Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo read the letter three times. Each time felt like the first time; every word seemed etched into stone, grinding against his heart. The letter was crumpled from his grip, the edges curled, and in some places even blurred by sweat. He carefully folded it and put it in his inner pocket. He could feel its presence through his clothes, like a branding iron, burning his chest.

The gentleman was his father's teacher. A man who had waited for him for many years. He lived in that small house by the river, watching the river, watching the city, watching everyone. He knew everything, but did nothing. He simply wrote down those names stroke by stroke in those notebooks, and then wrote "I'm sorry" after them. He wrote those three words for over thirty years.

Inside the box were several notebooks, neatly stacked, six in total, all the same size, with dark blue hardcovers, the edges worn, revealing the gray cardboard inside. On the cover of the top notebook were two characters written in fountain pen: Yizhou. It was his father's name. The handwriting was neat and precise, each stroke like it had been carved.

Jiang Bo picked up the book and opened it. The paper was yellowed and brittle, the edges curled; one had to be very careful when turning the pages, as it would crumble at the slightest pressure. Every page was densely covered with writing, from his father joining the police force in 1980 to his father's sacrifice in 1992—twelve years, more than fourteen hundred days and nights. His father's words, deeds, and cases investigated. The man had recorded everything about his father, as if guarding a fragile treasure.

"September 1, 1980. Yizhou arrived. He stood at the door, carrying his luggage, his eyes bright. He said, 'Teacher, I want to be a good policeman.' I said, 'Okay.' When he smiled, he revealed a set of white teeth, like a child. That was the last time he smiled so carefree."

"In March 1982, Yizhou solved his first case. It was a theft, not a big one, but he was very happy. He ran to my office, barged in without knocking, and said, 'Teacher, I found it.' I asked him what he found. He said, 'I found the meaning of being a policeman.' That night, he treated me to drinks, drank too much, and fell asleep on the table. I draped a coat over him, and he was still smiling in his sleep."

"In July 1985, Yizhou met Xiuying. He brought her to see me and said, 'Teacher, I'm getting married.' I said, 'Okay.' He smiled so happily. I hadn't seen him so happy in many years. Xiuying was a good girl, with bright eyes, just like Yizhou. They stood together like two young trees, their roots firmly planted in the mud by the river, their branches reaching towards the sky."

"In May 1990, Yizhou found out about Dong Jianmin. He came to me and said, 'Teacher, that person has a problem.' I said I knew. He said, 'Why didn't you arrest him?' I said I had no evidence. He looked at me with disappointment in his eyes. When he left, he didn't look back. I stood by the window watching his back for a long time. That back grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared at the end of the corridor."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. He turned to the last page; the date was December 20, 1992. That page contained only a few lines of text, the handwriting very messy, as if written in a great hurry, with some parts even torn:

"Yizhou is gone. I found out the truth, but I have 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."

Below that was a line of smaller text, even fainter and lighter, as if added later, or as if written with the last of its strength:

"Yizhou, I'm sorry."

Jiang Bo closed his notebook, tears streaming down his face. His father's teacher, his mentor. He had lived here for many years, remembered for many years, waited 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 those he owed so much to? Or was he simply old, unable to walk any longer, and seeking a quiet place to depart?

Jiang Bo flipped through the pages, looking at each name one by one. Those people, those events, those secrets were all in this notebook, like specimens flattened by time, waiting for someone to discover them, waiting for someone to bring them to a final conclusion.

Jiang Bo turned the pages one by one, reading each name. Some of those people had done wrong, some were swept up by fate, some struggled in the darkness, and some waited in silence. They were all in this notebook, waiting for a final explanation.

He put down the second book and picked up the third. The cover read: "Them."

He opened the book; inside were records of missing women. Jiang Bo stared at the names, the apologies, his hands trembling. The gentleman had written them all down, every single one. He knew who they were, knew where they were. He knew everything, yet did nothing. He simply wrote them down, then added an "I'm sorry" afterward. He was paying off a debt. Paying off the debt he owed them, paying off the debt he owed to this city. But those who died would never return.

He put down the third book and picked up the fourth. This one was very thin, with only a dozen or so pages. He opened it and found it contained his own story, from 1992, the year his father passed away, to the year he went missing.

"December 20, 1992. Yizhou is gone. I found out the truth, but I have no evidence. I hate myself."

"March 9, 1993. Ah Zhen had an accident. I was nearby, but I didn't go in. I was scared."

"March 10, 1993. Xiaomei also had an accident. I didn't go in either. I was still scared."

"December 20, 1998. Those who were meant to leave have all left. I'm still alive. What should I do?"

"Old Guan is gone. He's the last person I ever knew. Now it's my turn to go too. Xiao Jiang, if you see this, please tell Yizhou for me that I'm sorry. I'm not a bad person, but I couldn't be a good one either. I'm just a coward who saw everything but did nothing."

Jiang Bo closed his notebook, tears streaming down his face. The gentleman was gone. Where had he gone? Had he gone to find those he owed so much to? Or had he simply grown old, unable to walk any longer, and sought a quiet place to depart? Would he, like Old Guan, vanish forever, never to be found again?

He stood up and walked to the window. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating the river and shattering it into countless pieces of gold. The river was still the same river, the bridge still the same bridge, the tower still the same tower. The master was gone. Where had he gone? Would he ever return?

Tangyuan walked over and rubbed against his leg. It raised its head, its eyes sparkling, looking at him as if to ask: Did you find it?

Jiang Bo squatted down and stroked its head. "Tangyuan, the master is gone."

Tangyuan called out, its voice echoing in the empty little house.

Jiang Bo packed the notebooks into a box and carried it out of the hut. The wind picked up, rustling the wild grass and making his clothes flutter. He glanced back at the hut. 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. Now he was gone.

He walked to the car and placed the box on the back seat. Tangyuan jumped up and lay down beside the box, as if afraid it would get lost. Jiang Bo got into the driver's seat and started the engine. The car drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the small house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared into the gray sky.

It was already afternoon when they returned to the municipal bureau. Liu Tong was still there, his eyes red, several case files spread out on his desk. When he saw Jiang Bo carrying a box in, he stood up, his chair sliding back with a jarring creak.

"Polish Sir, have you found it?"

Jiang Bo placed the box on the table and opened it. Liu Tong leaned closer, saw the notebooks, and froze. "This is—"

Jiang Bo nodded. He walked to the whiteboard and wrote down the names one by one. Some of those names he knew, some he didn't. Some were dead, some were still alive. Some had families, some didn't. They had been swallowed by the river, forgotten by this city. But the gentleman remembered them. He remembered every single one of them.

Liu Tong stared at the names, remaining silent for a long time. The names were densely packed on the whiteboard, like a net, like a silent forest of monuments. "Officer, should we investigate all of these people?"

Jiang Bo nodded. "Investigate. Investigate every single one of them. They can't just disappear like this. The Master has remembered them for over thirty years; we can't let them vanish into the past. Their families have waited their whole lives; they deserve an explanation."

Liu Tong nodded and started making a call. His voice was low, and it was difficult to hear what he was saying in the quiet office. But his tone was firm, as if he were fulfilling a solemn promise.

Jiang Bo walked to the window and looked at the night outside. Darkness fell, the streetlights came on, and their dim yellow light shone on the wet streets, reflecting a cold glow. In the distance, the headlights of cars on the Yangtze River Bridge formed a line, like a luminous river. Those names, like this river, had flowed away, but remained in his heart.

He remembered the words in his husband's notebook. Page after page, like a very long book. Those names, those apologies, those regrets. He had kept them for over thirty years, waiting for him for many years. He waited for him. And then he was gone.

He thought of those families. Chen Fang's mother, eighty-six years old, was still waiting. Every year on her birthday, she would set an extra set of chopsticks and a bowl. Li Mei's sister, bedridden and unable to get up, upon hearing that her sister would never return, only said, "Put away the chopsticks and a bowl." Liu Xiaoqin's brother had searched for many years, posted countless missing person notices, and spent a great deal of money. When his parents died, they were calling out their daughter's name. Zhou Zheng came every year to sweep his son's grave, and to sweep the grave of the person who had refused to help. He had waited for over thirty years, only to receive the words, "He refused to help." He laughed and said, "They're all dead, what's there to apologize for?"

Those names, those people, those who waited a lifetime. They should not be forgotten. They could not have died in vain.

Tangyuan came over and rubbed against his leg. He squatted down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur shimmered softly in the lamplight, and its eyes sparkled as it looked at him, as if asking: Did we do it?

"Tangyuan, we've found them. We want them to know that someone remembers them."

Tangyuan called out. That call echoed in the empty office, carrying far and wide, as if telling those at the bottom of the river: You have not been forgotten.