Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

On his way back from Hunan, Jiang Bo kept that letter in his hand.

The letter paper was yellowed, the edges were curled, and in some places it had even begun to crack. But Zheng Jianguo's handwriting was still clear. Each word was written with great force, as if he wanted to carve those words into the paper, into his bones, into some unseen place.

Jiang Bo read it countless times, and each time he could see something new. The words danced before his eyes, like living people telling him something.

"In 1992, I did something wrong. I helped someone. That person asked me to follow someone. I went. Later, that person died."

I helped someone. Who was that person?

"Over the years, I've been wondering if he would still be alive if I hadn't gone that night. I don't know. All I know is that I owe him."

We owe him. Whom do we owe? His father.

"That person is still watching. He's been watching me the whole time. He knows everything I do. I can't escape, I can't hide. He's like a shadow, following me."

He's still watching. The man pretending to be lame has been watching Zheng Jianguo the whole time.

Watching him retire, watching him live in guilt, watching him grow old day by day, watching him write these words in fear.

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

The last sentence seemed to come from the last of his strength: "I'm tired. Really tired."

Jiang Bo closed the letter and shut his eyes.

Outside the car window, the fields were a barren yellow, with stubble from the harvested rice still lying in the ground like rows of silent soldiers. Those soldiers stood there, motionless, as if waiting for something, or perhaps watching over something. In the distance, wisps of smoke rose, drifting gently into the hazy sky.

Xiuying sat next to him, looking out the window. Her gaze was calm, but Jiang Bo knew what she was thinking.

She was thinking of Jiang Yizhou. Thinking of the person she had waited for for thirty-three years. Thinking of the person mentioned in letters.

"Mom," Jiang Bo called softly.

Xiuying turned her head and looked at him.

"Was that letter addressed to Yizhou?"

Jiang Bo nodded.

Xiuying remained silent for a while. Her gaze then turned to the window, to the withered yellow fields.

"He owed Yizhou. Yizhou is dead, but he's still alive. He's alive, but he's always paying off his debt."

Jiang Bo looked at her. Her profile flickered in and out of the light and shadow in the car window, her wrinkles like ravines, each a mark of time.

"Mom, don't you hate him?"

Xiuying shook her head.

"What's the use of hatred? I wish I could bring Yizhou back to life. Besides, he was forced into it."

Jiang Bo fell silent.

The car drove for six hours and entered Jiangcheng when it got dark.

The city lights shimmered in the night, neon lights, streetlights, and car headlights converging into a flowing river of light. Those lights shone on Xiuying's face, flickering and revealing the wrinkles on her face and the calmness in the corners of her eyes.

Jiang Bo first took Xiuying back to her residence. As Xiuying got out of the car, she glanced back at him.

"Go investigate the case. I'm fine."

Jiang Bo nodded.

"Mom, I'll come and keep you company tomorrow."

Xiuying smiled. It was a very light and faint smile, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart.

"it is good."

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, his lips were chapped, and his hair was a mess—clearly, he hadn't slept all night. On the table were several empty coffee cups and a half-eaten instant noodle dish; the noodles were mushy, and the soup was cold.

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

"Officer Bo, I've found something. The handwriting analysis results for Zheng Jianguo's suicide note are in."

Jiang Bo walked over.

"How so?"

Liu Tong pulled up two documents. Two lines of text were displayed side by side on the screen: the left side was Zheng Jianguo's usual handwriting, and the right side was the handwriting from the suicide note.

"The handwriting on the suicide note is slightly different from Zheng Jianguo's usual handwriting. Look here," he pointed to several enlarged characters on the screen, "the pen pressure is unstable, the strokes are shaky, as if his hand is shaking. Moreover, the way these characters are written is different from his usual habits. He usually writes the character '的' with the last stroke pointing upwards, but in the suicide note it is flat."

Jiang Bo examined the words carefully. They were indeed different. The difference was subtle, but it didn't escape a professional eye.

"What does that mean?"

Liu Tong looked at him, her eyes filled with something complex.

"This suggests that the suicide note may have been forced upon him. He was very nervous and scared while writing it. Or, it might not have been written by him at all, but rather forged by someone else."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"Can we find the person who imitated them?"

Liu Tong shook his head.

"It's very difficult. This kind of imitation can be done with just a few years of practice. There are no distinctive features, so it can't be detected. Besides, it's been more than 20 years, and those traces from back then are long gone."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

He 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, like wandering souls.

He recalled what Wang Xiulan had said: "He wrote the suicide note, but he was forced to write it."

Who forced you to do this?

The man who pretended to be lame?

"Liu Tong, check if Zheng Jianguo saw anyone before he died."

Liu Tong tapped a few keys on the keyboard. The clattering of the keyboard was particularly clear in the quiet office.

"Yes. On May 10, 1998, two days before his death, someone went to his house. It was captured on CCTV. There weren't many CCTV cameras back then, and there just happened to be one at this intersection."

A black-and-white surveillance video appeared on the screen. The image quality was very blurry, with a lot of noise, as if viewed through a layer of fog. The time displayed was: May 10, 1998, 8:23 PM.

A man walks into the frame. He is of medium build, wearing dark clothes and a hat pulled low over his shoulders. He walks with a slight limp in his right leg.

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat.

Limping.

He's limping again.

The man walked to Zheng Jian's house and knocked. The door opened, and he went in. About an hour later, he came out. When he came out, he had his head down, so his face couldn't be seen. But the way he walked was still the same—his right foot dragging on the ground.

Jiang Bo stared at the video, watching it repeatedly. He focused on the person's back, zooming in and out. But the resolution was too low; when zoomed in, it was just a blurry mass of color.

That person's build, the way he walked, the way he limped.

It was exactly the same back view he saw in Ah Zhen's suicide note.

It was exactly the same description he had read in Dong Jianguo's diary.

It was exactly the same description he had read in Jiang Yizhou's letter.

"Can you see her face clearly?"

Liu Tong shook his head.

"The hat was pulled down too low. Also, the surveillance camera's resolution was low, so it was hard to see clearly. For surveillance cameras from that era, this level of clarity was already quite good."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

Did this person reappear later?

Liu Tong flipped through the files.

"No. Just this once. After that, it was like he vanished into thin air."

Jiang Bo stood there, piecing together the fragments in his mind once more.

On May 10, 1998, the lame man went to Zheng Jianguo's house. He stayed for an hour. Then, Zheng Jianguo "committed suicide."

What was he going there for? To force Zheng Jianguo to write a will? Or to kill him to silence him?

He recalled Zheng Jianguo's words in his letter: "That person is still watching. He has always been watching me."

He was indeed watching. He kept watching.

Watching Zheng Jianguo live every day, watching him struggle, watching him suffer, watching him write those words, and then watching him die.

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. His nails dug into his flesh, but he felt no pain.

The next morning, Jiang Bo went to Wang Xiulan's house again.

The old alleyway remained the same, narrow and winding, lined with densely packed residential buildings. Overhead, power lines tangled into a net, like countless black snakes. Deep within the alley, a dog barked, its barks echoing, as if offering a warning.

Wang Xiulan had just finished breakfast and was washing the dishes. She stood in front of the sink, her back hunched, washing the dishes in the cold water. Her hands were rough, covered with age spots and blue veins, and there were several cracks on the back of her hands.

Seeing Jiang Bo come in, she wiped her hands and sat down on the sofa.

"here we go again?"

Jiang Bo nodded and sat down opposite her.

"Aunt Wang, there's something I'd like to ask you again."

Wang Xiulan looked at him. Her eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. That light was the hope of living, and also the weariness of waiting.

"Ask away."

Did anyone come to your house on May 10, 1998?

Wang Xiulan was stunned for a moment. Her eyes changed, becoming somewhat dazed and fearful. That fear wasn't feigned; it was ingrained in her very being.

"have."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"Who?"

Wang Xiulan lowered her head and remained silent for a long time. Her shoulders trembled slightly, as if she were recalling something terrible.

Then she looked up.

"I don't know him. It was a man wearing a hat, so I couldn't see his face. He knocked on the door and said he was looking for Lao Zheng. When Lao Zheng saw him, his expression changed. He told me to go into the inner room and not to come out. I went in, but I didn't close the door and secretly looked around."

Jiang Bo waited.

"They talked for a long time. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I saw Old Zheng trembling. The man had his back to me, so I couldn't see his face, only his back. He kept saying something, and Old Zheng kept nodding. Later, the man left, and Old Zheng sat on the ground, not getting up for a long time. I went to help him up, but he pushed me away and said, 'Don't worry about me.' That night, he didn't sleep a wink."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

"Does that person walk with a slight limp?"

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

"Yes. He drags his right foot when he walks, just like Dong Jianping. I heard that sound, dragging on the ground, one step at a time, like..." She paused, as if searching for the right word, "like dragging a corpse."

Jiang Bo's heart sank.

The lame man did come.

He forced Zheng Jianguo to write a suicide note. Or, he killed Zheng Jianguo and faked it as a suicide.

"Aunt Wang, did that person come back later?"

Wang Xiulan shook her head.

"No. After Old Zheng died, he never came again. Once he's gone, there's no need for that person to come anymore."

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 sky was overcast, threatening rain. The leaden clouds hung low, making it hard to breathe. A damp, fishy smell wafted from across the river. The alley was quiet, save for a few sparrows chirping on the telephone poles, their chatter annoying.

He recalled Zheng Jianguo's words in his letter: "That person is still watching. He has always been watching me."

That person was indeed watching.

Watching Zheng Jianguo live in guilt, watching him grow old day by day, watching him write those words, and then watching him die.

Who is he still looking at now?

Looking at Dong Jianping? Looking at Dong Zhenhua? Or looking at him?

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

"Let's go see Zheng Jianguo's grave."

Jiangcheng Cemetery remains the same, with rows and rows of tombstones stretching from the foot of the mountain to its summit. Pine and cypress trees line both sides of the road, a deep, dark green, neatly trimmed, but lacking vitality, giving off a somewhat oppressive atmosphere. When the wind blows, the pines and cypresses sway, making a mournful sound, like someone is crying.

The tombstones looked particularly pale in the hazy sky, like rows of silent soldiers. Some tombstones had flowers in front of them, some were empty, and some were covered with moss, the inscriptions blurred.

Zheng Jianguo's grave is halfway up the mountain. The tombstone is still the same black marble, and the same faded photograph. In the photograph, he is young, smiling, and seems out of place in this aging world.

But in front of the tombstone, there was a new bouquet of flowers.

White chrysanthemums. Still glistening with dew, their petals glistening with water droplets, they stood out vividly against the gloomy sky.

Jiang Bo was stunned.

Someone has been here. They came today.

He crouched down and touched the bouquet. The petals were fresh, as if they had just been opened. A red ribbon was still tied to the stems, and the ribbon hadn't faded, as if it had just been bought from a florist.

"Has Aunt Wang come by?" he muttered to himself.

No, that's not right. Wang Xiulan has trouble walking; she can't walk that far up the mountain. It would take hundreds of steps to get here from the bottom of the mountain. At her age and in her physical condition, it's simply impossible.

Who is that?

He stood up and looked around. The cemetery was quiet; there wasn't a soul in sight. Only the tombstones stood in rows, like silent soldiers. The wind blew, and the pines swayed, rustling softly.

Suddenly, Tangyuan cried out towards the hillside below. The cry was urgent and shrill, and it was particularly loud in the empty cemetery.

Jiang Bo looked down. A figure was walking down the mountain. Of medium build, dressed in dark clothes, walking slowly but steadily. The figure looked unfamiliar from behind, but the way he walked stirred something within him.

He chased after him.

The person heard footsteps, stopped, and looked back.

Then he quickened his pace and ran down the mountain.

Jiang Bo chased even faster. The steps beneath his feet were steep, and he was practically leaping. Tangyuan ran ahead of him, barking wildly as she chased after him, her four legs moving at lightning speed.

The man ran very fast, but he wasn't familiar with the cemetery and nearly fell several times. He staggered, grabbed onto a tombstone, got up, and continued running. Jiang Bo was getting closer and closer, and was about to catch up.

The man suddenly stopped and turned around.

A stranger's face. In his fifties, thin, with a gloomy gaze. His face was deeply wrinkled, his skin dark, as if he had been traveling for many years. He wore a dark gray jacket, black trousers, and sneakers covered in mud.

"Who are you?"

The man looked at him without saying a word. His chest heaved violently as he breathed heavily, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

Did you put that bouquet of flowers there?

The man nodded.

"Who are you?"

The man was silent for a while. His gaze lingered on Jiang Bo's face for a long time, as if confirming something.

Then he spoke. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against stone.

"I am Zheng Jianguo's son."

Jiang Bo was stunned.

Zheng Jianguo's son? Doesn't Zheng Jianguo only have one younger brother? Wang Xiulan said they had no children. Where did this son come from?

"He is my adoptive father," the man said in a low voice. "He adopted me."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

Do you know how Zheng Jianguo died?

The man lowered his head. His shoulders trembled slightly, as if he were suppressing something.

"I know. Suicide."

"It wasn't suicide. It was murder."

The man looked up at him. There was something indescribable in his eyes. Was it shock? Fear? Or something else entirely?

"I know."

Jiang Bo was stunned.

"You know?"

The man nodded. The nod was slow and heavy.

"I know. Before he died, he wrote me a letter. He said that if he died one day, don't investigate, don't ask. He said that someone is watching. He said that I should stay far away, the farther the better."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling.

"Who is that person?"

The man shook his head.

"I don't know. He didn't say. But he left an address."

"What address?"

The man looked at him. Suddenly, a glimmer of light appeared in those gloomy eyes.

"An old pontoon bridge. A house."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat.

The old pontoon bridge. That house.

There again.

"Where's the letter?"

The man took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Jiang Bo. The letter was neatly folded, but the edges were worn, as if it had been read many times.

Jiang Bo took the letter and opened it.

Zheng Jianguo's handwriting, like that suicide note, was written with great care, each stroke deliberate and forceful.

"Xiaojun, if you see this letter, I will no longer be here."

There are some things I must tell you.

That man hid something in that house by the old pontoon bridge. It was evidence of his murder. I saw it with my own eyes.

I didn't dare to take it. I was afraid of him.

But you can. You are my son, though not my biological son, but I have always treated you as my own.

Go and retrieve that thing, and hand it over to the police. Let the dead rest in peace.

Don't be afraid. No matter how powerful he is, he can't control the dead.

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

Jiang Bo stared at the letter, his hands trembling.

Zheng Jianguo left an address.

That address is the house near the old pontoon bridge.

There, the evidence of the lame man's murder is hidden.

He looked up at the person.

"What's your name?"

"Zheng Xiaojun".

"Would you like to come with me?"

Zheng Xiaojun looked at him and remained silent for a while. His gaze lingered on Jiang Bo's face, as if he were making a final struggle.

Then he nodded.

"willing."

Jiang Bo turned around and walked down the mountain.

Tangyuan followed behind.

The sky grew darker. The leaden clouds pressed lower, and distant thunder rumbled. It was going to rain.

But he doesn't care.

He's going to find that evidence.