Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

When dawn broke, Jiang Bo didn't go home. He lay on the sofa in his office for an hour, his mind filled with those names, those photos, those yellowed files. He closed his eyes and saw Dong Jianhua standing by the river, smiling, the sunlight shining on his face, bright and warm, like the river water in summer. Then he saw another person, the same face, not smiling, standing in the doorway, backlit, only his outline visible, like a silhouette. Two people, one face, one in the light, one in the shadow. The one in the light jumped into the river; the one in the shadow died at seven. The one who survived is a ghost. The one who died is also a ghost. They are both ghosts.

Tangyuan lay at his feet, exhausted, fast asleep, its ears still, its belly rising and falling gently with even breathing. Jiang Bo stroked its head; it didn't wake, but simply nestled its head into his hand, letting out a contented hum. Outside, the sky was already bright, the greyish-white light filtering through the curtains, illuminating the floor like a narrow river. In the distance came the sounds of early morning buses, the rustling of sanitation workers sweeping, and the creaking of vegetable vendors pedaling their tricycles. The city had awakened again, but its secrets remained asleep.

Liu Tong pushed open the door and came in, holding a folder in his hand. He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair was messy like a clump of withered grass, there were fingerprints on his glasses, and his shirt collar was wrinkled. He had clearly not slept all night either.

"Boss Bo, we found it. Zhou Zheng's file. He is indeed Dong Zhenhua's subordinate, having worked in the provincial archives for over twenty years without ever being promoted. He's an inconspicuous person, doesn't talk much, and has few friends; he's practically invisible in the workplace. But he has one habit—he comes to Jiangcheng every year."

Jiang Bo sat up and rubbed his eyes. "When?"

"Every March. Since 1999, it has been happening every year for 3 years without fail. Sometimes it's at the beginning of the month, sometimes at the end, but it has never missed a year."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist. Every March. March was the month Ah Zhen died, the month his father disappeared, the month those women vanished. The river water was coldest in March, the wind was strongest, and few people went to the riverbank in March. He came every year. What did he come for? To pay respects at the grave? To repay debts? Or to confirm whether those secrets still existed? For twenty-five years, he had come from his thirties to his fifties. His hair had turned white, his back was hunched, but he still came.

"Where did he go after he arrived?"

Liu Tong flipped through the folder and pulled out a few photos. The photos were black and white, taken from surveillance footage, and the image quality was very blurry. "Every time I come, I go to the old pontoon bridge. I stay there for a while, about half an hour, standing by the river, looking at the water. Then I go to the cemetery. There are three graves in the cemetery, one is for Tung Chee-hwa, one is for Cheng Jianguo, and the other—has no name."

Jiang Bo's heart skipped a beat. A nameless grave. Who was buried there? Was it the child who drowned at seven? The one who impersonated Tung Chee-hwa? Or the ghost standing at the door watching? Why was there no name? Was it because they dared not write it, could not write it, or did they not know what to write?

"When was that tomb erected?"

Liu Tong glanced at the records. "1998. The person who erected the tomb was Zhou Zheng. The cemetery record says 'erected by Zhou Zheng,' without the deceased's name, age, gender, or anything else."

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the window. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into pieces of gold, dazzlingly bright. He squinted, watching the light, watching the fragments of gold leaping in the waves. In 1998, Dong Jianhua died, Zheng Jianguo died, and that nameless man also died. Three people died in one year, all from the old pontoon bridge, all jumped into the river, or were pushed in. Zhou Zheng came every year to sweep their graves, to sweep the grave of that nameless man. He knew who that man was, knew his name, knew his face, knew his secrets. He knew everything. He had remained silent for twenty-five years.

Where is Zhou Zheng now?

Liu Tong checked his phone. "He's in Jiangcheng. He arrived yesterday by long-distance bus and stayed at a hotel near the old pontoon bridge, the small hotel on the old pontoon bridge street, only 200 meters from the river. Someone saw him leave this morning, heading towards the river."

Jiang Bo grabbed his coat. "Let's go."

An old pontoon bridge. Another old pontoon bridge.

Jiang Bo stood in front of the hotel, staring at the glass door. The hotel was small, sandwiched between a noodle shop and a general store. The lettering on the sign was faded, making the name illegible; only the word "hotel" was vaguely visible. The door was made of glass with frosted film, obscuring the interior and letting in only a dim, yellowish light. The noodle shop owner, preparing vegetables at the entrance, glanced up at him before looking down again. The general store owner, moving cases of beer into the store, also glanced at him.

He pushed open the door and went in. An elderly woman sat at the front desk, knitting a sweater. The yarn was red, and she was only halfway through; it was impossible to tell what it was. Her reading glasses had slipped down to the tip of her nose, and her fingers moved nimbly, stitch by stitch. Seeing Jiang Bo, she looked up.

"A hotel?"

Jiang Bo showed his identification. "Which room is Zhou Zheng staying in?"

The old woman paused for a moment, put down her knitting needles, and took off her reading glasses. "203. He went out, saying he was going for a walk by the river. He comes every year and stays here every year. For over twenty years."

Jiang Bo turned and left.

The wind was strong along the riverbank near the old pontoon bridge. The November wind blew across the river, carrying moisture and chill, stinging one's face. The river water shimmered in the sunlight, flowing slowly, its surface sparkling like countless shards of silver. In the distance, several fishing boats swayed in the wind, their nets billowing on the poles like flags.

A winding path, paved with pebbles, led along the riverbank to the ruins. The pebbles, smoothed by the river, crunched underfoot. The withered, yellow weeds on either side of the path rustled in the wind. Jiang Bo walked along the path, while Tangyuan ran ahead, its nose close to the ground, sniffing here and there.

He saw a man standing by the river, his back to him. He was of medium build, wearing a dark jacket, with sparse, graying hair that revealed his scalp. His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the river, motionless, like a statue. The wind was strong, making his jacket flutter and his hair billow, revealing his bald head. He stood there, for a long time.

Jiang Bo walked over and stood beside him. Tangyuan also came over, sniffed at his feet, then lay down and quietly kept him company. The man didn't turn around, but just looked at the river. His profile was ordinary, with deep wrinkles, high cheekbones, and thin lips pressed into a line. His eyes were small but bright, staring at the river as if searching for something.

"You've come." His voice was calm, as if he had known he would come, as if he had been waiting for a long time.

Jiang Bo remained silent.

The man turned his head and looked at him. His eyes narrowed into slits in the sunlight, the pupils reflecting the light of the river. He looked at Jiang Bo for a long time, from head to toe, and from toe to head. Then he smiled, a very soft, faint smile, the corners of his mouth just slightly upturned, but Jiang Bo saw the tears in the corners of his eyes.

"You look exactly like your father. I knew who you were the moment I saw you."

Jiang Bo's hand clenched. "You know my dad?"

Zhou Zheng nodded. His gaze shifted from Jiang Bo's face to Jiang Shui. "I know him. He's a good person. Better than me, better than anyone else. He investigates cases relentlessly, regardless of who you are. He'll investigate whoever he's investigating to the very end." His voice was soft, as if drifting from afar, like the whisper of the river.

Jiang Bo remained silent for a while. He looked at the man who had been standing by the river crying for a long time, the man who came every year, who stood here every year watching the river. He had lost his son, discovered the truth, but dared not speak. He came every year to sweep his son's grave, to sweep the grave of that nameless person. He lived like a dead man.

"Whose grave is that?"

Zhou Zheng stared at him for a long time. His eyes changed, becoming somewhat dazed and sad, as if struck by something. His lips moved, but he didn't speak, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down several times.

"My son's."

Jiang Bo was stunned. His son's grave. No name. No age, no gender, nothing at all. Just a stone, standing there for twenty-five years.

"What's his name?"

Zhou Zheng turned his head and looked at the river. Tears streamed down his face, dripping onto his collar and onto the stones. He didn't wipe them away; he just let the tears flow.

"His name was Zhou Ping. He drowned in the river when he was seven years old. Right here."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. Seven years old, drowned in the river. Just like Dong Jianhua, just like that child. All seven years old, all by the river, all drowned. The river swallowed them, spat some out, and left some behind.

"Was Tung Chee-hwa also present the day he drowned?"

Zhou Zheng nodded. His tears flowed uncontrollably, but his voice was steady, as if he were talking about something from a long time ago, something he had said many times before.

"They were playing by the river when they both fell in. Dong Jianhua was rescued, but my son wasn't. The person who saved Dong Jianhua was that man. The man who looks exactly like him. He saved Dong Jianhua, but not my son. He swam over, grabbed Dong Jianhua, and dragged him ashore. My son struggled in the water, screaming for help, but he didn't turn around. He carried Dong Jianhua away."

Jiang Bo's heart sank. That man saved Dong Jianhua, but not Zhou Ping. He chose who lived and who died. He swam past Zhou Ping and grabbed Dong Jianhua. He heard Zhou Ping cry for help, but didn't turn back. He left, leaving a seven-year-old child struggling in the water, sinking, and never resurfacing.

"And then?"

Zhou Zheng wiped away his tears. His sleeve was soaked, a large patch of it darker in color. "Later, that person took Dong Jianhua's identity and became a policeman. I investigated for many years, and I found him, found the J organization, found those missing women. I dared not speak, I was afraid. I was afraid he would kill me, afraid he would kill my family. He could even stand by and watch a seven-year-old child die, what else wouldn't he do?"

Jiang Bo remained silent for a long time. He looked at this man, this man who had stood by the river and wept for so long. He had lost his son, discovered the truth, but dared not speak. He came every year to sweep his son's grave, to sweep the grave of that nameless man. He lived like a dead man. He had been silent for twenty-five years, twenty-five years, every day like March.

Why are you saying this now?

Zhou Zheng looked at him. His eyes were red, but very bright.

"Because you came. Because you're investigating. Because your father investigated. Because those people can't have died in vain. My son has been dead for twenty-five years, those women for over thirty years, and your father for thirty-three years. Enough. Someone needs to speak up."

Jiang Bo stood by the river, gazing at the water. The wind was strong, making it hard for him to open his eyes, whipping his hair back, and forcing his clothes to cling to his body. But he knew he had to keep going. For those people, for those who had died, for those who had gone missing, for the child who had drowned at the age of seven, for the father who had stood by the river and wept for twenty-five years.

Zhou Zheng took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to him. "This is for you. I've been investigating for twenty-five years, and everything I could find is here."

Jiang Bo took the envelope; it was very thin, like a single sheet of paper. He opened it, and inside was a photograph. The photograph showed two people. One, in a police uniform, stood at the entrance of the police station, smiling brightly. It was Tung Chee-hwa. The other stood beside him, in plainclothes, head bowed, his face obscured. On the ring finger of that person was a silver ring.

The back reads: 1992, Jiangcheng Public Security Bureau. That person was the real ghost.

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. This photo, like the ones Lao Guan took, was taken from a different angle, but the people were the same. The man with his head down, the man wearing the ring, the man standing at the door watching. He stood next to Dong Jianhua, like his shadow. Was he his shadow, or was he his master?

Zhou Zheng looked at him. "That ring is the symbol of the J organization. I found out. His name is Tung Chien-min. Tung Chee-hwa's twin brother."

Jiang Bo was stunned. "Dong Jianmin?"

Zhou Zheng nodded. "Tung Chee-hwa's father was a twin. He himself was also a twin. There have been twins in his family for generations. Tung Chee-min was the older brother, and Tung Chee-hwa was the younger brother. When he was seven years old, Tung Chee-min fell into the river and drowned. Tung Chee-hwa survived. But they switched identities. The one who survived took the place of the one who died. Tung Chee-hwa became Tung Chee-min, and Tung Chee-min became Tung Chee-hwa. No one could tell who was who."

Jiang Bo stood there, his mind blank. The one who survived took the place of the one who died. Tung Chee-hwa became Tung Chee-min, and Tung Chee-min became Tung Chee-hwa. Who was who? No one could tell. They changed their names, their identities, their fates. One became a policeman, the other a ghost. One stood in the sunlight, the other in the shadows. One saved a life, the other watched someone die. One jumped into the river, the other drowned at seven.

Where is Tung Chien-min now?

Zhou Zheng looked at the river. "He's dead. He jumped into the river in 1998. He jumped by himself. He left a letter saying he was sorry to many people. He said he had done wrong. He said he should pay for it. The place where he jumped is the place where my son drowned."

Jiang Bo stood on the riverbank, gazing at the water. The wind was strong, whipping the surface into waves that crashed against the rocks with a resounding crash. That man, that ghost, had jumped into the river where his brother had drowned, jumped into the river where Zhou Ping had drowned. He was paying his debts. Paying the debt he owed his brother, the debt he owed Zhou Ping, the debt he owed those women, the debt he owed to this city. He had paid it, but those who had died could not return.

Zhou Zheng turned around and looked at him. "Jiang Bo, be careful. Although that man is dead, his accomplices are still around. The J organization is still active. They won't let you go."

Jiang Bo nodded. "I know."

Zhou Zheng left. He walked quickly, without looking back, as if he had let go of something. Jiang Bo stood by the river, watching his figure disappear into the wind. Tangyuan came over and rubbed against his leg. He squatted down and stroked its head.

"Tangyuan, his name is Dong Jianmin. He's a ghost."

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