Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo emerged from the small house; the moon was high in the sky. The moonlight shone on the ruins, a ghastly white, like a layer of frost. The light in the small house was still on, and Dong Zhenhua was still sitting at the door, clutching his notebook, head bowed, like a statue. He didn't look up, didn't wave, just sat there. Jiang Bo stood by the car, glanced at him, then got in, started the engine, and drove off the old pontoon bridge.

In the rearview mirror, the light grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still shining. Like a star, like an eye, like someone who had been waiting for a long time.

He didn't go back to the municipal bureau; he went straight to the detention center. He wanted to see his boss. He wanted to tell him that Zhang Jianjun wasn't "Jiang Shui" (a powerful figure), that he had been used. The real "Jiang Shui" was still there. He was still watching. He was still waiting. He had to find him.

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. The moonlight shone on it, gleaming coldly. He remembered his husband's words: "Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone." He remembered. He remembered everyone. But he hadn't found that "observer." He was still waiting. He was still watching.

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 beat 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. He 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 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 the notebook, its blue cover somewhat worn. He had filled most of it, the handwriting neat and tidy, each stroke like it had been carved. He saw Jiang Bo and smiled. The smile was very light, very faint, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart.

"You're here? So late. What happened? You don't look well, and your eyes are red."

"Sir, Zhang Jianjun is not 'Jiang Shui'. He was just used. The real 'Jiang Shui' is still here. He's still watching. He's still waiting. I must find him."

The man paused. His hand hovered in the air, pen tip pointing at the notebook, not falling. His fingers trembled slightly. "'Jiang Shui' is still here? I thought it was him. I thought the case was closed. I thought those women could finally rest in peace. Turns out, they haven't."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Not yet. He's still here. In Dong Zhiqiang's notebook, there's a name. He calls him 'The Spectator.' He always stands at a distance, watching the night running group run. He doesn't speak, he doesn't interact with anyone. He just watches. Every time he appears, it's when someone dies. He stands there, watches, and then leaves. He walks with a slight limp. He walked towards the old pontoon bridge. He lives there. He's always been there. He's waiting for us to come find him."

The man looked at him. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "Go find him. You're just like him. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you don't look back. Your father was the same. He 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're investigating the case, he'll be right behind 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, 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.

He emerged from the detention center as dawn approached. A pale gray light pierced through the clouds, illuminating the distant river. He didn't go home; he went straight to the municipal police station. He was going to go through Dong Zhiqiang's notebook, turning each page, reading each word. He needed to find that "observer." He needed to find his characteristics, his habits, his routes. He needed to find where he lived, where he appeared, and when he left. He had to find him.

Liu Tong was already in the office. He sat in front of the computer, Dong Zhiqiang's notebook spread out in front of him, flipping through the pages one by one. His eyes were red, his lips were chapped, and there were red marks on his face from the keyboard. When he saw Jiang Bo come in, he looked up, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

"Brother Bo, I spent the whole night writing this down. Dong Zhiqiang wrote down 'The Bystander' dozens of times. He wrote down the time, place, weather, his clothes, his movements, and the direction he left each time. He wrote it all down in great detail. He wrote down the shoes he wore: black, old-fashioned, cloth shoes. He wrote down the hat he wore: gray, a baseball cap, the brim pulled low. He wrote down his clothes: dark-colored, an overcoat in winter and a jacket in summer. He wrote down his walking posture: his right foot dragged on the ground, very slowly and steadily. He wrote down his back view: very thin, very tall, and a little hunched over."

Jiang Bo walked over and looked at the records. "Did he remember his face? Did he see his face?"

Liu Tong shook his head. "No. He never saw his face. That person always wore a hat and kept his head down, so you couldn't see his face. Dong Zhiqiang tried to get close to him, but every time he got close, the person would walk away. He didn't walk fast, but he walked very steadily. He didn't want people to get close. He didn't want people to see his face."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. "He doesn't want anyone to see his face. He's afraid of being recognized. He's afraid of being remembered. He's afraid someone will come looking for him. But he's not afraid to wait. He's waited for so many years. He'll keep waiting."

Liu Tong turned to another page. "Bo Sir, there's another discovery. Dong Zhiqiang noted down 'The Spectator's' shoe size. He once saw his footprints in the mud. He measured them, and they were size 42. He also noted down his height, about 1.75 meters. He also noted down his weight, about 140 jin (50 kg). He also noted down his age, about sixty-something years old. His hair was white, peeking out from under his hat brim."

Jiang Bo looked at the records. "Over sixty years old, white hair, 1.75 meters tall, 140 jin (72 kg), size 42 (1.42), limping, from the direction of the old pontoon bridge. How many people like this are there in the old pontoon bridge area?"

Liu Tong pulled up the household registration system. "Officer Bo, in the old pontoon bridge area, there are three men in their sixties, around 1.75 meters tall, weighing around 140 kilograms, and with a limp. One is Dong Zhenhua, one is Sun Jianguo, and one is Zhang Jianjun. But none of them are 'bystanders.' Dong Zhenhua is in the detention center, Sun Jianguo is in Yueyang, and Zhang Jianjun is in jail. They didn't have time to commit the crime. They weren't 'bystanders.'"

Jiang Bo remained silent for a moment. "There's one more. Sir. Sir, you're also over sixty, about 1.75 meters tall, and weigh about 140 kilograms. Are you also lame?"

Liu Tong was stunned. "Sir? Sir isn't lame. He walks slowly, but he doesn't limp. His right foot doesn't drag on the ground. He isn't."

Jiang Bo shook his head. "He isn't. But he knows who that person is. He must know. He's remembered that name for so many years, written 'I'm sorry' for so many years. He must have seen that person. He must know who he is. Why didn't he say anything? Why did he wait for so many years? What was he waiting for?"

Jiang Bo turned and walked out of the office. Tang Yuan followed behind. He went into 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 remembered his husband's words: "Those names, those apologies, someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone." He remembered. He remembered everyone. But his husband remembered too. He had remembered for so many years, written for so many years. He knew who that person was. Why didn't he tell him? What was he waiting for?

At daybreak, Jiang Bo went to the detention center again. He wanted to ask his superior. He wanted to ask him why he wouldn't speak. He wanted to ask him what he was waiting for.

The man sat in the meeting room, the notebook open in front of him. He saw Jiang Bo and smiled. "You're here again? What's wrong today? Twice in one day. Something serious happened?"

Jiang Bo sat down opposite him. "Sir, you know who the 'spectator' is. You've always known. Why didn't you tell me? What were you waiting for all these years? Were you waiting for him to tell you himself? Were you waiting for him to apologize to you?"

The man paused. He looked at Jiang Bo for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "I know. I've seen him. He came to see me. He asked me, 'How long will you keep remembering?' I said, 'Until I die.' He laughed. He said, 'You've kept remembering for so many years, written for so many years. Has the person you've been waiting for come?' I said no. He said, 'The one I've been waiting for hasn't come either. I've waited for so many years, and he hasn't come. When you finally do, tell me. Let me know too.'"

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Who is he? What's his name? Where does he live? Why did he kill those people? Why did he watch them die? Why didn't he do it himself?"

The man lowered his head. "His name is Chen Weiguo. He was my former colleague. He was also a policeman. He investigated those cases. He knew everything. His wife died, by the river. She was pushed into the river. He saw it. He stood at the door watching. He didn't save her. He couldn't do anything. He owed her a life. He waited for so many years, waiting for you to come and arrest him. You didn't come. He couldn't wait any longer. He found Zhang Jianjun, told him about those women, and asked him to kill them. He stood at the door watching. He couldn't go in. He was like you, like me, like Dong Zhenhua. We were all people standing at the door watching. We could all do nothing. We all owed those who died a life."

Jiang Bo stood up. "Where is he? Is he still on the old pontoon bridge? Is he still in that little house?"

The man nodded. "Yes. He's always been here. He's waited for you all these years. Waiting for you to come to him. Go find him. He's in that little house. He's not going anywhere else."

Jiang Bo turned and walked out of the meeting room. Tang Yuan followed behind. He left the detention center, got into his car, and started the engine. The car drove onto Changjiang Road, heading towards the old pontoon bridge. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those people standing at the door watching were also in his heart. Now there was another name. Chen Weiguo. He was also one of those standing at the door watching. He couldn't do anything either. He also said sorry. But he also killed someone. He let someone else kill someone. He deserved to die.

In the morning light, the old pontoon bridge resembled a forgotten ruin. The door of the small house was open, and the light was still on. Jiang Bo parked the car in front of the ruins and got out. Tangyuan followed behind. He walked to the small house and stood in the doorway. Inside sat a person, not Dong Zhenhua, but someone else. He wore a dark overcoat, his hair was completely white, and his back was hunched. Hearing footsteps, he slowly turned around. A very old face, wrinkles as if etched by a knife. His eyes were bright, like the waters of a river in winter.

"You've come. I've been waiting for you for a long time."

Jiang Bo walked in. "You are Chen Weiguo."

The old man nodded. "Yes. It is I. You look exactly like your father. You've come. You asked me. I answered. You can go now."

Jiang Bo stood before him. "Why did you kill those people? Why did you send Zhang Jianjun to kill them? Why did you stand at the door and watch? Why didn't you do it yourself?"

Tears streamed down Chen Weiguo's face. "Because I was afraid. I was afraid of dying. I was afraid that if I died, no one would remember my wife. I made her kill those who looked like her. I stood at the door watching. I couldn't go in. I couldn't do anything. I owed her a life. I waited so many years, waiting for you to come and arrest me. You came. You came. You asked me. I answered. You can leave now."

Jiang Bo handcuffed him. The handcuffs clicked shut. Chen Weiguo stood up and followed him out of the small house. Moonlight shone on him, casting a long, thin shadow on the ground.

They walked to the car, and Chen Weiguo stopped, glancing back at the small house. The light was still on.

"I'm leaving. Leave that lamp lit. Someone will come back."

Jiang Bo helped him into the car. Tangyuan lay on the back seat. The car started 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.