Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

It rained all night long.

Jiang Bo sat in his office, the notebook open before him. Old Guan's handwriting gleamed a yellowish light under the lamp, the words seeming to come alive, moving across the page, whispering in the lamplight. He read it over and over, from 1990 to 1993, from when Old Guan moved to Lao Fuqiao to when he left. More than three years, over a thousand days and nights, Old Guan had recorded everything he could. Those people, those events, those secrets—all were in this notebook, like flattened specimens, pressed between the pages, waiting to be discovered.

Some of the characters were neat, each stroke deliberate, like a primary school student practicing calligraphy; others were messy, crooked and scraggly, as if someone was chasing him. He could tell the mood of Lao Guan as he wrote each character—calm, fearful, hesitant, resolute. The handwriting went from neat to messy, and then from messy to neat. Lao Guan swung back and forth between fear and calmness, like a pendulum that couldn't stop.

Tangyuan lay asleep at his feet. Its breathing was even, its belly rising and falling, and it would occasionally twitch its ears, as if it had heard something in its dream, making low whimpering sounds. Jiang Bo stroked its head, but it didn't wake up. Instead, it nestled its head into his hand and let out a satisfied hum, like a baby finding its mother's embrace.

The rain outside the window lessened, turning into fine, dense threads that pattered against the glass, making a soft, rustling sound like countless tiny hands tapping. Dawn was approaching; greyish-white light pierced through the clouds, illuminating the wet streets and reflecting a cold, shimmering light like shattered silver. In the distance, the engines of early morning buses rumbled, along with the swishing of sanitation workers sweeping the streets and the creaking of vegetable vendors pedaling their tricycles. The city awoke; people were getting up, washing, eating breakfast, and hurrying about. But those secrets remained asleep, sunk to the bottom of the river, beneath the ruins, and hidden in yellowed pages.

Jiang Bo turned to the last page of his notebook. He had read Lao Guan's words countless times; every stroke was etched into his mind: "In my life, I've wronged those people. I saw it, but I did nothing."

Old Guan said sorry. Dong Jianhua also said sorry. Zheng Jianguo also said sorry. They all said sorry, but those who died couldn't hear them. Those who went missing will never return. Those who sank to the bottom of the river will never float to the surface.

He closed his notebook, stood up, and walked to the window. A layer of mist covered the glass, a hazy white, like looking through frosted glass. He wiped it with his finger; outside was a blurry gray-white, the streets, buildings, and trees only outlined, details indistinct. He remembered Dong Jianping's words: "My brother is an only child." He also remembered Lao He's words: "When Dong Jianhua was young, there was a period when he changed a little." He also remembered Lao Guan's letter: "He looks exactly like Dong Jianhua. But I know he's not Dong Jianhua."

Two people, identical. One in the light, one in the shadows. One a policeman, one a ghost. One alive, one dead. The one who lived became a ghost. The one who died, who did he become? Did Tung Chee-hwa die for his brother, or did his brother live for Tung Chee-hwa? When did they switch places? When they were seven? Or even earlier? Or were there never two people, only one person, two sides of one face, one facing the light, the other facing away from the light?

Tangyuan woke up, stood up, stretched, stretched its front legs forward, stuck its bottom up high, opened its mouth wide, and yawned. Then it came over, rubbed against his leg, looked up at him with bright eyes, and wagged its tail gently, as if asking: Are we setting off again?

"Let's go eat." Jiang Bo squatted down and patted its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming golden in the morning light.

The canteen wasn't crowded. A few police officers on night shift were eating breakfast; some were dozing off, their heads nodding; others were scrolling through their phones, the screens casting a bluish glow on their faces. The air was thick with the smells of porridge and pickled vegetables, mixed with the odor of disinfectant, making it unappetizing. Jiang Bo got two portions of rice, one for himself and one for Tangyuan. Tangyuan ate quickly, finishing it in a few bites, licking the bowl noisily. It looked up at him, rice grains still clinging to the corner of its mouth. Jiang Bo got it another portion, which it also finished, before finally lying 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 rain stopped, a crack appeared in the clouds, and sunlight streamed through, like a golden knife slicing through the gray sky, shining brightly on the wet ground. The light fell into the puddles, shattering into countless tiny mirrors, or perhaps countless eyes.

The phone rang. It was Liu Tong calling, his voice a little hoarse, carrying the fatigue of staying up all night, but also a hint of excitement: "Officer, we found it. Tung Chee-hwa's son, Tung Siu-hua, is willing to do a DNA test. He said he wants to know the truth. He thought about it for a long time, and called me last night, saying that no matter what the result is, he wants to know."

Jiang Bo put down his rice bowl. "Okay. Make the arrangements, we'll go today."

At nine o'clock in the morning, Jiang Bo went to Dong Xiaohua's shop. The small supermarket was located in an alley in Jinghu District. The alley was narrow, lined with densely packed residential buildings, and overhead power lines formed a tangled web. The storefront was small, sandwiched between a barbershop and a breakfast stall. The shelves were filled with all sorts of goods, from snacks to daily necessities, from drinks to cigarettes and alcohol—a dazzling array. Dong Xiaohua was unloading goods, unloading boxes of instant noodles from the truck and stacking them at the entrance. He was wearing an old T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, revealing his muscular arms. Seeing Jiang Bo enter, he put down the boxes he was carrying and wiped the sweat from his trousers.

"Officer Jiang, have you found anything?"

Jiang Bo nodded. "I need you to do one thing: DNA matching."

Dong Xiaohua froze for a moment. His hand hovered in mid-air, as if frozen by something. His eyes changed, from confusion to shock, from shock to fear. That fear wasn't fear of Jiang Bo, but fear of the unknown, fear of the truth. He opened his mouth, but no words came out; his Adam's apple bobbed several times, as if he couldn't swallow something.

"My father's?"

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Your father might not be your father."

Dong Xiaohua's hands fell limply to his sides, his fingers slightly curled, as if he couldn't hold onto anything. His face turned pale, as white as paper. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

"What do you mean?"

Jiang Bo took out the group photo and pointed to the person next to Tung Chee-hwa. "This person looks exactly like your father. We suspect they are twin brothers. Your father might be him."

Dong Xiaohua stared at the photograph for a long time. His finger slowly traced across the image, from Dong Jianhua's face to the other person's. Two faces, identical. The same eyebrows, the same nose, the same lips, the same chin. Only one was smiling, the other wasn't. His finger lingered on the unsmiling face for several seconds.

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.

"When I was little, I always felt that my dad was different. Sometimes he was very gentle, telling me stories, taking me to play by the river, and carrying me on his shoulders. Sometimes he was very cold, sitting alone, not talking, not eating, and ignoring everyone. Sometimes he was like one person, and sometimes he was like another. I thought it was because of work pressure, so I didn't think much of it. After he died, I dared not think about it anymore."

Jiang Bo was silent for a moment. "Are you willing to do it?"

Dong Xiaohua nodded. The nod was slow and heavy, as if a thousand pounds were pressing down on his neck. "I'm willing. I want to know, who exactly is he?"

At 2 PM, the DNA sample arrived at the forensic center. Su Min personally conducted the comparison. Jiang Bo stood waiting in the corridor, Tangyuan lying at his feet. The corridor was long and quiet, the fluorescent lights humming softly, the sound echoing in the empty space like countless flies buzzing around one's ears. The clock on the wall ticked away, the second hand leaping one by one, each second feeling like a year.

He remembered Dong Xiaohua's words: "Sometimes like one person, sometimes like another." Not like. It is. It's two people. One gentle, one indifferent. One a father, one a ghost. One alive, one dead. They share one face, one body, one name. They take turns within that body, like day and night.

After a long wait, the door opened, and Su Min came out, taking off her mask. Her expression was serious, her brows were furrowed, and there were fine beads of sweat on her forehead.

"The results are in. Dong Xiaohua's DNA does not match the DNA extracted from Dong Jianhua's belongings."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched tightly. His nails dug into his flesh, but he felt no pain. "Incompatible?"

Su Min shook her head. She handed the report to Jiang Bo, pointing to the data. "They are not father and son. Nor are they related by blood. They have no kinship whatsoever."

Jiang Bo stood there, his mind blank. Dong Xiaohua wasn't Dong Jianhua's son. Then who was Dong Jianhua? Who was Dong Xiaohua? Who was the person who looked exactly like Dong Jianhua? Who was the seven-year-old child who fell into the river? Who was the person who climbed out of the river?

"Whose DNA does Dong Xiaohua match?"

Su Min looked at him. There was something indescribable in her eyes—was it sympathy, helplessness, or something else? "And another person. That person, we also extracted DNA from Tung Chee-hwa's belongings. Two samples, from the same person."

Jiang Bo was stunned. "What do you mean?"

Su Min handed him another report. "There are two people's DNA on Tung Chee-hwa's belongings. One is Tung Chee-hwa's own, and the other is someone else's. Tung Siu-hua's DNA matches that other person's. That is to say, Tung Siu-hua is that person's son, not Tung Chee-hwa's."

Jiang Bo took the report, looking at the data and conclusions. It was all clear in black and white. Dong Jianhua was not Dong Xiaohua's father. The person who looked exactly like Dong Jianhua was. The person who stood at the door watching Ah Zhen being killed was. The person who stood by the river watching his father's police uniform being pulled from the water was.

He remembered what Tung Kin-ping had said: "The scar on his right hand is gone." Not gone, but replaced by another person. That person was the real Tung Kin-hua. The one who survived was someone else. He took Tung Kin-hua's identity, became a policeman, got married, and had children. Where did the real Tung Kin-hua go? Did he become a ghost? Or did he die? Or was there never a real Tung Kin-hua, only two people, one dead, one alive, and the living one taking the place of the dead?

Jiang Bo stood motionless in the corridor, holding the report. The light shone on his face, making it appear deathly pale. His shadow was long and thin on the ground, like a bamboo pole.

Tangyuan walked over and rubbed against his leg. It looked up at him with bright eyes and its tail wagged gently.

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming gently under the lamplight.

"Tangyuan, Tung Chee-hwa is not Tung Chee-hwa. He is a different person."

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

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Jiang Bo went to the detention center again. When Dong Jianping was brought into the interrogation room, his expression changed when he saw the report in Jiang Bo's hand. It wasn't fear, but relief, liberation, something he had waited a long time for.

"The DNA results are in." Jiang Bo pushed the report in front of him. "Your brother, not your brother."

Dong Jianping stared at the report for a long time. His fingers slowly traced the surface of the paper, as if touching something precious, something he had lost long ago and finally found again. Then he looked up, his eyes reddening.

"I know."

Jiang Bo was stunned. "You knew?"

Dong Jianping nodded. Tears streamed down his face. They welled up from his sunken eyes, flowing down his wrinkles like a dried-up riverbed, dripping onto the report and soaking the words.

"I always knew. The day he fell into the river, I knew he wouldn't come back. The one who came back wasn't him."

"Why didn't you say so sooner?"

Dong Jianping lowered his head. His shoulders were trembling, as if he were suppressing something, or perhaps releasing something.

"I don't dare. I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if I tell him, he'll really die. I'm afraid that if I tell him, I won't have a brother anymore. I'm afraid that if I tell him, my mother will have nothing left. She's already cried herself blind in one eye, and if she cries any more, she'll go blind in the other one too."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a long time. He thought of the case files, the missing people, the dead. He thought of his father, Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, and those who didn't even have names. They had all been waiting for the truth, waiting for over thirty years. Waiting for over thirty years, only to be met with someone who dared not speak the truth.

Where did your brother go?

Dong Jianping shook his head. He shook his head very slowly and gently, as if afraid of disturbing something.

"I don't know. After he came back, I never saw him again. I searched for him for many years, but I couldn't find him. Later I learned that he might have died a long time ago. He drowned in the river when he was seven years old."

Jiang Bo walked out of the detention center and stood at the entrance. The sky had darkened again, the clouds hanging low, making it hard to breathe. The wind was strong, making his clothes flutter and the treetops howl as if someone was crying.

Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company. It didn't bark or move; it just lay there, watching him.

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

That person was the real Tung Chee-hwa. He died at the age of seven, drowning in the river. The one who survived was someone else. He took Tung Chee-hwa's identity, became a policeman, got married, had children, and did many things, both good and bad. Then he jumped into the river and drowned, just like that seven-year-old child.

He was paying off debts. Debts he owed that child, debts he owed to the dead, debts he owed to this city. He lived for thirty-one years, served as a policeman for twenty-one, suppressed countless cases, protected countless people, and harmed countless others. He stood at the door watching Ah Zhen being murdered; he stood by the river watching his father's police uniform being pulled from the water; he stood outside Lao Guan's clinic listening to those secrets; he stood downstairs from Zheng Jianguo's building, looking at the lit window. He saw everything, and said nothing. He lived like a dead man. He died like a living man.

Jiang Bo squatted down and stroked Tangyuan's head. Tangyuan's fur was ruffled by the wind, strands sticking to its head. Its eyes were still so bright, looking at him as if asking: Should we still look?

"Tangyuan, Tung Chee-hwa is dead. He died at the age of seven. The one who survived is a ghost."

Tangyuan cried out. That cry was swallowed by the wind and disappeared into the gray sky.

Jiang Bo stood up and stepped into the wind. The wind was strong, making it hard for him to open his eyes, blowing his hair back, and making his clothes stick to his body. He squinted and walked forward step by step. He knew he had to keep going. For those who had died, for those who had gone missing, for the child who drowned at the age of seven, for the ghost who had lived for thirty-one years and then jumped into the river.