Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo returned from the old pontoon bridge, not to the municipal bureau, nor home. He parked his car under the Yangtze River Bridge, turned off the engine, and sat in the driver's seat, watching the river. Tangyuan lay on the passenger seat, her head resting on her paw, quietly keeping him company. The river shimmered in the sunlight, broken into pieces of gold, flowing slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. He remembered his husband's words: "He is by your side. He has always been there. He has waited for you for many years." Was Dong Zhenhua by his side? Where? In those case files? In those photos? In those letters? Or in those places he couldn't see?

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. The smoke drifted in the sunlight, like those names, like those apologies, like those people who would never return. He remembered the letter Dong Zhenhua had written to him: "Xiao Jiang, if you see this letter, it means you've found out a lot. There are some things I must tell you. I'm a member of the J organization. But I'm not a bad person. I joined the J organization to find out the truth. They've done many bad things, killed many people. I need evidence, I need time. I've waited many years, and finally, I've found it." He had waited so many years, and what had he waited for? His father's death? The deaths of those women? The fact that his master had remembered for over thirty years? That he had found out this far?

The phone rang. It was Lao He calling. His voice was a little hoarse, as if he had been drinking, or as if he had been holding it in for a long time and was finally about to speak.

"Xiao Jiang, where are you? There's something I've been meaning to tell you. Now it's time. If I don't, I'm afraid I'll never have the chance again."

Jiang Bo gripped his phone tightly, his fingers clenching. "I'm under the Yangtze River Bridge. Uncle He, what are you saying? I'm listening."

Old He was silent for a while. There was the sound of a lighter on the other end of the phone. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled, the sound heavy, as if he were exhaling the last of his life's worth of smoke. "Dong Zhenhua was my former boss. He was very good to me, very good to everyone. But there's one thing about him that I've never been able to understand. For so many years, I've thought about it over and over again, until it gives me a headache and keeps me up at night."

"What is it?"

"He had a habit of going to the old pontoon bridge every March. He would go alone and stay for a long time. I asked him what he was going there for. He said he was going to pay off a debt. I asked him what debt he was paying off, but he wouldn't say. He never mentioned that matter. Then one time, he got drunk, slumped over the table, and said half a sentence. He said he owed a child. That child was you. Then he fell asleep. The next day when I asked him, he said he didn't remember. But I knew he remembered."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists, his nails digging into his flesh. "He owes me? What does he owe me?"

Old He's voice lowered even further, as if it were coming from underground. "He owes you a life. He was there the night your father died. He saw it. He saw Dong Jian'an kill your father, but he didn't step forward. He was afraid. He was afraid of dying. He was afraid of being exposed. He stood at the door watching, watching your father die. Just like your father, just like Mr. Dong, just like Dong Zhiqiang. They were all people who stood at the door watching. They couldn't do anything. They just watched, watched people die, watched blood flow, watched those women sink into the river."

Tears streamed down Jiang Bo's face. He didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely, dripping onto the steering wheel and his trousers. "Why didn't he step forward? Why did he watch my dad die? Why did he do nothing? He's a policeman, he's the deputy director, he has a gun, he has connections. Why didn't he save my dad? If he had even shouted, even fired a shot, even run inside, my dad might not have died. Why didn't he? Why?"

Old He sighed, a soft sigh that carried the weight of a thousand pounds. "Because he had to investigate. He investigated for many years, uncovering Dong Jian'an, the J organization, and those missing women. He needed time, evidence, and to live. If he had come forward, he would have died. The evidence would have been lost, and the truth would have been forever buried at the bottom of the river. He chose to live, chose to remain silent, chose to stand at the door and watch. He was in more pain than anyone else. He couldn't sleep every night, dreaming that your father was standing by the river watching him, asking why he hadn't saved him. He would wake up drenched in sweat, his pillow soaked."

Jiang Bo hung up the phone and sat there, motionless. Tangyuan looked up at him, her eyes sparkling, as if asking: What's wrong? He thought of his father, of those names, of those apologies, of those who stood at the door watching. Dong Zhenhua was one of them. He had saved him, arranged for his adoptive parents, and protected Xiuying. But he had also watched his father die, watched those women die, watched Ding Laosan kill. He stood at the door watching, just like Mr. Jiang, just like Dong Zhiqiang, just like Sun Jianguo. They were all people standing at the door watching. They could do nothing. They all owed those who had died a life.

He started the engine and drove onto the bridge. He was going to find Dong Zhenhua. No matter where he was, no matter how long he had been hiding. He wanted to ask him face to face. To ask him why he didn't stand up. To ask him why he watched my father die. To ask him if he would ever say sorry.

Jiang Bo didn't return to the municipal bureau; he went directly to the provincial department. Zhou Zheng was still there, in the archives. When he pushed open the door, Zhou Zheng was sitting at his desk, a file open in front of him, wearing reading glasses, his hair thinning and gray. His fingers slowly traced the pages, as if touching something precious. Seeing Jiang Bo, he looked up, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

"You're here? You found out about Dong Zhenhua? I knew you'd come; I've been waiting for you these past few days."

Jiang Bo sat down opposite him, the chair creaking. "Where is he? You know where he is, don't you? You've always known. Every year you go to the old pontoon bridge to sweep that nameless grave. That grave isn't for your son, it's for him. Isn't that right?"

Zhou Zheng stared at him for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. Then he smiled. The smile was bitter and faint, the corners of his mouth only slightly upturned, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were as deep as if carved by a knife. "You found out. Yes. That grave is for him. He didn't die. He's alive. He hid for many years. He didn't dare to come out. He was afraid the J organization would find him, afraid they would kill him, afraid they would kill his family. He could only hide, could only conceal himself, could only live like a dead man. He didn't even dare to use his own name."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "Where is he? Tell me. I need to see him. I have to see him."

Zhou Zheng stood up, walked to the cabinet, opened a drawer, and took out a key. It was made of brass, very old, with the number 7 engraved on it. It was exactly the same as the one in Dong Zhenhua's hometown. "He's at the old pontoon bridge. In that little house. The little house where you went to find Mr. He. He lives there. He's always been there. He's been waiting for you for many years. He said he was waiting for you to come to him. Waiting for you to come and ask him those questions."

Jiang Bo was stunned. That little room? The little room where the gentleman lived? The gentleman said he lived there, that it was his home. Dong Zhenhua lived there too? They lived together? The gentleman had never said that. He went there every day, sat next to the gentleman every day, and never saw anyone else. Where was Dong Zhenhua? Inside the room? Under the bed? Behind those notebooks? Or had he never left that little room, but was just hiding in the darkness, listening to every word he and the gentleman said?

"Does the sir know?"

Zhou Zheng nodded. The nod was slow and heavy. "I know. They're together. They've waited for you for so many years. The gentleman remembered those names, wrote those apologies. Dong Zhenhua collected that evidence, hid those files. One was in the open, the other in the shadows. One recorded, the other hid. They waited so many years, waiting for you to come. Waiting for you to come and ask them why they stood at the door watching. Waiting for you to come and tell them if those who died have found peace."

Jiang Bo stood up, turned around, and walked out. Zhou Zheng called after him, but he didn't turn around.

The car reached the old pontoon bridge; it was almost dark. The setting sun cast a golden-red glow on the ruins, like blood, like fire, like those who would never return. A light was still on in the small house, dim and warm, shining through the window like an eye that refused to close. The gentleman sat in the doorway, his notebook resting on his lap. Seeing Jiang Bo's car, he stood up, leaned against the doorframe, and let the car in. His movements were slower than yesterday, his knees creaking, but there was a light in his eyes, as if he were waiting for something.

"You're here? Why have you come twice today? What happened? You look pale and unwell."

Jiang Bo walked over and stood in front of him. His legs were a little weak, and his voice trembled slightly. "Sir, where is Dong Zhenhua? He's inside, isn't he? He's been inside all this time. He's been waiting for me for many years. Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me? You talk to me every day, eat the dumplings I bring every day, and have me sit next to you every day, but you've never mentioned him. You've hidden him away."

The man looked at him, for a long time. His eyes were bright, like the cold, deep waters of a river in winter. "He's here. He's always been here. He's been waiting for you for many years. He said he was waiting for you to come to him. He said he didn't dare to come out. He was afraid you would hate him. He was afraid you would ask him why he watched your father die. He couldn't answer. He's like your father, like Dong Zhiqiang, like me. We can't answer. We don't know how to face you."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Where is he? Let me see him. Let me see him. Whether he can answer or not, I want to see him."

The man turned and went into the small house. Jiang Bo followed behind. Tangyuan also followed, her steps very light. The room was dark, lit only by a kerosene lamp, its shade polished to a gleaming shine, the flame flickering and casting swaying shadows on the wall. A man sat on the edge of the bed, his back to him. He wore a dark overcoat, his long, completely white hair cascading over his shoulders like reeds in winter. His back was hunched, like a withered old tree, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers slightly curled. Hearing footsteps, he slowly turned around. His movements were slow, like a slow-motion scene in a movie, frame by frame. A very old face, wrinkles etched like knife cuts, deep and distinct. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, his cheeks hollow. But his eyes were bright, like the waters of a river in winter.

"You've come. I've been waiting for you for so long. I've been waiting since the day you were born."

Jiang Bo walked over and stood in front of him. The light from the kerosene lamp illuminated his face, half bright and half dark. "You are Dong Zhenhua."

The old man nodded. The nod was slow and gentle, as if a thousand pounds were pressing down on his neck. "Yes. I am. You look exactly like your father. The first time I saw you, I knew who you were. You stood by the river, looking at the water, just like your father. The way you investigated cases was just like your father. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you never look back."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Why didn't you stand up? Why did you watch my father die? Why didn't you save him? You're a policeman, you're the deputy director, you have a gun. Why didn't you save him? Why didn't you save those women? Why did you stand at the door watching? Why didn't you go in? Why didn't you say anything? Why did you wait for so many years?"

Dong Zhenhua stared at him for a long time. Tears streamed down his face, flowing down the wrinkles that resembled a dried-up riverbed. "Because I was afraid. I was afraid of dying. I was afraid of being exposed. I was afraid that the evidence would be gone, that the truth would be forever buried at the bottom of the river. I chose to live, I chose to remain silent, I chose to stand at the door and watch. I am like your father, like your husband, like Dong Zhiqiang. We can't do anything. We all owe those who died a life."

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the river. Outside the window were ruins, the river, and the city. The sun had already set, leaving only a dark red glow on the horizon, like a wound. He stood there for a long time, the wind blowing his hair. "I was there the night your father died. I saw Dong Jian'an kill him. I stood at the door watching, but I didn't go in. I was afraid. I was afraid of dying. I was afraid that if I died, no one would know the evidence, no one would investigate the truth. I waited so many years, and finally, I waited for you. You found the truth, found those people, and said those apologies. You did what none of us could do."

He turned around and looked at Jiang Bo. "Do you hate me? Do you hate me for not saving your father? Do you hate me for standing at the door watching? Do you hate that I'm alive while your father is dead?"

Jiang Bo stared at him for a long time. Tears streamed down his face. "I don't know. I don't know whether to hate you or thank you. You saved me, arranged for my adoptive parents, and protected Xiuying. You also watched my father die, watched those women die. You did good things, and you did bad things. I don't know. I hate you, and I thank you. I want to hit you, and I also want to hug you. I don't know."

Dong Zhenhua smiled. The smile was faint and gentle. "You don't know. I don't know either. I only know that I've waited for you for many years. Waiting for you to ask me if I'll ever say sorry."

He lowered his head. His tears dripped onto his coat and onto the ground.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry to your father, I'm sorry to those women, I'm sorry to this city. I'm so sorry."

Jiang Bo 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, gleaming gently in the lamplight. Its eyes sparkled as it looked at him, as if asking: Have you forgiven him?

"Tangyuan, he apologized."

Tangyuan called out. That call echoed through the empty little house.