Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

It was already dark when Jiang Bo left Wang Jianjun's company. Standing downstairs, he lit a cigarette. His fingers trembled slightly, not from the cold, but from the words, the tears, and the people watching from the doorway. Wang Jianjun hadn't killed anyone; he was one of those watching from the doorway. He couldn't do anything either. He had also apologized. But the killer was still there. He was still killing. He had to find him.

Smoke drifted under the streetlights, like those names, like those apologies, like those who would never return. He took a deep drag; the cigarette butt glowed red, like a tiny eye in the night. He remembered Wang Jianjun's last words: "I owe my wife a life, I owe Lin Xiaoxue a life. I owe them." He owed them, and he could never repay them. They were dead; he lived. All he could do was apologize. Like Mr. He, like Dong Zhenhua, like Sun Jianguo, like Zhang Jianjun. They were all people standing at the door, watching. They could do nothing. They all owed those who had died a life.

Tangyuan jumped out of the car, walked to his feet, and rubbed against his leg. It had woken up and was more alert, wagging its tail and looking up at him with bright, sparkling eyes. Jiang Bo squatted down and stroked its head. Tangyuan's fur was soft and warm, gleaming gently under the streetlights. "Tangyuan, we haven't found him yet. He killed another person. We still don't know who he is," Tangyuan barked, its cry echoing in the empty parking lot. That cry, like a knife, pierced the silence of the night.

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

"Officer, I've found something. Lin Xiaoxue's running route is different from what Wang Jianjun said. She said she always runs the same route, entering from the south gate of Binjiang Park and exiting from the north gate, circling the lake, about five kilometers. But the surveillance footage shows that she ran a different route that night. She didn't go to the north gate; she turned. She ran towards the old floating bridge. Few people go that way. Even less at night. There are no streetlights, no surveillance cameras, not even a ghost. Why did she go there? Who invited her?"

Jiang Bo clenched his fist. The old pontoon bridge. It was the old pontoon bridge again. That place, like a whirlpool, had swept up everyone's fate. Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, Xiu Ying, his father, He Wu'an, Zheng Jianguo, Dong Jianhua, Mr., Dong Zhenhua, Dong Jian'an, Sun Jianguo, Zhang Jianjun, Old Liu, and all those who had died, those who stood at the door watching. They were all there. Now, Lin Xiaoxue was there too. She went, and she never came back.

"I don't know. There were no records of appointments on her phone. No WeChat messages, no text messages, no call logs. But her phone's location data showed that she did go in that direction. Then the signal disappeared. Just like Fang Min. Fang Min's phone signal also disappeared there before she died. The old pontoon bridge. That place is like a black hole, swallowing all signals, all life."

Jiang Bo hung up the phone and got into the car. Tang Yuan jumped into the passenger seat. He started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. The car drove onto Changjiang Road, heading towards the old pontoon bridge. The night was dark, the streetlights dim and yellow, reflecting a cold light onto the wet streets. There were few cars on the road, only a few taxis occasionally passing by. The traffic lights flashed at the intersection, like some meaningless ritual. He gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The old pontoon bridge, again the old pontoon bridge. That place was like a curse. He had been there so many times, each time with new discoveries, each time with new deaths. He didn't know what he would see this time.

In the night, the old pontoon bridge resembled a forgotten ruin. The bulldozers still stood there, rusted and gleaming, like a gigantic skeleton in the moonlight. The wild grass swayed in the wind, rustling like countless hands whispering secrets, or countless mouths sighing. The door of the small house was still 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 that light still shone, like an eye that refused to close, like a star that refused to be extinguished. It was still waiting. Waiting for whom to return? Waiting for the gentleman to return? Waiting for Dong Jian'an to return? Or waiting for those who had died to return?

Jiang Bo parked the car in front of the ruins and turned off the engine. He sat in the driver's seat, motionless. Tang Yuan also sat, looking out the window. He took a deep breath, opened the car door, and got out. The wind blew in, carrying the fishy smell of the river and the chill of early winter. His clothes fluttered in the wind. His footsteps crunched on the broken bricks, echoing across the empty ruins.

He walked to the small hut, stood in the doorway, and looked inside. The kerosene lamp was still lit, its flame flickering and casting swaying shadows on the wall. On the table lay the notebooks, the photographs, and 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 and 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, his husband's. He turned to the last page and saw Lin Xiaoxue's name. His husband had already written her name, the handwriting neat and precise, each stroke deliberate. The date was today, and next to it was written "I'm sorry." He had remembered for so many years, written for so many years. He wouldn't stop. He was still writing. He was writing in the detention center, until he could no longer write. Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. He remembered his husband's words: "Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' someone must remember them. If no one remembers, they are truly gone." His husband remembered. He had remembered for over thirty years. He would continue to remember. Until he died.

He closed his notebook and stood up. He walked out of the hut and stood by the river. Moonlight shone on the river, shattering into countless silver fragments, dazzlingly bright. The river flowed slowly, just as it had a hundred years ago, just as it had a thousand years ago. He remembered those names, those apologies, those people who stood at the door watching. They were gone, but he remained. The murderer was still there, still killing. He had to find him.

The phone rang. It was Liu Tong calling. His voice was a little hoarse, as if he had been crying.

"Officer, Lin Xiaoxue's family has come to identify the body. Her mother and her sister are here. Her mother fainted from crying. Her sister keeps crying and can't even speak. They're asking, who killed her? Why did they kill her? She was a good girl, she did nothing wrong. She just liked running. She went running every night, for years, and never had an accident. They don't know why it was her."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Tell her we'll find the killer. Whoever he is, wherever he's hiding. We'll find him. She won't have died in vain."

He hung up the phone and stood by the riverbank, the wind carrying the fishy smell of the river. He thought of the families, those who had waited their whole lives. Chen Fang's mother, eighty-six, was still waiting, waking up every day to ask if Fangfang had returned. Li Mei's sister, bedridden and unable to get up, upon hearing that her sister would never return, only said, "Put away the dishes." Liu Xiaoqin's brother had searched for many years, spent a lot of money, and traveled to many places. His mother murmured her daughter's name when she died, and his father did too. They received the truth, they received an apology. But Lin Xiaoxue's family hadn't received that. They had just learned of her death. They didn't know who the murderer was. They hadn't received an apology. They were still crying, still asking, still waiting.

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 waited 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. Now there was another name. Lin Xiaoxue. Another family member. Her mother, her sister. They were crying, they were waiting. He couldn't keep them waiting too long.

At daybreak, Jiang Bo went to the detention center. He was going to see his teacher. He had so much to say to him. He wanted to tell him that Lin Xiaoxue was dead. He wanted to tell him that Wang Jianjun wasn't the murderer. He wanted to tell him that the murderer was still alive. He also wanted to tell him that the families were still waiting.

The detention center gate was still the same color, iron gray, with peeling paint. The guard recognized him, glanced at his ID, and let him through. He parked his 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 shone on it, gleaming coldly. He remembered his husband's words: "I will write here. I will write until I die." He remembered his husband's eyes, so bright, like a river 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 high and prominent, his eye sockets deep-set, the vest hanging loosely on him like a garment on a hanger. But his eyes were bright. On the table in front of him lay a notebook, its blue cover somewhat worn. He had filled most of it, the handwriting neat and tidy, each stroke like an engraving. He saw Jiang Bo and smiled. The smile was light and faint, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, 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. Did your mom make dumplings again? She's so kind of her, always making you bring them."

"I brought it. My mom made it. It's pork and cabbage filling. She said you should 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. She said you're too thin and need to eat more."

The man took the insulated food 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 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 creased his face like dried-up riverbeds.

"It's delicious. Your mom's dumplings are so good. Yizhou used to bring me dumplings too. Every time he came to visit me, he would bring 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."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Sir, Lin Xiaoxue is dead. Another one is dead. A woman jogging at night. Struck to death and dumped by the river. Just like Fang Min, just like Li Hongmei, just like Xu Yanran. Same method, same posture. The killer is imitating. Or rather, he's continuing. He's still killing. We can't catch him. We don't know who he is."

The man paused. His chopsticks hovered in mid-air, the dumpling suspended, untouched. He put down his chopsticks and looked at Jiang Bo. "You've remembered another name. You remember. You remember for us. Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone. You remember Lin Xiaoxue. You remember her. You remember for her. You remember for her family."

Jiang Bo nodded. "I remember. I remember everyone. Sir, the killer isn't Wang Jianjun. He was also the one standing at the door watching. He couldn't do anything either. He also apologized. But the killer is still here. He's still killing. I don't know who he is. I don't know where he is. I don't know why he's killing those people. He's smarter and calmer than Lao Liu. He's not afraid of being seen, not afraid of being filmed. He's confident he won't be caught. He's provoking us."

The man looked at him. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "You will find him. You are like your father. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you don't look back. Your father investigated for so many years and found the truth. You will too. You will find him. Your father is watching you from heaven. He won't leave you alone. He will be by your side. When you were investigating the case, he was behind you. The scenes you saw were him helping you."

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. Hearing the door open, it raised its head, stood up, and wagged its tail.

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 walked out of the detention center and stood at the door. The sunlight shone warmly on his face. 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. The murderer was still there, still killing. He had to find him. He would.