Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

It was already dark when we returned from the cemetery.

Jiang Bo drove directly to Wang Xiulan's house. The old alley was narrow, lined with densely packed residential buildings, and overhead power lines formed a tangled web. Several streetlights were broken, and the remaining ones cast a dim, yellowish glow, making the road surface mottled. The alley was dark at its depths, like an open mouth.

The old man was still awake; the light was on inside, casting a dim, yellowish glow through the window. The light was warm, but it appeared somewhat desolate in the alleyway. Jiang Bo stood at the doorway and heard the television playing, an opera, its lyrics unclear and indistinct.

Knock on the door. No one answers.

I knocked again. Still no one answered.

Jiang Bo pressed his ear against the door and listened; all he could hear was the sound of a television. He went around to the window and peered inside. The living room lights were on, the television was on, playing an old, outdated opera program, its screen displaying a colorful array of images. But no one was on the sofa.

His heart sank.

"Aunt Wang?"

Still, no one answered.

Suddenly, Tangyuan cried out towards the end of the alley. The cry was urgent and shrill, unusually loud in the quiet alley. Jiang Bo turned around and saw a hunched figure slowly approaching. It was Wang Xiulan. She was carrying a plastic bag containing several kinds of vegetables, walking slowly. Her back was even more hunched, her hair even whiter, and her legs trembled slightly as she walked.

"Aunt Wang."

Wang Xiulan looked up, saw him, and paused for a moment. Her eyes were somewhat cloudy, but there was still a light in them. That light was the light of recognizing someone familiar.

"Xiao Jiang? What brings you here again?"

Jiang Bo walked over and took the bag from her hand. The bag wasn't heavy; it contained just a few green vegetables, a bunch of scallions, and a piece of tofu.

"I have something I'd like to ask you."

Wang Xiulan nodded, took out her keys, and opened the door.

The room was still the same, spotless. Zheng Jianguo's photo still hung on the wall, a black and white picture of a young man smiling, incongruous with the old house. In front of the photo was a small incense burner with a few sticks of incense sticks stuck in it, all burned out, leaving only grayish-white stalks.

Wang Xiulan sat down on the sofa and pointed to the chair opposite her.

"Please sit down."

Jiang Bo sat down. Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company.

"Aunt Wang, I want to ask you something today. It's about Officer Zheng's feet."

Wang Xiulan's hand trembled. The hand that had been resting quietly on her knee suddenly jerked as if she had been electrocuted.

"foot?"

"Has he injured his right foot before?"

Wang Xiulan was silent for a while. Her gaze fell on the photograph on the wall, and she stared at it for a long time. In that photograph, Zheng Jianguo smiled so brightly, so carefree. He had no idea that decades later, someone would come to ask him about his foot.

Then she spoke. Her voice was very soft.

"Yes. It happened a long time ago. He never said how he got hurt."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"When?"

Wang Xiulan thought for a moment. Her brows furrowed slightly, and her lips were pursed, as if she were trying hard to recall something from a long time ago.

"It was winter of 1992. I can't remember the exact month. One day he came home with his foot badly swollen and he was limping. I asked him what happened, and he said he fell while working on a case. I applied medicine to his feet for half a month before he recovered."

Jiang Bo's heart started racing.

Winter, December 1992.

The timing is right.

"How long did he rest?"

"For more than half a month. He took sick leave during that time and stayed at home to recuperate. He didn't go out, he just sat there in a daze. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and see him sitting alone in the living room, I don't know what he was thinking. He just sat there, motionless, like a statue."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

Did he mention anyone? Like someone surnamed Dong?

Wang Xiulan thought about it.

"He mentioned it. He said Tung Chee-hwa had come to see him a few times. The two of them talked behind closed doors, but I don't know what they said. Once I heard them say something about 'that person' or 'can't be said.' Later I asked him about it, but he wouldn't let me. He got angry; I've never seen him get angry like that before."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

Tung Chee-hwa visited him. Who is "that person" they're talking about?

The man who pretended to be lame?

"And then?"

Wang Xiulan sighed. The sigh was soft, yet it seemed to carry a thousand pounds of weight.

"Then he retired. And then, the accident happened."

Jiang Bo looked at her. Her eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. That light was the hope of living.

"Aunt Wang, was there anything unusual about Officer Zheng before he died in 1998?"

Wang Xiulan's tears flowed down her cheeks.

Tears welled up from her sunken eyes, streaming down the wrinkles that resembled dried-up riverbeds. She raised her hand to wipe them away, but the tears wouldn't stop; the more she wiped, the more they flowed.

"Yes. A month before he died, he was always restless. He couldn't sleep at night and would pace around the room. I asked him what was wrong, and he said nothing. But I knew something was wrong. One night, he woke me up and said, 'If I die one day, don't investigate, don't ask.' I asked him why, but he wouldn't say. He just held my hand and held it for a long time."

Jiang Bo felt as if something was pressing down on his heart. The stone was so heavy that it made it hard for him to breathe.

Did he say anything else?

Wang Xiulan wiped away her tears.

He said something that I still don't understand what it means.

"What did you say?"

Wang Xiulan looked at him, a strange light in her eyes. That light was like fear, yet also like expectation.

He said, "That person is the real ghost."

Jiang Bo was stunned.

That person is the real ghost.

Just like Dong Jianping said.

"who's that person?"

Wang Xiulan shook her head.

"I don't know. He never said. I asked him, but he wouldn't answer. He just shook his head, kept shaking his head."

After leaving Wang Xiulan's house, Jiang Bo stood in the alley and lit a cigarette.

Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company.

The night wind was cold, causing the cigarette butt to glow and dim. The alley was dark, with only a few streetlights casting a dim, yellowish light. The glow spread out in the mist, hazy and indistinct, like looking through frosted glass. In the distance, a dog barked, one bark after another, as if trying to warn someone.

The fragments in his mind began to piece themselves back together.

Zheng Jianguo injured his foot in 1992. He took sick leave and recuperated at home for half a month. Tung Chee-hwa visited him. What did they talk about?

In 1995, Zheng Jianguo retired early. In 1998, he died. Suicide, or murder.

Before he died, he said, "That person is the real ghost."

Who is that person?

The man who pretended to be lame?

Is it still that "sir"?

Jiang Bo stubbed out his cigarette and threw it into the trash can.

"Let's go back."

Inside the municipal bureau, Liu Tong was still 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. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were chapped; it was clear he hadn't slept all night. On the table were several empty coffee cups and a half-eaten instant noodle dish, the noodles already lumped together.

Upon seeing Jiang Bo enter, he stood up, his expression even more grave than before.

"Bore Sir, I've found something."

Jiang Bo walked over.

"explain."

Liu Tong retrieved a file.

"This is Zheng Jianguo's medical record from 1992. He did indeed go to the hospital on December 10th, and his appointment was with the orthopedics department. The diagnosis was: fracture of the right ankle."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

December 10th. The same day Jiang Yizhou wrote the letter saying he was being followed.

Do you have X-ray images?

Liu Tong nodded.

"Yes. I've retrieved them. I still have films from that era."

An X-ray image appeared on the screen, showing the right ankle. A crack in the bone was clearly visible, a thin fissure extending from the ankle joint to the instep.

"When was this taken?"

"December 10, 1992. That's the day he went there."

As Jiang Bo looked at the X-ray, the image in his mind became clearer and clearer.

Zheng Jianguo fractured his leg on December 10th. That day, he was tracking Jiang Yizhou. Perhaps something happened; perhaps he fell; perhaps he was discovered.

Then he took sick leave and stayed home to recover from his injury.

Jiang Yizhou wrote in a letter on December 15th that he had seen the limping man again. Who was that? Zheng Jianguo was recuperating at home; it wasn't him. So who was it?

There is another person.

The one who was actually faking a limp.

"Liu Tong, check who else took leave in December 1992. Expand the scope to everyone in the system."

Liu Tong nodded.

Jiang Bo walked to the window and looked at the night outside.

The Yangtze River Bridge was brightly lit, with a constant flow of traffic. The headlights formed a flowing ribbon of light, like a luminous river. Several boats, their lights on, moved slowly across the river. Their lights cast long shadows on the water, swaying gently with the waves.

He suddenly remembered one thing.

"Liu Tong, is there any record of Zheng Jianguo in He Wu'an's file?"

Liu Tong was stunned for a moment.

"He Wu'an? Let me check."

The keyboard clattered loudly. The sound was exceptionally clear in the quiet office, like the rapid beat of a drum.

A few minutes later, Liu Tong looked up. His expression had changed.

"Yes. In He Wu'an's file, there is an internal report. It was written in December 1992, in which he reported on Zheng Jianguo's situation."

Jiang Bo was startled.

"What's going on?"

Liu Tong looked at the screen and read aloud:

"On December 18, 1992, He Wu'an submitted a written report reflecting that Zheng Jianguo had appeared in the old pontoon bridge area multiple times in early December, acting suspiciously. The report mentioned that Zheng Jianguo might be related to a case under investigation. It was recommended that the organization pay attention to this matter."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

December 18th. Two days before Jiang Yizhou went missing.

He Wu'an found Zheng Jianguo. He wrote a report.

"Is there any follow-up to the report?"

Liu Tong scrolled down.

"Yes. The report has the annotation: Read. Forwarded to the relevant department for processing. Signed by: Dong Zhenhua. Date: December 20, 1992."

December 20th. The day Jiang Yizhou disappeared.

Jiang Bo's heart sank.

The report was forwarded. It was forwarded to Dong Zhenhua. And then nothing happened.

"What happened next? Was there any resolution?"

Liu Tong shook his head.

"No. The file only contains this report, nothing more. There are no investigation records, no recommendations for action. It's like a stone has sunk without a trace."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

He Wu'an found Zheng Jianguo. He wrote a report. But the report was suppressed.

Who pressed it?

Dong Zhenhua.

It's Dong Zhenhua again.

He suppressed He Wu'an's report.

Why?

To protect Zheng Jianguo?

Or was it to protect the person who was faking a limp?

Jiang Bo stood there, his mind blank.

Who exactly is Dong Zhenhua?

He saved him, arranged for adoptive parents, and protected Xiuying. But he also protected Ding Laosan, suppressed the report, and may have even caused his father's death.

How can one person do so many contradictory things?

He recalled Dong Zhenhua's words in his letter: "I know I was wrong, but it's too late."

That's too late.

What does that mean?

Tangyuan walked over and rubbed against his leg.

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming gently in the lamplight. Its eyes sparkled as it looked at him, as if asking: What's wrong?

"Tangyuan, who exactly is Dong Zhenhua?"

Tangyuan, of course, wouldn't answer.

But it cried out.

That shout echoed in the empty office.

The next morning, Jiang Bo went to Hunan.

Zheng Jianguo's hometown is a small town in Yueyang, Hunan. It's not far from Dongting Lake, a very ordinary place, like countless other small towns in China—dusty and unremarkable. But it's where Zheng Jianguo's roots lie, where his unknown past is hidden.

Liu Tong discovered that Zheng Jianguo had a younger brother named Zheng Jianjun, who was still alive and lived in this town.

The car drove for six hours and entered the town in the afternoon.

The town was small, with a main street running north to south, lined with shops and houses on both sides. There weren't many people on the street; a few elderly people sat by the roadside basking in the sun, and a few dogs wandered around. When the elderly people saw unfamiliar faces, they looked up and sized them up, their eyes filled with curiosity and wariness.

According to the address, Zheng Jianjun lived in a courtyard at the east end of the town. The courtyard wall was made of red bricks, and the gate was made of sheet metal, which was rusted and mottled, like an old man's face. There was a locust tree in front of the gate, its leaves all gone, and its bare branches stretched towards the sky like a withered hand.

Jiang Bo knocked on the door.

After a long time, the door opened.

An old man stood at the door. He was in his sixties, thin, with gray hair, and wearing an old cotton-padded jacket. His eyes were small, and he squinted at people, with a wary look in them. That kind of wariness was something only someone who had lived alone for many years would have.

"Who should I look for?"

Jiang Bo presented his identification.

"Zheng Jianjun?"

The old man nodded.

"it's me."

"I want to ask you something. About your brother, Zheng Jianguo."

Zheng Jianjun's eyes changed. In those wary eyes, there was now a hint of fear and resistance.

"Come in."

The yard was a mess, piled high with odds and ends: old furniture, rusty farm tools, and moldy cardboard boxes. A few chickens were pecking at food in a corner; seeing people come in, they flapped their wings and ran away. The door to the main house was open, and the interior was dark, emanating a musty smell and the stench of tobacco.

Zheng Jianjun ushered Jiang Bo into the house and poured him a glass of water. The glass was old, enamel, with the words "Serve the People" printed on it, but they were worn away and illegible.

"Please sit down."

Jiang Bo sat down. The room was simple: a table, a few chairs, and a bed. A black-and-white photograph hung on the wall; it was of a young woman who looked somewhat like Zheng Jianguo. She had gentle eyes and a smile on her lips.

"Is that your sister-in-law?" Jiang Bo asked.

Zheng Jianjun nodded.

"Xiulan. She's been dead for many years. She died in childbirth, and she couldn't save the baby either."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

"How much do you know about your brother's affairs?"

Zheng Jianjun lowered his head and looked at his hands. His hands were rough, covered with calluses and cracks.

"I know a little. Not much."

"Did you know about his foot injury in 1992?"

Zheng Jianjun's hand trembled slightly.

"I know. He came back once that year."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat.

"You've come back?"

Zheng Jianjun nodded.

"In mid-December, he suddenly came back. He said he was taking leave to recuperate from his injury. He stayed at home for a few days."

"Did he say anything?"

Zheng Jianjun thought for a moment. His brows were furrowed, as if he were trying to recall something from a long time ago.

"He didn't say anything. He just sat there in a daze. One night, he drank too much and said something."

"What did you say?"

Zheng Jianjun looked up at him. There was a strange light in those cloudy eyes.

He said, "I'm sorry to someone."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"Whom should I apologize to?"

Zheng Jianjun shook his head.

"I don't know. He won't say. I asked him the next day, and he said he didn't remember. But I could tell he did remember. He just didn't want to talk about it."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

Did he ever come back?

Zheng Jianjun nodded.

"He came back once. In 1995, after he retired, he came back once. He looked much older that time, and his hair had turned white. He sat alone in the yard all day, looking into the distance, I don't know what he was thinking. I called him to eat, but he said he wasn't hungry."

"Did he say anything?"

Zheng Jianjun thought for a moment.

He said something. He said, "That person is still watching."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat.

"That person? Who?"

Zheng Jianjun shook his head.

"I don't know. He won't say. When I ask him, he just stops talking. He just shakes his head, keeps shaking his head."

Jiang Bo stared at the black and white photo for a long time.

That woman, Xiulan, Zheng Jianguo's wife. Where was Zheng Jianguo when she died? What was he thinking?

Did your brother write you a letter before he died?

Zheng Jianjun nodded.

"He did write. In May 1998, a few days before he died, he sent me a letter."

Jiang Bo was startled.

"Is the letter still there?"

Zheng Jianjun stood up, walked to the cabinet, opened the drawer, and rummaged through it for a long time. He found a stack of old letters tied with a yellowed string. He untied the string, searched for a while, and finally pulled out a letter.

"This is it."

Jiang Bo took the letter and opened it.

The letter paper was yellowed, but the handwriting was still clear. Zheng Jianguo's characters were written with great effort, each stroke deliberate and deliberate.

"Jianjun, if you see this letter, I may no longer be here."

There are some things I've kept to myself for many years. I won't rest in peace until I say them.

In 1992, I did something wrong. I helped someone. That person asked me to follow someone else. I went. Later, that person died. I don't know if I was responsible. But I know I bear some responsibility.

That man's surname is Jiang, and his name is Jiang Yizhou. He's a policeman.

Over the years, I've been wondering if he would still be alive if I hadn't gone that night.

I do not know.

All I know is that I owe him.

That person is still watching. He's been watching me the whole time. He knows everything I do.

Jianjun, don't ask me who that person is. It's better if you don't know.

Please take good care of Xiulan for me. Even though she's gone now.

I'm sorry to so many people. I'm sorry to Yizhou, I'm sorry to Xiulan, I'm sorry to you.

Signed by: Zheng Jianguo. Date: May 8, 1998.

Jiang Bo held the letter, his hands trembling.

His father. Jiang Yizhou.

Zheng Jianguo admitted it. He had followed his father. He had helped that person.

Who is that person?

The man who pretended to be lame?

"Uncle Jianjun, has anyone else seen this letter?"

Zheng Jianjun shook his head.

No. I'm the only one who's seen it.

Jiang Bo carefully put the letter away.

"May I borrow this letter?"

Zheng Jianjun nodded.

"Take it. It's time for a result."

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

Zheng Jianjun sat in the chair, head down, looking at his hands.

Those hands were exactly the same as Zheng Jianguo's.

It was almost dark when I left Zheng Jianjun's house.

Jiang Bo stood in the courtyard and lit a cigarette.

Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company.

The setting sun cast a golden-red glow on the courtyard wall. The shadow of the locust tree fell to the ground, its bare branches like a net. The wind blew, and the shadow swayed, like countless hands waving.

He remembered what Zheng Jianjun had said.

"I'm sorry to someone."

"That person is still watching."

Who is that person?

The man who pretended to be lame?

Is it still that "sir"?

He stubbed out his cigarette and threw it into the trash can.

"Let's go back."

The car started and drove out of the town.

In the rearview mirror, the yard was getting farther and farther away.

But he knew he wouldn't forget.

Those words, that letter, will always remain in his heart.