Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Returning from the old pontoon bridge, Jiang Bo went straight to Liu Tong's office. The notebook was tucked into his arms; he could feel its weight even through his clothes. Not the weight of the paper, but the weight of the words. Every stroke of Lao Guan's pen felt like a knife, cutting into his heart.

Liu Tong was already investigating. He sat in front of the computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard, pages scrolling across the screen. Blue light reflected off his glasses, and his lips moved silently, as if he were reciting something. On the table sat a cup of coffee, now cold, untouched.

Jiang Bo leaned against the window and opened the notebook again. He had read through the records from 1990 to 1993, more than three years, countless times, each time discovering something new. The handwriting changed from neat to messy, from calm to uneasy, from bystander to witness. Old Guan started as just an ordinary itinerant doctor, treating sprains and bruises for a meager living. Later, he saw things he shouldn't have seen, heard things he shouldn't have heard, and he became afraid, wanting to leave. But he didn't leave; he stayed and recorded everything. Why did he record it? Was it for money? For self-protection? Or so that one day, someone would come asking?

"Found it." Liu Tong's voice was a little hoarse, as if he hadn't drunk water all day. "Guan Dahai, born in 1950. After leaving Jiangcheng in 1993, he went to Huanggang, Hubei. There he opened a small clinic in Jiangbian Town, on the banks of the Yangtze River. The clinic closed in 2010. There are no records after that."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "No record? Did they die or move away?"

Liu Tong shook his head, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. After 2010, there's no information at all. No death records, no relocation records, no bank statements, no phone number, nothing. It's like—it vanished."

Jiang Bo was silent for a moment. Then he disappeared. Like Zheng Jianguo, like Dong Jianhua, like all those who had vanished. That person came, and they disappeared. "The address? The address in Huanggang."

Liu Tong pulled up a map, zoomed in, and pointed at the screen. "Jiangbian Town, Huangzhou District, HG City, on the old street. He's run a clinic there for over ten years; everyone in the neighborhood knows him."

Jiang Bo stared at the place name. Jiangbian Town. Again, Jiangbian. Old Guan had moved from the riverside in Jiangcheng to the riverside in Huanggang. He couldn't leave the river. He couldn't leave the water, the boats, the secrets sunk to the bottom. Perhaps the river was the only thing he was familiar with; perhaps he could only sleep soundly by the river. Perhaps he was waiting, waiting for the river to wash away those secrets, or waiting for someone to come looking for him along the river one day.

"Get the car ready, we're heading to Huanggang."

The drive took four hours. Jiang Bo sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Fields, villages, and rivers flashed by, all a desolate yellow. The November sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low. Zhang Yuhang drove, occasionally glancing at him in the rearview mirror, saying nothing. Tangyuan lay on the back seat, its head resting on its front paws, its eyes half-open.

Around 3 PM, we entered Huanggang. Jiangbian Town is located on the banks of the Yangtze River, much like the old floating bridge in Jiangcheng—an old street lined with old houses, the bluestone slabs worn smooth and shiny, moss growing in the cracks. Several fishing boats dotted the riverbank, their hulls weathered, nets hanging from their bows, swaying gently in the wind. The town was quiet, not many people around. A few dogs wandered the streets, not barking at strangers, just giving them a lazy glance before walking away. The air carried the scent of the river, mixed with the fishy smell and the dampness of the earth.

Jiang Bo found Guan Dahai's clinic according to the address. It was an old two-story building; the first floor was the clinic, and the second floor was for living quarters. The door was closed, and the windows were covered in dust, the glass so dirty that it was impossible to see inside. The signboard was still there, the wood had turned black, and the lettering was blurred, but the four characters "Guan's Bone Setting" were still legible, the strokes thick and heavy, as if carved with a knife. On the wall below the signboard, there was a faded piece of GG paper, the words on it no longer legible.

Jiang Bo knocked on the door. The wooden door made a hollow sound, which seemed particularly loud on the quiet street. No one answered. He knocked again, still no one. He went around to the back, but the back door was also closed. There was rust on the doorknob, as if it hadn't been opened for a long time. The rust stretched all the way to the door panel, like a spider web.

An elderly woman came out of a nearby house. She was wearing a gray cotton-padded coat, her hair was gray, her face was deeply wrinkled, and she was carrying a vegetable basket. Seeing them, she paused, stopped, and squinted at them. "Who are you looking for?"

Jiang Bo showed his identification. "Guan Dahai. Do you know him?"

The old lady glanced at the ID, then at Jiang Bo, and nodded. There was something indescribable in her eyes—was it wariness, curiosity, or reminiscence? "I know him. Old Guan. He lived here for over ten years. He moved away in 2010. He wasn't a talkative man, but he was very kind. Whenever anyone in the neighborhood had a headache or fever, they'd go to him."

"Where did you move to?"

The old woman shook her head. She switched the shopping basket to her other hand and thought for a moment. "I don't know. He left in a hurry, without packing much. He just suddenly left one day and never came back. There are still a lot of things left in his clinic, medicine bottles, equipment, all left there. And nobody has taken care of them since."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat. "Leaving in such a hurry? Why?"

The old lady frowned, as if recalling something from a long time ago. "It seems someone came looking for him. A few days before he left, someone came to see him and talked behind closed doors for a long time. After that person left, Lao Guan started packing his things. He left a few days later. On the morning he left, I saw him carrying a small bag, standing at the door for a long time, and then he left without looking back."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. "What did that person look like?"

The old woman thought for a moment. Her brows furrowed even more, her lips pursed, and her eyes gazed into the distance, as if trying to recall a blurry face. "I didn't see clearly. She was wearing a hat, the brim pulled low, and her head was down. She walked with a slight limp. She wasn't tall, and she was thin. I can't remember anything else."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat. A limp. Again, a limp. That man had been here before. He came looking for Lao Guan. And then Lao Guan left. Like Zheng Jianguo, like Dong Jianhua, like all those who had disappeared. That man came, and they vanished. It wasn't a coincidence; someone was cleaning up the mess. Eliminating those who knew the secret, one by one.

"Liu Tong, check Guan Dahai's records from 2010. See if there's anything unusual. Anything is fine."

Liu Tong nodded and started making a phone call. His voice was very low, and it was difficult to hear what he was saying on the quiet street.

Jiang Bo walked around the building. All the windows were closed, the curtains drawn, and he couldn't see anything. One window had a broken pane of glass; he shone his phone's light inside and could only make out a table, a chair, and something hanging on the wall, but he couldn't make it out. He went to the back door, tried the handle, but it was still locked. He crouched down and examined the lock. It was an old-fashioned padlock, badly rusted, the keyhole clogged, but it still worked.

Tangyuan sniffed at the doorway and suddenly barked at it. The bark was urgent and shrill, unusually loud on the quiet street. Its fur stood on end and its tail was taut, as if telling its owner: There's something inside.

Jiang Bo stood up and went back to the front door. "Grandma, do you have a key?"

The old woman shook her head. "No. The door has been locked ever since he left. It's been over ten years, and no one has gone in. The landlord is dead too, and his son lives in another city and doesn't care about the house."

Jiang Bo looked at the door. It was wooden, old-fashioned, the door panels were rotten, the edges were blackened, and there were traces of paste left from last year's Spring Festival couplets on the door frame. He nudged the door with his shoulder, but it didn't budge. He nudged it again, and the door frame made a piercing creak, like the wood groaning. On the third push, the door opened.

A strong musty smell hit him, making him cough twice. The room was dark, the curtains were drawn, letting in very little light. Jiang Bo turned on his flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness and illuminating a scene of utter chaos.

The table, chairs, medicine cabinet, and examination bed were still there, covered in a thick layer of dust, as thick as a finger's knuckle. The medicine bottles in the cabinet were still there, some empty, some broken, with fragments scattered around. A human skeleton diagram hung on the wall, the paper yellowed, the edges curled, the skeleton in the diagram appearing particularly pale under the light. Scattered on the floor were pieces of paper, some yellowed, some moldy, and some chewed by rats.

Jiang Bo walked around the room. The clinic wasn't large and was easy to see at a glance. He went into the back room, which was the bedroom. There was a bed, a wardrobe, and a table. The bed was still covered with bedding, which was gray and its original color was indistinguishable. The wardrobe door was open, and several old clothes, already moldy, were hanging inside. On the table were a lamp, a water glass, and a calendar.

He picked up the calendar. The 2010 calendar. The paper was yellowed and brittle, the edges curled. He turned to the month Guan Dahai left—May. A few lines were written on the calendar, the handwriting messy and crooked, as if the writer's hand was trembling, or as if it were written in a hurry:

"May 3rd. Someone came looking for me. He came. He was still the same, unchanged. He still called me Lao Guan. He said it had been a long time."

"May 4th. He said, it's time to go. I can't stay here anymore. He said, some things are better left unsaid. He said, you're a smart person, you know what to do."

"May 6th. Gone. Never to return. I'm sorry to those people for the rest of my life. But I have no choice."

Jiang Bo stared at those lines of text, his hands trembling. That man had arrived. He told Lao Guan to leave. Lao Guan left. He told Zheng Jianguo to shut up, and Zheng Jianguo shut up. He told Dong Jianhua to suppress the case, and Dong Jianhua suppressed it. He told those people to disappear, and those people disappeared. Who exactly was he? How could he make everyone listen to him? Was it money? Power? Or fear?

He put down the calendar and opened the drawer. The drawer was messy, containing old newspapers, empty medicine boxes, several pens, and a few photos. He picked up the photos.

The first picture shows two people. A young man, wearing a white coat, stands at the clinic entrance, smiling憨厚ly. It's Old Guan, the Old Guan from thirty years ago, with black hair, no wrinkles, and bright eyes. Next to him stands another person, wearing a hat, head down, face obscured. But Jiang Bo recognizes that person's posture—legs apart, left hand in pocket, shoulder slightly tilted to the right. Exactly the same as the person standing at Ah Zhen's door.

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. Lao Guan had taken a photo with that man. They knew each other. They stood side by side at the clinic entrance, like friends. That man had been to Lao Guan's clinic more than once. Had he asked Lao Guan to treat his injuries? Or was he just there to chat? Lao Guan knew who he was. He had seen his face, heard his voice, and knew his name. But he dared not say.

He picked up the second photo. It was a picture of the riverbank. The old pontoon bridge, that house, that wall. In the photo, the house was still intact, not collapsed, the roof tiles were neatly arranged, and the door was closed. Standing in the doorway was Ah Zhen. She was heavily pregnant, her hand on the doorframe, a smile on her face. She was wearing a floral blouse, her hair in two braids, and her smile was gentle. Standing beside her was a man, wearing a hat, his head bowed. He stood next to Ah Zhen, very close to her, like a friend, like a neighbor, like nothing at all.

Jiang Bo stared at the photograph, a strange feeling welling up inside him. That man knew Ah Zhen. He stood beside her, spoke to her, and perhaps even helped her with something. Ah Zhen trusted him, which was why she let him stand by her side. Then he stood at the door, watching her being murdered. He stood there, watching Ding Laosan strangle her, watching blood trickle from her lips, watching her eyes slowly close. He didn't move.

He picked up the third picture. It showed several people standing by the river. There was Lao Guan, Zheng Jianguo, Dong Jianhua, and that other man. They were all dressed in plain clothes, standing by the river, seemingly chatting, or perhaps waiting for something. Zheng Jianguo was smiling, Dong Jianhua was smiling, and Lao Guan was smiling too. That other man wasn't smiling; he had his head down, looking at the river.

The back reads: "1992, Old Floating Bridge." The handwriting is Lao Guan's, each stroke carefully written with great force.

Jiang Bo gripped his hand tighter. They knew each other. Lao Guan, Zheng Jianguo, Dong Jianhua, and that other man. They were together, by the river, in 1992. That was the year his father disappeared. That was the year those women started disappearing. What were they doing by the river? What were they waiting for? What were they discussing? Was that man their leader? Or one of their accomplices?

He carefully put the photos away and continued rummaging through the drawer. At the very back, there was an envelope, made of yellowed kraft paper. He opened it; inside was a letter. The handwriting was very messy, as if the writer's hand was trembling, or as if the writer was very old and could no longer hold the pen steadily:

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

My name is Guan Dahai. From 1992 to 1993, I ran a clinic in the old floating bridge area. I met all those people there.

I didn't know that man's name. He told me to call him "Old Guan." He shared my last name. He gave me a lot of money and told me not to say anything. Every time he came, he wore a hat and kept his head down. But one time, he took off his hat. I saw his face.

He looks exactly like Tung Chee-hwa. But I know he's not Tung Chee-hwa. Tung Chee-hwa's eyes are bright, this man's eyes are dark. Tung Chee-hwa's smile is beautiful, this man never smiles.

He killed many people. Those missing women—he killed them all. Or he had them killed. I saw it, but I dared not speak. I was afraid of him. He was everywhere.

He came here. In 2010, he came to me and told me to leave. He said he would kill me if I dared to tell anyone. As he left, he looked back at me. I still remember that look.

I'm leaving now. These photos and these records will remain here. If anyone finds them, they'll know the truth.

The man wore a silver ring engraved with the letter J on his right ring finger. He walked normally, but he pretended to limp. He had been doing it for many years, and he acted as if it were the real thing. Why did he pretend to limp? I don't know. Maybe it was to make people think he was Tung Chee-hwa. Maybe it was to divert suspicion to others.

Who is he? I don't know. But he looks exactly like Tung Chee-hwa. They must be brothers, or—the same person?

Lao Guan. May 6, 2010.

At the end of the letter, there was a line of smaller print, seemingly added later; the handwriting was fainter and lighter:

"I've wronged those people in my life. I saw it all, but I did nothing about it."

Jiang Bo held the letter, standing motionless in the dimly lit room.

That man came here. He told Lao Guan to leave. Lao Guan left. Where did Lao Guan go? Is he still alive? Could he have disappeared like Zheng Jianguo, like Dong Jianhua?

He recalled Lao Guan's words: "He killed many people. Those missing women, he killed them all, or he had them killed by others."

Or perhaps he ordered them killed. He had them killed. He stood at the door watching. Then he turned and left. He never did it himself. He had others do it. He had others follow him, kill him, suppress cases, and silence him. He was like a shadow, a ghost, someone always standing in the shadows.

"Liu Tong," he called out, his voice echoing in the empty room.

Liu Tong came in from outside, holding her phone. "Yes."

"Check Guan Dahai's whereabouts after 2010. Train tickets, bus tickets, hotel records, anything. Find him. I need to see him alive or dead."

Liu Tong nodded and started making phone calls again.

Jiang Bo walked out of the building and stood by the river. The river flowed slowly, like Jiangcheng, like everywhere else. It knew everything, yet said nothing. It had witnessed countless people, countless events, countless secrets. Those who sank to the bottom of the river, those pieces of evidence that disappeared into the water, those who never returned.

Tangyuan walked over and rubbed against his leg.

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur trembled slightly in the wind, its eyes sparkling as it looked at him, as if asking: Did you find it?

"Tangyuan, that person, he's still here. He's still alive. He's still watching from somewhere."

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

Jiang Bo stood up and walked back. Reaching the car, he glanced back at the building. The two-story building was dusty and drab, its doors and windows tightly shut, like a person asleep with their eyes closed, unwilling to wake up.

Old Guan disappeared from here. He took his secrets, his fears, and everyone he had wronged and wronged in his life.

The car started and drove away from Jiangbian Town. In the rearview mirror, the building grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until it became a dot and disappeared into the hazy sky.

But Jiang Bo knew that Lao Guan was still alive. He was somewhere, alive or dead. His secret remained, waiting for someone to find it.