Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

After the verdict was handed down, Jiang Bo visited his teacher three times in the detention center. Each time, he would stand at the gate for a long time, staring at the iron gate, the high wall, and the barbed wire. The sunlight shone on it, gleaming coldly. He remembered his teacher's words: "I will write here. I will write until I die." He remembered his teacher's eyes, so bright, like the river water in winter.

The first visit was three days after the verdict. When Jiang Bo arrived, it was just dawn, and the fog was thick. The detention center's gate, shrouded in mist, resembled a mouth. He carried a thermos, with Tangyuan following behind. The guard recognized him, glanced at his identification, and let him in. The visiting room was small, containing a table, two chairs, and a small window in the wall letting in a sliver of light. The man sat inside, wearing a vest, his hair white, and he had grown thinner. He saw Jiang Bo and smiled. The smile was gentle and faint, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart.

"You're here? Did you bring dumplings? It's not even the third day of the third lunar month yet. You've arrived early."

"I brought it. My mom made it. It's pork and cabbage filling. She said to eat it while it's hot. She got up before dawn to knead the dough, chop the filling, roll out the wrappers, and spent two whole hours making it."

The man took the insulated container and opened it. 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. He had lost several teeth, and the remaining ones were loose, making it difficult to chew hard foods. He chewed very slowly, as if savoring something, as if remembering something.

"It's delicious. Your mom's dumplings are delicious. Yizhou used to bring me dumplings too. Every time he came to visit me, he brought dumplings. He said his wife made them. He smiled so happily. He was young then, with bright eyes that curved like crescent moons when he smiled. You're just like him. Your eyes also curve when you smile."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. He didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely. "Sir, are you alright inside? Is anyone bullying you? Are you eating enough? Sleeping well? Does your knee still hurt? Are your eyes still blurry?"

The man nodded. "Good. All good. They know who I am, they know I'm your master's teacher, they know I'm the one who's remembered names for over thirty years. They don't bully me. They even help me buy paper and pens. I write those names every day, I write those 'I'm sorry's. I write until you come to see me. I write when I get up in the morning, I write after lunch, I write before I go to bed at night. When I'm done, I look out the window. There's a tree outside the window, bare, without any leaves. I look at it, and it looks at me. It's old too."

Jiang Bo looked at the notebook on the table; it was already more than half full. The handwriting was neat and tidy, each stroke precise, just as before. He turned to a page; on it was Ah Zhen's name, next to it was the date, and below it was "I'm sorry." He turned to another page; it was Xiao Mei's. The next page was Chen Fang's. Those names, those apologies, were all in this notebook. The teacher had kept track of them for so many years, written for so many years. Now he continued writing in the detention center, until he could no longer write, until he died.

"Sir, how much longer are you going to write? How many more names are you going to write? How many more apologies are you going to write?"

The man looked at him. "Write until I can't remember anymore. Write until I forget. Write until I can't write anymore. Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're really gone. I've remembered for so many years, how many more years can I remember? When I die, you remember for me. When you die, your children remember for you. Keep remembering, don't stop."

Jiang Bo grasped the man's hand. The hand was thin, cold, skin and bones, veins bulging. "Sir, I remember. I remember for you. Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' I remember them all. I remember them in my heart, in my mind, in my bones. They won't disappear. They won't be gone. I remember them, and my children will remember them too. I'll keep remembering, I can't stop."

The man looked at him for a long time. "Good. You remember. You remember for us. You remember for those who died. You remember for those who stood at the door watching. You remember for those who said sorry. You are the eyes of all of us. What we cannot see, you see for us. What we cannot do, you do for us. What we cannot answer, you answer for us."

Jiang Bo released his grip and stood up. "Sir, I'm leaving now. I'll come see you again next time. On your birthday, March 3rd, I'll bring dumplings. My mom said she'll make extra so you can eat your fill. She said you're too thin and need to eat more."

The man nodded. "Okay. I'll wait for you. I'll write those names here, and those 'I'm sorry's. I'll write them until you come. Now you can go. Be careful on your way."

Jiang Bo walked to the door and glanced back. The man sat there, holding the notebook, looking at him. His eyes were bright, like the waters of a river in winter. He waved. Jiang Bo waved back. Then he turned and walked out of the visiting room. Tangyuan was waiting for him outside. He squatted down and stroked its head. "Tangyuan, the man is inside. He's still alive. He's still writing those names. Still saying sorry." Tangyuan called out, its voice echoing in the detention center corridor.

The second time was half a month later. When Jiang Bo went, the sky was overcast and it looked like it was going to rain. The gentleman had lost even more weight; his cheekbones were prominent, and his eyes were sunken. His eyesight had also deteriorated, and he had to squint to see things. His hand trembled even more when he wrote, and the pen shook on the paper, but he still kept writing. He wrote more slowly than before, taking a long time to write each stroke carefully.

Jiang Bo sat opposite him. "Sir, what are you writing?"

The man looked up at him. "Write those names. Write those 'I'm sorry's. I've written them many times, but it's not enough. I'm afraid I'll forget. While I still remember, I'll write them a few more times. The more I write, the less I'll forget. I dreamt of Ah Zhen last night. She was standing by the river, wearing a floral dress, smiling. I went over to her, wanting to say I'm sorry. She disappeared. I searched for a long time, but couldn't find her. When I woke up, my pillow was wet."

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. "Sir, you won't forget. You've remembered for so many years, how could you forget? Those names are in your heart, in your dreams, in your bones. You won't forget."

The man looked at him, his eyes cloudy, but still bright. "Xiao Jiang, you'll forget too. When you get old, you forget everything. When I was young, I could recite the details of hundreds of cases, but now I can't even remember what I ate yesterday. You're young, so you remember for us. You remember those names, you remember those apologies. We're old, we can't remember anymore. You remember for us."

Jiang Bo nodded. "I remember. I remember everyone. Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiuying, Liu Xiaoqin, Sun Xiaomei, Zhang Jianguo, Li Mei, Gao Deming, Xiulan. I remember them all. I remember them in my heart, in my mind, in my bones. They won't disappear. They won't be gone."

The man lowered his head and continued writing. He wrote slowly, stroke by stroke. Jiang Bo watched him, at his gray hair, his hunched back, his trembling hands. He thought of those names, those apologies, those people standing at the door watching. The man was the oldest among them, and also the one who had been writing the longest. He had been writing for over thirty years, and he would continue writing. Until he could no longer write, until he died.

"Sir, I'm leaving now. I'll come see you again next time. On your birthday, March 3rd, I'll bring dumplings. My mom said she'll make extra so you can eat your fill."

The man looked up. "Okay. I'll wait for you. You can go now. Be careful on the road. It's raining, drive slowly."

Jiang Bo walked out of the detention center, and sure enough, it started to rain. The rain was fine and dense, pattering on his face, cool and refreshing. Tangyuan followed behind, shaking its fur. He squatted down and stroked its head. "Tangyuan, the master is old. He can't remember anymore. But he's still writing. Writing those names, writing those 'I'm sorry.' He'll write until he can't remember anymore, until he can't write anymore." Tangyuan called out, its voice echoing in the rain.

The third time was a month later. When Jiang Bo went, the sky had cleared and the sun was shining brightly. The gentleman was writing Xiulan's name. He wrote very slowly, stroke by stroke, and after finishing, he looked at it for a long time. Then he looked up at Jiang Bo and said, "Who is Xiulan? I don't remember. I only remember the name, but I don't remember who she is."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, she was Old Liu's wife. She died by the river in 1992. She was pregnant, about to give birth. She was waiting for someone by the river, and when she met Dong Jian'an, he killed her. Don't you remember? You've remembered her for so many years. You've written her name so many times. How could you not remember?"

The man looked at her, his eyes cloudy, but still bright. "I've got it. She's here. She won't disappear. I don't remember who she is, but I remember her name. Her name is in my notebook, in my heart. That's enough. As long as the name is there, the person is there. If the name is gone, the person is truly gone."

Jiang Bo held the gentleman's hand. "Sir, Xiulan is here. Her name is in your notebook, and in my heart. She won't disappear. I will remember her for you. I will remember who she was, how she died, and who she was waiting for. You won't forget. I will remember for you."

The man smiled. "Alright. You remember for me. You remember for all of us. If we can't remember, you remember. If we can't see, you see for us. If we can't walk, you walk for us. You go through that door for us, see what's inside, and finish what we didn't finish."

Jiang Bo nodded. "I'll go for you. I'll watch for you. I'll finish it for you. You wait here, and I'll come back and tell you."

The man released his hand. "Go on. You're busy. There are so many cases to investigate, so many names to remember, so many apologies to say. You remember them for us. You say them for us. You pay them for us."

Jiang Bo stood up, walked to the door, and glanced back. The man sat there, holding the notebook, looking at him. His eyes were bright, like the waters of a river in winter. He waved. Jiang Bo waved back. Then he turned and walked out of the visiting room. Tangyuan was waiting for him outside. He squatted down and stroked its head. "Tangyuan, the man is still here. He's still writing those names. Still saying 'I'm sorry.' He's still alive," Tangyuan called out, its voice echoing in the detention center corridor.

Two months later, Dong Jian'an and Lao Liu were executed.

Jiang Bo didn't go to the execution ground. He didn't want to see it. He sat in his office, smoking an entire pack of cigarettes. Tangyuan, lying at his feet, coughed a few times. He looked out the window at the sky, a hazy gray, nothing visible. He remembered Dong Jian'an's words: "I've waited so many years, waiting for you to come and arrest me. You've finally come. I've killed so many people, I deserve to die." He remembered Lao Liu's words: "I've regretted it for so many years. I dream of them every night. They stand by the river, looking at me. They ask me, 'Why did you kill me?' I can't answer." They're all dead. They've gone to pay their debts. Those who died can rest in peace.

In the afternoon, Liu Tong pushed open the door and came in. His eyes were red, and his voice was a little hoarse. "Officer Bo, Dong Jian'an and Lao Liu were executed today. They left quietly. Dong Jian'an's last words were, 'I'm sorry.' Lao Liu also said something, 'Xiulan, I've come to see you.'"

Jiang Bo's hands trembled. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked to the window. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating the river and shattering it into countless pieces of gold. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood watching at the door were also in his heart. Dong Jian'an was gone, Old Liu was gone. But the gentleman remained, Dong Zhenhua remained, Sun Jianguo remained, Zhang Jianjun remained. They were still writing those names, still saying those apologies. They still had debts to repay. Until they could repay them all, until they could write until they could write no more, until they could speak no more.

Jiang Bo went to visit his father at the detention center. His father sat in the visiting room, his hair even whiter, his body thinner, and his eyesight even more blurred. He saw Jiang Bo, smiled, and said, "Little Jiang, you've come." Jiang Bo said, "I've come." His father asked, "Is Dong Jian'an gone?" Jiang Bo nodded. His father was silent for a moment, then said, "He should go. He killed so many people; he should go." Jiang Bo said, "He said sorry when he left." His father nodded and said, "He said sorry his whole life; that's enough. He said everything he needed to say, and he paid his debts. He can rest in peace now."

Jiang Bo took a thermos from his bag and placed it on the table. "Sir, these are dumplings my mom made. Pork and cabbage filling. She said you should eat them while they're hot. She said your birthday is coming up soon, on the third day of the third lunar month, and she made them for you in advance. She was worried you wouldn't be able to eat them then."

The man opened the insulated food container; the dumplings were still steaming, white and plump. He picked one up, put it in his mouth, and chewed for a long time. "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. Back then, he was young, with bright eyes that curved like crescent moons when he smiled.

Tears streamed down Jiang Bo's face. "Sir, do you still remember my father? Do you remember what he looked like? Do you remember what he looked like when he smiled?"

The teacher looked at him, his eyes bright. I remember. I remember him. He was my best student. He found out the truth; he died. I've remembered him for so many years. I won't forget. When he smiled, his eyes curved like crescent moons. Just like you. When you smile, your eyes curve too. You two are so alike. So alike that sometimes I mistake one for the other.

Jiang Bo held the man's hand. "Sir, after you get out, I'll take you home. You can stay at my place. My mom will make dumplings for you every day. You can eat as many as you want. You can teach me to write those names, teach me to write those 'I'm sorry's. If you can't write anymore, I'll write them for you. If you can't remember them, I'll remember them for you."

The man smiled. It was a faint, gentle smile, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. "I can't get out. I'm old, I can't walk anymore. I'll just write here. I'll write until I die. You only need to come see me once a year. Come on my birthday. March 3rd. Remember that. You don't need to come every day, you don't need to write for me. You write for yourself. You write for those who have died. You write for those who are standing at the door watching."

Jiang Bo nodded. "I remember. March 3rd. I'll come every year. I'll bring dumplings. Dumplings my mom makes. Pork and cabbage filling. You wait for me. Eat well, sleep well, and keep writing those names. I'll come see you."

Jiang Bo walked out of the detention center and stood at the entrance. The sunlight shone on his face, warm and comforting. Tangyuan ran over and rubbed against his leg. He squatted down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, shimmering golden in the sunlight. Its eyes sparkled as it looked at him, as if asking: "Are you alright, sir?"

"Tangyuan, Mr. is still here. He's still writing those names. He's still saying sorry. He's still alive."

Tangyuan called out and lingered at the entrance of the detention center.