Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

By the time we came down from the cemetery, it was completely dark.

The leaden-gray clouds hung low, almost touching his head. Jiang Bo looked up and saw lightning flash across the distant horizon, like a pale crack tearing through the thick cloud curtain. The rumble of thunder grew deeper and deeper, like the footsteps of a giant approaching.

It's going to rain heavily.

Zheng Xiaojun followed behind him, his steps unsteady. He looked to be in his fifties, but he was clearly not as agile as Jiang Bo on the mountain path, nearly falling several times. His breathing was heavy, and there was a hoarse sound in his throat, as if he had a problem with his lungs. Tangyuan ran ahead, glancing back at him every now and then, as if waiting for him, or perhaps urging him on.

"When did you arrive in Jiangcheng?" Jiang Bo asked.

Zheng Xiaojun took a breath and leaned against a pine tree by the roadside to rest.

"I came this morning by long-distance bus. I got up at five o'clock and changed buses three times."

"Where did you come from?"

"Fujian. I've been working there for over twenty years. I work on construction sites, carrying bricks, hauling cement, I do all sorts of things."

Jiang Bo glanced at him. The man's face was etched with the marks of time; his skin was dark and rough, like old tree bark. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were deep, as if carved by a knife; his lips were chapped; and his hands were covered in calluses and cracks. He wore a faded dark gray jacket, the cuffs worn through, revealing the raw edges with several holes. His sneakers were covered in mud, the soles worn thin, one even had a tear, revealing the socks underneath.

"You haven't come back since your adoptive father died?"

Zheng Xiaojun shook his head. He shook his head very slowly, as if he were recalling something.

"No. In his letter, he told me to stay as far away as possible. So I left and never came back. This is the first time in over twenty years."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

"Then why did you come back now?"

Zheng Xiaojun lowered his head. His shoulders trembled slightly, as if he was suppressing something.

"I dreamt of him. For three days in a row, the same dream. He was standing by the old pontoon bridge, looking at the river, not saying a word. I asked him, 'Dad, what do you want to say?' He didn't answer, just kept looking at the river. The river was very muddy and turbulent, as if it was going to wash him away. Later I thought, maybe he had something to tell me."

Jiang Bo did not respond.

They reached the foot of the mountain and got into the car. Zhang Yuhang started the engine, and the car drove towards the old pontoon bridge.

The rain finally started.

At first, it was just a few drops, hitting the windshield with a soft patter, like pebbles. Soon it turned into a torrent, pouring down like a burst dam. Even with the wipers on their fastest setting, it still couldn't clear the glass; a perpetual white curtain of water covered the glass. The headlights shone out, revealing only two or three meters ahead; beyond that, it was complete darkness.

Zhang Yuhang slowed down, practically crawling forward. The rain pounded on the roof, like countless hands knocking.

Jiang Bo sat in the passenger seat, holding Zheng Jianguo's letter in his hand. The letter was soaked with his sweat, making it slightly soft, the edges curled, and the handwriting a little blurry. He read the words again:

"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 saw it with my own eyes.

Zheng Jianguo witnessed the man hiding something.

That person was the one with the limp.

Jiang Bo put the letter away and looked out the window.

The old pontoon bridge looked even more desolate in the rain. The demolition area was pitch black, with only a few streetlights casting a dim yellow glow, blurred into clumps in the rain. The bulldozers still stood there, like sleeping behemoths, rainwater flowing down their steel bodies, forming streaks of water. The ruins were blurred into a blur in the rain, piles of bricks and rubble everywhere, gleaming from the wash.

The house still stands, all alone, like a tombstone. The New Year picture on the wall is still there, a chubby baby holding a fish, blurred into a red blob in the rain, like a pool of blood.

Jiang Bo got out of the car, and the rain immediately soaked him through. It was cold, bone-chillingly cold. Rainwater streamed down his hair, into his eyes, and down his neck. He wiped his face and walked on.

Tangyuan jumped out of the car, shook its fur, and followed behind him. It was also soaking wet, its fur plastered to its body, and it looked thinner.

Zheng Xiaojun also got out of the car. He stood in the rain, staring at the house, motionless. Rainwater streamed down his gray hair and into his eyes, but he didn't blink.

"Is this the place?" he asked.

Jiang Bo nodded.

"Did your adoptive father tell you where the thing was hidden?"

Zheng Xiaojun thought for a moment. His brows were furrowed and his lips were pursed, as if he was trying hard to recall something from a long time ago.

"He said it was inside the wall. He said the wall was built later and that it was hollow inside. He said he saw the man stuff something in there and then seal it with bricks."

Jiang Bo walked up to the crumbling wall.

The New Year's picture was still pasted on the wall, showing a chubby baby holding a fish, smiling eerily. Rainwater streamed down the picture, distorting the face in the rain, making it look like it was crying or laughing at the same time. The chubby baby's eyes were blurred by the rain, becoming two black holes.

Jiang Bo reached out and touched the New Year picture. The paper was very brittle and would break at the slightest touch. He carefully peeled it off. The picture was glued on very firmly, so he peeled it off slowly, bit by bit, afraid of tearing something.

The New Year picture has been taken down. Behind it is a blue brick wall, with moss growing in the cracks between the bricks, making it damp.

He tapped it with his hand. Thump, thump, thump. It was solid.

wrong.

He knocked on the side again. Thump, thump, thump. It was still solid.

Knock again. The third brick. Hollow. Thump, thump, hollow.

That brick was loose.

Jiang Bo pulled out his dagger, inserted it into the crack between the bricks, and pried. The brick moved. He applied more force, and a section of the brick was pried out. He grabbed it with his hand and pulled it out.

The bricks are out.

Behind the brick was a hollow, dark hole, like an eye. A musty smell wafted out, mixed with the stench of earth and the odor of old paper.

He put his hand in.

It was cool and damp inside. His fingers touched something hard, cold and rusty.

It is a metal box.

He took the tin box out.

The tin box wasn't large, about the size of a palm, and it was badly rusted; the paint had peeled off, revealing the mottled rust underneath. It was exactly the same as the tin box we'd found in the basement before. A small patch of red paint remained on the lid, like its original color.

He shook it gently. Something was rolling inside, like a dried-up bean, or a broken pencil.

He opened the box.

The rusted hinges made a grating creaking sound, which was especially loud in the rain.

Inside was a stack of photos. They were black and white, yellowed, and curled at the edges, but still legible.

The top picture shows a man. He is of medium build, wearing dark clothes and a hat, with his head down. He is standing by the old pontoon bridge, his back to the camera. The river flows behind him, a greyish-white expanse.

The back reads: December 15, 1992, Old Floating Bridge.

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling.

December 15, 1992. The day Jiang Yizhou wrote a letter saying he saw the lame man again.

He continued scrolling down.

The second picture shows the same person. This time, he's turned around, his face turned to the side. His hat is still pulled low, but half of his face is visible—a square face, thick eyebrows, and a downturned mouth. His eyes are fixed on the distance, his gaze gloomy.

The back reads: December 18, 1992, Old Floating Bridge.

In the third picture, the person is talking to someone. Another person has their back to the camera, so their face is not visible. But Jiang Bo recognizes the person's posture: a slightly hunched back, legs apart, and left hand in their pocket.

It's Zheng Jianguo.

The back reads: December 20, 1992, Old Floating Bridge.

The day Jiang Yizhou disappeared.

Jiang Bo gripped his hand even tighter. His knuckles turned white, and his nails dug into his flesh.

He continued flipping through the photos. The following photos were all of that person. Different times, different places, but all near the old pontoon bridge. Some were by the river, some in alleys, some in front of that house. Each photo was dated, from December 1992 to March 1993.

Until March 9, 1993. The night Ah Zhen died.

In the photo, the person is standing in the doorway of that room. The door is open, letting in a dim, yellowish light that shines through like an eye in the darkness. His face is half-lit and half-shadowed, but finally, it becomes clear.

Jiang Bo stared at that face.

He had a square face, thick eyebrows, and a gloomy gaze. His lips curled downwards, carrying a barely perceptible, cold smile. The wrinkles around his eyes and his nasolabial folds were deep, as if etched by a knife.

He had seen this face before.

Where?

He remembered.

In Tung Chee-hwa's file, there's that black-and-white photo of him in a police uniform, standing in front of the police station, smiling brightly.

Tung Chee-hwa.

Jiang Bo's hand trembled, and the photo almost fell to the ground.

Is that lame man Tung Chee-hwa?

No. Tung Chee-hwa sprained his ankle in December 1992 and was recuperating at home. He has an alibi. His wife testified, his son testified, and his hospital medical records confirm the incident.

Who is that?

A person who looks exactly like Tung Chee-hwa?

He continued scrolling down. There were a dozen more photos, all of that person. The last 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 him.

The back reads: March 10, 1993, Welfare Home.

Jiang Bo's hand stopped.

He had seen this photo before. In that iron box in Dong Zhenhua's hometown. In the basement of the Jiujiang Shipyard. Exactly the same.

But on the back of this one, there was an extra line of text:

"This child cannot be kept. But someone wants to protect him."

They cannot be kept.

Someone wants to protect him.

Who is protecting him?

Dong Zhenhua? He Wu'an? Or someone else entirely?

Jiang Bo put the photos away and continued to look through the contents of the tin box.

Below the photo is a letter. The envelope is made of kraft paper, and it has turned yellowed; there are no words on it.

He opened the envelope and took out the letter.

The letter was neatly folded, but the edges were worn, as if it had been read many times. The handwriting was messy, as if it had been written in a hurry; in some places, you could even see the pen tip tearing through the paper.

"If you see this letter, it means I am no longer here."

My name is Zheng Jianguo. In 1992, I did something wrong. I helped someone. That person asked me to follow Jiang Yizhou. I went.

Later, Jiang Yizhou died. I don't know if it was my fault. But I know I bear responsibility. Over the years, I've dreamt of Yizhou every night, dreamt of him standing by the river, looking at me. He doesn't speak, he just looks at me. I can see the blood in his eyes, I can see the wounds on his body.

That man told me to call him "Old Dong." He looked exactly like Tung Chee-hwa. But I knew he wasn't Tung Chee-hwa. Tung Chee-hwa was my friend; we joined the police force at the same time, drank together, and worked on cases together. He couldn't possibly do such a thing. His smile was sunny, not so gloomy.

Who was that person? I don't know. He never let me see his face clearly. He always wore a hat and kept his head down. But I secretly saw him once. On the ring finger of his right hand, he wore a silver ring with a "J" engraved on it. That "J" reflected the light, dazzlingly bright.

He killed many people. Xiao Mei, Ah Zhen, and others I don't know about. He took photos of them all and hid them in this room. He said it was his collection. He said these photos were proof that he was alive.

I dare not tell anyone. I am afraid of him. He is everywhere. He watches me, watches every single day I live. He knows everything I do. He knows where I am. He follows me like a shadow.

Now, I can finally speak. I know I don't have much time left. He came to me and told me to shut up. I said okay. But I wasn't resigned to it.

If you see this, please seek justice for those who have died. For Yizhou, for Xiaomei, for Azhen, for all those whose names I don't know.

And that child. The child born on March 10, 1993. He's still alive. I've seen him. He looks like Yizhou. He's in Jiangcheng, adopted by a family. I secretly went to see him; he was smiling happily. I don't know if that person knows he's alive. If they do, they won't let him go.

Please, protect him.

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

At the end of the letter, there was a line of smaller print, which seemed to have been added later:

"That person is still watching. I can feel it."

Jiang Bo held the letter, his hands trembling.

That person looked exactly like Tung Chee-hwa. But he wasn't Tung Chee-hwa.

Who is he?

Tung Chee-hwa's twin brother?

He recalled what Dong Jianping had said: "My brother is an only child, he has no brothers. I grew up with him since I was little, and I've never seen any twins."

Who is that?

A person who had plastic surgery to look like Tung Chee-hwa?

Or is it Tung Chee-hwa himself, but he has a twin brother whom even his family doesn't know?

Or perhaps that person wasn't Tung Chee-hwa at all, but just looked like him?

He recalled Dong Zhenhua's words in his letter: "They are bigger, deeper, and more terrifying than you can imagine."

Perhaps, this is the answer.

That person is a member of Organization J. He had plastic surgery to look like Tung Chee-hwa in order to mislead people and make it impossible for them to trace him.

Jiang Bo put the letter away and stood up.

The rain was still falling. His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his body, and icy cold. But he didn't feel the cold. There was a fire burning inside him, making him feel hot all over.

Zheng Xiaojun stood beside him, watching him.

"Found it?"

Jiang Bo nodded.

"Found it."

He walked up to Zheng Xiaojun and looked at him. This man in his fifties had rushed back from Fujian because of a single sentence from his adoptive father. He didn't know how long he had waited for him, or how long he had thought about it before finally deciding to come.

"Your adoptive father is a good man."

Zheng Xiaojun's eyes reddened. Tears mingled with the rain and streamed down his face.

"I know."

Jiang Bo patted his shoulder. That shoulder was very thin, and the bones felt rough to the touch.

"Thank you."

Zheng Xiaojun shook his head. He shook his head very forcefully, as if he were rejecting something.

"No need to thank me. It's what I should do. He raised me for ten years, supported my education, and taught me how to be a person. He never harmed anyone in his life, except for that one time. And he regretted it for the rest of his life."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

He will rest in peace.

Zheng Xiaojun nodded.

They got into the car and drove away from the old pontoon bridge.

In the rearview mirror, the house receded further and further away, finally disappearing into the rain. The New Year's picture, the chubby baby, the wall—all were swallowed up by the rain.

But Jiang Bo knew he wouldn't forget.

Those photos, those letters, those people's faces will all remain in his heart.

Outside the car window, the rain was still falling. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, making a monotonous screeching sound.

Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company. It was soaking wet, but it didn't bark. It just lay there, occasionally raising its head to look at him.

Jiang Bo closed his eyes.

Those images flashed through his mind one by one: the lame man, the man wearing the J ring, the man who looked like Tung Chee-hwa.

Who is he?

Where is he?

Is he still alive?

Jiang Bo didn't know.

But he knew he would find him.

No matter where he is.