Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

An old pontoon bridge. Another old pontoon bridge.

Standing before the ruins, Jiang Bo felt a surge of indescribable emotion. This place was like a whirlpool, drawing in everyone's fate. Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, Xiu Ying, his father, He Wu'an, Zheng Jianguo, Dong Jianhua, and that lame man. They had all lived here, struggled, loved, hated, and then died here, or vanished from here, like drops of water falling into a river, silently and without a trace.

A breeze blew by, carrying the fishy smell of the river and the rust of metal. The November wind was already quite chilly, making his clothes flutter loudly. He squinted, looking at the ruins before him. Bricks and rubble were piled up everywhere, and the weeds, half a person's height, swayed in the wind, rustling softly. The sound was like countless hands whispering secrets, or countless mouths sighing. The bulldozers stood there, rusted and worn, like sleeping beasts, ready to awaken at any moment and crush even the last traces of their power.

He remembered what Lao He had said. Lao Guan's clinic wasn't far from that room. That room—where Ah Zhen had lived, where Ding Laosan had committed murder, where the lame man had stood, where He Wu'an had hidden the letter, where Dong Jianhua had met Dong Zhenhua. All the clues pointed to the same place.

He stood before the crumbling wall of the house, looking around. The wall was still there, crooked and twisted, and the New Year's picture on it was still there, a chubby baby holding a fish, smiling eerily. Sunlight shone on that face, distorting the smile, as if mocking something, or perhaps telling a story.

To the east was a row of houses, half-demolished, their roofs collapsed, the walls still standing, like a row of toothless mouths, dark and hollow, exuding an aura of decay. Some walls still bore faded, white posters from the 1990s, the lettering blurred. To the west was an open space, piled with construction debris: broken bricks, rotten tiles, rusted steel bars, and some tattered clothes and shoes, blackened by rainwater. To the south was the river, its water shimmering in the sunlight, flowing slowly, just as it had thirty years ago, just as it had a hundred years ago.

"Liu Tong, where exactly is Lao Guan's clinic located?" Jiang Bo's voice was a little hoarse, as if it had been dried by the wind.

Liu Tong opened his phone and pulled up an old map. The screen's light illuminated his face, making his weariness even more apparent. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were chapped, but he seemed to be in good spirits. "Old He said it's the third house on the east side of that building. Back in 1993, it was a row of bungalows, and Old Guan rented one of them as a clinic."

Jiang Bo walked eastward. The broken bricks under his feet creaked and crunched, each step making a sound. Wild grass scratched his trouser legs, and dew soaked his shoes.

The first room was reduced to half a wall. There was still half a window in the wall, its frame rusted, the glass shattered, a dark void like a blind eye. He stood there and peered inside; there was nothing there, only a pile of broken bricks and withered grass.

The second house still had its foundation, but it was overgrown with weeds taller than a person. He parted the weeds and went inside. He stepped on something, looked down, and saw a broken bowl, shattered into pieces, buried in the ground. He squatted down, picked up a piece, looked at it, and then put it down again.

The third room. It was also ruins, but the things scattered on the ground were different. Broken glass, fragments of medicine bottles, white and brown, some still discernible in shape. There was also a rusty iron plaque, half-buried in the soil, with only one corner showing.

Jiang Bo squatted down, parted the weeds, and picked up the iron plaque. It wasn't large, about the size of a palm, with a few characters on it, rusted beyond recognition. He wiped it with his sleeve, revealing several dents beneath the rust. He examined it against the light for a long time, and the four characters "Guan's Bone Setting" vaguely appeared. The strokes were thick, as if carved with iron nails, crooked and uneven, but still legible.

Old Guan's clinic. This is it.

He stood up and looked around. The clinic was well-hidden, nestled among several dilapidated houses, making it difficult to spot from the outside. But standing at the entrance, he could see the building, the riverbank, and the road leading to it. He could see everything from inside the clinic: who passed by, who went into the building, and what they did by the river. Everything was crystal clear.

Old Guan's choice of this place was no accident. He was here, watching those people. Watching them come, watching them leave, watching them get hurt, watching them kill. He was like a shadow, hidden in the dark, seeing everything and remembering it all.

Jiang Bo walked into the ruins, squatted down, and began rummaging through the rubble. Broken bricks, rotten wood, moldy pieces of cloth, rusty nails. He searched carefully, turning over every brick to examine it, picking up every tile to look at it. His finger was cut by a shard of glass, and blood seeped out, but he didn't pay attention, wiping it on his trouser leg and continuing to search.

Tangyuan was also sniffing around, its nose pressed against the ground, sniffing here and there. Its tail was upright, its ears were perked up, and it made a low whimpering sound in its throat, as if telling its owner: There's something here.

After searching for more than half an hour, his hand touched something hard in the rubble, square and not like a brick. He brushed away the broken bricks and dirt to reveal a plastic cover. It was a notebook, palm-sized, with a blue cover that had faded to grayish-white, the edges curled up, and it looked like it would crumble at the slightest touch.

He carefully picked it up and blew off the dust. The dust flew up, making him cough twice. The words on the cover were illegible; only a few dents were vaguely visible. He turned to the first page.

The paper was yellowed, the edges were curled, and some parts were soaked in water, making the writing blurry, like blobs of ink. But some parts were still legible. The penmanship was strong, each stroke deliberate, and in some places the paper was even torn.

The first page has a date written on it: January 3, 1990. Below it is a line of text: "Moved to the old pontoon bridge today. It's quiet here, suitable for recuperation."

Recuperating? Old Guan is sick? What kind of sickness?

Jiang Bo continued flipping through the pages. The first few pages were filled with everyday trivia: what medicine he bought, how much it cost, what patients he saw. The handwriting was neat and tidy, each stroke deliberate, as if afraid someone wouldn't understand. From January 1990 to June 1992, he kept these records for over two years, mostly minor injuries and illnesses, bruises and sprains—very commonplace. Headaches, fevers, sprains, broken arms and legs. Patients came, were treated, left, money was collected, and a note was made. Days passed by like this.

Turning to July 1992, the content had changed. The handwriting was still neat, but it was written more densely than before, and the line spacing was narrower, as if there was too much to remember.

"July 3rd. A man came in today. His surname is Zheng, he's a policeman, and he said he twisted his ankle. I took a look, and it wasn't just a twist, it was a fracture. I asked him how he got hurt, and he said he fell while on a case. I didn't think he was telling the truth. But he paid a lot of money, so I didn't ask any more questions. I set his bone and put a splint on him. He was sweating profusely from the pain, but he didn't utter a sound. He's a tough guy."

Jiang Bo paused for a moment. His surname was Zheng, a policeman, with a broken leg. Zheng Jianguo. He was injured once before, in July 1992? Not December?

He continued scrolling down.

"July 15th. The man surnamed Zheng came again. When he changed the dressing, he was talking to someone. That person stood at the door and didn't come in. He was wearing a hat, the brim pulled down low, so I couldn't see his face. I didn't hear what they were saying, but the man surnamed Zheng called him 'Old Dong'. Old Dong stood there for a while, then left. He walked normally, without a limp."

Old Dong. Another one surnamed Dong. Walks normally, no limp. Is it Tung Chee-hwa? Or Tung Chun-hua? Or someone else entirely?

"August 2nd. A young man came in today. He was also surnamed Dong and was also a policeman. He said his foot hurt and asked me to take a look. I looked and there was no injury. He said it might be because he had been walking too much. I prescribed him some medicine and told him to go home and soak his feet. When he paid, I noticed that he had calluses on his hands, very thick, like he had been holding a gun for many years."

Two men surnamed Dong. One injured, one uninjured. One called himself Lao Dong, the other also surnamed Dong. One walked normally, the other didn't say anything. Who are they? Brothers? Colleagues? Or the same person?

Jiang Bo continued flipping through the pages. The following months were filled with records of ordinary patients: a construction worker who broke his leg, an elderly woman who twisted her back, a fisherman who pricked his hand with a fishhook. Ordinary days, ordinary people. Until October, another name appeared.

"October 5th. A guy came today and told me to call him Lao Guan. I said my surname is also Guan. He laughed and said we're from the same clan. He asked me how long I could stay here, and I said I didn't know. He said if someone came looking for me and asked who I was, I shouldn't say anything. He gave me some money. A lot of money, enough for me to live on for several months."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. This man, also surnamed Guan? He told Lao Guan not to say anything? Who is he? Why is he doing this? Was the money he gave Lao Guan hush money or protection money?

He continued flipping through the pages. November, December. The records grew denser, the handwriting more illegible, as if the writer was growing increasingly uneasy.

"December 10th. The man surnamed Zheng came again. His foot was injured again, in the same spot. When asked how he hurt it, he wouldn't say. We set his bones and put a splint on him. He was sweating profusely from the pain, but he didn't utter a sound. As he was leaving, he asked me if I would tell anyone if they asked. I said no. He glanced at me but didn't say anything."

December 10th. Zheng Jianguo was injured again. It was the same day he went to the hospital for an X-ray. Did he come to see Lao Guan? Was he still too afraid to go back to the hospital because the treatment wasn't effective? He asked Lao Guan if he would tell anyone. What was he afraid of? Who was he afraid of?

"December 15th. The young man surnamed Dong came. He asked me if a policeman surnamed Zheng had come to see me. I said yes. He asked when, and I said a few days ago. He asked how badly I was injured, and I said I had a fracture. He didn't say anything, stood there for a while, and then left. As he left, I saw his hand was shaking."

Jiang Bo stared at the words, his heart pounding. The young man surnamed Dong was investigating Zheng Jianguo. Who was he? Dong Jianhua? Or Dong Zhenhua? Or that lame man? His hands trembled. Why? Was it nervousness? Anger? Or fear?

"December 18th. Two people came today. One surnamed Zheng, and the other surnamed Dong. I didn't recognize the one surnamed Dong; he hadn't come before. He was wearing a hat, with the brim pulled low. They talked for a long time behind closed doors. I heard the one surnamed Zheng say 'that person,' and the one surnamed Dong say 'can't say.' Later they left. The one surnamed Dong walked with a slight limp."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. The man surnamed Dong walked with a limp. That limping man. He's here. He came with Zheng Jianguo. What did they say? Who is that man? What did Zheng Jianguo call him? What did he call Zheng Jianguo?

"December 20th. Something happened today. A lot of police came to the riverbank, saying someone had fallen into the river. I went out to see what was happening and saw them pulling a police uniform out of the water, with blood on it. A man surnamed Zheng was standing on the bank, his face very pale. A man surnamed Dong was also there, wearing a hat, so I couldn't see his face. Later, the police all left, but Zheng was still standing there. I asked him what happened, but he didn't say anything. He stood there for a long time, and only left when it got dark."

December 20th. The day his father disappeared. Zheng Jianguo stood there, his face pale. The limping man was there too. He stood there, watching them pull the police uniform and blood from the water. Then he turned and left. Just like standing at Ah Zhen's door, he turned and left. He was always watching, always turning away. He never laid a hand on anyone, never left a trace. He was like a shadow, a ghost.

Jiang Bo held the notebook, his hands trembling. Old Guan had written it all down. He saw it, heard it, and wrote it all down. He was a witness to the case. He knew everything.

He continued flipping through the pages. The records became increasingly sparse, the handwriting more and more illegible, and in some places they were even illegible, as if the writer had run out of energy.

"December 25th. The man surnamed Zheng came again. When he was changing my dressing, he asked me if I would tell anyone if they asked. I said no. He said what if someone pressured me. I didn't say anything. He said, if someone pressured you, just say you don't know. I said okay. When he left, he left a pack of cigarettes on the table. I smoked one, it was very bitter."

"January 3rd. That young man surnamed Dong came again. He asked me if I had seen a policeman surnamed Jiang. I said no. He didn't say anything, stood there for a while, and then left. As he left, he looked back at me. I still remember that look to this day."

"March 10th. Something happened in that room today. A lot of police came and said someone had died. I went out to see what was going on and saw blood on the floor, a lot of blood. The man surnamed Zheng was there too, his face was still so pale. The man surnamed Dong was there too, still wearing his hat. Later the police left, and the room was sealed off. There was a seal on the door."

March 10th. The day after Ah Zhen died. The day after Ding Laosan reported the crime. The lame man came again. He stood there, watching the police take the bloodstains away from the house. Then he turned and left. He always did that.

"March 15th. That young man surnamed Dong came to see me. He asked me what I saw that night. I said I didn't see anything. He glanced at me and didn't say anything. As he left, he said, 'Be careful.' I don't know if he was threatening me or warning me."

"April 2nd. I heard today that He Wu'an is dead. He fell into the river. I don't believe it. That man is a very good swimmer, how could he fall into the river? He came to my place, I saw his body, he's as strong as an ox. He couldn't have drowned."

Jiang Bo paused for a moment. He Wu'an's "death." Old Guan didn't believe it. He knew He Wu'an wasn't dead. He knew it was fake. He had met He Wu'an and knew what kind of person he was.

"May 10th. The man surnamed Zheng came. He asked me if I had ever thought about leaving. I said I had. He said then go. I asked where to, and he said the farther the better. He said let's pretend what happened here never happened. I said okay. When he left, he stood at the door and looked back at me. That look was like a farewell."

"June 1st. That young man surnamed Dong came again. He asked me if I remembered those people. I said I didn't. He smiled and said that was good. When he left, he left a stack of money on the table. I didn't count it, but it was very thick. His hands were very white, very clean, and without calluses."

「6月15日。今天我走了。那些东西我带不走，留在这里。如果有人找到，就知道真相了。老关。1993年6月15日。」

On the last page, the handwriting was faint, as if the writer was exhausted and could barely hold the pen. The words were crooked, but each one was written with great effort.

Jiang Bo held the notebook, standing motionless in the ruins.

A breeze rustled the pages. Sunlight shone on his face, almost blinding. He squinted at the crumbling walls of the room. Old Guan was gone. He left this notebook, those records, the secrets of those people. He left, went to Huanggang. He carried those secrets with him for thirty years. Is he still alive? Does he still remember these things? Is he willing to speak?

Tangyuan walked over and rubbed against his leg. Its eyes sparkled as it looked at him, as if asking: Did you find it?

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming golden in the sunlight.

"Tangyuan, Lao Guan knows everything."

Tangyuan cried out. That cry echoed across the empty ruins.

Jiang Bo stood up and put the notebook away. He also picked up the metal plate, wrapped it in a cloth, and put it in his bag.

"Liu Tong, find out Guan Dahai's whereabouts. He went to Huanggang after 1993. I need to find him."

Liu Tong nodded and started making a phone call.

Jiang Bo turned and walked out. Reaching his car, he glanced back at the room. The wall was still there, crooked and uneven. The New Year's picture was still there, the chubby baby holding a fish, smiling eerily. Old Guan's clinic was right next door. He had watched it all happen, watched those people come and go, watched them get hurt, watched them kill, watched them disappear. And then he left.

The car started and drove away from the old pontoon bridge.

In the rearview mirror, the house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until it became a dot and disappeared into the hazy sky.

But Jiang Bo knew he would return. There were still too many secrets buried beneath the ruins, waiting for him.