Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

The rain stopped. Jiang Bo parked the car at the entrance to the old floating bridge demolition area and turned off the engine. The air after the rain was fresh, carrying the earthy smell of soil and the dampness of the river, along with an indescribable sweetness, like the scent of wild grass after being soaked by the rain. The sky was still gray, with a few cracks in the clouds, allowing sunlight to filter through, beams like golden fingers, shining brightly on the wet ruins. The light fell into the puddles, reflecting spots of shattered gold, dazzling the eyes.

The bulldozer still stood there, rusted and battered, raindrops dripping from its steel body like tears, splashing up tiny mud splatters on the ground. Its tracks were stuck in the mud, rusted, motionless, like a dead beast. The house was still there, standing crookedly, the New Year's picture on the wall still there, the chubby baby holding a fish, smiling eerily. The picture was swollen from the rain, the colors bleeding, distorting the chubby baby's face, his eyes and mouth twisted and contorted, as if crying, yet also laughing.

Jiang Bo got out of the car, and Tangyuan followed behind. Its paws sank into the wet mud, leaving small dents, and muddy water squeezed out from between its claws, making a squelching sound. It lowered its head, its nose close to the ground, sniffing here and there, its ears erect and its tail held high, as if it had discovered something. Jiang Bo stood in front of the house, looking at it for a long time. The cracks in the wall were wider than before, and moss, damp and almost blackish-green, had grown in the cracks between the bricks. The door frame was crooked, and the door itself was rotten, bearing traces of last year's Spring Festival couplets; the red paper was long gone, leaving only patches of brownish marks.

He recalled Dong Zhenhua's words in his letter: "The gentleman lives by the river. He has always been there." Which river? The Yangtze? The Qingyi River? Or some other river? Who is the gentleman? That old man in his seventies? That person who speaks slowly and has cold eyes? That person whose true face no one has ever seen? He lives by the river, which river? The Yangtze flows through Jiangcheng, the Qingyi River flows past the old pontoon bridge, there's also the Zhang River, and the Shuiyang River. Which river is his river?

He turned and walked towards the riverbank. The path was a gravel track, uneven and pitted from the rain, some parts puddled with water, others muddy. Tangyuan ran ahead, sniffing here and there, occasionally stopping to glance back at him before continuing on. The riverbank was quiet, save for the gentle lapping of the water against the stones, like a heartbeat. The wind had died down, and the river was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the hazy sky. The clouds drifted slowly across the water. In the distance, a fishing boat grazed slowly towards them. The old man on board wore a straw raincoat and a bamboo hat, his face obscured. His oars dipped into the water, then lifted, splashing water that then receded, creating ripples that shattered the reflection of the clouds.

Jiang Bo stood by the riverbank, gazing at the water. The river flowed slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand. 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 vanished in its depths, those who never returned. He thought of his father, of Ah Zhen, of Xiao Mei, of all those who had disappeared. They had all died in this river, or been swallowed by it. His master also lived by this river. Where did he live? In that house? Or somewhere else?

Tangyuan suddenly cried out, heading towards a pile of ruins by the river. The ruins were the foundations of several houses, bricks and rubble piled together, overgrown with withered, yellow weeds that swayed in the wind. Jiang Bo walked over and parted the weeds. The blades were sharp, cutting his hand and causing a burning pain. Behind the ruins, there was a narrow path, only wide enough for one person to pass at a time, mostly hidden by the weeds, almost invisible unless one looked closely. The path was paved with gravel, and grass grew in the cracks between the stones, but the grass had been trampled and lay flat on the ground, indicating that someone had recently walked there.

The path led to the riverbank, to a place he had never been before. He walked along the path, Tangyuan running ahead, stopping every few steps to wait for him. The path was winding, with weeds and pebbles on both sides, and a few crooked willow trees, their leaves gone, their bare branches drooping like an old man's hair. After walking for a few minutes, the view suddenly opened up. There was a small hut by the river, just one room, with a thatched roof that had turned black and was covered in moss. The walls were made of stone, the cracks filled with yellow mud, some places where the mud had fallen away, revealing dark, gaping gaps. The door was wooden, the paint peeled off, revealing the grayish-white wood grain, the door frame was crooked, and the door itself was warped, unable to close properly.

Jiang Bo stood in front of the hut, looking at it for a long time. He had never been to this hut before, nor had he ever heard anyone mention it. It was hidden behind ruins, behind weeds and willow trees, hidden from everyone's sight. The door was ajar, and it was pitch black inside. He could not see anything, except for a musty smell wafting out from the crack in the door, mixed with the scent of old wood and damp earth.

He pushed open the door with a loud creak, which sounded particularly jarring in the quiet riverside setting. Tangyuan followed him inside.

The room was dark, with only a small window letting in a sliver of light, in which dust motes danced. The window had no glass, only a plastic sheet, yellowed and brittle, rattling loudly in the wind. A bed, a table, and a chair—all made of wood, old but sturdy. The blankets on the bed were neatly folded into perfect squares, like those used in the military. On the table sat a kerosene lamp with a gleaming glass shade. A water glass, enamel, bore the inscription "Serve the People," worn thin and illegible. An open book lay face down on the table—an old edition of the *Tao Te Ching*, its pages yellowed and edges curled.

There was a photograph hanging on the wall.

Jiang Bo walked over and picked up the photograph. It was of an old man, over seventy, with completely white hair, wearing a dark overcoat, standing by the river, looking at the water. His face was obscured by shadows, his features indistinct, only his outline visible. But the silhouette, the posture, the slightly hunched back—it was exactly the same as the photograph he had found in the tin box. This was the gentleman. He lived here. He had always lived here. By the old pontoon bridge, next to that house, by the river. How many years had he lived here? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? He watched people come and go, watched women disappear, watched his father die, watched Ah Zhen be murdered. He knew everything, yet did nothing. He stood by the river, looking at the water, looking at the city, looking at everyone. He was like a statue, a ghost, a demon.

His hands were trembling. The photo slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. He bent down to pick it up, his fingers touching the back of the photo, feeling its uneven texture. He turned the photo over. On the back was a line of writing, the handwriting faint and delicate, as if afraid to be seen: "Yizhou's student. I have waited for you for many years."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. He wiped them away and put the photo back on the wall.

He looked around. The room was simple, but clean. The blankets on the bed were neatly folded, there was no dust on the table, and the water glass still held half a glass of clear water. Someone lived here; someone had stayed here recently. He walked to the table and picked up the open copy of the *Tao Te Ching*. The page he was on was Chapter 42: "The Tao gives birth to One; One gives birth to Two; Two gives birth to Three; Three gives birth to all things." In the margins of the page were pencil annotations, the handwriting small and dense: "Yi Zhou said, the Tao is the river; One is man; Two is good and evil; Three is life and death. All things come from this, and all things go from this."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. His father had said those words. His father's teacher had written them down. He turned to the next page; there were annotations there too: "Yizhou asked, 'Is there retribution for good and evil?' I said yes. He didn't believe me. He said, 'Then why are bad people still around, while good people are dead?' I didn't answer."

He put the book down. Tangyuan sniffed around the room, then suddenly barked at something under the bed. The bark was urgent and shrill, its tail held straight up, and its ears perked up. Jiang Bo crouched down and looked under the bed. It was pitch black inside; he couldn't see anything. He turned on his phone's flashlight, the beam cutting into the darkness. Under the bed was a small wooden box, covered in a thick layer of dust, but the surface had fingerprints, indicating it was new and had been touched recently.

He pulled it out and opened it. Inside the box was a stack of letters and several notebooks, neatly piled up. On top was a letter in a manila envelope with three words written on it: To Xiao Jiang.

Jiang Bo was stunned. For him? Who wrote it? He picked up the envelope and turned it over. There was no sender, no address, nothing at all. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. The letter was folded neatly, with deep creases, as if it had been folded many times. Unfolding it, the handwriting was very neat, each stroke written with great force, some parts even tearing the paper:

"Xiao Jiang, if you see this letter, it means you've found this place. I am your father's teacher, and also the leader of the J organization. They call me 'Sir'."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. He took a deep breath and continued reading.

"Your father was a good man. He was my best student. He was smart, brave, and upright. He tracked down the J organization and found me. I told him to stop investigating, but he wouldn't listen. He said, 'Teacher, what are you doing? Did you kill those people?' I said no. He said, 'Then who was it?' I said, 'It was someone else.' He didn't believe me. He kept investigating. And then he died."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. He wiped them away and continued reading.

"I'm not a bad person. I joined the J organization to find out the truth. They did a lot of bad things and killed a lot of people. I needed evidence, I needed time. I waited for many years, and finally I got it. Dong Jianmin was one of them, and he killed a lot of people. I found out about him, and I also found out about their leader. But I didn't dare to say anything, I was afraid. I was afraid they would kill me, afraid they would kill your father. After your father died, I regretted it for many years. I shouldn't have let him investigate. I shouldn't have let him die."

A small patch of the letter was soaked with Jiang Bo's tears, blurring the writing. He carefully avoided that patch and continued reading.

"Xiao Jiang, be careful. The J organization is still around. They won't let you go. But you must keep investigating, for those who died. For your father, for Ah Zhen, for Xiao Mei, for those nameless people. I'm old, I can't walk anymore. I've waited here for many years, waiting for you to come. Now that you're here, I can leave. In this box are all the evidence I've gathered over the years. Take it."

Jiang Bo stared at the letter for a long time. His father's teacher. The Master. The leader of Organization J. Was he a good person or a bad person? Did he save his father or harm him? He had waited here for many years, waiting for him to come. He waited for him. Then he left. Where did he go?

He put down the letter and picked up the notebook. Two words were written on the cover: Yizhou. It was his father's name. He opened to the first page, which read: 1980. The year his father joined the police force. Inside were records of his father's life: the cases he investigated, the people he knew, the paths he had walked. Every page bore his name, and every page bore his father's handwriting.

"In September 1980, Yizhou arrived. He was very young, with bright eyes. He said, 'Teacher, I want to be a good policeman.' I said, 'Okay.'"

"In March 1982, Yizhou solved his first case. He was as happy as a child. He said, 'Teacher, I found it.' I asked, 'Found what?' He said, 'I found the meaning of being a policeman.'"

"In July 1985, Yizhou met Xiuying. He said, 'Teacher, I'm getting married.' I said, 'Okay.' He smiled very happily. I hadn't seen him so happy in many years."

"In October 1988, Yizhou began investigating the J organization. He asked me, 'Teacher, do you know about the J organization?' I said I did. He said, 'Why don't you investigate it?' I said I did, but I couldn't find anything. He said, 'I'll investigate it myself.'"

"In May 1990, Yizhou found out about Dong Jianmin. He said, 'Teacher, that person has a problem.' I said I knew. He said, 'Why don't you arrest him?' I said I had no evidence."

"December 15, 1992. Yizhou came to see me. He said, 'Teacher, I'm being followed.' I asked, 'Who is it?' He said, 'A lame man.' My hands were shaking. I knew who it was, but I didn't say."

"December 20, 1992. Yizhou died. I found the murderer, it was Dong Jianmin. But I had no evidence. I hate myself. Why didn't I tell him sooner? Why didn't I protect him? I was his teacher. I promised myself I would protect him. I failed."

Jiang Bo closed his notebook, tears streaming down his face. His father's teacher, the leader of Organization J, the gentleman. He lived here, waiting for him for many years. He waited for him. And then he left. Where did he go? Did he go to find his father? Or to find the people in Organization J? Or was he just old, unable to walk anymore, and found a place to die peacefully?

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the river outside. The river was still the same river, the bridge was still the same bridge, the tower was still the same tower. His father's teacher, the leader of Organization J, Mr. [Name missing]. He lived here, waiting for him for many years. He waited for him. Then he left.

He stepped out of the hut and stood by the river. The wind carried the fishy smell of the river, along with the scent of grass and earth. In the distance, a wider crack appeared in the clouds, and sunlight poured through, illuminating the river's surface and shattering it into dazzling, shimmering pieces of gold. Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company, occasionally glancing up at him with bright, sparkling eyes.

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur had dried and fluffed up, gleaming golden in the sunlight. It stuck out its tongue and licked his hand; it was warm and damp.

"Tangyuan, the gentleman is my father's teacher. He waited for me for many years."

Tangyuan cried out. That cry echoed along the empty riverbank, carrying far and wide.

Jiang Bo stood up and walked back. Reaching the car, he glanced back at the small house. A thatched roof, stone walls, a wooden door. The gentleman had lived here for many years. He had looked at the river, at the city, at everyone. He had waited for him for many years. He was gone. Where had he gone? Would he ever return?

He didn't know. But he knew he would continue investigating. For those who had died, for those who had gone missing, for his father, for his husband.