Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

The day after Dong Jian'an and Lao Liu were executed, Jiang Bo went to the detention center to visit his husband.

On his way there, the sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low like a worn-out gray cloth covering the entire city. There weren't many cars on the Yangtze River Bridge, so he drove slowly. Tangyuan lay in the passenger seat, its head resting on its paws, its eyes half-open, occasionally twitching its ears. It knew where it was going, silent and quiet, like a fluffy ball of fur.

The detention center gate was iron-gray, with several patches of paint peeling off, revealing rust underneath. The guard recognized Jiang Bo, glanced at his ID, then at Tangyuan in the car, said nothing, and let him through. Jiang Bo parked the car in the yard and turned off the engine. He sat in the driver's seat, not getting out immediately. He looked at the gray-white building, at the windows sealed with iron bars, at the rings of barbed wire on the walls. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, shining on the barbed wire, 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 meeting room was on the first floor, in a long corridor with the fluorescent lights humming softly. Jiang Bo's footsteps echoed on the tiled floor, each step like a heartbeat. Tangyuan followed behind, its paws tapping lightly on the floor, making no sound. The police officer on duty saw him, nodded, and pointed to the second room. Jiang Bo pushed open the door and went inside.

The gentleman was already seated inside. He was wearing that orange vest, his hair completely white, even whiter than before, as white as snow, as white as paper. He had lost a lot of weight, his cheekbones were high and prominent, his eye sockets were deep-set, and the vest hung loosely on him, like it was on a clothes hanger. But he sat very straight; although his back was hunched, his spine was still strong. On the table in front of him lay a notebook, with a blue cover, the one Jiang Bo had brought him last time. He had already filled out almost half of it, the handwriting neat and tidy, each stroke as if carved. He held a pen in his hand, the nib hovering over the paper, writing a character. Jiang Bo approached and saw that he was writing the character "秀" (xiù), the "秀" (xiù) of Xiulan (秀兰). He wrote very slowly, each stroke—horizontal, vertical, left-falling, right-falling—with full force, as if digging a trench in the ground.

"Sir, I've arrived."

The man looked up at him and smiled. It was a faint, gentle smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. In that smile, there was waiting, anticipation, and reassurance. "You're here. Did you bring dumplings? It's not the third day of the third lunar month yet. You've come early. Did your mother make dumplings again? She's so kind, always making you bring them."

"I brought it. My mom made it. Pork and cabbage filling. She said to eat it while it's hot." Jiang Bo placed the insulated container on the table and opened it. The dumplings were still steaming, white and plump, arranged neatly one by one. Xiuying always made dumplings like this—uniform in size, with even pleats, like making a work of art. The man 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 chewing very difficult. He chewed very slowly, as if savoring something, or perhaps remembering something. Tears streamed down his face, flowing down the wrinkles that resembled dried-up riverbeds, dripping onto the table and onto his notebook.

"Delicious. Your mother's dumplings are delicious. She's a good person. Yizhou found a good person. Dong Jian'an is gone, Lao Liu is gone. They're all gone. I'm still here. I'll keep writing. I'll write until I die." He picked up his pen and continued writing the character "秀" (xiù, meaning "show" or "excellent"). After he finished writing it, he looked at it again and then wrote two words next to it: "I'm sorry." His tears dripped onto the character "对" (duì, meaning "right"), spreading a small patch of ink.

Jiang Bo looked at the notebook on the table. The blue cover was still new, the edges were neat, and the paper was thick and didn't bleed. 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 gentleman 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. He didn't know how much longer the gentleman could write, how much longer he could keep remembering. But he knew that as long as the gentleman kept writing, those names wouldn't disappear, and those apologies wouldn't stop.

"Sir, once you finish this book, I'll buy you more. I'll buy you many, enough for a lifetime. You can write as many as you want. I'll go to the stationery store and pick out the best ones—thick paper that doesn't bleed ink, with sturdy covers. It'll be comfortable for you to write on."

The man picked up the notebook, flipped through it, and slowly ran his fingers across the pages as if touching something precious. "Good. This one is good. The paper is thick and doesn't bleed. I can write many names. I can write many 'I'm sorry's. It'll keep me writing for a while. It'll keep me writing until next year. Come again on the third day of the third month next year. Bring a new notebook. Bring dumplings. Bring pork and cabbage dumplings. Your mother made them."

Jiang Bo sat opposite him, across the narrow table. He looked at the man's hands. The hands were thin, veins bulging, knuckles thick, nails short. There were many cuts on his fingers, each covered with a band-aid. His hand trembled as he wrote, but the pen remained steady. The tremor traveled from his fingertips to the pen shaft, the nib quivering slightly on the paper, yet the characters remained neat and orderly. Each stroke, straight and even, mirrored the man himself, disciplined his entire life.

"Sir, do you hate them? Do you hate Dong Jian'an? Do you hate Lao Liu? Do you hate those who killed people? Do you hate them for harming so many people and so many families? Those families waited their whole lives, only to receive a phone call, the words 'drowning,' and the words 'I'm sorry.' Do you hate them?"

The man stared at him for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, the whites yellowish, and his pupils somewhat unfocused, yet there was still a light within them. That kind of light—the kind that comes from someone who has seen too much, someone who has remembered too many names, someone who has said too many apologies.

"I don't hate. They were pitiful people too. Dong Jian'an fell into the river when he was seven, was rescued, and trained to be an assassin. He hated for so many years, killed so many people. He didn't know why he lived. He lived his whole life just to hate. Hate this city, hate this river, hate those who were alive. Now he doesn't hate anymore. He's gone. Old Liu's wife died, and his child died too. He went mad, killing those who resembled his wife. He didn't know why he lived either. He lived his whole life just to search. To find someone like his wife, to find someone who could replace her. He couldn't find her. He killed so many, but still couldn't find her. Now he's stopped searching. He's gone. They were all pitiful people. I'm a pitiful person too. I stand at the door watching, unable to do anything. I also hated, hated myself, hated this city, hated this river. Now I don't hate anymore. I waited for you for so many years, and now I don't hate anymore."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. He didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely. "Sir, they're gone. They've gone to pay off their debts. How much longer will you have to pay? How much longer will you have to write? How much longer will you have to feel sorry for them?"

The man lowered his head. He looked at the notebook, at the names, at the apologies. His fingers tapped lightly on the pages, as if counting, or perhaps knocking. "I don't know. I'll keep writing until I die. Until I can't write anymore. Those names aren't finished, those apologies aren't finished. Those debts aren't paid off. As long as I live, I'll write. I'll write until I can't write anymore. When I die, you'll write for me. When you can't write anymore, your children will write for me. Keep writing, don't stop. If you stop, those names will be gone. If you stop, those debts will never be paid off. Those who died will have truly died in vain."

Jiang Bo stood up, walked to the door, and glanced back. The gentleman 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 meeting room. Tangyuan was waiting for him outside, lying on the floor of the corridor, its head resting on its paws, its eyes half-open. Hearing the door open, it raised its head, wagged its tail, stood up, and followed him.

He crouched down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming gently in the dim light of the corridor. "Tangyuan, the master is still here. He's still writing those names. Still saying sorry. He's still alive. He's still waiting for the third day of the third month next year," Tangyuan called out, its voice echoing in the detention center corridor.

Jiang Bo did not return to the Municipal Bureau, but went directly to the old floating bridge.

The little house was still there, the door open, the light still on. But no one was inside. Mr. [Name] was gone, Dong Zhenhua was gone, Sun Jianguo was gone, Zhang Jianjun was gone. They were all arrested, sentenced, given suspended sentences, and sent home. Dong Zhenhua was sentenced to two years in prison with a three-year suspended sentence. He lived alone in an old neighborhood in Jiangcheng. Every day he would go to the riverbank and sit, watching the water. He didn't interact with anyone; his neighbors didn't know him. He went every morning and sat until dark, then went home. He didn't speak, just sat there. Sometimes it rained, but he would still go, holding an umbrella, sitting by the river. When people asked him what he was looking at, he wouldn't answer. Sun Jianguo returned to Yueyang, continued running his supermarket, and continued living alone. His supermarket business wasn't good, but he didn't care. Every day he would sit behind the counter, looking at the door, as if waiting for someone. Sometimes he would take out his notebook, flip through it, and then put it away again. Zhang Jianjun returned to his hometown, reportedly farming in the countryside, no longer interacting with anyone. He didn't have much land, just enough for himself. He doesn't grow vegetables, he grows flowers. His yard is full of flowers—red, yellow, purple. The neighbors say he's gone mad, but he ignores them. Every day he waters, fertilizes, and weeds, caring for the flowers like they are his children. He doesn't talk, he just does.

They all scattered, like sand blown by the wind. But the little house is still there, and the lamp is still lit.

Jiang Bo went inside. The room was dark, the kerosene lamp still burning, its flame flickering and casting swaying shadows on the wall. Dust settled on the lampshade, making the light somewhat hazy. On the table lay the notebooks, the photos, the letters. They hadn't taken them. They had left them for him. The notebooks were stacked together, some tall, some short, some thick, some thin. The photos were scattered on the table, some black and white, some color, some yellowed, their edges curled. The letters were folded together, tied with a yellowed string. He sat down at the table and opened one of the notebooks. The first page was Ah Zhen's, the second Xiao Mei's, the third Chen Fang's. Those names, those apologies, were all there. He looked at them for a long time, at the handwriting—some neat, some hasty, some forceful, some light. Among the handwriting were Mr. [Name]'s, Dong Zhenhua's, Dong Jian'an's, Sun Jianguo's, and Zhang Jianjun's. They had all written. They had all said sorry. They were all here. Their hands held the same pen, under the same lamp, writing the same name, writing the same apology. They were separated by time, by distance, by sin and punishment, but their handwriting overlapped, like rivers flowing into one.

He closed his notebook and stood up. He walked to the window and looked at the river. The sun had already set, leaving only a dark red streak on the horizon, like a wound. The river shimmered in the twilight, flowing slowly. He thought of those names, those apologies, those people who stood at the door watching. They were gone, but he remained. He would continue investigating. So many cases, so many names, so many apologies. He wouldn't stand at the door watching. He would go inside.

The phone rang. It was Liu Tong calling. His voice was hurried, as if he were running.

"Officer, we have a new case. A woman who was jogging at night has gone missing. She was in Binjiang Park. It's very similar to the previous case. Same method, same posture. The killer is imitating. Or rather, he's still continuing. The surveillance cameras showed her entering the park, but not leaving. We've cordoned off the scene and are searching. Su Min has arrived. She said the body's posture is exactly the same as in the Fang Min case, with her hands folded over her chest. Officer, please come over quickly."

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

He turned and walked out of the small house. Tangyuan followed behind. He reached his car and glanced back. The door to the small house was open, the light still on. But no one was inside. The notebooks, the photos, the letters, were still spread out on the table. They were waiting for him to return. 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, looking at the river. The river shimmered dimly in the twilight, flowing slowly. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood at the door watching were also in his heart. They were gone, but he remained. He wouldn't stand at the door watching. He would go in. He would.