Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

After leaving Wang Jianjun's office, Jiang Bo did not return to the Municipal Bureau, but drove directly to the old pontoon bridge.

Tangyuan lay sprawled in the passenger seat, its head resting on its paws, eyes half-open, ears twitching occasionally. It knew where they were going, silent and still, as quiet as a fluffy ball of fur. Outside the car window, the sky gradually darkened, the streetlights came on, their dim yellow light reflecting a cold gleam onto the wet streets. In the distance, the Yangtze River Bridge was teeming with traffic, the headlights forming a flowing river of light from one side of the river to the other. Several boats, their lights on, moved slowly across the water, their long shadows like wandering souls.

Jiang Bo gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but his mind was filled with Wang Jianjun's reddened eyes. Those eyes held sorrow, fear, guilt, and something indescribable—a sense of relief. He had waited three years, and finally someone had come to ask him. He had spoken. His wife's death wasn't an accident; she had been murdered. He had seen the man—a limp, a policeman. He had found his name: Dong Jian'an. But Dong Jian'an was dead. He had waited; his wife could rest in peace. But he hadn't killed Lin Xiaoxue. He had only wanted to protect her. She was like his wife. She was dead. He couldn't protect her. Just like his wife. He could do nothing. He stood at the door, watching. Just like everyone else standing at the door, watching.

The car drove into the old pontoon bridge, the ruins resembling a forgotten battlefield in the twilight. The bulldozers still stood there, rusted and worn, like a massive skeleton in the darkness. Wild grass swayed in the wind, yellow and dry, rustling like countless hands whispering secrets. The small house was still there, crookedly standing, the door open, the light still on. But no one was inside. The gentleman was gone, Dong Zhenhua was gone, Sun Jianguo was gone, Zhang Jianjun was gone. They were all gone. But the light remained on, as if someone was waiting, as if unwilling to go out.

Jiang Bo turned off the engine and sat in the driver's seat without moving. Tangyuan looked up at him, its eyes sparkling, as if asking: Are we there yet? Why aren't you going in? He patted its head, opened the car door, and got out.

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. A breeze carried the fishy smell of the river and the chill of early winter. His clothes fluttered in the wind. He walked to the small house, stood in the doorway, and looked inside.

The room was dark, lit only by a kerosene lamp. The flame flickered, casting swaying shadows on the wall, like countless hands gesturing something, or perhaps summoning something. On the table lay the notebooks, the photographs, 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 photographs 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 went in and sat down at the table. The light from the kerosene lamp shone on his face, half bright, half dim. He opened the notebook, the master's. The first page was Ah Zhen, the second Xiao Mei, the third Chen Fang. Those names, those apologies, were all here. He looked at it for a long time, his fingers slowly tracing the pages, as if caressing those names, as if caressing those who had died. The pages were yellowed and brittle, the edges curled; one had to be very careful when turning them, for the slightest force would cause them to crumble. He turned the pages very slowly, as if defusing a bomb, as if opening a letter that had been written for a long time.

He remembered his teacher's words: "Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone." He remembered. He remembered everyone. Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiuying, Liu Xiaoqin, Sun Xiaomei, Zhang Jianguo, Li Mei, Gao Deming, Xiulan. He remembered them all. He remembered them in his heart, in his mind, in his bones. They wouldn't disappear. They wouldn't be gone.

He closed his notebook and stood up. He walked to the window and looked at the river. The river shimmered silver in the moonlight, flowing slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Now there was another name. Lin Xiaoxue. And two more names. Li Xiulan, Chen Xiulan. They were both dead. Killed by the same person. Dong Jian'an. He killed so many people, he deserved to die. He died. But some people lived. Wang Jianjun lived. He wore that ring, the J. He joined a night running group. He followed Lin Xiaoxue. He treated her to dinner. He talked to her. He said she was like his wife. He said he liked her. He said he would protect her. And then she died.

Jiang Bo recalled his teacher's words: "J means 'The Fool.' It also means 'Judgment.'" He remembered Dong Jian'an's words: "They call me the Fool." He remembered Lao Liu's words: "I've waited for you for so many years." They all wore J, or had seen J. Now Wang Jianjun also wore J. Who was he? Was he also the Fool? Was he also the one standing at the door watching? Was he also the one who killed? Or was he just another pitiful person swallowed by J?

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

"Officer Bo, we found it. Wang Jianjun's wife, Li Xiulan, died three years ago. She died by the river. Drowning. It was treated as an accident at the time. No case was filed, no investigation was conducted, it was closed directly. But Dong Zhiqiang's notebook mentioned this. He said Li Xiulan's death wasn't an accident, she was pushed into the river. He saw it. He saw a man, a limp, a policeman. That man killed her. He noted down the man's characteristics: height, build, gait. He followed him for a long time. He found his name. His name is Dong Jian'an."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. "Li Xiulan? Xiulan? Old Liu's wife was also named Xiulan. Old Liu killed so many people because his wife died. His wife was also named Xiulan. Are they the same person? What's the relationship between Wang Jianjun's wife and Old Liu's wife?"

Liu Tong lowered his voice, as if he were revealing a secret. "It wasn't the same person. Old Liu's wife was named Chen Xiulan, and Wang Jianjun's wife was named Li Xiulan. But their deaths were all committed by the same person. Dong Zhiqiang wrote it very clearly in his notebook. He saw that limping policeman. He noted his features. He followed him for a long time. He found his name. His name is Dong Jian'an. Dong Jian'an killed them, killed Old Liu's wife, killed Wang Jianjun's wife. He killed so many innocent women. He deserves to die."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. He didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely. "Dong Jian'an is dead. He was executed. He killed so many people, including Lao Liu's wife, including Wang Jianjun's wife. He killed them. He killed so many innocent people. He's dead. But Wang Jianjun is still alive. He's wearing that ring. He joined the night running group. He followed Lin Xiaoxue. He treated her to dinner. He talked to her. He said she was like his wife. He said he liked her. He said he would protect her. And then she died. Did he kill her? Is it possible that he, like her husband, was also someone standing at the door watching?"

Liu Tong was silent for a moment. There were sounds of typing, rustling papers, and his rapid breathing on the other end of the phone. "Officer, after Wang Jianjun's wife died, he became a different person. He quit his job and started a company. He joined a night running group. He bought that ring. He followed Lin Xiaoxue. He took her to dinner. She chatted with him. He said she was like his wife. He said he liked her. He said he would protect her. Then she died. He's a prime suspect. He had the motive, the opportunity, and the ability. He knew the night running group's route, knew Lin Xiaoxue's schedule, and could leave quickly after committing the crime. He knew her better than anyone else. He knew her better than her husband. But Dong Zhiqiang's notebook also says he's been following Dong Jian'an, investigating his wife's death. He didn't have time to kill her. His timeline doesn't match up."

Jiang Bo hung up the phone and stood by the river. The wind blew, carrying the fishy smell of the river and the chill of early winter. He thought of those names, those apologies, those people standing at the door watching. Wang Jianjun was one of them. His wife was dead, and he went mad. He killed those like his wife. Like Lao Liu. They were all people standing at the door watching. They could do nothing. They all owed those who had died a life. But Lao Liu was dead; he killed and paid with his life. Wang Jianjun wasn't. He was still alive. He was still in the night running group. He was still following those women. He was still protecting them. Then they died. He couldn't protect them. Like his wife. He could do nothing.

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. Like a star, like an eye, like someone who had been waiting for a long time. 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. Wang Jianjun wasn't the murderer. He was also someone standing at the door watching. He couldn't do anything either. He had also said sorry. But the murderer was still there. He was still killing. He had to find him.

At daybreak, Jiang Bo went to Wang Jianjun's company again. He didn't go home, didn't change his clothes; his shirt was wrinkled, his hair was messy, and his eyes were bloodshot. Tangyuan was also tired and lay on the back seat, not following. It was asleep in the car, its head resting on its paws, breathing evenly.

He walked into the office building; he was the only one in the elevator. The numbers on the elevator doors jumped one by one, from 1 to 2, from 2 to 3, from 3 to 4. He stood in the elevator, watching those numbers, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He knew he was going to see a pitiful person. Someone like him, standing at the door watching. Someone who could do nothing. Someone who had waited three years for someone to finally come and ask about him.

Wang Jianjun's office was on the eighth floor, the door open. He sat behind his desk, a pile of documents spread out in front of him. He wasn't making a phone call, wasn't looking at the computer, just sitting there, head down, staring at his hands. He was wearing a white shirt and tie, his hair neatly combed. But the collar of his shirt was a little wrinkled, his tie was crooked, and there was a small coffee stain on the collar. He had clearly not slept all night either. He heard footsteps and looked up. Seeing Jiang Bo, he neither smiled nor panicked. He simply looked at Jiang Bo, his eyes calm, as calm as a stagnant pool. No ripples, no fear, no expectation. He just looked.

"You're here again. What else do you want to ask? You asked yesterday, and I answered. Aren't you satisfied? I've said everything I needed to say. I didn't kill anyone. I just wanted to protect her. I couldn't protect her. Just like my wife. There's nothing I can do."

Jiang Bo sat down opposite him. The desk was wide, solid wood, and polished to a shine. The potted green ivy on the desk was still the same, lush and verdant, its vines trailing down and dragging across the table. The "Honesty is Fundamental" banner on the wall was still there, the calligraphy vigorous and the ink rich. But Jiang Bo noticed a new photo frame on the desk. It wasn't there yesterday. Inside was a photograph of a woman in her thirties, with a round face, gentle features, and a sweet smile. She was wearing a pink tracksuit, standing by the river, sunlight shining on her face. She looked a lot like Lin Xiaoxue. She looked a lot like those dead women. She looked a lot like those names.

"How did your wife die, Li Xiulan? How did she die? Did you see it with your own eyes? Did you see that person push her?"

Wang Jianjun's hand paused. He was flipping through documents, his fingers frozen in mid-air, as if stopped by something. His face turned pale, as white as paper, his lips trembled, and he couldn't speak for a long time. His Adam's apple bobbed several times. "Drowned. By the river. An accident. The police said it was an accident. They came to investigate, took photos, asked questions, and then said it was an accident. They said there were no signs of struggle, no signs of a fight, that she fell in on her own. I believed it. I believed it for a long time. Then I stopped believing it. I saw that man. He was lame, a policeman. He stood by the river, watching my wife sink. He didn't save her. He stood at the door watching."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "It wasn't an accident. He was pushed into the river. Did you know that? When did you find out? What did you see? Why didn't you say so sooner?"

Tears streamed down Wang Jianjun's face. They welled in his sunken eyes, flowing down the wrinkles that etched themselves like dried riverbeds, dripping onto the documents, onto the table, soaking the words. "I know. I know. I've waited so many years, waiting for you to investigate. You've finally come. I've waited three years. Three years, and every night I dream of her. She stands by the river, looking at me. She asks me, 'Why didn't you come to save me?' I can't answer. I can't answer. I've waited so long for you, and you've finally come. You've finally come to ask me. I've answered. My wife wasn't killed in an accident; she was murdered. You must avenge her. You must find that person. You must make him pay with his life."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "Why didn't you call the police? Why didn't you tell us? Why did you wait? What did you find out? Why didn't you say so sooner? You waited three years, and what did you get? You got Dong Jian'an dead? You got him executed? You waited until he was dead so your wife could rest in peace?"

Wang Jianjun lowered his head. His shoulders and hands were trembling. "Because I had no evidence. I saw that man. He was lame, a policeman. But I didn't know who he was. I searched for a long time and found his name. His name was Dong Jian'an. But you've already arrested him. He's dead. I've waited so long, and it's finally here. He's dead. My wife can rest in peace now. He's dead, and my wife can close her eyes. I can close my eyes too."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Did you kill Lin Xiaoxue? Did you kill her? She was like your wife, did you kill her? You followed her, took her home. You treated her to meals, chatted with her. You said she was like your wife. You liked her. You wanted to protect her. And then she died. Did you kill her? Answer me. Look me in the eyes and answer me."

Wang Jianjun looked up at him. His eyes were red, his nose was red, and his lips were trembling. "No. I didn't kill her. I just wanted to protect her. She was like my wife. I was afraid something would happen to her. I followed her and took her home. I treated her to dinner and chatted with her. I wanted to tell her that she was like my wife. I didn't dare. I was afraid she would misunderstand. She's dead. I couldn't protect her. Just like my wife. I couldn't do anything. I stood at the door watching. Just like her. Just like everyone else standing at the door watching. We couldn't do anything. We all owed those who died a life. I owed my wife a life, I owed Lin Xiaoxue a life. I owe them."

Jiang Bo stood up and walked out of the office. Tangyuan wasn't at the door; it was sleeping in the car. He stood in the corridor and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted under the light, like those names, like those apologies, like those people who would never come back. He thought of those names, those apologies, those people standing at the door watching. Wang Jianjun was one of them. He hadn't killed anyone. He was also one of those standing at the door watching. He couldn't do anything either. He had also said sorry. But the killer was still there. He was still killing. He had to find him.