Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

It was already dark when they returned from Tongling. Jiang Bo parked the car at the entrance of the old pontoon bridge and turned off the engine. The three people in the back seat were all asleep. Dong Jian'an leaned against the car window, his mouth slightly open, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like an old engine. Dong Zhenhua leaned back in his seat with his head tilted back, his glasses askew, the lenses reflecting the dim light of the streetlights. Sun Jianguo huddled in the corner, curled up like a child, his arms crossed over his chest as if protecting himself. The gentleman sat in the passenger seat, not asleep. He looked at the ruins, at the small house, his eyes bright, like the river in winter.

"Sir, are you going again tomorrow?"

The man nodded. It was a slow, soft nod. "Go. There are still so many families. Gao Deming has no family, but we should still go see them. He's dead, no one is waiting for him anymore. But some people remember him. I remember him. You all remember him too. We should go see him. When he was alive, nobody respected him; now that he's dead, nobody can forget him either."

Jiang Bo got out of the car and helped the gentleman back to the small house. Tangyuan followed behind, running ahead, stopping every few steps to look back at him. The light in the small house was still on, dim and warm, shining through the window like a star that refused to go out. The gentleman entered the small house and sat on the edge of the bed. Dong Jian'an, Dong Zhenhua, and Sun Jianguo also woke up and slowly walked in. They didn't speak, each sitting in their own place. Dong Jian'an sat at the table, opened his notebook, and picked up a pen. Dong Zhenhua sat on the edge of the bed, took out the files, and put on his reading glasses. Sun Jianguo squatted on the floor, sorting through the photos, arranging the scattered ones by year. They started working again. Those names, those apologies, those debts, not yet repaid. Those names wouldn't disappear, those apologies wouldn't be finished, those debts wouldn't be cleared. But they still had to remember, still had to say, still had to repay. Remember until they couldn't remember anymore, say until they couldn't say anymore, repay until they died.

Jiang Bo stood at the door, watching them. "Tomorrow, go to Gao Deming's house. He has no family, but you must go anyway. He's dead, no one is waiting for him anymore. But some people remember him. Your husband remembers him, I remember him, and you all remember him. Go see him. Even if it's just standing in front of that broken door and saying sorry."

Dong Jian'an looked up, pen nib hovering over the paper. "What's his name?"

"Gao Deming. Male. Forty-two years old. Unemployed. Disappeared on March 10, 1993. Old pontoon bridge. He said he knew a secret and was going to get rich. He saw you standing at the door. You killed him and threw him into the river. He was a scoundrel, foul-mouthed, loved to brag and talk big. He was disliked. The neighbors all disliked him, saying he was a petty thief and an idler. But he was also a human being. He died, and no one looked for him, no one waited for him. The gentleman remembered him for more than thirty years. We should go see him. Even if it's just to stand in front of that door and say sorry."

Dong Jian'an lowered his head. His tears dripped onto the notebook, soaking a single word. "Go. I'll go. I'll tell him I'm sorry. Even if he can't hear me, I'll still say it. Even if he doesn't forgive me, I'll still say it. I'll say it as many times as I want. I'll say it for a lifetime."

The next morning, they set off again. Gao Deming's hometown was in the countryside, in a small town between Wuhu and Wuwei. After a two-hour drive, they entered the town. It was a small town with a main street lined with shops and houses. There weren't many people on the street; a few elderly people sat by the roadside sunbathing, looking up at the strangers as they entered. Jiang Bo parked the car at the town entrance and helped his husband out. They walked slowly, step by step.

Gao Deming's old house was at the east end of town. Half of the courtyard wall had collapsed, bricks scattered all over the ground, overgrown with withered, yellow weeds that swayed in the wind. The door was wooden, the paint peeling off to reveal the grayish-white wood grain. Several cracks ran through the door, through which darkness could be seen. The door was locked, the lock rusted beyond recognition. The door frame was crooked, the door itself warped, creaking in the wind as if sighing.

Jiang Bo stood at the door, staring at it. No one lived there, no one came. Gao Deming had been dead for over thirty years, and so had his house. Cracks in the walls resembled wounds; half the roof tiles were missing, covered with a torn plastic sheet that rattled in the wind. In the yard stood a jujube tree, its leaves gone, leaving only a few shriveled, black dates hanging from its bare branches, like miniature skulls. He remembered the line in his husband's notebook: Gao Deming, male, forty-two years old, unemployed. Disappeared on March 10, 1993. The old pontoon bridge. He said he knew a secret, that he was going to get rich. He saw Dong Jian'an standing at the door. He was strangled to death by Dong Jian'an and thrown into the river. I'm sorry.

Dong Jian'an walked over and stood in the doorway. He reached out and touched the door. The wood was rotten; it crumbled at the slightest touch, and sawdust stuck to his hand. "Gao Deming, I'm sorry. I killed you. You were foul-mouthed, a braggart, and a big talker. You weren't likable. But you were still a human being. Now that you're dead, no one will look for you, no one will wait for you. I've remembered you for over thirty years. I've come to see you today. Can you hear me? If you can, say something."

The man took the notebook out of his cloth bag and turned to Gao Deming's page. He held the notebook up to the door. "Gao Deming, your name is here. I've remembered you for over thirty years. You won't disappear. Someone remembers you. You weren't unwanted, you weren't neglected. Your name is in my notebook, in my heart, in my dreams."

A breeze rustled the pages. The door moved slightly, as if someone pushed it from the inside, or perhaps it was just the wind. No one spoke. They stood there for a long time. The sunlight warmed them. Then they turned and walked back.

As Jiang Bo boarded the bus, his phone rang. It was Liu Tong calling; her voice was hurried, as if she were running.

"Officer, we found something. There was an encrypted folder on Dong Zhiqiang's USB drive. We cracked it. Inside were some chat logs. He talked a lot with someone called 'Old Zhang.' This 'Old Zhang' was also a member of the night running group. Before Li Hongmei died, he frequently contacted Dong Zhiqiang, asking a lot about Li Hongmei. Her address, her workplace, her running route, her daily routine. Dong Zhiqiang told him all of that. He thought he was concerned about Li Hongmei. He didn't know he was harming her. He thought Old Zhang was a good person, a helpful member of the group. He didn't know Old Zhang was asking around for someone else."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. "Who is Old Zhang?"

Liu Tong lowered his voice, as if he were talking about a secret. "I found out. His name is Zhang Jianjun. He joined the police force at the same time as Sun Jianguo. He was also in the Criminal Investigation Division. He resigned in 2000. Later, he went to another city. After Li Hongmei died in 2023, he reappeared. He returned to Jiangcheng. He lives near the old pontoon bridge. His name in the night running group is 'Jiangshui'. He used this online name to chat with Dong Zhiqiang for a long time. Dong Zhiqiang always thought he was an enthusiastic member of the group and didn't know that he was trying to get information out of him."

Jiang Bo's hands trembled. Jiang Shui. That name appeared again. He first heard that name when Fang Min died. That account, that internet cafe, that person wearing a mask. He thought it was Dong Zhiqiang. Dong Zhiqiang also said his name was "Jiang Shui." But now another "Jiang Shui" had appeared. Two Jiang Shuis. One dead, one alive. One standing at the door watching, one secretly inquiring. One saying sorry, one asking questions. They were both at the old pontoon bridge, both next to that small house, both beside him. He had never known.

Where is he now?

Liu Tong's voice lowered even further. "At the old pontoon bridge. Next to that little house. He lived there. He's always been there. He's waiting for you to come to him. He said he'd wait for you. He said you knew where he was."

Jiang Bo hung up the phone and stood there, motionless. Tangyuan came over and rubbed against his leg. He looked at the small house where Mr. and Mrs. Jiang had just gone in. Next to it was another small house, smaller, more dilapidated, and more inconspicuous. Sandwiched between Mr. Jiang's house and another ruin, it was like a patch. He had never noticed it before. The door of that small house was closed, the window was dark, and a piece of the windowpane was broken and covered with plastic sheeting. But someone lived in it. That person was Zhang Jianjun. He was also a policeman. He had also resigned. He had also investigated those cases. He knew everything too. He was also in the night running group. His name was "Jiang Shui" (meaning "Jiang Water"). He asked those questions. He knew Li Hongmei's address, workplace, running route, and daily routine. Then she died.

Jiang Bo walked over and stood in front of the small house. The door was closed, and there was no sound from inside. He knocked. No one answered. He knocked again. Still no one answered. He pushed the door; it wasn't locked, and it opened.

The room was dark, without a light. The windows were covered with plastic sheeting, letting in no light. A man sat on the edge of the bed, his back to him. He wore dark clothes, his hair was gray and disheveled, like a clump of withered grass. He heard the door open and slowly turned around. The movement was slow, like a slow-motion scene in a movie. A very thin face, with deep wrinkles, as if carved by a knife. His eyes were small but bright, like two pebbles washed clean. His lips were chapped, and there was stubble on his chin. He saw Jiang Bo and smiled. The smile was bitter and faint, the corners of his mouth only slightly upturned, but Jiang Bo saw the tears in the corners of his eyes.

"You've come. I've been waiting for you for a long time. I've been waiting since the day you started investigating those cases. I knew you would come to me."

Jiang Bo stood at the door. "You are Zhang Jianjun."

The man nodded. It was a slow, gentle nod. "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 went inside. The room was dark, with only light filtering in from the doorway, casting a narrow strip of light on the floor. "Why did you kill Li Hongmei? Did you kill her yourself, or did you help someone else kill her?"

Zhang Jianjun stared at him for a long time. Tears streamed down his face, flowing down the wrinkles that resembled a dried-up riverbed. "I didn't kill her. I just asked her those questions. I gave her information to someone else. That person said he was looking for someone, someone who looked like his wife. His wife died, died by the river. He searched for so many years, but couldn't find her. He saw Li Hongmei and thought she looked like her. He asked me to help him investigate. I investigated. I told him. Then she died. I regretted it. I regretted it for so many years. Every night I dreamed of her, dreamed of her running, dreamed of her looking back at me, dreamed of her smiling. And then the dream shattered."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "Who is that person? Who is the person you told me about?"

Zhang Jianjun lowered his head. Tears dripped onto the ground, one drop at a time. "I don't know. He was also in the night running group. His name was 'Old Liu.' He only told me he was looking for someone. Someone who looked like his wife. His wife died, died by the river. He searched for so many years, but couldn't find her. He saw Li Hongmei and thought she looked like her. He asked me to help him investigate. I investigated. I told him. Then she died. I didn't know he would kill her. I thought he just wanted to see her. I didn't know he would do it. He usually seemed very gentle, spoke slowly, and was always smiling. Who would have thought he would kill someone?"

Jiang Bo stood in front of him. "Who is Old Liu? What's his real name?"

Zhang Jianjun shook his head. The shaking was slow and heavy. "I don't know. He never said his real name. He only said his surname was Liu. He lived by the old pontoon bridge. He sat by the river every day, watching the water. He said he was waiting for someone. Waiting for someone who would never come back. He said he had waited for many years, until his hair turned white, his eyes became blurry, and his legs could no longer walk. He was still waiting."

Tears streamed down Jiang Bo's face. "Is he still there? Is he still alive?"

Zhang Jianjun nodded. "Yes. He's always been there. He lives over there. That little house. The little house you went to find Mr. He. He lives next door. He's been waiting for you for many years. He said he was waiting for you to come to him. He said he knew you would come. He said he wasn't afraid. He said he had to pay his debts."

Jiang Bo turned and walked out of the small house. Tangyuan followed behind. He walked to the side of that small house, where there was another one, even smaller, more dilapidated, and more inconspicuous. Sandwiched among the ruins, it was like a forgotten patch. The door was closed, the window was dark, a piece of glass was broken and covered with a plastic sheet, which was covered with dust. He knocked on the door. No one answered. He pushed the door open.

The room was dark, without a light. A man sat on the edge of the bed, his back to him. He wore a dark overcoat, his hair completely white, long, draped 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. He heard the door open and slowly turned around. His movements were slow, like withered leaves in the wind. A very old face, wrinkles like knife-cut lines, deep and distinct. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, his face hollow, like a skeleton covered in skin. But his eyes were bright, like the cold, deep waters of a winter river.

"You've come. I've been waiting for you for a long time. I've been waiting since the day you were born. I knew you would come to me. Your father is dead, and you've come to ask me on his behalf."

Jiang Bo walked over and stood in front of him. "You're Lao Liu."

The old man nodded. "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 also 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 did you kill Li Hongmei? Why did you kill Fang Min? Why did you kill Xu Yanran? Why did you kill those women?"

The old man stared at him for a long time. Tears streamed down his face, cutting into the wrinkles of his face, like the dried-up riverbed. "I didn't kill them. I just wanted to see them. They looked like my wife. My wife died, by the river. I searched for her for so many years, but I couldn't find her. I saw them, and they looked like her. I followed them. The way they ran, the way they laughed, it was like her. I couldn't hold back. I wanted to touch their faces. I wanted to tell them, you look like my wife. I couldn't stop. I grabbed their necks. They struggled a few times, then stopped moving. I killed them. I killed them. I killed so many people. I've waited for you for so many years, waiting for you to ask me. You came. You asked me. I answered. Are you satisfied?"

Jiang Bo stood before him, tears streaming down her face. "Why did you kill them? Why did you kill so many innocent people? They were just going for a run, they were just passing by, they were just unlucky. They knew nothing. They didn't deserve to die."

The old man looked up at him. "Because I hate. I hate this city, I hate this river, I hate all the people who are alive. My wife is dead, but they are alive. They resemble her, but they are not her. I hate them. I killed them. I hated for so many years, killed so many people. Now I don't hate anymore. I've waited for you for so many years, and now I don't hate anymore. You've come, and I ask you, is your wife dead too? Do you hate her? Do you hate this city? Do you hate this river? Do you hate all the people who are alive?"

Jiang Bo looked at him. "I hate. I hate those who killed my father, I hate those who killed those women, I hate those who stood at the door watching. But I don't hate this city, I don't hate this river, I don't hate those who are alive. They shouldn't have died. They shouldn't have died. You shouldn't have died either. You were just wrong. You took the wrong path."

The old man lowered his head. "I was wrong. I took the wrong path. I've been gone for so many years, and I can't go back. You should leave. I've waited for you here for so many years, and now you're here. You can go. I've said everything I needed to say, and I've paid my debts."

Jiang Bo turned and walked out of the small house. Tangyuan followed behind. He stood by the river, looking at the water. The moon had risen, its light shimmering on the river like shattered pieces of silver, dazzlingly bright. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood at the door, watching, were also in his heart. They had said sorry, and they were still waiting. Waiting for the families to come, waiting for the dead to come, waiting for the unanswerable questions to come. Now there was one more person. His name was Lao Liu. He too stood at the door, watching. He too had killed someone. He too had said sorry. He, too, stood at the door, watching. He, too, could do nothing. He, too, owed those who had died a life.

He got in the car, started the engine, and 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 light was still on. He drove onto the Yangtze River Bridge and looked at the river. The river shimmered silver in the moonlight, flowing slowly. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those people standing at the door watching were also in his heart. They wouldn't leave. They weren't going anywhere. They were right here. He wouldn't leave either. He was here too. By this river, in this city, on this land. He would go in. He would.