Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

As dawn broke, Jiang Bo finally looked up from the files.

He had reviewed most of the 347 cases. His eyes were blurry, his neck was stiff, his shoulders felt like they had been carrying stones all day, and the joints in his fingers ached from holding paper for so long. But he couldn't care less about any of that. Those names, those dates, those unresolved conclusions were like needles pricking his brain, making him restless and unable to sit or lie down.

Liu Tong was already asleep, slumped over the table. His face was pressed against a file, his glasses askew, a red mark from the frame pressing against his nose, and a small dribble of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, staining the yellowed pages with a dark hue. His breathing was heavy and even, like a child's. He had been staying up too many nights with Jiang Bo these past few days; his eye sockets were sunken, and his cheekbones were prominent.

Tangyuan was also asleep, lying at Jiang Bo's feet with its head resting on its front paws. Its ears twitched occasionally, as if it had heard something in its dream. Its belly rose and fell, and its breathing was steady.

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the window.

The sun rose. Golden sunlight shone on the river, shattering into countless tiny mirrors that shimmered. The river flowed slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. It knew everything, yet said nothing. It had seen all the secrets buried at the bottom of the river, all the evidence washed away by the current, all the people who would never return, but it would not speak.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. The smoke drifted in the morning light, like those who had disappeared, like those who would never return. He thought of his father. He thought of Ah Zhen. He thought of Xiao Mei. He thought of those who didn't even have names. They disappeared into this city, disappeared into this river, disappeared into these yellowed files.

He remembered Tung Chee-hwa's signature. That name appeared on the last page of every case file, like a period, bringing all the questions to a close. Those cases ended with him. No one investigated further, no one questioned anymore, no one lit a lamp for those who had disappeared. The families came, cried, waited, and then left in despair. Their loved ones simply vanished from the world, without even a proper explanation.

Jiang Bo stubbed out his cigarette and turned around.

Liu Tong was still asleep. He didn't want to wake him. He walked to the table, picked up the arson case file, and flipped through it again. The paper rustled in his hands, the edges worn even more.

Guo Jianshe. Riverside restaurant. Fire. June 15, 1993.

He recalled Guo Jianjun's words: "My dad said that Ding Laosan saved his life." At that time, Guo Jianjun was just a child, sitting on the doorstep listening to his father say things he couldn't understand. He didn't know how many secrets were hidden in those words, how many lives were at stake.

Ding Laosan saved Guo Jianshe's life. Guo Jianshe raised Ding Laosan's son. Ding Laosan killed Azhen, and Guo Jianshe said nothing. What kind of deal was there between them? Was that person standing at the door waiting for some kind of deal? Was he also waiting for these people to cover for each other, to hide all their sins in the river?

He put down the case file and picked up Gao Deming's case. That scoundrel, the one who said he knew a secret that would make him rich. What did he know? What did he see? Then he disappeared. Like a drop of water falling into the Yangtze River, leaving not even a ripple. His neighbors waited for him for a long time, waiting for him to come back to pay the rent, waiting for him to come back to drink together, but he never came back.

Jiang Bo stacked the case files one by one. Zhang Jianguo, Li Mei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiuying, Liu Xiaoqin, Sun Xiaomei, Jiang Yizhou, He Wuan, Azhen, Xiaomei, Gao Deming. Twelve case files, twelve people. Their names were written on the covers, some neatly, some hastily, but all the same—no one mentioned them anymore.

He picked up a pen, wrote their names on the whiteboard, and then drew a line connecting them to the same name: Tung Chee-hwa.

Tung Chee-hwa was the investigator for these cases. He handled twelve missing persons cases all by himself. All twelve cases were never solved. Was it a coincidence? Or was it intentional? He remembered Tung Chee-hwa's words in his letter: "I know I was wrong, but it's too late." He knew he was wrong. He knew what he had done. He helped that person suppress these cases, letting those who died sink to the bottom of the river forever. Then he died, taking his secret with him.

Liu Tong stirred and looked up. His face was marked with the traces of the case files, red like a scar, stretching from his forehead to his cheek. He rubbed his eyes, saw Jiang Bo standing in front of the whiteboard, and paused in surprise.

"Polish Sir, you didn't sleep all night?"

Jiang Bo shook his head.

"I can't sleep. You keep sleeping."

Liu Tong sat up and put on his glasses. He touched the red mark on his face with his fingers and frowned.

"I'm not sleeping anymore. What did you find out?"

Jiang Bo pointed to the names on the whiteboard.

"All twelve people were involved, all arranged by Tung Chee-hwa. It all just fizzled out."

Liu Tong walked over and looked at the names. His gaze moved from the first to the last, and then back again.

"You mean, Tung Chee-hwa deliberately suppressed these cases?"

Jiang Bo didn't answer. He picked up Gao Deming's file and turned to the last page. In the blank space of that page, the small print was still there, very faint, as if it didn't want anyone to see it.

"This person claimed to know a secret that would make him rich. Then he disappeared."

Liu Tong squinted as he looked at the page.

"What secret does he know?"

Jiang Bo shook his head.

"I don't know. But it's definitely related to that person. Maybe he saw something he shouldn't have seen, or heard something he shouldn't have heard."

Liu Tong was silent for a while. He picked up the file, flipped to the front, and read what Gao Deming's neighbor had said: "He said he knew a big secret and was going to get rich. I asked him what the secret was, but he wouldn't tell, saying he couldn't tell anyone, or he'd be dead." Or he'd be dead. He really was dead.

"Bo Sir, I have an idea." Liu Tong's voice was very soft, as if he was testing something.

"explain."

"Tung Chee-hwa handled and concluded these cases all by himself; no one else was involved. What does this indicate?"

Jiang Bo looked at him.

"This means he did it on purpose."

Liu Tong nodded. He tapped his fingers on the table, one tap at a time, as if counting something.

"Yes. He did it on purpose. But why did he do it? Was he forced, or did he do it voluntarily? Did that person threaten him with something?"

Jiang Bo walked to the window. The sunlight shone on his face, somewhat dazzling. He squinted, looking at the river in the distance.

"Perhaps both. In his letter, he said he did something wrong. He regretted it. But what good is regret? Can a dead person come back to life? Can those who have gone missing ever return?"

Liu Tong's voice was somewhat harsh.

"It's no use. But he left evidence. Those photos, that letter, they all tell us the truth. At least he did that."

Jiang Bo turned around.

"He did it. But that's not enough. We need to find that person before we're done."

Liu Tong fell silent.

Tangyuan woke up, stood up, stretched, stretched its front legs forward, and stuck its butt out high. Then it walked over to Jiang Bo, rubbed against his leg, looked up at him with bright eyes, and wagged its tail gently.

Jiang Bo squatted down and stroked its head.

"Come on, let me take you to eat."

The canteen wasn't crowded. Only a few police officers on night shift were eating breakfast; some were dozing off, others were scrolling through their phones. The air was filled with the smell of porridge and pickled vegetables, along with a hint of disinfectant. Jiang Bo got two portions of rice, one for himself and one for Tangyuan. Tangyuan ate quickly, swallowing it in a few bites, licking the bowl noisily with her tongue, then looked up at him, her tail wagging like a windmill.

Jiang Bo got it another serving. After it finished eating, it lay down contentedly, resting its head on its front paws and squinting its eyes.

Jiang Bo barely ate anything. He held his rice bowl, staring blankly at the sky outside the window. The sky was blue, the clouds were white, and the sun was shining brightly. But his heart was filled with gloom. The names in those case files, the faces of those people, kept swirling in his mind, unable to stop.

Back in his office, Liu Tong was already going through the files. He flipped through them slowly and carefully, looking at every page and reading every word. His brow was furrowed, and his lips were pursed, as if he were enduring something. His fingers slowly traced across the pages, as if caressing the handwriting, the words written by someone thirty years ago.

"Polish Sir, please take a look at this."

Jiang Bo walked over.

Liu Tong pointed to a page in Gao Deming's file. It was the last page of the interrogation record. At the bottom of the page, there was a line of small characters written in the blank space. The characters were very faint, as if someone had deliberately written them very lightly, so faint that they were almost invisible.

He said he was going to find Lao Guan.

Jiang Bo stared at the line of text, his heart skipping a beat. He picked up the file and examined it closely. The words were crooked and illegible, the handwriting different from Dong Jianhua's—more hasty and hurried, as if written by someone else in a rush, perhaps in just two or three seconds. The ink was very faint, perhaps because the pen was almost out of ink, or perhaps it was deliberately used very lightly.

Old Guan? Who?

He picked up the magnifying glass and examined the line of writing closely. The handwriting was distinctive—the writer habitually wrote long left-falling strokes and short right-falling strokes, with horizontal strokes always slanting upwards. He had seen this style before. In another file, on another page. He put down the magnifying glass, went to the table, and began flipping through the pile of files.

He found it. In Sun Xiaomei's case, there was also a line of small print on the last page: "Someone saw her talking to Lao Guan."

The handwriting was the same, the same faint, and the same crooked.

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

Old Guan. This person appeared in both cases. Gao Deming said he was going to find him, and then disappeared. Xiao Mei was seen talking to him, and then she also disappeared.

"Who is Lao Guan?" Liu Tong asked.

Jiang Bo shook his head. He placed the two files side by side on the table and looked at the two lines of writing. The same left-falling stroke, the same right-falling stroke, the same horizontal stroke. It was written by the same person.

"I don't know. But Gao Deming said he was going to find him. Then he disappeared. Xiao Mei talked to him, and then she disappeared too. This Lao Guan might be the key."

Liu Tong nodded. He picked up the two files and flipped through them.

"These two lines of text were not written by Tung Chee-hwa. They were written by someone else."

Jiang Bo nodded.

"Who is it?"

Jiang Bo picked up the phone and called Lao He.

The phone rang for a long time before being answered. Old He's voice was a little hoarse, as if he had just woken up, or as if he hadn't slept all night.

"Xiao Jiang?"

"Uncle He, do you know someone named Lao Guan? He was in Jiangcheng in 1993."

Old He was silent for a while. There was a sound of a chair being moved on the other end of the phone, as if he had sat up.

"Old Guan? Someone surnamed Guan?"

"Yes. Gao Deming said he was going to find him, and then he disappeared. Xiao Mei also had contact with him."

Old He remained silent for a while. The silence was long, so long that Jiang Bo thought the call had been disconnected. Then he spoke, his voice hesitant, as if recalling something from a long time ago.

"I know a man surnamed Guan. Guan Dahai. Nicknamed Lao Guan. He was a traveling doctor who specialized in treating sprains and bruises. He used to run a clinic near the old pontoon bridge, not far from that building. I don't know where he went after that."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

The old pontoon bridge. Next to that house.

"Who does he treat?"

Old He thought for a moment. His voice became even lower, as if he were telling a secret that he couldn't let others hear.

"He sees all sorts of people. But the people he sees most often are those who are injured but afraid to go to a proper hospital. Thugs, thugs, and—police officers."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat.

"Police? What police?"

Old He's voice went even lower, so low it was almost inaudible.

"Those police officers who are injured but can't let anyone know."

Jiang Bo hung up the phone and stood there, motionless.

Old Guan. A traveling doctor. He specializes in treating people who are injured but afraid to go to regular hospitals. Those police officers, they're afraid to let anyone know they're injured. Why? Because those injuries were sustained in places that can't be seen in the light of day. They were sustained while being followed. They were sustained while beating people. They were sustained while killing people.

In December 1992, Zheng Jianguo fractured his foot. He said he fell while handling a case. But he didn't dare go to a regular hospital. Who did he go to? Lao Guan? He lived in Lao Fuqiao, just steps away from Lao Guan's clinic.

Tung Chee-hwa also sprained his ankle. He didn't dare go to a proper hospital. Did he go to see Lao Guan too? His leave slip said he was resting at home, but who knows if he was really at home?

That man, the one with the limp, his foot was also injured. Did he also go to see Lao Guan?

Old Guan knew everything. He knew how those people got their injuries. He knew what those people were doing. He knew where the missing people had gone. He knew everything. He treated their wounds, listened to them talk, and watched them come and go. He had seen the lame man, Zheng Jianguo, Dong Jianhua, and perhaps even his father. He had seen their faces, heard their voices, and knew the secrets hidden beneath their skin.

"Liu Tong, check where Guan Dahai went after 1993. Also, did he leave any records? The clinic's address, the patient list, anything. Even a prescription, a single medicine prescription, you need to find it."

Liu Tong nodded.

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

Old Guan. This man might be the last clue. He lived on the fringes of that era, healing the wounds of those who couldn't stand the light of day. He knew more than anyone else. But is he still alive? Does he remember those things? Is he willing to talk about them?

Tangyuan walked over and rubbed against his leg.

He squatted down and stroked its head.

"Tangyuan, we're almost there!"

Tangyuan called out.

That shout echoed in the empty office.

Jiang Bo stood up and picked up his coat.

"Let's go to the old pontoon bridge."