Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo didn't sleep a wink after returning from Huanggang. The photos lay spread out on the table—three photos, three people. Old Guan stood at the clinic entrance, smiling憨厚ly; the person next to him had his head down, his hat pulled low, revealing only half his chin and one ear. Ah Zhen stood at the doorway of that room, heavily pregnant, her hand on the doorframe, a smile on her face; the person next to her stood very close, so close that she could see his shadow falling on her, like a guardian, or perhaps a watcher. Several people stood by the river: Old Guan, Zheng Jianguo, Dong Jianhua, and that other person, shoulder to shoulder, like friends, like colleagues, like people who had done something unspeakable together.

Jiang Bo picked up the group photo, walked to the window, and examined it closely under the light. The office was quiet at four in the morning, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, like countless flies buzzing around his ears. He held the photo very close, his eyes almost touching it, his nose nearly brushing the paper. Zheng Jianguo was smiling, his lips upturned, revealing a few teeth, his eyes narrowed into slits—a relaxed smile, like someone without a care in the world. Dong Jianhua was also smiling, a sunny, upright smile, just like in the photo in his file, his lips upturned, his eyes bright, like sunlight reflecting off the river. Old Guan was also smiling, a simple, honest smile, like an ordinary itinerant doctor, an ordinary person, his mouth wide open, revealing slightly crooked teeth. That man wasn't smiling. He was looking down at the river, his hat pulled low, only his nose and chin visible. That nose was exactly like Dong Jianhua's—high and straight. His chin was exactly the same as Tung Chee-hwa's—square, with a shallow groove.

He stood next to Tung Chee-hwa, the two of them shoulder to shoulder. Same height, same build, same shoulder width, same neck length. Only Tung Chee-hwa was smiling, the other wasn't. One radiant, one melancholic. One bright, one dark. One alive, one dead? Or both dead? Or were there never two people, only one person, two sides of one face? One side facing the light, the other turned away from the light.

Tangyuan lay asleep at his feet. It had run a long way today, from the old pontoon bridge to the Municipal Bureau, from the Municipal Bureau to Huanggang, and back from Huanggang, a round trip of several hundred kilometers. It was tired, its breathing was heavy, its belly heaving, and it would occasionally move its legs, as if chasing something in its dream, making low whimpering sounds in its throat. Jiang Bo stroked its head, and it twitched its ears but didn't wake up, just nuzzled its head into his hand.

He stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and pasted the group photo in the center. The whiteboard was already covered with photos and notes, densely packed like a giant net. The names, the dates, the clues, like knots in the net, were all connected. Next to Tung Chee-hwa's photo, he drew a human silhouette and wrote a large question mark inside it. Then he picked up a red pen and drew a line between the two people, writing two words on the line: Twins?

Twin brothers. Tung Chee-hwa has a twin brother. But Tung Chee-ping has said that his brother is an only child. Did Tung Chee-ping not know, or was he lying? Or was that person not a twin brother, but Tung Chee-hwa himself? Was it another side of Tung Chee-hwa? His face hidden in the shadows? Another version of himself he saw in the mirror? A ghost that split off from him?

He picked up the phone and called Lao He.

The phone rang many times before being answered. Old He's voice was hoarse, as if he had been dragged out of sleep, with a heavy nasal tone and a hint of impatience.

"Uncle He, does Tung Chee-hwa have any twin brothers?"

Old He remained silent for a long time. There was a creaking sound of a chair being moved on the other end of the phone, the sound of a lighter being lit, a click, and the sound of someone taking a deep drag and slowly exhaling—the silence was so long that Jiang Bo thought the call had been disconnected.

"No. He's an only child. His parents only had him. His mother lost two babies while pregnant with him, and it was a great struggle to keep him. His father was so happy that he invited the whole village to a feast, slaughtered a sheep, and set up more than a dozen tables. Back then, people were poor, and being able to slaughter a sheep and host a feast was a big deal."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

Are you sure?

"I'm sure. I've known him since we were little, and I've been to his house countless times. His mother was only pregnant once. There's no such thing as twins. They can't even afford a double bed, let alone raise two. His mother had a severe hemorrhage when she gave birth to him and almost died. The doctor said she couldn't get pregnant again."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a moment. Old He's voice rang out again, tinged with hesitation, as if he were recalling something from a very long time ago, so long ago that even he himself wasn't sure if it had actually happened. The voice seemed to drift away, as if it came from a distant place.

"But—there's one thing I've never understood."

Jiang Bo waited.

"When Tung Chee-hwa was a child, there was a period when he changed a bit. The way he spoke and the way he walked were different. He used to laugh a lot, but he didn't laugh much during that time. He used to talk a lot, but he talked less during that time. He used to walk with his head held high, but he walked with his head down during that time. His mother said that the child had been sick and changed. Later he got better. I didn't think much of it. Children change all the time, they like this today and that tomorrow."

Jiang Bo's heart raced. Sick? Changed? It wasn't sickness. It was a change of people. Twin brothers, one in the light, one in the shadows. One a policeman, one a ghost. One standing in the sunlight, one in the shadows. They changed identities, changed lives, changed fates. Who was who? Who killed? Who died? Who left that letter? Who stood at the door watching Ah Zhen being murdered? Who stood by the river watching his father's police uniform being pulled from the water? Who went to Lao Guan in 2010 to tell him to leave? Who jumped into the river in 1998?

Jiang Bo hung up the phone and stood by the window. Dawn was approaching. Grayish-white light pierced through the clouds, illuminating the distant river and turning the water a grayish-white, like an old photograph. The river was still the same river, the bridge was still the same bridge, the tower was still the same tower. More than four hundred years had passed; everything had changed, yet nothing had changed. Tung Chee-hwa, the one who left the evidence and wrote the letter of repentance—who was he? Was he the one standing in the sunlight, or the one standing in the shadows? Was the "that person" he spoke of in his letter his brother? When he said, "I know I was wrong," was he speaking on behalf of his brother? When he said, "It's too late," was it too late to atone, or too late to stop it? Or did he never have a brother, only one person from beginning to end, a person split in two by himself, a person who died once by the river, a person who emerged from the water as another person?

Tangyuan woke up, came over, and rubbed against his leg. Its eyes sparkled in the morning light as it looked at him, as if asking: What's wrong? Did you find it? Jiang Bo squatted down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, shimmering gently in the morning light, like it was plated with gold.

"Tangyuan, Tung Chee-hwa may not be one person. There are two people."

Tangyuan let out a cry. The cry echoed in the empty office, startling a sparrow on the windowsill.

After daybreak, Jiang Bo went to the detention center again. When Dong Jianping was brought into the interrogation room, he looked even more haggard than before. He had a stubble beard, sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, a bloodless face, and chapped lips. As he walked, his right foot dragged on the ground, making a monotonous rubbing sound, one after another, like some kind of timer. He sat down, head down, looking at his hands. His hands were rough, full of calluses and cracks, with dirt under his fingernails.

Jiang Bo sat down opposite him. He looked at the old man, the once-glorious deputy head of the criminal investigation team, now so thin he was just skin and bones, like a living skeleton. He remembered that group photo, Dong Jianhua's smile, and that man's unsmiling face. That face was exactly the same as Dong Jianhua's, yet different.

"Dong Jianping, was there anything unusual about your brother when he was a child?"

Dong Jianping was taken aback. He looked up, a hint of confusion in his eyes, as if he didn't understand why he was being asked that question again.

"abnormal?"

"Your mother said that he got sick and changed."

Dong Jianping's hand trembled slightly. His eyes changed, becoming somewhat dazed and fearful, as if he were recalling something he had tried so hard to forget, something that had been weighing on his heart for many years.

How did you know?

Jiang Bo did not answer.

Dong Jianping lowered his head and remained silent for a long time. His shoulders trembled slightly, as if he were suppressing something, or struggling with something. The interrogation room was quiet, with only the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. The sound was like countless flies, swirling around his ears, impossible to shake off.

Then he looked up, his eyes reddening. The redness started from the whites of his eyes and slowly spread across his entire eye socket, like blood seeping into water.

"He was seven years old that year. One day, he was playing by the river and fell in. When they pulled him out, he was already dead. His mother cried for a day and a night, until she went blind. His father sat at the door, smoking one cigarette after another without saying a word. The ground was covered with cigarette butts, piled up everywhere."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"And then?"

"He came back to life later."

"It's alive?"

Dong Jianping nodded. The nod was slow and heavy, as if a thousand pounds were pressing down on his neck.

"He's alive. But he's changed. The way he speaks, the way he walks, everything's different. He used to laugh a lot, but he stopped laughing during that time. He used to talk a lot, but he talked less during that time. He used to eat with his right hand, but he ate with his left hand during that time. His mother said it was because he was scared. He got better later. I didn't think much of it. Kids are like that, they get scared, they'll recover. But—"

He stopped.

"But what?"

Tears streamed down Dong Jianping's face. They welled up from his sunken eyes, flowing down his wrinkles that resembled a dried-up riverbed, dripping onto the back of his hand and onto the table. He didn't wipe them away; he just let them flow.

"But the scar on his right hand is gone. He was cut by a piece of bowl when he was a child, and there was a scar on his right palm. I've seen it; it's very long. But after that incident, the scar disappeared."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat.

The scar on his right hand was gone. It wasn't the same person. It was someone else. A person without a scar. Someone who took his place.

Did you ask him about it later?

Dong Jianping nodded.

"I asked him. He said the scar had healed and was no longer visible. I didn't believe him. But I didn't dare ask again. The way he looked at me was so cold. I'd never seen such coldness before."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

"Didn't your mom notice?"

Dong Jianping shook his head.

"Her eyesight is poor. She can't see clearly."

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was overcast, threatening rain. Lead-gray clouds hung low, blurring the distant buildings as if viewed through frosted glass. Dong Jianhua, the Dong Jianhua he knew—which one was it? The one who fell into the water and died, or the one who survived? The one who became a policeman, or the one who became a ghost? The one who left evidence, or the one who committed murder? Or did he never have brothers, only one person from beginning to end, a person who died once by the river, a person who crawled out of the river and became someone else? One lived, one died. The one who lived became a ghost. The one who died, who did he become?

He turned around.

Where were you when your brother died?

Dong Jianping was stunned. His eyes became empty, as if he had been struck by something, or as if they had been hollowed out.

"In 1998, when he fell into the river."

Dong Jianping's tears started flowing again. He raised his hand to wipe them away, but the tears wouldn't stop; the more he wiped, the more they flowed.

"I'm in the hospital. I injured my leg and am lying in the hospital. When they told me, I didn't believe them. My brother is a very good swimmer; he can swim back and forth in the river. How could he have drowned? Later I found out that he jumped in by himself."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"Did he jump down himself?"

Dong Jianping nodded. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto his collar and the back of his hand. His voice began to tremble.

"He left a letter. He apologized to many people. He said he had done wrong. He said he should repay his debt."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while.

"Where is that letter?"

Dong Jianping shook his head. The shaking was slow and heavy, as if he were rejecting something.

"It was taken away. They said it wasn't convenient to disclose. Then it disappeared. I asked many people, and they all said they hadn't seen it. His wife said she hadn't seen it, and his son said he hadn't seen it. It just vanished like that. As if it had never existed."

It was taken away. Gone. Like those files, like that evidence, like the fate of those people. Like things carried away by the river, it never returned.

Jiang Bo walked out of the detention center and stood at the door. The rain finally started, fine and dense, hitting his face, icy cold. Rainwater streamed down his hair, into his eyes, down his neck, and into his collar. He didn't try to dodge; he just stood there, letting the rain soak him through.

Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company. It didn't try to hide, just stood there in the rain, its fur plastered to its body, looking thinner, but it didn't bark, just watched him.

He recalled Tung Chee-hwa's words in his letter: "That person is the real ghost."

That man was his twin brother. One in the light, one in the shadows. One a policeman, one a murderer. One alive, one dead. Or were they both dead? Or were they both alive? Or were there never two people, only one—one who died once by the river, and the other who crawled out of the water and became a ghost? That man was a ghost. Tung Chee-hwa was a ghost too. They were both ghosts.

He crouched down and stroked Tangyuan's head. Tangyuan's fur was wet and stuck to its head, revealing its pointed ears. Its eyes were still so bright, looking at him as if asking: Should we still look?

"Tangyuan, Tung Chee-hwa died in place of his brother."

Tangyuan cried out. That cry was swallowed up by the sound of rain and disappeared into the gray sky.

Jiang Bo stood up and stepped into the rain. The rain poured down harder, turning the world into a white blur, obscuring everything. But he knew which way to go. He had always known.