.

"Mom, I'm going to the police station today. I need to organize the evidence."

Xiuying nodded.

"Go ahead. I'm fine."

Jiang Bo looked at her.

"Are you sure you can manage on your own?"

Xiuying smiled.

"I've walked alone for twenty-two years, why can't I? Go ahead, don't worry about me."

Jiang Bo stood up, walked to the door, and looked back one last time.

Xiuying sat on the sofa, sunlight shining on her. She looked down at the glutinous rice balls, gently stroking them with her hand. The scene was quiet and warm.

Jiang Bo went out.

Inside the municipal bureau, Liu Tong was already waiting. He sat in front of his computer, the screen light illuminating his face and making the dark circles under his eyes from staying up all night even more pronounced. When he saw Jiang Bo enter, he stood up, his expression somewhat grave.

"Inspector Bo, I've compiled the evidence against Tung Chee-hwa overnight. There's been a major discovery."

Jiang Bo walked to his side.

"explain."

Liu Tong pulled up several photos.

"These are photos taken by Tung Chee-hwa of the J organization's strongholds. The shipyard in Jiujiang, the warehouse in Yueyang, the old pontoon bridge in Wuhu, the sanatorium in Huanggang, and the dock in Nanchang. He has detailed annotations for each place."

Jiang Bo looked at the photos. They were black and white, somewhat blurry, but the outlines were still legible. The abandoned shipyard buildings, half-collapsed roofs, vines climbing the walls. The dilapidated warehouse gate, its iron door badly rusted, a large padlock hanging on the chain. The room at the old pontoon bridge, the one he had just visited, still had the New Year's picture, a chubby baby holding a fish. The mottled walls of the sanatorium, slogans still on them, the writing faded. The rusty crane at the dock, standing tall like a skeleton.

"And this too." Liu Tong pulled up a hand-drawn map. "This is a map of the J organization's activity area in Jiangcheng, drawn by Dong Jianhua. The old pontoon bridge is the core, radiating outwards and covering most of the old city."

Jiang Bo stared at the map. A red circle marked the location of the old pontoon bridge, surrounded by a dense array of markers: strongholds, contact points, hideouts, training grounds. He recognized some of the names, and some he didn't. Outside the red circle were lines that stretched outwards like veins.

"There's one more thing," Liu Tong said in a low voice. "Dong Jianhua's notebook mentions a person. Code name K. He's seen this person a few times, but he's never seen his face clearly. However, he noted down a detail."

"What details?"

Liu Tong pointed to a line of text on the notebook. The handwriting was messy, as if it had been written in a hurry, but it was still legible.

"K wore a silver ring on the ring finger of his right hand, engraved with the number J. Tung Chee-hwa had also seen this ring on another person's hand."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"Who?"

Liu Tong looked at him, her eyes holding something indescribable.

"Dong Zhenhua".

Jiang Bo was stunned.

Dong Zhenhua?

He recalled Dong Zhenhua's words in his letter: "The leader of the J organization is a man who calls himself 'Mr.' He is over seventy years old, speaks very slowly, and has a cold look in his eyes."

Mr. K. J.

What is the relationship between these people?

"Does Dong Zhenhua have that ring?"

Liu Tong shook his head.

"I don't know. But it wasn't found among his belongings. Maybe he hid it, maybe—"

He didn't finish speaking, but Jiang Bo understood what he meant.

Perhaps Dong Zhenhua is K.

He recalled Dong Zhenhua's letters. Those letters were filled with guilt and self-reproach. He said he had done wrong, that he had helped the wrong person. He said he wanted to avenge Jiang Yizhou, but he didn't have the courage.

If he is K, then he is talking about himself?

Jiang Bo shook his head. That's not right. If Dong Zhenhua were K, he wouldn't have needed to leave those letters, wouldn't have needed to arrange for He Wu'an to rescue him, and wouldn't have needed to secretly protect Xiuying. Those things don't seem like something a bad person would do.

Who is K?

"There's one more thing." Liu Tong pulled up a file, an old handwritten file, and scanned it into the computer. "In May 1998, the last person Tung Chee-hwa saw before his death was Tung Chun-hua."

Jiang Bo was startled.

"Where did you meet her?"

"The old pontoon bridge. That house."

An old pontoon bridge. Another old pontoon bridge.

"Is there a record?"

Liu Tong shook his head.

"No. But Tung Chee-hwa wrote in his notebook: 'May 8th, went to see Zhenhua, at the old pontoon bridge. We talked for a long time. He said he knew some things, but couldn't say. He said someone would come looking for me.'"

Jiang Bo stared at the line of text and remained silent for a long time.

5月8日，董建华去见董振华。5月10日，董建华写下那封信。5月12日，郑建国「自杀」。5月15日，董建华「坠江」。

Two people died within a week.

"Officer Bo, there's one more thing." Liu Tong's voice was hesitant. "On May 20, 1998, Dong Zhenhua was transferred to the provincial department. Shortly after, he disappeared."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

The timeline matches up.

Tung Chee-hwa died, Tung Chun-hua was transferred, and then disappeared.

Someone is cleaning it up.

"Check all the CCTV footage from May 1998 of that house near the old pontoon bridge. Also, check who was in the area around that time."

Liu Tong nodded.

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the Yangtze River shimmered golden in the sunlight. Boats sailed on the river, leaving long trails in their wake, like silver ribbons. The Zhongjiang Pagoda, over four hundred years old, stood there on the riverbank, watching all of this. It had witnessed countless comings and goings, countless joys and sorrows, and countless sins sinking to the bottom of the river.

He remembered what Xiuying had said: "That person is lame."

Who is the lame person?

Is it Tung Chee-hwa? There's no record of him being lame in his file.

Was it Dong Zhenhua? No, it wasn't him either.

Who is that?

He turned around.

"Liu Tong, check all police officers with the surname Dong. Between 1992 and 1998, do they have any records of being lame or injured? This includes those who have retired, been transferred, gone missing, or died in the line of duty."

Liu Tong nodded.

Jiang Bo walked back to the table, picked up the hand-drawn map, and examined it carefully.

The old pontoon bridge. That house. The one where Ah Zhen lived, the one where Ding Laosan committed murder, the one where the lame man stood, the one where He Wu'an hid the letter, the one where Dong Jianhua met Dong Zhenhua.

All the clues point to the same place.

He recalled He Wu'an's words in his letter: "All the answers are there."

The old pontoon bridge. That house.

He has to go again.

At 2 p.m., Jiang Bo brought Tangyuan to the old floating bridge again.

The demolition area remained the same, a complete wasteland. Bulldozers stood there, like sleeping behemoths. Bricks and rubble were piled up everywhere, and weeds grew to waist height, swaying in the wind. The wind howled through the ruins, like someone was crying.

The house is still there. Only one wall remains, and the New Year's picture is still pasted on it. A chubby baby is holding a fish, smiling eerily. Sunlight shines on that face, distorting the smile as if it's mocking something.

Jiang Bo stood in front of the wall, looking at the New Year picture.

The New Year picture is from the 1990s; the paper is yellowed and the edges are curled. The chubby baby's face is somewhat blurred by the rain, but the smile is still there. That smile is familiar; he feels like he's seen it somewhere before.

He reached out and touched the New Year picture. The paper was brittle, as if it would crumble at the slightest touch. But what he felt wasn't the paper itself, but something else entirely. A strange sensation, like an electric current, traveled from his fingertips to his arm, and then to his chest.

Suddenly, his fingers touched something hard.

There's something behind the New Year picture.

He carefully peeled the New Year picture off. On the wall behind the picture, there was a wooden board nailed to it. The board was blackened, but it was still clear that it had been nailed on later, unlike the surrounding walls.

He touched the wooden plank with his hand. The plank was nailed firmly, but the edges were loose. He took out his tools and pried the nails off.

Behind the wooden board was a hole. Inside the hole was an iron box.

The tin box was badly rusted; the paint had peeled off, revealing the mottled rust underneath. But its original shape was still discernible—it was a biscuit box, the kind of tin biscuit box common in the 80s and 90s. He shook it gently; something inside was rolling around.

He opened the tin box.

Inside was a stack of photos. The top one was of a baby. Wrapped in a red bib, eyes closed, sleeping peacefully. The baby's skin was wrinkled, and its tiny hands were clenched into fists and placed against its chest.

It was exactly the same as the photo he had seen before.

But on the back of this one, there is a date written: March 9, 1993.

The day he was born.

The next picture shows a young woman holding a baby, standing by the river, smiling gently. Sunlight shines on her face, she squints, and the corners of her mouth turn up; her smile is full of happiness.

The back reads: Xiuying and her son, March 10, 1993.

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling.

He continued scrolling down. The third picture showed a young policeman in uniform, standing on the same riverbank, smiling. His smile was radiant, revealing a set of white teeth, and his eyes shone with a spirited gleam.

The back reads: Yizhou, 1992.

Jiang Yizhou.

His father.

The fourth picture shows two people: a young policeman and a young man, standing by the river, arms around each other, smiling. The young policeman is Jiang Yizhou, and the young man is thin with gentle features and a sunny smile.

The back reads: "A boat and no shore, 1991".

He Wu'an.

Jiang Bo stared at the photo for a long time.

He Wu'an was younger than he had imagined. Slender, with gentle features and a sunny smile. He stood next to Jiang Yizhou like brothers. Their eyes shone brightly, reflecting their anticipation for the future and their love of life.

Little did he know that two years later, one would disappear, and the other would go into hiding, beginning a thirty-year search.

He carefully put the photos away and continued scrolling down.

The following photos are all from this place. The old pontoon bridge, that house, by the river. Different people, different times.

Ah Zhen, heavily pregnant, stood at the door, her hand on the door frame, a smile on her face.

There was Xiaomei, smiling, holding a flower in her hand, standing by the river, the wind blowing her hair.

There was Xiuying, who, when she was young, wore two braids and squatted by the river washing clothes; her profile was very beautiful.

There was a man named Ding Laosan who, when he was young, stood by the boat with several fishermen, holding fishing nets in his hands.

There was Dong Jianguo, wearing a police uniform, standing in front of that wall, with a serious expression and something indescribable in his eyes.

Dong Jianping was also there, wearing a police uniform, standing in the same spot, with a gloomy expression and a downturned mouth.

There was Tung Chee-hwa, standing by the river, looking at the water, his back looking lonely, his shoulders drooping slightly.

There was Dong Zhenhua, wearing a hat and with his head down, so his face couldn't be seen, but Jiang Bo recognized his figure.

The last picture is of an old man. Over seventy years old, with completely white hair, wearing a dark overcoat, standing by the river, looking at the water. His face is obscured by shadows and cannot be seen clearly. But his silhouette exudes an indescribable dignity and an unspoken loneliness.

The back reads: Sir, 1998.

Mr.

The leader of Organization J.

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

He stared at the photo for a long time. He felt like he'd seen that figure from behind somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place it.

He carefully put all the photos away and stood up.

The setting sun cast its golden-red light on the ruins. The bricks and rubble seemed to be plated with gold in the sunset, and the wild grass rustled in the wind.

Tangyuan stood beside him, looking into the distance.

In the distance, the Yangtze River glowed red in the setting sun, flowing slowly. Boats sailed on the river, their whistles carrying a distant, deep, and lingering sound.

He remembered his master's words: "The river can take away evidence, but it cannot take away sins."

Now, the evidence of his sins is in his hands.

He must find out the truth.