Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo didn't go home. He drove straight to the Municipal Public Security Bureau. Tangyuan followed behind, running into the building and sniffing around in the corridor. The police officer on duty saw him, paused for a moment, seemed about to say something, but then swallowed his words. His complexion was unpleasant; anyone could see it. It was gloomy, like a stormy night, oppressive and suffocating. He entered the technical section; the lights were still on. Liu Tong sat in front of the computer, the screen's light illuminating his face, making the dark circles under his eyes from staying up all night even more pronounced. His glasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose, his eyes were squinting, and his lips were chapped, peeling in several layers. On the table were three empty coffee cups and a half-eaten sandwich; the bread was dry, the edges curled up, and the sausage inside was blackened, emitting a sour smell. Seeing Jiang Bo enter, he looked up, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes; there was boogers in the corners of his eyes, which he didn't wipe away.

"Boss, we've found Dong Zhiqiang's information." His voice was hoarse, as if he had a sore throat or hadn't drunk water for days, and there was a hoarse sound coming from his throat when he spoke.

Jiang Bo walked over. On the screen was a personnel file, a scanned copy, not very clear, but still legible. The paper was yellowed, and the edges were somewhat blurry, as if it had been copied from an old file. There was also the archives' stamp on it, red and faded.

"Dong Zhiqiang, male, born in 1979. Joined the police force in 2001 and assigned to the Criminal Investigation Detachment of Jiangcheng Public Security Bureau. Resigned in 2005. He performed well during his service and was awarded a third-class merit once. Reason for resignation: personal development."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. He resigned in 2005. His father had already died when he became a policeman. But he knew his father, as Lao He had said. He knew his mentor, also as Lao He had said. By the time he became a policeman, those cases were closed. But he knew the details of those cases; he had seen the files, he had met those people. He had met Fang Min, met Li Hongmei, met those women who jogged at night. He organized night running groups, led them in runs, protected them. Then they died. He couldn't protect them. He could do nothing. He stood at the door watching. Just like his mentor, just like his father.

Where did he go after he resigned?

Liu Tong pulled up another document, tapped a few times on the keyboard, and the screen switched to another page. "He went to Shanghai. He worked for a security company for two years. Later, he returned to Jiangcheng and started his own company. He does security, sells surveillance equipment, and also provides security services. Business is good; he bought a house and a car. Five years ago, he started organizing night running groups. His company's clients are mainly residential communities and shopping malls, installing surveillance cameras and building security systems. He knows surveillance very well; he knows where the blind spots are and where they can't be filmed. He knows how to avoid cameras and how to leave no trace. He knows everything the police know."

Jiang Bo stared at the photo on the screen. Young Dong Zhiqiang, in his police uniform, stood at the entrance of the police station, smiling brightly. His eyes were clear, his lips curved upwards, revealing a set of white teeth. Just like his father, just like his mentor. Later, he quit and went into business. Then he started organizing night running groups, and then the women in his groups began to die. One after another, they died. He stood at the door watching, unable to do anything. He filled many notebooks, wrote down many names, and said many apologies. Then he left.

Where does he live?

Liu Tong pulled up a map, zoomed in, and pointed at the screen. "Jinghu District, Cuihu Garden. He bought an apartment there, on the twelfth floor, a three-bedroom, one-living-room apartment, where he lives with his wife. His wife's name is Lin Xiaoman, she's three years younger than him, and she doesn't work. They've been married for ten years and don't have children. The neighbors say they have a good relationship; they often take walks together and go grocery shopping together. His wife doesn't go out much; she stays home, doing the grocery shopping and cooking. He goes straight home after get off work and doesn't go out socializing. The neighbors say he's a nice person, always greeting people with a smile. He doesn't seem like the kind of person who would get into trouble."

Is his wife home?

Liu Tong shook her head and flipped through her notebook. "I called, but no one answered. I sent a message, but no reply. Our staff went to check, but the door was locked and the lights weren't on. The neighbors said they saw her going out to buy groceries yesterday, wearing pajamas and carrying a basket, and she even greeted them, saying the weather was nice today. They didn't see her today. They don't know if she's home. The property management also knocked on the door, but no one answered. They called, but no one answered either."

Jiang Bo stood there for a while. He walked to the window and looked at the night outside. The streetlights were on, their dim yellow light shining on the wet streets, reflecting a cold glow. In the distance, the headlights of cars on the Yangtze River Bridge formed a line, like a luminous river. He turned around. "To Cuihu Garden."

Cuihu Garden, located in Jinghu District, is an upscale residential community. The security guard at the gate, dressed in uniform, stood ramrod straight, his hat brim pulled low, obscuring his eyes. Upon seeing Jiang Bo's car, he stopped it briefly, checked his identification, let him pass, and saluted. The community was quiet; the streetlights illuminated the neatly trimmed holly and ginkgo trees. Ginkgo leaves lay scattered on the ground, yellow and unswept, rustling underfoot like walking on dry paper. The lawn was also withered, yellow, like an old carpet with curled edges. The fountain was off, the pool dry, with only a few fallen leaves remaining.

Dong Zhiqiang's home was on the 12th floor. The elevator doors opened, the hallway was carpeted and quiet, with only the sound of the elevator doors closing and their footsteps. The motion-activated lights came on, casting a dim, yellowish glow. Jiang Bo walked to apartment 1203 and knocked. No one answered. He knocked again, still no one. He pressed his ear to the door and listened; there was no sound inside, absolutely no sound. It was as quiet as an empty room. He looked at the lock; it was a combination lock, without a keyhole. The silver panel had several number keys that glowed with a faint blue light, flashing intermittently.

"Liu Tong, check with the property management to see if they can open the gate."

Liu Tong made a phone call. After a while, a property management staff member arrived. He was a middle-aged man in uniform, carrying a registration book and a bunch of keys that jingled. He looked at Jiang Bo's ID, hesitated for a moment, and then entered a few numbers on the keypad. The door opened with a crisp "beep," which was particularly loud in the quiet corridor.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn, letting in no light. Jiang Bo turned on the light. The living room was large and very clean. The sofa, coffee table, and TV cabinet were all solid wood, dark in color, polished to a shine, reflecting images clearly. On the coffee table was a water glass, half-filled, with a layer of dust on the surface and a ring of limescale around the glass. A blanket was draped on the sofa, neatly folded like a tofu block, with sharp edges. A photograph hung on the wall, a picture of Dong Zhiqiang and his wife. The two stood by the river, smiling happily. His wife leaned on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. In the background was the Zhongjiang Pagoda, the river water shimmering in the sunlight.

Jiang Bo walked around the room. The bedroom bed was neatly made, the blankets folded squarely, the pillows arranged perfectly, and a lamp sat on the bedside table with an open book—a psychology book. The clothes in the wardrobe were hung neatly, men's and women's clothing separated, arranged from dark to light colors, like a store display. In the study, there was a computer, off, its screen black, like a closed eye. The bookshelves were filled with books, mostly about security, a few novels, several psychology books, and a few Buddhist scriptures. Everything seemed normal, not like someone had left in a hurry. But the person wasn't there; he couldn't reach them by phone, and they didn't reply to messages. His wife wasn't there either; neither of them was there. It was as if they had agreed to disappear together.

Tangyuan sniffed around the room and suddenly barked at a cabinet in the study. It was a gray, sheet metal filing cabinet, placed inconspicuously next to the bookshelf. The cabinet door was closed and locked with a small, rusty padlock. Jiang Bo went over and pulled on it, but couldn't open it. He searched around but couldn't find the key. He pried it open with a tool, the sheet metal making a harsh, creaking sound, like bones breaking.

There were several notebooks and a USB drive in the cabinet. He took out the notebooks and opened them. The first page had the date: June 15, 2005. It was the year he resigned. The handwriting was very neat, each stroke carefully written with force, even tearing the paper in some places.

Jiang Bo flipped through the pages one by one. The first few pages were all about work: cases, colleagues, and superiors. Who solved a major case, who got promoted, who was transferred. The handwriting was neat, but there were some corrections and heavy ink marks, as if he had hesitated while writing, or as if he had written and revised repeatedly.

Turning to the next page, the content changed. The handwriting became messy, and in some places it was barely legible, as if the writer's hand was trembling, or as if it had been written under very dim light. The paper was also wrinkled, as if it had been soaked in water, or as if it had been soaked in sweat.

"June 15, 2005. Today I resigned. They said I wasn't suited to be a policeman. They said I was too meticulous, too stubborn. They said I used any means necessary to investigate cases. They don't know that those cases, those dead people, come to me every night. I can't sleep. I see them when I close my eyes. They stand by the river, looking at me. They ask me, why didn't you help them? Why did you let them die? I don't know. I don't know. I can't answer. I can't answer anyone. I can't even answer myself."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. He continued flipping through the pages.

"March 2006. I was in Shanghai. I left Jiangcheng. I thought leaving would be the end of it. But the dreams were still there. The people were still there. They were still standing by the river, looking at me. They were still asking me the same questions. I couldn't answer them. I had the same dream every night. I dreamt that they came out of the river, soaking wet, their hair plastered to their faces, and stood by my bed. They didn't speak, they just looked at me. I woke up, covered in sweat. My pillow was soaked. I didn't dare to sleep anymore. I sat up until dawn."

"May 2008. I went back to Jiangcheng. I thought it would be better to come back. But it didn't work. Those people were still there. They were waiting for me by the river. I knew they were waiting for me. They had been waiting for me for many years. I didn't dare go to the river. I walked around it. I drove around it. I took a bus around it. But I knew they were there. They were always there. They were there wherever I went. In my dreams, in my heart, before my eyes."

"August 2010. I organized a night running group. We ran along the river. Those women, wearing sportswear, looked beautiful as they ran. They were alive, laughing, running. They wouldn't die. I would protect them. I led them in runs, teaching them how to avoid danger, how to protect themselves. I thought that would be enough. I thought I could do it. I told them not to run alone, not to run too far, not to run too late. I taught them how to observe their surroundings, how to judge danger, how to call for help. I taught them everything I learned as a policeman. I thought that way they wouldn't die."

"March 2015. Fang Min joined the night running group. Her smile was just like everyone else's. Would she die? No. I would protect her. She ran very slowly, so I ran behind her. She said thank you, Brother Dong. I said it was nothing. She smiled happily. After her run, she would text me saying, 'Brother Dong, I'm home.' I would say okay. She texted me every time. Rain or shine. I thought I would always receive messages from her."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. He continued flipping through the pages.

"July 2023. Li Hongmei died. I couldn't protect her. I watched her die. Just like those others. I stood at the door watching. I couldn't do anything. I was completely helpless. That night she was at the very back, and I couldn't catch up. By the time I found her, she was already in the river. I jumped in, but I couldn't find her. The water was too deep, too swift. I touched her hand, but it was slippery. I touched it again, but it was gone. Just like back then. Just like in my dream. I searched in the water for a long time, touching stones, water plants, rotten wood, but I couldn't find her. When I got ashore, it was already dawn."

"August 2024. Fang Min died too. I couldn't protect her. There was nothing I could do. Those people were still waiting for me by the river. They asked me why I didn't help them? Why did I let them die? I couldn't answer. I couldn't answer. I stood at the door watching, watching them die. Just like my master, just like my father. We were all the same. We couldn't do anything, we couldn't protect anything. They died, and I'm still alive. What am I living for? What can I do?"

The last page reads the date: Yesterday.

"Xu Yanran is dead. I couldn't protect her. I couldn't do anything. I stood at the door watching, just like everyone else. I couldn't do anything. They were waiting for me by the river. I had to go to them. To tell them I couldn't answer. To tell them I had waited for them for so many years. To tell them I had remembered them for so many years. To tell them I was sorry. I couldn't answer their questions, but I could say sorry to them. I've said it for so many years, tens of thousands of times, did they hear me? Will they forgive me?"

Below that was another line of text, even more hastily written, as if written in extreme fear, the pen barely touching the paper, as faint as mist:

"My master's name is Zhou Guoping. My father's name is Jiang Yizhou. They are the same kind of people. So am I."

Jiang Bo closed his notebook and stood there, motionless. Tangyuan walked over and rubbed against his leg. He squatted down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, shimmering gently in the lamplight. Its eyes sparkled as it looked at him, as if asking: "Did you find it?"

"Officer Bo, Dong Zhiqiang's car has been found," Liu Tong's voice came through the phone. "It's by the river. The old pontoon bridge. Next to Mr. Dong's little house. There's a letter in his car, left for you. And a bottle of sleeping pills, which is empty."

Jiang Bo clenched his fist. "I'll be right there."

The night was quiet at the old pontoon bridge. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, casting a pale, frost-like light on the ruins. The bulldozers still stood there, rusted and creaking, like skeletons in the moonlight, their tracks stuck in the mud, motionless. The withered grass swayed in the wind, yellow and dry, rustling like countless hands whispering secrets. A light was still on in the small house, dim and warm, shining through the window like a star that refused to go out. The gentleman was inside. He was probably writing those names, writing those apologies. He didn't know what was happening outside. He didn't know that another person had left. Another person who had stood at the door watching had left.

Jiang Bo parked his car at the entrance and strode inside. Dong Zhiqiang's car was parked next to the small house, the door open, the interior light on, illuminating the empty driver's seat. He found the letter inside; the envelope was addressed to Jiang Bo. Next to it was an empty white medicine bottle labeled "Darcinia." Not a single pill remained; the cap was tossed on the passenger seat.

He opened the letter. The handwriting was messy, as if the writer's hand was trembling, or as if the writer had run out of strength; the strokes were crooked and some words were even illegible.

"Jiang Bo, I'm Dong Zhiqiang. Your master knows me. Your father knows me too. I was a policeman, in the same cohort as your master. I investigated those cases, just like your father. I found out about those people, those events. I know everything. But I can't do anything. I can't protect them. I stand at the door watching, watching them die. Just like your master, just like your father. We're all the same kind of people. We can't do anything, we can't protect anything."

I'm leaving. I'm going to find them. To tell them I can't answer. To tell them I've waited for them for so many years. To tell them I've remembered them for so many years. To tell them I'm sorry.

You're a good cop, just like your father. You uncovered the truth. You found those people. You did what none of us could. You said sorry for us. Thank you.

Below was another line of text, even fainter and lighter, as if written in the mist, as if written with the last bit of strength:

"The old man in that little house, please look after him for me. He's a good man too. There's nothing he can do. He's been saying sorry for many years. He's also the one standing at the door watching. We all are."

Jiang Bo stood by the riverbank, gazing at the water. Moonlight shone on the surface, shattering into dazzling shimmering pieces of silver. The river flowed slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. He thought of his master, his father, his teacher, Dong Jian'an, and this Dong Zhiqiang. They were all the same kind of people. They all stood at the door, watching, unable to do anything. They had remembered for many years, written for many years, and said sorry for many years. They couldn't answer. They were all gone. But he remained. He wouldn't stand at the door watching. He would go in. He would.