Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo spent the entire day at the Municipal Public Security Bureau. Six notebooks lay stacked on the table. He flipped through them one by one, from the first to the sixth, from the first page to the last. Those names, those dates, those apologies—he read them countless times, each time as if it were the first time. With each reading, those names were etched deeper, deeper into his bones, deeper into his blood, deeper than he could ever forget.

Liu Tong sat opposite him, also flipping through the pages. His voice was still hoarse, sounding like sandpaper scraping against stone, but he kept talking. As he flipped through the pages, he jotted something down in the notebook, writing densely on several pages. His fingers were steady, turning the pages one by one, reading each word carefully, as if counting names, as if memorizing names, as if erecting a monument for those names.

"Brother Bo, what should we do with these notebooks?"

Jiang Bo looked at the notebooks. They were old, the paper yellowed, the edges curled, some places soaked in water, the writing blurred, as if seen through a layer of mist. The blue of the cover had faded to grayish-white, the edges worn so badly that the gray cardboard inside was exposed. But he knew that the names wouldn't fade. The apologies wouldn't fade. The faces of those people wouldn't fade. He thought of his teacher, of him writing those words. Under the kerosene lamp, hunched over, writing slowly and forcefully, stroke by stroke. If he made a mistake, he would cross it out and rewrite it next to it. The crossed-out places were heavily inked, as if he had used a lot of force. What was he thinking when he wrote? Was he thinking of those people? Was he thinking of those apologies? Was he thinking of his father? Those names flowed from the tip of the pen, fell onto the paper, becoming corpses, becoming tombstones, becoming apologies that had been waited thirty years to be uttered. He finished writing, closed the notebooks, put them in a box, and waited for many years. He waited for him.

"Keep it. Keep it for the families to see. Let them know that someone remembers them."

Liu Tong nodded. The nod was slow and gentle, as if he were agreeing to something very important. "Should we go visit those family members again?"

Jiang Bo was silent for a while. Chen Fang's mother, eighty-six years old, lived in Wuhu. She was hard of hearing and couldn't hear the phone clearly. Her daughter said that her mother would ask every morning, "Has Fangfang come back yet?" She would forget after asking, and then ask again the next day. Li Mei's sister, bedridden and unable to get up, only said, "Put away the dishes," upon hearing that her sister wouldn't be returning, in response. Liu Xiaoqin's brother, in Tongling, had searched for many years, posting numerous missing person notices and spending a great deal of money. His mother murmured her daughter's name when she died, and his father did too. Zhou Zheng came every year to sweep his son's grave and the grave of the person who refused to help him. He waited for over thirty years, only to receive the words, "He refused to help." He laughed and said, "They're both dead, what's the point of saying sorry?"

"Go. Once you're done, go to them one by one. Tell them in person. Let them know that the people they were waiting for didn't die in vain. Someone remembers them."

Liu Tong nodded and began taking notes in his notebook again.

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the whiteboard. The names were still there, row upon row, like tombstones, like rows of people standing by the riverbank, waiting for him. A-Zhen, Xiao-Mei, Chen-Fang, Wang-Li, Zhao-Xiu-Ying, Liu-Xiao-Qin, Sun-Xiao-Mei, Zhang-Jiang-Guo, Li-Mei, Gao-De-Ming. And many more, more than thirty names, more than thirty lives, more than thirty people who had waited half their lives. He picked up the eraser and erased the first name. A-Zhen. The eraser swept across, the black ink disappeared, leaving a faint gray mark on the whiteboard, like a dried-up riverbed, like a scabbed scar. He erased the second, Xiao-Mei. The third, Chen-Fang. The fourth, Wang-Li. Erasing them one by one, like saying goodbye, like seeing someone off, like pulling those who had sunk to the bottom of the river, one by one, washing them clean, and sending them home. The names disappeared, but they remained in his heart. He knew they would not disappear. Never. They will flow like the river, flowing and flowing, until he grows old, until he is gone, until no one remembers anymore. But he knows that someone will remember. Liu Tong will remember, Lao He will remember, the families will remember. His husband will remember. His father will remember too. In the river, in the wind, in the fog, in the sunlight, his father will remember.

He finished erasing; the whiteboard was spotless, completely clean. He stood there, staring at it for a long time. Night fell outside, the streetlights came on, their dim yellow light reflecting coldly off the wet street, like shattered silver. In the distance, the headlights of cars on the Yangtze River Bridge stretched out in a line, like a luminous river. Those names, like the light on this street, had flowed away, but remained in his heart. Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company, occasionally looking up at him with bright, sparkling eyes, as if asking: "Are you done erasing? Have you memorized everything?"

Liu Tong walked over and stood beside him. "Officer, should we still go see the gentleman?"

Jiang Bo nodded. "Go. Go tomorrow."

The next morning, Jiang Bo went to the old pontoon bridge. It was just dawn, a hazy, thick fog obscuring everything. The small house in the fog resembled a lonely island, a sunken ship, or an old man. The outline of the roof was blurred in the fog, only a sliver of dim yellow light emanating from the window, like an eye that refused to close. He walked over; the door was open. The man sat in the doorway, hunched over, gazing at the ruins, at the fog. He wore his dark overcoat, his hair completely white, and in the fog, he looked like a withered old tree. The long overcoat trailed on the ground, damp with dew. A notebook lay open on his lap, its pages turned, a pen beside it.

Jiang Bo walked over and sat down beside him. Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company. The dew was heavy, the chair was wet, and it felt cool to sit on. He didn't move.

"You've come." Zhou Yuanshan's voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time, or as if he had said too much.

"They're here."

They sat there in silence. The fog was thick, obscuring everything. The house, the wall, the New Year's picture—all were invisible. Only the sound of the river, rushing and gurgling, drifted through the fog, like a heartbeat, like breath, like whisper. The sounds were both near and far, as if beside their ears, yet also on the horizon. Occasionally, a bird's call, one or two, would emerge from the fog and vanish again.

After a long silence, Zhou Yuanshan spoke. His voice was very soft, as if it drifted from a great distance. "I dreamt of Yizhou."

Jiang Bo looked at him. His profile was blurry in the fog, only the outline of his white hair was visible, like a ball of cotton.

"He stood by the river, wearing his police uniform, smiling. He was wearing that old-fashioned uniform, white on top and blue on the bottom, the national emblem on his hat shining brightly. He said, 'Teacher, I found out.' I said, 'Find out what?' He said, 'Find out the truth.' He said, 'Those people can rest in peace now.' I asked him, 'What about you? Can you rest in peace now?' He didn't speak, he just smiled. He smiled so happily, I hadn't seen him so happy in many years. When he smiled, his eyes curved like a child's. Just like when he first joined the police force."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. He didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely. A cool breeze blew by.

Zhou Yuanshan looked at him. "You're just like him. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you won't turn back. He was like that back then too, he would investigate as soon as he said he would, and he wouldn't listen to anyone's advice. I tried to persuade him to stop investigating. He wouldn't listen. He said, 'Teacher, those people are still dying. I can't stop.' When he said that, his eyes were very bright, like the moonlight on the river."

Jiang Bo wiped away his tears. "My dad won't blame you."

Zhou Yuanshan smiled. It was a soft, faint smile, just a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. "I know. He won't blame me. He never will. He'll only blame me for not telling him the truth. He investigated for so long, found out about so many people, found out about so many things. He didn't know that the person he trusted most knew everything. He knew nothing. Every time he came to see me, he told me what he'd found. He spoke quickly, excitedly, like a child who had discovered a treasure. I listened, nodded, said okay, and told him to keep investigating. I knew all those people, all those things he'd found. I knew everything. But I didn't tell him."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a long time. "You can tell him now."

Zhou Yuanshan looked at the fog. The fog was slowly thinning, like a veil being blown away by the wind. The outline of the river in the distance appeared, hazy and gray, merging with the sky. "He knows. He knows everything. He's watching me. He knows I'm back. He knows I remember those people. He knows I said sorry. He knows everything."

The fog slowly dissipated. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, rays like golden fingers, shining on the ruins, on the small house, and on the two people. The house was revealed, the wall was revealed, and the New Year's picture was revealed. The chubby baby, holding a fish, smiled eerily. In the sunlight, the smile wasn't so eerie; it was like a child's smile, like a chubby baby's smile, like an ordinary New Year's picture's smile. The colors of the New Year's picture had faded; the red was no longer red, the green was no longer green, but the chubby baby's eyes remained, dark and bright, gazing at the ruins, at the river, at the city.

Zhou Yuanshan stood up. "Let's go. It's time to go."

Jiang Bo stood up. "Where to?"

Zhou Yuanshan looked at the ruins, at the house, at the New Year picture. "Let's go to the riverbank. Let's go see Yizhou."

They walked towards the river. Zhou Yuanshan walked very slowly, step by step, as if measuring something. His right foot dragged on the ground, making a monotonous rubbing sound, one after another, like a heartbeat, like a timer. His hands were behind his back, his fingers slightly curled, as if counting his steps. Tangyuan ran ahead, sniffing here and there, stopping every few steps to look back at him, as if waiting for him.

The fog along the riverbank hadn't completely dissipated; it was a vast expanse of white, obscuring everything. The river flowed through the fog, its rushing water like a voice speaking. The sound was both near and far. The stones on the bank were wet, covered in moss, and slippery. A few reeds swayed in the wind, their heads already white, like an old man's hair.

Zhou Yuanshan stood by the river, gazing at the mist. His overcoat billowed in the wind, like a flag. His white hair also fluttered, mingling with the mist, making it impossible to distinguish which was hair and which was fog.

"Yizhou, I'm here. I've come to see you."

Jiang Bo stood beside him, looking at the fog. The fog was thick; nothing could be seen. But he knew his father was there. In the river, in the fog, in the wind. He had always been there. For thirty-three years, he had always been there. In this river, in this fog, in this wind. He had never left.

"Yizhou, your son has grown up. He's a good policeman, just like you. He found out the truth, he found out who those people were, he found out who he was sorry for. He can rest in peace now. When you look at him, do you smile too? Just like when he was a child, with your eyes crinkling."

A breeze blew, and the fog dissipated. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into countless pieces of gold, dazzlingly bright. The river water glittered in the sunlight, flowing slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. The shimmering spots on the water danced like countless eyes, countless mouths, countless hands, waving, speaking, bidding farewell. A boat drifted slowly across the river, an old man casting his net, which unfurled in the air like a flower. The old man called out something, but it was indistinct; his voice was carried away by the wind.

Zhou Yuanshan stood there, gazing at the river. His eyes were bright, like the river in winter. A slight smile played on his lips, as if he had seen something, something others couldn't. He stood there for a long time, the wind blowing through his hair and coat, but he remained motionless, like a tree firmly rooted to the ground.

Then he smiled. It was a soft, faint smile, but Jiang Bo saw it. He saw what was in that smile. It wasn't sadness, guilt, or regret. It was relief, letting go, the peace of mind that had finally been waited for.

"Let's go."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Where to?"

Zhou Yuanshan turned and walked back. "Going home."

He walked slowly, step by step. His right foot dragged on the ground, making a monotonous rubbing sound, one after another, like a heartbeat. His back was hunched, like a withered old tree, but his hands were behind his back, and he walked steadily. He didn't look back, and kept walking until he reached the door of the small house, where he stopped and leaned on the doorframe.

He turned around and looked at Jiang Bo. "Xiao Jiang, thank you."

Jiang Bo walked over. "What are you thanking me for?"

Zhou Yuanshan looked at him for a long time. "Thank you for coming to find me. Thank you for telling me that Yizhou wouldn't blame me. Thank you for letting me come back."

Jiang Bo stood at the doorway, looking into his eyes. Those eyes were bright, like the river water in winter, cold but deep. He saw many things in them—relief, letting go, peace of mind. And something else, he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"I will come to see you."

Zhou Yuanshan nodded. "Okay. I'll wait for you."

He went into the small house and closed the door.

Jiang Bo stood at the door, staring at it. The door was closed; he couldn't see anything. A light shone from the window, dim and warm. Through the window, he saw his teacher's shadow, hunched over, sitting at the table, opening his notebook, picking up a pen. He was still writing. Still recording. Still saying sorry. Those names, those apologies, would continue to be written, continued to be recorded, continued to be said. Until he could no longer write, no longer record, no longer say. Until he too was gone, went to that river, became mist, became wind, became sunlight.

Jiang Bo turned and walked back. Tangyuan followed behind, running a few steps before stopping and looking back at him, as if waiting for something. He walked to the car and glanced back. The door of the small house was closed, but the light in the window was on. In the ruins, it was like a lamp, like a star, like an eye. He knew that light would always be on. Always.

The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the light grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still shining. The ruins grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but they were still there. The little house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still there. The gentleman was there, not going anywhere. His father was there too, in the river, in the wind, in the fog, in the sunlight. He was also here, on this road, in this city, by this river. They were all by this river, not going anywhere. The river still flows, just as it did a hundred years ago, just as it did a thousand years ago. Those names, too, remain. Forever.