Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

After leaving the detention center, Jiang Bo didn't return to the municipal bureau. He drove straight to the Yangtze River Bridge. He parked the car next to the bridge pier and turned off the engine. The river water shimmered in the sunlight, broken into pieces of gold, dazzlingly bright, like countless blinking eyes, or countless talking mouths. Tangyuan lay on the passenger seat, its head resting on its paws, its eyes half-open, enjoying the warm breeze seeping in through the car window cracks. Its ears twitched occasionally, as if it had heard something in its dream. Jiang Bo lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. The smoke drifted in the sunlight, like those names, like those apologies, like those people who would never return.

He remembered Chen Weiguo's last words: "I've waited for you." He had waited so many years, and he had finally found you. He should die. Zhang Jianjun had also waited, and he should die too. They had all waited. The gentleman had also waited; he had waited for Jiang Bo, and he had waited for those apologies to be spoken. He could let go now. The families had also waited; they had waited for the truth, and they had waited for the apologies. They could let go now too.

But Jiang Bo hadn't let go. He was still thinking about those names, those apologies, those people standing at the door watching. They were gone, but he was still here. He had to continue. There were still so many cases, so many names, so many apologies. He wouldn't stand at the door watching. He would go in. He didn't know what he would see when he went in, but he knew he had to go. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, no one would remember those names. If he stopped, no one would say those apologies.

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. Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiuying, Liu Xiaoqin, Sun Xiaomei, Zhang Jianguo, Li Mei, Gao Deming, Xiulan, Lin Xiaoxue. 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. But was it enough for him to remember them all? When he grew old, who would remember them? After he died, who would remember them? Would his children remember them? He didn't have any children yet. He didn't even have a girlfriend. He only had Tangyuan. Tangyuan couldn't speak, couldn't write, couldn't remember names. It could only keep him company, lick his hands, and nudge his legs with its head. It could only keep him company, not remember for him.

The phone rang. It was Liu Tong calling. His voice was a little hoarse, as if he had been crying, or as if he had stayed up too late and his throat was inflamed.

"Officer Bo, the case report is finished. The indictment opinions for Chen Weiguo and Zhang Jianjun are also ready. The prosecutor's office says the evidence is conclusive and they can proceed with the prosecution. They will be sentenced soon. Death penalty, to be carried out immediately. Chen Weiguo did not appeal, nor did Zhang Jianjun. They both said they deserved to die. They've waited enough. Their lawyers also advised them to appeal, but they refused. They said they didn't want to wait any longer. They've waited so many years, that's enough."

Jiang Bo stubbed out his cigarette, pressing the butt several times in the ashtray until he was sure it was completely extinguished before letting go. "Okay. Send it over. What needs to be settled is settled. Those women who used to jog at night can rest in peace. Those who stood at the door watching can also let go. Tell the prosecutor's office to deliver the verdict as soon as possible. The families have waited their whole lives; they can't wait any longer. Their hair has turned white, their eyesight has deteriorated, and their legs can't walk anymore. They can't wait any longer."

He hung up the phone and sat there, watching the river. The river flowed 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. He remembered his husband's last words: "Those names, those apologies, someone must remember them. If no one remembers, they are truly gone." He remembered. He remembered everyone. But simply remembering wasn't enough. He had to live for them. Live for those who had died, live for those who stood at the door watching, live for those who had waited a lifetime. He alone had to live for so many people. Could he do it? He didn't know. But he would try. He would keep trying, until he died.

He started the engine and drove off the bridge. He drove onto Changjiang Road, heading towards the old pontoon bridge. He wanted to see that little house, to see that lamp. The gentleman wasn't there, Dong Zhenhua wasn't there, Sun Jianguo wasn't there, Zhang Jianjun wasn't there, Chen Weiguo wasn't there either. They were all gone. But the lamp was still lit. He wanted to see if the lamp was still there, if anyone was adding oil, if anyone was cleaning the lampshade. If the lamp went out, would those names go out with it? Would those apologies disappear with it?

The old pontoon bridge, bathed in the afternoon sun, resembled a forgotten ruin. The bulldozers still stood there, rusted and gleaming, like massive skeletons in the sunlight, their tracks stuck in the mud, motionless, as if dead. The withered grass swayed in the wind, yellow and dry, rustling like countless hands whispering secrets, or countless mouths sighing. 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, Chen Weiguo was gone too. They were all gone. But that light still shone. Like a star that refused to go out, like an eye that refused to close, 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 in the empty ruins. He walked to the small hut, stood in the doorway, and looked inside. The kerosene lamp was still lit, the flame flickering, casting swaying shadows on the wall like countless hands gesturing something, as if beckoning someone. On the table were 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 stacked together and tied with a yellowed rope, the knots tied very tightly, as if afraid they would come apart.

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. He turned to the last page and saw Lin Xiaoxue's name. Next to it was the date, and below it, "I'm sorry." 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.

Then he closed the notebook. He opened Dong Zhiqiang's notebook and saw the "spectator's" records. He looked at them for a long time, watching the handwriting change from neat to messy, and then from messy to neat. Dong Zhiqiang had kept these records for so many years, dozens of entries. He had recorded every appearance and every departure of that person. He had recorded his characteristics, his habits, his routes. He didn't know who he was, but he remembered him. He had kept these records for so many years, dozens of entries. He waited for him to come to him. He didn't wait. He died. He died in his car, having taken sleeping pills, with a letter beside him. The letter said, "I'm sorry." The person he was waiting for didn't come. He was waiting for Jiang Bo, and Jiang Bo came. But he was already dead.

He closed his notebook. He opened Dong Zhenhua's and saw the summaries of those files. He looked at them for a long time, seeing the names, the dates, the locations. He had seen most of those files before. He remembered most of the names. But he still looked, page by page, word by word. He was afraid of missing something. He was afraid of forgetting something.

He closed his notebook. He opened Sun Jianguo's and saw the descriptions of the photos. He looked at them for a long time, at the women's faces, their smiles, their floral dresses. They were laughing happily when they were alive. They didn't know what would happen later. They didn't know someone would kill them. They knew nothing. They were just going for a night run, just passing by, just unlucky.

He closed his notebook. He opened Zhang Jianjun's and saw the women's information. He looked at it for a long time, noticing their addresses, workplaces, and running routes. Chen Weiguo had given him that information. He used that information to track those women. He followed them for a long time, sometimes months, sometimes half a year. He figured out their habits, their schedules, and their weaknesses. He knew them better than they knew themselves. Then he killed them. He killed them because they resembled his wives. He killed them because someone told him they resembled his wives. He didn't know he was being used. He thought he was taking revenge. He thought he was avenging his wife. He didn't know he was just killing for someone else.

He closed his notebook.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the river. The water shimmered in the sunlight, 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. 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. But he didn't know what he would see once he went in. More names, more apologies, or more people standing at the door watching? He didn't know. But he knew he had to go. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, those names would be forgotten. If he stopped, those apologies would be left unsaid.

He turned and walked out of the hut. Tangyuan followed behind. He stood in the doorway, looking at the lamp. It was still lit, dim and warm, shining through the window like an eye that refused to close. He reached out and touched the lampshade. The glass was hot, burning his hand. He withdrew his hand, stood there, and looked for a long time. Then he turned, got into 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, looking at the river. The river shimmered in the sunlight, flowing slowly. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. He thought of the families, those who had waited their whole lives. Chen Fang's mother, eighty-six years old, was still waiting, asking every morning 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 had received the truth, received the apologies. They could let go. Those who had died could rest in peace. But could those who stood at the door watching let go? Could Mr. [Name] let go? Could Dong Zhenhua let go? Could Sun Jianguo let go? Could they let go? They're still writing those names, still saying sorry. They can't let go. They can't write anymore, but they're still writing. They can't say anything more, but they're still saying it.

He drove off the bridge towards the city police station. He needed to write a report for the families. To tell them the case was closed. The murderer had been caught. They could finally rest easy. He wanted to deliver it personally. He would deliver it to each family, one by one. He would tell them, one by one, that the person they had been waiting for hadn't died in vain. That someone remembered them. He also wanted to tell Mr. [Name] that he had visited the families and apologized on his behalf. He also wanted to tell Dong Zhenhua that he had visited the families and apologized on his behalf. He also wanted to tell Sun Jianguo that he had visited the families and apologized on his behalf. He also wanted to tell Zhang Jianjun that he had visited the families and apologized on his behalf. He also wanted to tell Chen Weiguo that he had visited the families and apologized on his behalf. They were all just standing at the door watching. They couldn't do anything. They had all said sorry. He wanted to deliver those apologies for them. Deliver them to the families, to the ears of the dead, to the hearts of those who had waited a lifetime.

Back at the municipal police station, Liu Tong was still there. He sat in front of his computer, the case report spread out before him. His eyes were red, as was the tip of his nose. Several empty coffee cups sat on the table, coffee stains forming brown rings on the sides. When he saw Jiang Bo enter, he looked up, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, revealing two deep lines under his eye sockets.

"Officer Bo, the report is finished. Please take a look. The indictment opinions for Chen Weiguo and Zhang Jianjun are also ready. The prosecutor's office says the evidence is conclusive and they can proceed with the prosecution. They will be sentencing soon. Death penalty, to be carried out immediately. Chen Weiguo did not appeal, nor did Zhang Jianjun. They both said they deserved to die. They've waited enough. Their lawyers also advised them to appeal, but they refused. They said they didn't want to wait any longer. They'd waited so many years, enough was enough. An appeal would mean waiting, then a second trial, then a death sentence review, which would take several more years. They couldn't wait any longer."

Jiang Bo took the report and opened it. He read it page by page. The names, the dates, the locations, the crimes. He read slowly and carefully, not missing a single word. When he reached the last page, he closed the report and placed it on the table. His hand lingered on the report for a moment, then he removed it. His fingerprint remained on the cover, damp with sweat.

"Alright. Send them to their families. I'll go. I'll go to each family. Tell them one by one. Chen Fang's family, Li Mei's family, Liu Xiaoqin's family, Sun Xiaomei's family, and those whose families can't be found, I'll go there too. Gao Deming, no one's waiting for him anymore, but I'll go to him too. Tell him the case is closed. The person who killed him is dead. He can rest in peace. Although he was a scoundrel, foul-mouthed, loved to brag, loved to exaggerate, and wasn't well-liked, he was still a human being. He's dead, no one's looking for him, no one's waiting for him. But someone remembers him. The gentleman remembers him, and I remember him."

Liu Tong nodded. Tears streamed down his face. "Officer, I'll go with you. It'll be too tiring for you to go alone. There are so many hospitals; you can't possibly visit them all. Wuhu, Hefei, Tongling, Wuwei. Going to each one would take several days. Your body can't take it."

Jiang Bo shook his head. "No need. I'll go alone. You stay here and organize those notebooks, photos, and letters. File them. Store them away. Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone. You remember them for me. You store them for me. When I'm old and can't remember, tell me. When you're old and can't remember, have your children tell me. Keep it passed down, it can't be broken."

Liu Tong's tears flowed even more fiercely. "Officer, I remember. I'll remember for you. If you can't remember, I'll tell you. I'm old, so I'll have my children tell you. It must be passed down, it can't be broken."

Jiang Bo nodded. He walked out of the office, Tangyuan following behind. He stood in the corridor and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted under the lamplight, like those names, like those apologies, like those who would never return. He thought of the families, those who had waited their whole lives. They had waited. They could let go. Those who had died could rest in peace. Those who stood at the door watching could let go. But he couldn't let go yet. He had to continue. There were still so many cases, so many names, so many apologies. He wouldn't stand at the door watching. He would go in. He would. He definitely would.