Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Visiting his teacher became a daily routine for Jiang Bo.

She leaves before dawn, carrying two breakfasts. One for her husband, one for herself. Sometimes it's steamed buns and soy milk, sometimes fried dough sticks and congee, sometimes dumplings. Xiuying makes them, pork and cabbage filling, packed in a thermal container, still steaming on the way. The container is red with peonies printed on it, the color faded, but it's kept very clean. Every time Xiuying packs dumplings, she wipes the container clean, blotting out any water stains in the corners and crevices with a cloth, as if she's going to a very important appointment.

Tangyuan sat in the passenger seat, staring at the insulated food container, drool dripping from its mouth and leaving a small wet patch on the seat. It knew it was for the gentleman, and didn't try to snatch it, but its eyes remained fixed on it, its tongue lolling out like a long pink ribbon. Jiang Bo glanced at it, and it turned its head away, pretending to look out the window, but after a while it turned back and continued staring at the container.

The car reached the old pontoon bridge just as dawn broke. The fog had lifted, and sunlight shone on the ruins, shattering them into pieces of gold. The bricks and rubble were edged with gold in the morning light, and even the weeds looked beautiful, yellow and soft, like a carpet. The bulldozers were still there, rusty, but the sunlight made them look less bad, like a sleeping giant having a sweet dream. The small house in the sunlight was like a pearl forgotten in a corner, dusty but still shining. The roof tiles had been repaired, new and old mixed together, different colors, but neatly arranged. The windows had also been replaced, the glass polished to a shine, reflecting images clearly.

The man sat by the door, waiting. He sat there every day at this time, watching the ruins, the road, and the car approaching. His eyesight was failing; things were blurry, as if seen through frosted glass. But he recognized the car, the shape of its headlights, and the sound of its tires crunching over the broken bricks. The sound was creaking and groaning, like bones cracking, but he knew it was the car. Hearing the sound, he stood up, gripped the doorframe, and let it in.

"You're here?"

"They're here."

Jiang Bo placed breakfast on the table, moved a chair, and sat by the door. The chair was wooden, old, and a little wobbly, but he wouldn't replace it. It was the chair his husband had sat in for decades; the surface was worn smooth, like a mirror, reflecting his image. Tangyuan lay down beside his husband's feet, resting its head on them, its eyes half-closed. It knew his husband would pet its head. Sure enough, he petted its head, and it wagged its tail, its eyes still closed, but the corners of its mouth turned up as if it were smiling.

They ate in silence. That was the rule. No talking while eating, talk after you've finished. It was a rule set by the master. He said that talking while eating was disrespectful to the food. Food nourishes, and one must respect it.

The man ate very slowly, chewing each bite as if counting grains of rice. He had lost several teeth, and the remaining ones were loose, making it difficult to chew hard foods. Jiang Bo brought him congee, tofu pudding, and soft noodles. He ate very little; a bowl of congee took him half an hour to finish. After finishing, he put down the bowl and looked at Jiang Bo. His lips were glistening with rice gruel, which he wiped slowly and carefully with his sleeve, as if performing a ritual.

How is your mother?

"Okay. She asked me to ask you if there are enough dumplings."

"That's enough. That's enough. Don't let her cover it anymore, it's tiring."

"She's willing."

The man smiled. It was a gentle, subtle smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. When he smiled, his eyes curved like his father's. His father smiled just like that, his lips slightly upturned, his eyes curving like two crescent moons. Jiang Bo hadn't known this before, but now he did. He had seen his father's photograph, seen that smile—exactly the same as the man's.

After finishing his meal, the man took out his notebook, opened it, and placed it on the table. He wrote every day, writing those names, writing those apologies. He had been writing for over thirty years, and he would continue. He would write until he could no longer write, until he died. His pen rested on the notebook, nib pointing towards the paper, hovering as if hesitating. His hands were thin, veins bulging, knuckles thick, nails trimmed short. His hands trembled violently, but once he grasped the pen, they stopped trembling. Steady, as if welded together.

Jiang Bo looked at the notebook and asked, "How much longer do I need to write?"

The man paused, his hand hovering in mid-air, the pen tip hovering over the paper, not falling. He stared at the names for a long time. The names were neatly arranged, row upon row, like soldiers, like tombstones, like people standing on the riverbank waiting to cross.

"I don't know. I'll keep writing until I can't remember anymore. I'll keep writing until I forget."

Jiang Bo was silent for a moment. "You won't forget."

The man looked at him. "How did you know?"

"You've remembered it for thirty years. You can't forget it."

Tears streamed down the man's face. He didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely down his cheeks, dripping onto his notebook and blurring a single word. He quickly wiped them with his sleeve, afraid of smudging the words. It was a name, someone he had remembered for thirty years, someone he never wanted to forget. His movements were hurried and frantic, like a child protecting his most beloved toy.

"Xiao Jiang, there's something I've been keeping from you."

Jiang Bo waited. He knew that what his teacher was about to say must be something that had been weighing on his heart for a long time. Those things were like stones, piled up one by one over thirty years, forming a mountain. Now he was going to move those stones, one by one, slowly but firmly.

The man stood up, walked to the bedside, and took a notebook from under his pillow. It was older, the cover torn, wrapped in a piece of blue cloth. The cloth itself was old, faded from washing, and the edges were frayed, but it was folded neatly, as if afraid of soiling the contents. He unwrapped the cloth, took out the notebook, and placed it on the table.

The notebook was small, about the size of a palm, with a black cover that was badly worn at the corners, revealing the gray cardboard inside. There were no words on the cover, only a blurry mark, as if something had been pressing on it for a long time.

"This is the earliest one. From 1960."

Jiang Bo picked it up and opened it. The paper was brittle, as if it would crumble at the slightest touch. He turned the pages carefully, like defusing a bomb, like opening a letter that had been written for a long time. Every page was densely covered with writing, the handwriting young and vigorous, unlike the later writing. The later handwriting was faint and light, as if the writer had run out of strength, like autumn leaves that would fall with a gust of wind. These words were dark and heavy, as if etched on the paper, as if etched on the stone, as if etched into the bones.

He turned to the first page. It read: March 1960. Organization J.

His hand paused for a moment. 1960. His father hadn't been born yet. The man was ten years old then.

"You knew about the J Organization when you were ten years old?"

The man nodded. His gaze drifted out the window, to the ruins, to the distance, to those years he could never return to. "My father was a member of the J organization. He was also a policeman."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist.

"His name was Zhou Huaiyuan. He joined the police force in 1950 and disappeared in 1960. He left when I was ten years old. He never came back. My mother waited for him for many years, until her hair turned white, until she went blind, until she died. He never came back. When she died, she was still calling his name. She said, 'Huaiyuan, have you come back?' I said, 'Yes, I have.' She smiled. She said, 'It's good that you've come back.' She didn't know I was lying to her."

Jiang Bo stared at the notebook, his hands trembling. The man was also a child of the J organization. Just like him. His father was a policeman, killed by the J organization. He waited for many years, but he never returned. He remembered for many years, remembering those names, remembering those apologies. He waited for his father, waited for him, waited for all those who had disappeared. He waited for over thirty years. He waited for his father to die, waited for his birth, waited for him to grow up, waited for him to come looking for him.

"What did your father find out?"

The man shook his head. His eyes were fixed on the ruins outside the window, on the river. The river water shimmered in the sunlight, like pieces of gold. "I don't know. He only left behind a notebook. This one. It contained some names, some addresses, some dates. I investigated for many years, found the J organization, found those people, found those events. Then I joined the J organization to find out the truth. I waited many years, waited for your father, waited for him to find Dong Jianmin, waited for him to die. I know everything, but I did nothing. I was afraid. I was afraid they would kill me, afraid they would kill your father. I didn't protect him."

Jiang Bo closed his notebook and looked at him. "You didn't fail to protect him. You did protect him. You waited many years, and you finally got the truth. Your wait wasn't in vain."

The man looked at him for a long time. His eyes were bright, like the water of a river in winter, cold but deep. He saw many things in them—guilt, regret, sadness, and something else.

"You're just like him. Stubborn."

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the window. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into countless pieces of gold, dazzlingly bright. The river flowed slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. Those names, those apologies, were all in this river. They had flowed away, but they remained. He thought of his father, of those notebooks, of those names, of those apologies. He thought of his husband, the one who had waited for over thirty years, the one who had remembered for over thirty years, the one who had said sorry. He thought of the family members, the ones who had waited their whole lives. They were all on this riverbank, waiting, remembering, saying sorry.

"Sir, who is the leader of Organization J?"

The man fell silent.

Have you seen it?

The man shook his head. His fingers tapped on the table, one tap at a time, as if counting something. "No. He never shows himself. Nobody has ever seen him. They call him 'The Fool.' J means 'The Fool.' It also means 'judgment.' I don't know who he is. But I know he's still alive. He's always been here."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist. The Fool. The leader of the J organization. He was still alive. He had always been there. Where? In Jiangcheng? By the river? In that house? Or in those ruins? He remembered the photograph, the old man standing by the river, the man wearing the J ring. He was the Fool. He killed those people, he made those people kill those people. He stood at the door watching, then turned and left. He waited for many years, waited for his father, waited for his master, waited for him. He had always been there. By the river, in the city, in some unseen place.

Have you seen him?

The man shook his head. "No. But I've seen his letters. Every single one has the same word: J."

Jiang Bo stood there, his mind blank. J. The symbol, the ring, the person standing at the door. They were all looking for him. He was looking for them too. He had searched for many years, found the gentleman, found the notebooks, found the names. He hadn't found the Fool. He was still there. He had always been there.

"Sir, I will find him."

The man looked at him. "Be careful. He's not human. He's a ghost."

Jiang Bo nodded. He stepped out of the hut and stood at the doorway. A breeze blew in, carrying the fishy smell of the river, along with the scent of grass and earth. Tangyuan followed behind, looking up at him. Its eyes sparkled like two pieces of amber, as if asking: "Should we continue searching?"

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 cried out. That cry echoed across the empty ruins, carrying far and wide, reaching the river, the bridge, and the small house.

Jiang Bo got into the car 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, but it was still there. The man stood at the door, waving. His hand was thin, like a withered twig, but he was still waving. He waved, then the car turned a corner, and nothing could be seen anymore. The ruins, the small house, the man—all were gone. Only a gray sky and a gray earth remained.

He drove onto the Yangtze River Bridge, gazing at the water. The river shimmered in the sunlight, flowing slowly. Where was the Fool? Was he by the river? In the city? In that house? Was he watching him too? Did he know he was looking for him? Was he afraid? Would he say sorry? Or would he never say sorry at all? He was the Fool, he was the judge. He killed those people, he made those people kill those people. He wouldn't say sorry. He would only stand at the doorway, watch, and then turn and leave.

Jiang Bo stepped on the gas, the car drove off the bridge, and onto the road back to the city. Those names were still in his heart, those apologies were still in his notebook, and that fool was still somewhere. He had to find him. Whether he was human or ghost, whether he was hiding somewhere, whether he had waited for years, he had to find him. Tangyuan lay quietly in the back seat, its head resting on its front paws. It knew its master was going to a very far place. It didn't know where that was, but it would stay with him. Always with him.