Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

By daybreak, Jiang Bo was already on his way. Tangyuan lay sprawled in the passenger seat, her head resting on her front paws, her eyes half-open, her ears twitching occasionally. A thermos box sat in the back seat, filled with dumplings Xiuying had made—pork and cabbage dumplings, wrapped in several layers of cloth. Her husband had said he loved them, so she had made extra for him to take on the road. She had gotten up before dawn to knead the dough, chop the filling, roll out the wrappers, and spent two whole hours making them. She didn't speak as she wrapped them, carefully pinching each one, the pleats even and precise, as if she were doing something very important.

When the car arrived at the old pontoon bridge, the gentleman was already waiting at the door. He had changed his clothes; they were still dark, but cleaner, and the collar was neatly buttoned. His hair had been combed and smoothed with a little water, revealing his bald head. He had replaced his cloth bag; the old one was torn, so Xiuying had sewed a new one overnight out of blue cloth, sewing the edges tightly and adding a button. The gentleman held it, examining it from all angles, and said, "It's good. You're more skillful than your mother." As he said this, his eyes shone brightly, like a child who had received a new toy.

Jiang Bo helped him into the car. His movements were slower than yesterday, and his knees creaked even louder, like a rusty iron gate swaying in the wind. His hands pressed against the cloth bag, his knuckles thick and veins bulging. He didn't stop, inching forward step by step, until he finally got into the car, sat down, placed the cloth bag on his knees, pressed his hands against it, and let out a long sigh.

"Sir, have some dumplings first. My mom made them, pork and cabbage filling. She got up before dawn, and wrapped them in several layers of cloth to keep them warm. She said you should eat them while they're hot, as they're bad for your stomach if they get cold."

The man opened the insulated food container; the dumplings were still steaming, white and plump, arranged neatly one by one. He picked one up, put it in his mouth, and chewed for a long time, as if savoring something, as if remembering something. "Delicious. Your mother's dumplings are delicious. Yizhou used to bring me dumplings too. Every time he came to see me, he brought dumplings. He said his wife made them. He smiled happily. He was young then, with bright eyes that crinkled when he smiled, just like you."

The car drove off the old pontoon bridge and onto the Yangtze River Bridge. The river water shimmered in the morning light, like fragments of gold, dazzlingly bright. There weren't many cars on the bridge, only a few trucks driving slowly, their wheels making a dull thud as they rolled over the surface. The man gazed at the river for a long time. His eyes shone brightly in the morning light, like the river itself.

"Xiao Jiang, your dad used to drive me around. He was young then, just learned to drive, and drove very slowly and carefully. He took me to investigate cases, to the old pontoon bridge, to the riverbank. As he drove, he told me what he had found out. He spoke very quickly and excitedly, like a child who had discovered a treasure. I listened, nodded, and said okay, and told him to keep investigating. I knew about the people and the things he had found out. I knew everything. But I didn't tell him. He knew nothing."

Jiang Bo looked at him in the rearview mirror. His face flickered in and out of the light and shadow from the car window, his wrinkles like deep furrows, each a mark of time, each a story. "Sir, my dad won't blame you. If he knew, he would thank you. Thank you for remembering those people, thank you for saying sorry, thank you for waiting all these years."

The man smiled. "I know. He won't blame me. He never blames me. 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 would tell me what he had found out. He spoke quickly and excitedly. I listened, nodded, and said okay. I didn't dare say too much, afraid of letting something slip. When he left, I called him back, wanting to tell him. He looked into my eyes, and I waited for a long time before only saying, 'Come back soon.' He didn't come back."

The car drove off the bridge and onto the highway. The fields on both sides of the road were a withered yellow, the harvested rice stubble still lying in the ground like rows of silent soldiers. Smoke rose from the distant villages; some were cooking, some were going about their lives, and some were waiting. The man looked out the window, no longer speaking. His hand rested on his cloth bag, his fingers slightly curled, as if counting something, as if caressing something unseen.

The car drove for over three hours before entering Jiujiang. Jiujiang is larger than Wuhu but older than Hefei. Wang Li's younger brother lives in a residential area in the west of the city. The area is very old; the plaster on the walls 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, with only a few scallions and chives planted in it, their leaves yellowed, as if they haven't been tended to in a long time. A tricycle is parked beside the flower bed, its cargo bed piled high with empty flowerpots. Jiang Bo parked the tricycle downstairs and helped his husband out. His husband walked very slowly, step by step, his right foot dragging on the ground, making a monotonous rubbing sound. His hand remained pressed against the cloth bag. He looked up at the building; it wasn't tall, only six stories, but the stairs were very steep.

Wang Li's younger brother lived on the fifth floor. There was no elevator, so the man had to climb the stairs again. He held onto the railing, climbing step by step. The railing was iron, the paint peeling off, revealing the rust underneath; it felt rough to the touch and had a metallic smell. His knees creaked, like a rusty iron door, like an old staircase, as if they were about to fall apart. His breathing became heavy, a hoarse sound coming from his throat, like a bellows. He didn't stop, he kept climbing. When he reached the third floor, he stopped, leaning against the wall, panting for a long time. His hands gripped the wall, his fingers white, as if trying to dig into the wall. Jiang Bo offered to help him, but he waved his hand. "It's alright. I just need to rest. I'm old, I'm no longer useful."

After resting for a while, he started climbing again. He reached the fifth floor, stood in front of the door, and panted for a long time. His legs were shaking, his hands were shaking, and he looked like a light that was about to go out.

Jiang Bo knocked on the door. A middle-aged man, in his fifties, thin, with graying hair, and wearing thick, rounded glasses that framed small, squinting eyes. He wore 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 the man.

"Who are you?"

Jiang Bo showed his identification. "Wang Li's younger 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. The house is messy, please don't mind. I live alone, no one cleans it."

The house wasn't big, just two bedrooms and a living room, but it was fairly 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 Wang Li. 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. Now he was old, his hair white, his face wrinkled, and his glasses thick.

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. It was a slow, gentle nod. "Yes. It's me. I've come to tell you I'm sorry. After waiting for so many years, you've finally come."

Tears streamed down the man's face. He didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely, dripping onto the coffee table and his hands. "I hated her for years. I thought she went out to work and abandoned us. I hated her. Every year during the Spring Festival, while other families were reunited, our family was missing one person. My dad would drink alone, one glass after another, until midnight, until he was slumped over the table. My mom would cry secretly, hiding in the kitchen, crying until she wiped her eyes and came out, pretending nothing had happened. I hated her, hated that she wouldn't come back, hated that she didn't want this family. Now I know, I wronged her. She didn't abandon us, she just can't come back."

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 remember what she looked like?"

The man took the notebook out of his cloth bag, turned to Wang Li's page, and handed it to him. On that page, the handwriting was neat and tidy, each stroke written with great force, some parts even tearing the paper: Wang Li, female, twenty-four years old, worker. Missing on September 5, 1992. Old pontoon bridge. She was the second. She was a good person; she knew nothing, she was just passing by. She saw his face. I'm sorry.

The man took the notebook and looked at that page. Those words, those dates, those apologies. He stared at it for a long time, his fingers slowly tracing the paper, as if touching his sister's face, as if touching every day he had hated over the years. His tears dripped onto the paper, blurring a single word. He quickly wiped them with his sleeve, afraid of smudging the words.

"Sister, someone remembers you. Someone has remembered you for over thirty years. You can rest in peace now. I don't hate you anymore. I wronged you. I'm sorry."

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 harbored hatred their whole lives could finally let go.

Leaving the man'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. He didn't speak, he just walked. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stood by the flowerbed and let out 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."

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. There's someone waiting. Gao Deming. He's dead, no one's waiting for him anymore. But he was a man too. His name was Gao Deming, forty-two years old, unemployed. He was a smart aleck, loved to brag, loved to exaggerate. He said he knew a secret, that he was going to get rich. He saw Dong Jianmin standing at the door. He's dead. I'm going to see him."

They got in the car and drove to their next destination. 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. The car drove for two hours until they arrived at the place where Gao Deming had disappeared. It was a small town on the banks of the Yangtze River, much like the old pontoon bridge. An old street lined with old houses, their walls peeling, revealing the bricks beneath. Several fishing boats dotted the riverbank, their hulls weathered, fishing nets hanging from their bows, swaying gently in the wind.

The man got out of the car and stood by the river, gazing at the water. The river flowed slowly, like the city itself, like all rivers. It knew everything, yet said nothing. The wind blew, carrying the fishy smell of the river, along with the scent of grass and earth.

"Gao Deming, male, 3 years old, unemployed. Disappeared on March 10, 1993. Old pontoon bridge. He said he knew a secret and wanted to get rich. He saw Dong Jianmin standing at the door. Dong Jianmin strangled him to death and threw him into the river. I'm sorry. I know you have a sharp tongue, love to brag, and love to talk big. You're not likable, you're a scoundrel. But you're also a human being. You're dead, no one will look for you, no one will wait for you. I remember you. I've remembered you for over thirty years. You can rest in peace now."

The man's voice was very soft, as if it drifted from a great distance. He stood there, the wind blowing through his hair. Then he smiled. A very soft, faint smile.

"Let's go."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Where to?"

The man turned and walked back. "Go home. There are still people waiting tomorrow. Zhang Jianguo's family, Zhao Xiuying's family, and those whose names we can't find. One by one. Don't rush. If you rush, you won't be able to move. If you can't move, you won't be able to pay back the debts. If you don't pay back the debts, you won't be able to sleep."

They got in the car and drove back to Jiangcheng. The gentleman sat in the back seat, clutching his notebook, and quickly fell asleep. His head was resting against the window, his mouth slightly open, his breathing heavy and labored, like an old engine. Tangyuan lay asleep at his feet, its head nestled on his heels, 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—they deserved it. Those who hated a lifetime—they deserved it. And the one no one waited for—they deserved it too.

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.

"arrive?"

"We've arrived. Sir, get some sleep. I'll pick you up tomorrow. There are still people waiting. Zhang Jianguo's family, Zhao Xiuying's family. Come one by one."

The man nodded. "Okay. We'll go tomorrow. There are still people waiting. We can't keep them waiting too long. They've waited long enough. They've waited their whole lives; they can't wait any longer."

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.

Jiang Bo drove, thinking of those names, those families, those apologies. The Master had remembered them for over thirty years, written apologies for over thirty years. Now he said it to their faces, in front of those families. They heard it. Those who died can rest in peace. Those who waited their whole lives can let go. Those who hated their whole lives no longer hate. But there was one person he hadn't met. The Fool. The leader of Organization J. He was still alive; he had always been there. The Master knew who he was, but he wouldn't say. The Master said, "After I meet those families and say sorry, I'll tell you." He was waiting. He had waited so many years; a few more days wouldn't matter.

The car drove into the city and parked downstairs. Jiang Bo went upstairs; Xiuying was still waiting for him. She was sitting on the sofa, the TV was on, the volume was low, and the picture was flickering. She was knitting something with her head down; the yarn was blue, the same color as her husband's new cloth bag. Hearing the door open, she looked up.

"You're back? How is the gentleman? Has he eaten? Are there enough dumplings?"

"It's okay. Just tired. I have to go again tomorrow. We had enough dumplings, and he said they were delicious. He said my dad had brought them to him before. He said my dad looked very happy."

Xiuying's tears streamed down her face. She didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely. "As long as your dad is happy. As long as he's happy. He's never really laughed in his life, except when he was with me. He laughed when he was with your husband too. When he smiled, his eyes curved like crescent moons."

Jiang Bo walked over and took her hand. "Mom, the gentleman said he'd take me to see him. He'll tell me after we meet the family members."

Sooyoung looked at him. "Tell you what?"

Jiang Bo remained silent for a moment. "Tell me who it is. The one standing at the door watching. The one who killed those women. The one who's still somewhere."

Xiuying paused for a moment. She lowered her head and continued knitting. "What are you going to do after you find him?"

Jiang Bo remained silent. He stood by the window, gazing at the night sky outside. Moonlight shone on the river, shattering into countless pieces of silver.

"I want to ask him. Ask him why he killed those people. Ask him why he stood at the door watching. Ask him if he will ever say sorry."

Sooyoung looked up at him. "Will he tell me?"

Jiang Bo shook his head. "I don't know. But I want to ask him. After I ask, those who have died can rest in peace."

Xiuying lowered her head and continued knitting. "You're just like your dad. Stubborn."

Jiang Bo smiled. "It's hereditary."