Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

When Jiang Bo returned to the municipal bureau, Liu Tong was still on the phone. His voice was low, barely audible in the quiet corridor, only a buzzing sound like a fly trapped in a glass bottle. His fingers were twirling the telephone cord, wrapping and unwrapping, unwrapping and wrapping again. On the table in front of him lay a map of China, covered with circles drawn in red pen. Wuhu, Jiujiang, Yueyang, Huanggang, Nanchang, and many more places: Hefei, Anqing, Chizhou, Tongling, Ma'anshan—every city he had called, every place where a family member he had located lived. Those red circles were dense, like a net, or an endless, tireless road. The edges of the map were curled up, pressed down by his arm, leaving creases.

Jiang Bo walked over and stood beside him. Liu Tong hung up the phone, looked up, his eyes were red, his glasses were fogged up, and there was a red mark from the frame on his nose. He wiped his glasses with his sleeve and put them back on.

"Officer, we've found Li Mei's family. Her sister is still alive in Hefei. She's eighty years old and bedridden. Her daughter answered the phone and said the old lady keeps asking when Mei will come back. Every year during Chinese New Year, she sets an extra set of chopsticks and bowls. She makes sweet and sour pork ribs, Li Mei's favorite dish when she was little, every year. She makes them, leaves them to cool, throws them away, and makes them again the next day. Her daughter said the old lady is confused; sometimes she doesn't recognize people, but she remembers Li Mei and that she loved sweet and sour pork ribs."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "Did you tell her?"

Liu Tong nodded. His Adam's apple bobbed, as if he were swallowing something. "Her daughter said that after the old lady heard this, she didn't say anything. After a while, she said, 'Clear the dishes.' Her daughter said, 'Mom, aren't you going to wait?' The old lady said, 'No, I'm not waiting.' Then she closed her eyes, as if she had fallen asleep. Her daughter called her, but she didn't answer. After a while, she opened her eyes again and said, 'When Meizi was little, she loved wearing floral dresses.'"

Jiang Bo walked to the whiteboard and wrote a word next to Li Mei's name: "Checked." He checked each name, told the families one by one, and had them put away their dishes, throw away the sweet and sour pork ribs, and remove the person who would never return from their hearts. Those who waited, waited their whole lives, only to receive a phone call, a few lines of text, the words "drowning" or "missing," and then said, "I'm not waiting anymore." Not that they didn't want to wait, but that they couldn't afford to. Eighty-six, eighty, blind, broken-legged, bedridden, still waiting. Now there's no need to wait. That person will never return. She loved wearing floral dresses.

"Officer, we've also found Liu Xiaoqin's family. Her mother is dead, and her father is dead too. She also has an older brother in Tongling. He said he searched for many years, posting missing person notices everywhere, asking around, and begging people. He spent a lot of money and went to many places, but to no avail. When his mother died, she kept calling out her name. When his father died, he kept calling out her name too. He said that now that he knows, he can tell her when he visits her parents' graves. He also said that when Xiaoqin was little, she loved to play by the river, loved watching boats, and loved looking at the water. The day she went missing, she was by the river. He has always regretted not going with her that day."

Liu Tong's voice grew softer and softer, almost inaudible. Jiang Bo remained silent. He recalled the words in his husband's notebook: Liu Xiaoqin, female, twenty years old, waitress. Disappeared on November 3, 1992. Old pontoon bridge. Struck to death by Dong Jianmin and thrown into the river. She was the fourth. I'm sorry. Twenty years old, had only been working for a short time, not yet married, not yet had children, hadn't lived enough. She loved going to the riverbank, loved watching the boats, loved watching the water. The day she disappeared, she went to the riverbank. Her brother always regretted not going with her that day. He didn't know that even if he had gone with her, he couldn't have saved her. That person would wait for her alone, wait for her to be alone, wait for her to reach a place where no one was around. He waited for a long time, for many nights, for many people who resembled her.

"Bo Sir, there's one more person." Liu Tong's voice was hesitant, as if he was considering how to say it. He flipped to the back pages of the notebook; the pages were even more yellowed, the edges were curled more badly, and some parts were even brittle, as if they would crumble at the slightest touch.

Jiang Bo turned around. "Who?"

Liu Tong took a notebook out of the box, flipped to a page, and pointed to a name. The name was written in the corner, the handwriting faint and light, as if the writer had run out of strength; the pen barely touched the paper. Zhou Ping, male, seven years old. Drowned in the old pontoon bridge in July 1985. Dong Jianmin refused to help him. He was Zhou Zheng's son. Zhou Zheng had waited for him for many years. He came to sweep the grave every year. I'm sorry.

Jiang Bo's hand clenched. Zhou Ping. Zhou Zheng's son. Seven years old, drowned on the old pontoon bridge. Dong Jianmin saved his twin brother, but not him. He watched him struggle, watched him sink, watched him die. He left, without looking back. Zhou Zheng waited for him for many years, coming to sweep the grave every year, standing by the river every year, looking at the river, looking at the place where his son drowned. He investigated for many years, found out the truth, but dared not speak. He was afraid, afraid that person would kill him, afraid that person would kill his family. He lived like a dead man. He waited for more than thirty years, waiting for a phone call, waiting for a few lines of text, waiting for an "I'm sorry." His son was seven years old, liked to play by the river, liked to watch the boats, liked to look at the water. The day he drowned, he went to the river. His father jumped in to save him, but couldn't. He touched his hand, it was slippery. He touched it again, it was gone.

Jiang Bo stared at the name, remaining silent for a long time. "Did you call?"

Liu Tong shook his head. His fingers hovered over the phone, not lifting it. "I don't know what to say. Should I say his son was left to die without anyone helping him? Should I say that person is already dead? Should I say he waited for many years, only to receive an 'I'm sorry'?"

Jiang Bo picked up the phone and dialed Zhou Zheng's number. The phone rang many times before being answered. Zhou Zheng's voice was a little hoarse, as if he had just woken up, or as if he hadn't slept at all, like sandpaper rubbing against a stone.

"Zhou Zheng, that's me. Jiang Bo."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Jiang Bo heard heavy breathing, as if someone was suppressing something.

"You found it?"

"We found out. Your son, Zhou Ping, drowned in the old pontoon bridge in July 1985. Dong Jianmin did nothing to help. He saved his own twin brother, but not your son."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. So long that Jiang Bo thought the call had been disconnected. Then he heard breathing, heavier, like someone crying but holding back a sound.

"I know." Zhou Zheng's voice was soft, as if it drifted from afar, like the whisper of a river. "I've always known. I saw him. He saved a child and left. My son was crying for help in the water, but he didn't turn back. I jumped in, but it was too late. The water was too deep, too fast. I touched my son's hand, but it was slippery. I touched it again, but it was gone. I searched for a long time, searching underwater, touching stones, water plants, rotten wood, but I just couldn't find him."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. "Why won't you tell me?"

"What's the use of saying anything? He's a policeman, he's a good person, he saved people. Who would believe me if I said he stood by and watched someone die? He saved one, but not the other. He did nothing wrong. He just didn't save my son. The child he saved died later too. He jumped into the river. He saved him, he lived for thirty years, and then jumped into the river. My son didn't survive. Who lived longer? Who was luckier?"

Jiang Bo remained silent for a long time. "Zhou Zheng, I'm sorry."

Zhou Zheng laughed, a soft, bitter laugh. The laughter sounded hollow on the phone, like it came from a dry well. "No need to apologize. He's dead, and my son is dead too. Both are dead. What's the point of apologizing? Every year I go to sweep his grave, and I sweep mine too. They're buried in the same cemetery, a few rows apart. I can see his grave from my son's. I can see my son's grave from his grave. They're all looking at me. One asks me why I didn't save him? The other asks me why I saved him? I don't know. I didn't save either of them."

The phone call ended. Jiang Bo stood there, holding the phone, listening to the dial tone. He put the phone down and walked to the window. Dawn was approaching, and the greyish-white light pierced through the clouds, illuminating the distant river. The river was still the same river, the bridge was still the same bridge, the tower was still the same tower. The seven-year-old child had drowned in the river; his father had jumped in to save him, but couldn't. He touched his father's hand—it was slippery. He touched it again—it was gone. He had waited many years, only to receive a phone call, only to hear, "He let him die." He laughed and said, "They're both dead. What's the point of saying sorry?"

Liu Tong walked over and stood beside him. His glasses were still fogged up; he took them off, wiped them with the corner of his shirt, and put them back on. "Officer Bo, all those names have been checked."

Jiang Bo turned around. Next to the names on the whiteboard, some were marked "Checked," others were circled. Those whose families had been found were those whose families couldn't be found. Those whose families couldn't be found were like Zhao Xiuying, Gao Deming, and those without names. They disappeared; no one looked for them, no one waited for them. They were like a drop of water falling into a river, gone. They had names, faces, clothes they liked to wear, and things they liked to eat. But no one remembered. The gentleman remembered, but he was gone too.

"Bo-sir, there's one more thing." Liu Tong took a photograph out of the box and handed it to Jiang Bo. It was a black and white photograph, yellowed, with curled edges and several creases on the surface, as if it had been folded and then flattened. The photograph showed a young woman with two thick, long braids that draped over her shoulders. She wore a floral blouse, small floral prints on a dark background with light-colored flowers. She stood by the river, with the Zhongjiang Pagoda behind her, the river shimmering in the sunlight. She smiled gently, her eyes crinkling, her lips upturned, revealing a row of neat teeth. Her eyebrows and eyes resembled Xiuying's, but she was younger and brighter, like the rising sun, like a flower yet to be battered by wind and rain.

"Who is this?" Jiang Bo asked.

Liu Tong pointed to a line of text on the back of the photo. The handwriting was faint and light, as if the writer had run out of strength, the pen barely touching the paper. Xiuying, 1985. Taken by the gentleman.

Jiang Bo's hands trembled. It was the gentleman who took the picture. He had photographed Xiuying. He knew Xiuying. He knew everything, yet said nothing. He simply took the picture and wrote a name on the back. He had photographed Azhen, Xiaomei, and all the missing women. He had photographed Xiuying too. He stood by the river, watching them, and photographed them. He knew they would die, but he didn't tell them. He simply wrote their names, the dates, the locations, and then an apology in his notebook. He photographed Xiuying, knew who she was, knew where she lived, knew who she was waiting for. He didn't tell her that someone was looking for her, that someone was killing people who looked like her. He said nothing. He simply took the picture and hid it.

Jiang Bo flipped the photo over and looked at it again. Xiuying stood by the river, smiling gently. The wind ruffled her hair, and her skirt fluttered in the breeze. She didn't know someone was taking her picture, didn't know someone liked her, didn't know someone killed because of their affection for her. She simply stood by the river, smiling, waiting for someone. She waited for that person for many years, until he died, until his son came to find her. She didn't know that someone was searching for her, searching for over thirty years, killing more than thirty people. She knew nothing.

"Liu Tong, investigate Mr. [Name]'s identity. What's his name? Where is he from? Why did he join the J organization? Investigate everything."

Liu Tong nodded.

Jiang Bo walked to the whiteboard and pasted the photograph in the center. Xiuying, 1985. She stood by the river, smiling gently. Beside her were the names of the missing women: Azhen, Xiaomei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiuying, Liu Xiaoqin, Sun Xiaomei. They all resembled her, yet none of them were her. That person killed them because they weren't her. The gentleman photographed them because they resembled her. They were all because of her.

At daybreak, Liu Tong found out.

"Officer Bo, we've identified the man. His name is Zhou Yuanshan. Born in 1950, he joined the police force in 1980 and went missing in 1998. He is Zhou Zheng's older brother."

Jiang Bo was stunned. Zhou Zheng's brother? The man who went to sweep the grave every year, the man whose son drowned in the river, his brother was Mr. Zhou? The man who wrote "I'm sorry" in the notebook, was he Zhou Zheng's brother? The man who watched his nephew drown without trying to save him, was he Zhou Zheng's brother?

"He was your father's teacher. He was also Zhou Zheng's brother. Zhou Ping was his nephew. He watched his nephew drown and didn't try to save him. He stood by the river, watched, and then left. Just like Dong Jianmin. He came back and told Zhou Zheng that Ping'er was gone. Zhou Zheng asked him, 'Where were you?' He said, 'By the river.' Zhou Zheng asked him, 'Did you see him?' He said, 'Yes.' Zhou Zheng asked him, 'Why didn't you try to save him?' He didn't say anything."

Jiang Bo stood there, his mind blank. The man was Zhou Zheng's brother, Zhou Ping's uncle. He watched his nephew drown without trying to save him. He stood by the river, watched, and then left. Just like Dong Jianmin. They both stood at the doorway, watching others die, and then turned and left. One watched Ah Zhen die, the other watched Zhou Ping die. One said sorry, the other said sorry. What good were sorrys? Ah Zhen couldn't hear them anymore, and neither could Zhou Ping. They couldn't hear them anymore, and they couldn't come back.

He recalled the words in his husband's notebook: Zhou Ping, male, seven years old. Drowned on the old pontoon bridge in July 1985. Dong Jianmin refused to help. He was Zhou Zheng's son. Zhou Zheng had waited for him for many years, coming to sweep his grave every year. "I'm sorry." He wrote it down, wrote "I'm sorry." But he didn't try to save him. He stood by the river, watching his nephew drown, watching his brother jump in to save him, watching his hand slip, watching his son sink. He did nothing. He only wrote "I'm sorry" in his notebook. He wrote "I'm sorry" for over thirty years, wrote over thirty names, wrote over thirty "I'm sorry"s. He never saved a single person. He just wrote.

Jiang Bo picked up the phone and called Zhou Zheng. The phone rang many times before being answered. Zhou Zheng sounded exhausted, as if he hadn't slept all night, or as if he hadn't slept for many years.

"Zhou Zheng, is this gentleman your brother?"

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Jiang Bo heard heavy breathing, like someone panting, or like someone suppressing something.

"Yes. He's my brother."

"Did he know Zhou Ping was going to die?"

Zhou Zheng's voice was very soft. "I know. He saw it. He was standing by the river and saw it. He didn't go to save it. He came back and told me that Ping'er was gone. I asked him, 'Where are you?' He said, 'By the river.' I asked him, 'Did you see it?' He said, 'Yes.' I asked him, 'Why didn't you go to save it?' He didn't say anything. He stood there for a long time, and then he left. After he left, he never came back. He became Mr., he became a member of the J organization. He's not my brother anymore."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist. "He's your brother. He's Zhou Ping's uncle."

"He's Mr. J. He's a member of the J organization. He's not my brother. My brother is dead. He died in 1985. The man who stood by the river, watching his nephew drown, and didn't try to save him, wasn't my brother. It was Mr. J. My brother wouldn't have watched Ping'er die. He would have jumped in, pulled him up, and carried him home. My brother would have done that. That man wouldn't."

The call ended. Jiang Bo stood there, holding the phone, listening to the dial tone. He put the phone down and walked to the window.

Daylight broke. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into dazzling golden fragments. The river was still the same river, the bridge still the same bridge, the tower still the same tower. The gentleman was gone. Where did he go? Did he go to find his father? Or to find the J organization? Or was he simply too old to walk, and found a place to die peacefully? Would he disappear like Old Guan, never to be found again? Would he jump into the river like Dong Jianmin, never to rise again? Would he become like those who went missing, a name on a whiteboard, a line in a notebook, a simple "I'm sorry"?

He didn't know. But he knew he would continue investigating. For those who died, for those who went missing, for his father, for his husband, for Zhou Ping, for Zhou Zheng, for those who put away the dishes, for those who were still waiting.

Tangyuan came over and rubbed against his leg. Its eyes sparkled in the morning light as it looked at him, as if asking: Should we still look?

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming golden in the sunlight.

"Tangyuan, we still haven't found him."

Tangyuan called out. That call echoed in the empty office, carrying far and wide.