Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

It was past noon when we left Wuhu. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining brightly on the highway, almost blindingly so. The fields on both sides of the road were withered and yellow, the stubble of harvested rice still standing like rows of silent soldiers. Smoke rose from distant villages; some were cooking, some were going about their lives, some were waiting. The gentleman sat in the back seat, clutching his notebook, silent. He leaned back, his eyes half-open, half-closed, as if asleep, or perhaps lost in thought. His hand rested on the notebook, his fingers slightly curled, as if caressing the names.

Tangyuan lay at his feet, its head resting on them, fast asleep. Its belly rose and fell gently, its breathing even, occasionally twitching its ears and emitting low whimpering sounds, as if it were dreaming. What was it dreaming of? The reeds by the river? The ruins? Or perhaps its master stroking its head?

Jiang Bo glanced at his husband in the rearview mirror. His face flickered in and out of the light and shadow, the wrinkles like deep ravines, each a mark of time, each a story, each an unspoken apology. His eyes were closed, but his eyelids trembled slightly, as if he were looking at something, chasing after something, or recalling something.

"Sir, are you hungry? Let's grab something to eat at the service station."

The man opened his eyes. His eyes were a little red, with bloodshot veins on the whites like spider webs. "I'm not hungry. I ate dumplings, so I'm not hungry. What about you? You haven't eaten yet. You've been so busy driving that you haven't eaten a single thing since morning. Your mother will be heartbroken if she finds out."

"I'm not hungry either. We'll eat when we get to Hefei. Li Mei's sister is there; we'll eat after we meet her. She's waited so many years; a little longer won't make a difference."

The man nodded. It was a slow, gentle nod. "Okay. We'll eat after we've seen her. She's waited so many years, she can't wait any longer. It's alright if we're hungry for a while, she's waited her whole life. How long is a lifetime? Very long, very short. Long enough to forget her face, short enough to pass in the blink of an eye."

After driving for more than two hours, we entered Hefei. Hefei is bigger than Wuhu, with more high-rise buildings and wider streets. Li Mei's sister lives in an old neighborhood in the east of the city. The house is very old; the plaster has peeled off, revealing the red bricks underneath, which are also quite weathered and crumble at the slightest touch. There's a flower bed downstairs, but it's empty of flowers, with only a few scallions and chives growing crookedly, their leaves yellowed, as if they haven't been cared for in a long time. A bicycle lies overturned beside the flower bed, its basket stuffed with several empty beverage bottles.

Jiang Bo parked the car downstairs and helped the man out. The man walked very slowly, step by step, his right foot dragging on the ground with a monotonous rubbing sound. His hand remained pressed against the cloth bag. The bag was very old; the blue cloth had faded from washing, the edges were frayed, and the zipper was broken, held together with a safety pin. He would walk a few steps, stop, catch his breath, and then continue walking.

Li Mei's older sister lived on the third floor. The hallway was dark; several motion-activated lights were broken, and only the dim, yellowish light filtering in from the windows illuminated the small GG logo on the wall and the stair railing. The railing was made of iron, the paint peeling off to reveal the rust underneath, and it felt very rough to the touch. The man walked very slowly, holding onto the railing, climbing step by step. His knees creaked like rusty iron doors, like an old staircase, as if they were about to fall apart. His breathing became heavy, and a hoarse sound came from his throat, like a bellows. He didn't stop, he kept climbing. When he reached the third floor, he stood in front of the door, panting for a long time. His hands gripped the wall, his fingers white, as if trying to dig into the wall, his nails leaving shallow marks on the plaster.

Jiang Bo knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman, in her forties, opened it. She had her hair in a ponytail and was wearing pajamas with a Hello Kitty print, faded from washing, the Kitty's face blurred. Her eyes were swollen, as if she had just cried or hadn't slept well. She had heavy bags under her eyes and dark circles, and her hair was messy, with a few strands hanging down beside her face. She paused for a moment when she saw Jiang Bo, then paused again when she saw her husband.

Who are you looking for?

Jiang Bo showed his identification. "Is Li Mei's sister here?"

The woman's eyes changed. Her gaze shifted from the ID to Jiang Bo's face, then to her husband's. Her lips moved, but no words came out; her Adam's apple bobbed. Then she spoke, her voice trembling slightly. "You...you called? It's you? The ones who said they remembered my sister for over thirty years?"

"Yes. We've come to see her. We promised we would."

The woman stepped aside. "Come in. She's inside. She just fell asleep. She's not feeling well today; she's slept all day. This morning she was talking about Meizi, saying she wanted to make dumplings for her. I told her Meizi wasn't coming back, but she didn't believe me. She said Meizi loves my dumplings the most, and she'll definitely come back."

The house was small, a two-bedroom apartment with a living room. The furniture was old-fashioned, but it was spotless. The cushions on the sofa were faded from washing, but laid out neatly. A plate of fruit, apples and oranges, sat on the coffee table, arranged neatly, as if waiting for someone to come and eat. A black-and-white photograph hung on the wall, showing a young woman with a round face, big eyes, and a sweet smile. Li Mei. Next to her was a color photograph of an elderly woman with completely white hair, sitting in a wheelchair, smiling happily. Standing beside her was a middle-aged woman—the one who opened the door. She stood behind the elderly woman, her hand on her shoulder, also smiling.

The woman led them into the bedroom. The bedroom was small, containing a bed, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. The curtains were drawn, letting in very little light; the room was dark. The old woman lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her hair completely white, her face deeply wrinkled, her lips moving slightly as if she were saying or reciting something. Her hands were outside the covers, her fingers moving incessantly, as if she were kneading something, like making dumplings. Beside the bed was a wheelchair, draped with a neatly folded blanket.

The woman walked over and knelt down beside the bed. "Mom, someone has come to see you."

The old woman didn't move. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was light and slow, like a feather falling on the water.

The woman leaned close to her ear and raised her voice. "Mom, it's the police. They're here to ask about Meizi. It's the one who called; he's here."

The old woman slowly opened her eyes. She looked for a long time, blinking a few times, as if trying to see something clearly. She looked at Jiang Bo, then at her husband. Her eyes were cloudy, she couldn't see people clearly, the whites of her eyes were yellowish, and her pupils were unfocused, as if covered by a layer of fog.

"Plum? Plum's back?"

Tears streamed down the woman's face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, but the tears wouldn't stop; the more she wiped, the more they flowed. "Mom, Meizi isn't coming back. They said Meizi isn't coming back. She's been gone for many years, and she's never coming back."

The old woman stared at her for a long time. Her lips trembled, and she couldn't utter a word for a long time. Then she smiled. It was a very soft, faint smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of her mouth, but Jiang Bo felt a pang of sadness in his heart. "Not coming back? Then I won't wait anymore. I won't wait anymore. I've waited a lifetime, that's enough."

The man went over and knelt down beside the bed. He knelt very slowly, his knees cracking as if they were about to break. He looked at her, for a long time. Her eyes were cloudy, but there was still a light. That kind of light—the kind that only those who have waited a long time have, that only those who have traveled a long way have, that only those who have finally decided not to wait any longer have.

"Li Mei...she's gone. She left many years ago. She was murdered. The murderer is dead. She's not coming back."

The old woman stared at him for a long time. "Who are you? How do you know about Meizi?"

Tears streamed down the man's face. They welled from his sunken eyes, flowing down his wrinkles like a dried-up riverbed, drop by drop, onto his coat, onto the sheets. "I'm someone she knew. I knew her. She was a good girl. She worked at a riverside restaurant, very hardworking, and always smiling. When she laughed, her voice was beautiful, like tinkling bells. She liked to wear floral dresses; she looked best in them, the hem swaying as she walked. She loved sweet and sour pork ribs, and she would buy them every time she got paid. I've always remembered her. For over thirty years. I'm sorry. I didn't protect her. I knew everything, but I did nothing. I'm sorry. I apologize on behalf of those who hurt her. I apologize on behalf of those who watched. I apologize on behalf of myself."

The old lady reached out and touched her husband's face. Her hands were thin and old, with prominent veins, short nails, and large knuckles. Her hands moved slowly across his face, from his forehead to his eyebrows, from his eyebrows to his eyes, from his eyes to his cheeks, and from his cheeks to his chin, as if she were recognizing him, as if she were remembering him.

"Do you know Meizi? Do you know her? Do you remember her?"

The man nodded. The nod was slow and heavy. "I remember. I've always remembered. Her name is in my notebook, in my heart, in my dreams. Every night I recite her name before I can fall asleep. I've been doing this for over thirty years. Sometimes I cry while reciting it, sometimes I laugh. I cry because she can't come back, and I laugh because I remember her."

The old woman smiled. It was a soft, faint smile, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. "That's good. It's good that someone remembers her. I thought no one remembered her. She's been gone for so many years, no one has asked about her, no one has looked for her. I thought she was gone, just gone. As if she'd never been here. You still remember. Thank you."

The man took the notebook out of his cloth bag, turned to Li Mei's page, and handed it to the old woman. On that page, the handwriting was neat and tidy, each stroke written with great force, some parts even tearing the paper: Li Mei, female, twenty-three years old, waitress. Missing on March 9, 1993. Old pontoon bridge. She was A-Zhen's colleague. She saw Ding Laosan come out of A-Zhen's room. He was strangled to death by Dong Jianmin and thrown into the river. I'm sorry.

The old woman took the notebook and looked at that page. Those words, those dates, those apologies. She stared at it for a long time, her fingers slowly tracing the lines on the paper, as if touching her sister's face, as if touching every single day she had waited for all those years. Then she closed the notebook, hugged it to her arms, like holding a baby, like holding her sister.

"Meizi, someone remembers you. Someone has remembered you for over thirty years. You can rest in peace now. I won't wait any longer. I'm tired, I can't wait any longer."

Jiang Bo stood to the side, tears streaming down his face. He thought of those names, those notebooks, those apologies. The gentleman had remembered them for over thirty years, written apologies for over thirty years. Now he had said it to their faces, in front of their families. They heard it. They knew someone remembered them. Those who had died could rest in peace. Those who had waited their whole lives could finally let go.

Leaving the old lady's house, the gentleman walked very slowly. He held onto the railing, descending step by step. His legs trembled, his hands trembled, and he looked like an old tree in the wind, as if he might collapse at any moment. He didn't speak, he just walked. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stood by the flowerbed and took a long breath. He looked up at the sky. The sky had cleared, and sunlight shone through the clouds, warming his face. His eyes were bright, like river water.

"Xiao Jiang, next. There are many families waiting. There are many people waiting. We can't stop, or we won't be able to move forward."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Sir, let's eat first. Eat first, then we'll go. You haven't eaten all day. Those few dumplings won't be enough. Your stomach can't handle it. My mother told you to eat on time, so you don't ruin your stomach."

The man shook his head. He patted his knees and straightened up. "I'm not hungry. Let's go. They've waited for so many years. They can't wait any longer. That guy in Tongling, Liu Xiaoqin's brother, he's waited for so many years, searched for so many years. He spent a lot of money and went to so many places. His mother called out her daughter's name when she died, and his father did too. He waited his whole life. How long is a lifetime? Very long, and very short. Long enough to forget his sister's face, short enough to pass in the blink of an eye."

They got on the bus and headed towards Tongling. The man sat in the back seat, clutching the notebook. He looked out the window, saying nothing more. His hand rested on the cloth bag, his fingers slightly curled, as if counting something, as if caressing something unseen. His eyes looked at the fields, villages, and rivers outside the window, but he saw nothing.

Jiang Bo looked at him in the rearview mirror. "Sir, why have you remembered all this for so many years? So many names, so many dates, so many apologies. You've been remembering for over thirty years, aren't you tired?"

The man paused, then thought for a long time. The scenery outside the window changed, from fields to villages, from villages to hills, and from hills back to fields. "Because nobody remembers. Those people, they just died. Nobody reported it, nobody looked for them, nobody asked. It's like they were never here. I feel it's unfair. They came, they lived, they laughed, they cried. Someone waited for them. They shouldn't be forgotten. I remember them, so their lives weren't in vain. Someone knows they were here, someone knows who they are, someone knows what they liked, someone knows what they waited for."

Jiang Bo was silent for a moment. "Sir, you've memorized them for so many years, aren't you tired? Reciting those names every night for over thirty years, aren't you tired?"

The man smiled. It was a faint, gentle smile, but Jiang Bo saw it in the rearview mirror. "Tired. But worth it. They are worth it. Yizhou is worth it. Those who waited their whole lives are worth it."

The car drove for over two hours and entered Tongling. It was almost dark; the setting sun cast a golden-red glow on the river, like blood, like fire, like those who would never return. Liu Xiaoqin's brother lived in a new residential area on the outskirts of the city. The buildings were tall, but there were hardly any people around. The flowers in the flowerbeds had all withered, leaving only a few holly bushes, their green almost black, their leaves covered in a layer of dust. Several cardboard boxes were piled up next to the trash cans, rustling loudly in the wind.

Jiang Bo parked the car downstairs and helped the man out. The man walked very slowly, step by step. He looked up at the building; it was very tall, with more than ten floors, and the windows were arranged in rows, some lit and some dark.

Liu Xiaoqin's brother lives on the sixth floor. There's an elevator, so he doesn't have to climb the stairs anymore. He stands in the elevator, watching the numbers on the elevator doors jump one by one, from 1 to 2, from 2 to 3, from 3 to 4. His hand is still gripping the cloth bag.

Stepping out of the elevator, Jiang Bo knocked on the door. A middle-aged man, in his fifties, thin, with graying hair, and wearing thick, round glasses, opened the door. He was wearing an old jacket with frayed cuffs and a broken zipper, held together by a string. He paused for a moment when he saw Jiang Bo, then paused again when he saw "sir."

"Who are you?"

Jiang Bo showed his identification. "Liu Xiaoqin's brother?"

The man's expression changed. His gaze shifted from the ID to Jiang Bo's face, then back to the man's. His lips moved, but no words came out; his Adam's apple bobbed several times. Then he spoke, his voice trembling slightly. "Yes. I am. You called? It's you? The one who said you'd remembered my sister for over thirty years?"

"Yes. We came to see you. We promised we would."

The man stepped aside. "Come in. Come in and sit down. I'll pour you some tea. We don't have anything fancy at home, and the tea is from the supermarket; it's not very good, so please make do."

The house wasn't large, just two bedrooms and a living room, but it was very clean. On the living room wall hung a black-and-white photograph of a young woman with a round face, big eyes, and a sweet smile. It was Liu Xiaoqin. Next to her was a color photograph of an elderly couple, their hair completely white, sitting in chairs, smiling happily. Standing beside them was a young man—the man who opened the door. Back then, he was young, with black hair, a wrinkle-free face, and a sunny smile.

The man poured them tea and sat down opposite them. He looked at the gentleman for a long time. "You are... the one who made the phone call? The one who remembered for over thirty years?"

The man nodded. "Yes. It's me. I've come to tell you I'm sorry. I've waited so many years, and I've finally come."

Tears streamed down the man's face. He took off his glasses, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and put them back on. "I've been looking for her for so many years. I posted missing person notices everywhere, asked around, and begged people everywhere. I spent a lot of money and went to so many places. Nothing came of it. When my mother died, she kept calling out her name. When my father died, he kept calling out her name too. They waited until they died. They never saw her again. They left with their eyes still open."

Tears streamed down the man's face. "I'm sorry. I didn't protect her. I knew everything, but I did nothing. I'm sorry. I apologize on behalf of those who hurt her. I apologize on behalf of those who watched. I apologize on behalf of myself."

The man stared at him for a long time. "You know her? You remember her? Do you know what she liked?"

The man took the notebook out of his cloth bag, turned to Liu Xiaoqin's page, and handed it to her. On that page, the handwriting was neat and tidy, each stroke deliberate and forceful: Liu Xiaoqin, female, twenty years old, waitress. Missing on November 3, 1992. Old pontoon bridge. Struck to death by Dong Jianmin and thrown into the river. She was the fourth. She liked to go to the riverbank and watch the boats. She especially liked watching big boats, saying they could go very far. She wanted to go to very far places. I'm sorry.

The man took the notebook and looked at that page. The words, the dates, the apologies. He stared at it for a long time, his fingers slowly tracing the lines of the paper, as if touching his sister's face, as if touching every place he had searched for all those years. Then he closed the notebook, hugged it to his arms, and wept.

"Xiaoqin, someone remembers you. Someone has remembered you for over thirty years. You can rest in peace now. Your brother is at ease too. After searching for you for so many years, someone has finally told me where you went."

Jiang Bo stood to the side, tears streaming down his face. He thought of those names, those notebooks, those apologies. The gentleman had remembered them for over thirty years, written apologies for over thirty years. Now he had said it to their faces, in front of their families. They heard it. They knew someone remembered them. Those who had died could rest in peace. Those who had searched their whole lives could finally let go.

It was already dark when he left the man's house. The moon had risen, round and bright, shining on the neighborhood, on the flowerbeds, and on the few holly bushes. The man walked very slowly, step by step. His legs were trembling, his hands were trembling, and he looked like a lamp about to go out. He didn't say anything, he just kept walking. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he stood by the flowerbed and took a long breath. He looked up at the night sky.

"Xiao Jiang, how many more are there?"

Jiang Bo looked at him. "There's still a lot. We'll go tomorrow. Go back and rest today. You're tired. You've talked too much and walked too much today; you need to rest."

The man shook his head. He hugged the notebook tighter. "I'm not tired. Let's go. They've waited for so many years. They can't wait any longer. That guy in Jiujiang, Wang Li's brother, he's waited for so many years, he's hated for so many years. He thought his sister went out to work and abandoned them. He hated her for so many years. Now that he knows, he cried for a long time. He wronged her."

Jiang Bo helped him into the car. "Sir, let's go home first today. We'll go again tomorrow. Your body can't take it. You haven't eaten anything all day, just a few dumplings. My mom will scold me if she finds out. She told me to take good care of you and not let you overwork yourself."

The man looked at him for a long time. The moonlight shone on his face, making the wrinkles appear deeper, but his eyes were bright. "Okay. We'll go again tomorrow. Go back today. Go back and eat your mother's dumplings. Eat Yizhou's favorite dumplings. Eat your fill."

The car drove out of Tongling and onto the road back to Jiangcheng. The gentleman, sitting in the back seat, clutching his notebook, quickly fell asleep. His head rested against the window, his mouth slightly open, his breathing heavy and labored, like an old engine. Tangyuan, lying at his feet, was also asleep. Its head was on his feet, its ears twitching occasionally.

Jiang Bo looked at him in the rearview mirror, a warm feeling welling up inside him. He remembered his husband's words: "They deserve it." Those people, those names, those apologies—they deserved it. Those who waited a lifetime deserved it. Those who searched a lifetime deserved it.

The car entered Jiangcheng late at night. Jiang Bo first took the gentleman back to the old pontoon bridge. The gentleman woke up and looked out the window. The ruins looked deathly white in the moonlight, and the small house still had a light on, dim and warm, like a star.

"Have we arrived?" His voice was a little groggy, like a child who had just woken up.

"We've arrived. Sir, get some sleep. I'll pick you up tomorrow. We'll visit Wang Li's brother, Zhao Xiuying's family, and Zhang Jianguo's family. We'll visit them one by one."

The man nodded. "Okay. We'll go to Jiujiang tomorrow. There are still people waiting. We can't keep them waiting too long. They've waited long enough."

He got out of the car and walked slowly, step by step. The moonlight shone on him, casting his long, thin shadow on the ground, like an old tree. He reached the door of the small house, turned around, and waved. Jiang Bo waved back. The gentleman pushed open the door and went inside; the light was still on.

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. Like a star, like an eye, like someone who had been waiting for a long time.