Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

The night Zhang Jianjun was taken away, Jiang Bo sat in his office all night.

Before him lay those notebooks, those photos, those letters. Mr. Zhang's, Dong Zhenhua's, Dong Jian'an's, Sun Jianguo's, Zhang Jianjun's. They were all in those pages, in those names, in those apologies. The kerosene lamp's light shone on the pages, casting a dim yellow glow, like the eyes of the dead. Some handwriting was neat, some was hasty, some forceful, some light. Some was written slowly, each stroke deliberate, as if carved in stone. Some was written hastily, crooked and erratic, as if someone was chasing him.

Tangyuan lay asleep at his feet. It was tired, having kept him company all night. Its belly rose and fell gently, its breathing even, occasionally twitching its ears and making low whimpering sounds. Jiang Bo stroked its head; it didn't wake up, but simply nestled its head into his hand and let out a contented hum.

He picked up his husband's notebook and turned to the last page. Lin Xiaoxue's name was written on it, next to the date, and below it, "I'm sorry." His husband had written slowly, each stroke deliberate, as if carving characters. He wondered what his husband was thinking when he wrote that name. Was he thinking of her face, or of her death? Was he thinking of those apologies, or of the debts he could never repay?

He closed his notebook, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, the night view of Jiangcheng stretched out; in the distance, the headlights of cars on the Yangtze River Bridge formed a river of light, flowing from one side of the river to the other. Several boats, their lights on, moved slowly across the water. Their lights cast long shadows on the surface, like wandering souls. He remembered Zhang Jianjun's last words: "I should die." He had killed so many people; he deserved to die. But if he died, could those who had died come back to life? Could those who had waited their whole lives wait for him? Could those who had stood at the door watching walk in?

As dawn broke, Liu Tong pushed open the door and came in. His eyes were red, his lips were chapped, and there were red marks from the keyboard on his face, stretching from his forehead to his cheeks. His hair was a mess, like a clump of withered grass. He held a document in his hand, standing in the doorway, not coming in. His fingers tapped lightly on the document, as if hesitating about something.

"Officer Bo, Zhang Jianjun has spoken. He thought about it all night and finally said it. He said he's tired and doesn't want to carry on anymore."

Jiang Bo turned around. "What did you say?"

Liu Tong walked in, placed the file on the table, and opened it. His finger pointed to a line of text, his voice slightly hoarse. "He said he killed those people. Fang Min, Li Hongmei, Xu Yanran, Lin Xiaoxue. He killed them all. He said he hated those women, hated that they resembled his wife. He said he waited so many years, and finally got them. He said he didn't regret it. He said he should have died. He said he should have died long ago, from the day his wife died. He'd lived so many more years, that was enough."

Jiang Bo remained silent for a moment. "Did he say how he knew those women's information? How did he know their addresses, workplaces, and running routes? How did he know when they were alone? How did he know where they were? That kind of information isn't something an ordinary person can find. He needed to track them down, he needed to inquire, he needed someone to help him."

Liu Tong opened the document and turned to another page. "He said he was following them. He followed them for a long time, sometimes for months, sometimes for half a year. He said he went to the night running group every day, mingled in, and chatted with them. He said he asked many people and inquired about many people. He said he spent a lot of time and made a lot of preparations. He said it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision, but a long-planned scheme. He observed their habits, noted their schedules, and found their weaknesses. He said he knew them better than they knew themselves."

Jiang Bo stood up and walked to the window. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into dazzling golden fragments. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Now, another name was added: Zhang Jianjun. He was the murderer, and also the one watching from the doorway. He killed so many people, and he said sorry. But he said he didn't regret it. He deserved to die. But he wasn't alone. He had people behind him. Someone was helping him. Someone was giving him that information. Someone was watching him kill.

Did he mention "Jiang Shui"? Why did he use that name? Did he know what "Jiang Shui" meant? Did he know there was someone behind that name?

Liu Tong shook his head. He flipped through the document again and again. "He said he just picked it up randomly. He thought it sounded nice. He said he didn't know what it meant. He said he didn't care. He only cared about those women. He only cared about killing them. He said a name was just a label, he could call him whatever he wanted. He didn't care what others called him."

Jiang Bo turned around and walked back to the table. "He's not 'Jiang Shui.' He just used that name. The real 'Jiang Shui' is still here. That person is still waiting. He's still watching. Zhang Jianjun is just a pawn. He was used. Someone gave him information about those women and told him to kill them. Someone is manipulating him from behind. That person is the real 'Jiang Shui.' That person is the one we're looking for."

Liu Tong was stunned. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. His eyes were wide open. "Officer, what did you say? Zhang Jianjun isn't 'Jiang Shui'? Then who is? Did we arrest the wrong person? The case isn't closed yet?"

Jiang Bo walked back to the table and opened the notebook. It was his husband's. He flipped to the last page and saw Lin Xiaoxue's name. Next to it was the date, and below it, an apology. He looked at it for a long time, then closed the notebook. He opened Dong Zhiqiang's notebook and flipped to the middle. There were records about "spectators" there.

"Dong Zhiqiang's notebook was filled with many things. He recorded the names, phone numbers, addresses, and running routes of all the members of the night running group. He also recorded one person. That person wasn't a member of the night running group, but he appeared frequently. He always stood at a distance, watching them run. He didn't speak or interact with anyone. He just watched. Dong Zhiqiang didn't know who he was, so he gave him a nickname: 'The Spectator.' He remembered him for a long time, noting his features, the times he appeared, and the direction he left. He said that this person always appeared when someone in the night running group died. He was there when Fang Min died. He was there when Li Hongmei died. He was there when Xu Yanran died. He was there when Lin Xiaoxue died. He stood there, watched, and then left."

Jiang Bo's voice was very soft, as if it were drifting from a very far place, like the river whispering.

Liu Tong's hands were trembling. His fingers were white as he gripped the table. "Officer, are you saying Zhang Jianjun isn't 'Jiang Shui'? He was just used? The real 'Jiang Shui' is someone else? He's been watching all along? He's still watching? We arrested the wrong person? The case isn't over yet?"

Jiang Bo nodded. The nod was slow and heavy. "Zhang Jianjun was just a pawn in his game. He told Zhang Jianjun about those women, instructing him to kill them. He hid in the shadows, watching, waiting. He waited for Zhang Jianjun to be arrested, for the case to be closed, for us all to think it was over. Then he would come out and continue killing. He's more terrifying than Zhang Jianjun. Zhang Jianjun was a madman; he was calm. He knew what he was doing. He wasn't afraid of being caught, he wasn't afraid of death. He wasn't afraid of anything. He only cared about killing. He didn't care about the thrill of killing, he cared about watching others kill. He liked standing at the door watching, watching others die. He was the real one standing at the door watching. It wasn't that he couldn't go in, it was that he didn't want to go in. He liked that position."

Liu Tong's face turned pale. As white as paper, his lips trembled. "Officer, what do we do now? The case is closed. Zhang Jianjun has confessed. All the evidence points to him. We arrested him, sentenced him. The case is closed. No one will believe there's another murderer. The prosecutor's office is preparing to prosecute, the court has scheduled the hearing. The family has been notified; they thought they'd finally got their wish. They thought they could finally rest in peace."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Do you believe it? Do you believe Zhang Jianjun is 'Jiang Shui'? Do you believe he's the one standing at the door watching? Do you believe he's the one who's been waiting all along?"

Liu Tong was silent for a while. He looked at Jiang Bo for a long time. Then he shook his head. "I don't believe it. Zhang Jianjun is just the killer; he's not the one waiting. When he killed, he went in, not just stood at the door watching. He did it. The one waiting never does it himself. He lets others do it. He stands at the door watching, then turns and leaves."

Jiang Bo nodded. "Let's go find him. Let's go find that 'spectator.' Dong Zhiqiang remembered his features, the time he appeared, and the direction he left. We'll search through those records. He must be somewhere. He must still be watching. He must be waiting. He's waited for so many years, what's a few more days? He's waiting for us to come find him."

They searched all day.

In Dong Zhiqiang's notebook, there are dozens of entries about "spectators." From the founding of the night running group in 2010 until Dong Zhiqiang's death in 2024, he appeared every year for fourteen years. Each time he appeared, it was when someone in the night running group died. He stood at a distance, watching, and then left. He didn't drive, he didn't ride a bicycle, he walked. He walked very slowly, step by step, his right leg slightly lame. He wore dark clothes and a hat, the brim pulled low, obscuring his face. He didn't talk to anyone, he didn't interact with anyone. He just watched. He stood there, like a tree, like a stone, like a statue.

Jiang Bo stared at the words. "Lame. Lame again. That person is limping too. He's like Dong Jian'an, like Dong Zhenhua, like Sun Jianguo. They're all limping. But they're not the same person. Who is this limping person? Why is he pretending to be limping? Why is he standing at the door watching? Why is he waiting?"

Liu Tong pulled up a map, a satellite image of the old pontoon bridge area. "Polish Sir, Dong Zhiqiang noted the direction he left in. It was always the same direction. The old pontoon bridge. He went towards the old pontoon bridge. He lived there. He's always been there. He was waiting for us to come find him. He didn't run away, he didn't hide. He was there. In those ruins, in that little house, under that lamp. He knew we would come."

Jiang Bo stood up. "Let's go. To the old pontoon bridge. To see that 'spectator.' To ask him why he waited for so many years. To ask him why he watched those people die. To ask him if he will ever say sorry."

The old pontoon bridge, bathed in the setting sun, resembled a forgotten ruin. The bulldozers still stood there, rusted and weathered, like a gigantic skeleton in the sunset. Wild grass swayed in the wind, yellow and dry, rustling softly like countless hands whispering secrets. The door of the small house was 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 a star, like an eye, like someone who had waited a long time. 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, not getting out immediately. Tang Yuan also sat, looking out the window, his ears perked up. He took a deep breath, opened the car door, and got out. The wind blew, cold, making his clothes flutter. He stepped on the broken bricks, the crunching sound 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 photos, the letters. They hadn't taken them. They had left them for him. He went inside and sat down at the table. He opened the notebook and saw the "Observer's" entries. He looked at them for a long time, at the handwriting—some neat, some hasty, some forceful, some light. Dong Zhiqiang had kept these entries for so many years, dozens of times. He had recorded every appearance and every departure of that person. He had recorded his features, his habits, his routes. He had recorded his shoe size, his height, his weight. He had recorded his gait, his breathing rhythm, his silhouette. He didn't know who he was, but he remembered him. He had kept these entries for so many years, dozens of times. He waited for him to come to him. He didn't wait.

Jiang Bo closed his notebook and stood up. He walked out of the small house 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. Zhang Jianjun wasn't "Jiang Shui" (the real river). He was just being used. The real "Jiang Shui" was still there. He was still watching. He was still waiting. He had to find him. He would.