Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

The night at Mirror Lake is quieter than the old floating bridge.

There was no sound of river water lapping against the shore, no ship horns, no bulldozers roaring. Only the soft patter of raindrops hitting the lake's surface, fine and even, like countless silkworms nibbling on mulberry leaves, or like countless hands gently tapping a giant drum. The lakeside streetlights were reflected in the water, fragmented into patches of dim yellow light, swaying gently with the spreading rain ripples, like breathing underwater, like dreaming underwater. Those spots of light drifted on the dark water, sometimes gathering, sometimes scattering, like a swarm of fireflies lost and directionless.

Jiang Bo stood in the pavilion in the middle of the lake, looking at the body on the stone bench. Zhao Xiaoyun, thirty-six years old, a teacher. She was wearing a pink tracksuit and white running shoes, with the logo of the night running club embroidered on her clothes—a small running figure—overlapping with the pressure marks on her neck. Her hands were clasped together on her chest, her fingers slightly curled, as if holding something unseen. Her legs were together, toes pointing upwards, neatly positioned. Her eyes were closed, her hair loose and draped over her shoulders, as if she were asleep. But there were two deep pressure marks on her neck, purplish-black, like a tightly bound tie, or a twisted snake. Rain dripped from the eaves of the pavilion, dripping onto the ground, like some kind of timer, like a heartbeat, like a countdown.

Su Min squatted beside the body, conducting a preliminary examination. Her movements were light and steady; her gloved hands moved slowly across the victim's neck, as if caressing a fragile antique. She lifted the victim's eyelids, shone a flashlight into the pupils, and examined the underfingernails. Her brows furrowed slightly, and her lips were pursed, forming a downward curve. She stood up, removed her gloved hands, and looked at Jiang Bo.

"The time of death was between 9 and 10 p.m., perfectly matching the previous cases. The angle and depth of the pressure marks on the neck were also the same. The killer likely used the same method, the same force, and possibly even the same hand. No skin flakes were found under the fingernails, indicating the killer was wearing gloves this time. He was more cautious, calmer, and more experienced than before. This wasn't his first offense; he had practiced, he had everything prepared. He knew what we were looking for, he knew we would check under the fingernails. He wore gloves, and he left nothing behind."

Jiang Bo squatted down, looking at Zhao Xiaoyun's face. Her eyes were closed, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned, as if she were having a sweet dream, as if she were smiling. Was the murderer arranging her like this to let her rest in peace, or to show off? Was it guilt, or mockery? He reached out and gently brushed the hair from her face. Her hair was wet, damp with rain, clinging to her forehead. Her forehead was cold, like ice, like a winter stone. His fingers touched her skin, and in that instant, without using any special abilities, he still felt something. A coldness spread from his fingertips throughout his body, chilling him to the bone. That coldness wasn't the cold of winter; it was the coldness of death. It was the coldness left behind by those who had died. It condensed in the air, condensed on the stone bench, condensed on her skin. It waited for someone to touch it, for someone to feel it, for someone to remember it.

"Where's her phone? Have you found it?"

Liu Tong walked over, carrying an evidence bag containing a cell phone. The phone case was pink with small flowers, and the screen had several cracks, like a spider web. The corners were worn, as if it had fallen from a height, and one corner was missing. "It was retrieved from the lake. It was about ten meters from the pavilion, in water less than a meter deep, stuck in a crevice between rocks. The technical department said the data might still be recoverable, and they'll try. Hopefully, the motherboard didn't get wet, otherwise it'll be difficult. Her phone was thrown into the lake; the killer didn't want anyone to see her chat history, didn't want anyone to know who she last contacted. He thought that once it was thrown into the water, it was gone. He didn't know that current technology can recover data. As long as the motherboard isn't damaged, it can be read."

Jiang Bo took the evidence bag and looked at the phone. The screen was cracked in several places, but the wallpaper was still visible—a photo of her and a man, presumably her husband. They were standing by the river, laughing happily in the bright sunshine. He wore a white T-shirt, she wore a floral dress, and the wind blew her hair. He thought of those women who jogged at night; they all had phones, liked to post photos on social media, and enjoyed chatting in group chats. They didn't know that someone was watching them. Someone was waiting for them. Someone would follow them and then kill them. They knew nothing. They simply enjoyed running, enjoyed sweating, enjoyed the feeling of the wind in their hair. They didn't know that someone was lurking in the shadows, watching their every move, memorizing their routes, understanding their habits, and waiting for them to be alone.

"Is she also in a night running group?" Jiang Bo asked.

Zhang Yuhang stood outside the pavilion, holding an umbrella and a notebook. His clothes were half-soaked, his trousers rolled up to his knees, his shoes covered in mud, the laces untied, making a squelching sound as he stepped through the mud. He opened the notebook and pointed to a line of text; the handwriting was messy, but he recognized it clearly. "Yes. She's also a member of the night running group. She's been a member for two years, a veteran. Zhao Xiaoyun, thirty-six years old, a Chinese teacher at Jiangcheng No. 1 Middle School. She often posts photos of her night runs on her WeChat Moments—Jinghu Park, Binjiang Park, the old floating bridge area. She runs three or four times a week, very regularly. Last night she was in the group chat saying she was going to run at Jinghu Park tonight, asking if anyone wanted to go. No one replied. She went anyway. She probably made plans with someone else, privately, without mentioning it in the group chat. Maybe it was a private message, maybe a phone call, maybe a face-to-face meeting."

Jiang Bo stood up, looking at the lake. The rain had lessened, turning into a sticky drizzle that felt cool on his face. The lake was pitch black in the night, like a giant mirror reflecting the sky, the clouds, and everything unseen. He thought of those names, those apologies, all in his heart. Now there was another name. Zhao Xiaoyun. The killer was still there. He was still killing. He thought the case was closed, that the women who jogged at night could finally rest in peace. But they weren't. Another one died. Another person died. Another person was strangled and thrown onto the cold stone bench, her hands clasped over her chest. Her phone was thrown into the lake, her chat history was deleted, her traces were erased. But they couldn't be completely erased. There would always be something left. There would always be traces.

"Zhang Jianjun and Chen Weiguo confessed to the previous cases. But this one, they didn't do it. Zhang Jianjun is in detention, and Chen Weiguo is also in detention. They couldn't have come out to kill someone. This is someone else. Someone who knows all the details. Someone who knows how to kill, how to arrange the body, how to avoid surveillance. Who is he? How did he know? Did he see the case files, or did he hear something? Or was he right next to us, watching all along? How long did he watch? How long did he wait? How many people did he kill?"

Su Min packed up her investigation kit and stood up. Her knees were a little sore from squatting for so long; she rubbed them and brushed the dust off her trousers. "I'll take the body back first, and we'll do an autopsy tomorrow. I'll let you know immediately if I find anything. Officer Bo, you don't look well; go home and rest. You haven't slept for days; your body can't take it. You still have cases to investigate; you can't collapse. If you collapse, no one will investigate those cases. No one will remember those names."

Jiang Bo didn't answer. He stood by the pavilion, looking at the lake. The rain had stopped, a crack appeared in the clouds, and moonlight streamed through, illuminating the lake and shattering it into countless pieces of silver. The light danced in the water like countless eyes, watching him, staring at him. 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 her sister wouldn't return, only said, "Put away the dishes." Liu Xiaoqin's brother had searched for many years, spent a fortune, 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 apology. They could finally let go. But Zhao Xiaoyun's family hadn't received it yet. They had just learned of her death. They didn't know who the murderer was. They hadn't received the apology. They were crying, shouting, asking why. He couldn't make them wait too long. He couldn't make them wait a lifetime.

Liu Tong walked over and stood beside him. His shoes were wet, making a squelching sound as he stepped on the stone pavement. His trouser legs were covered in mud, and the rolled-up sections were also wet. "Officer, Zhao Xiaoyun's family is here. Her husband and her sister. They're at the park entrance, very agitated. Her husband keeps shouting that he wants to see the murderer. Her sister keeps crying, sobbing that she can't speak. The park security guards are stopping them from coming in. They insist on coming in, saying they want to see her. The guards say the area is cordoned off and they can't go in. They won't listen."

Jiang Bo turned and walked towards the park entrance. Tangyuan followed behind, its paws splashing in the water, leaving a trail of tiny footprints. Two cars were parked at the park entrance: a police car with its blue lights still flashing, the alternating red and blue lights casting dappled shadows on the wet ground; and a white private car with its door open and the interior light on. A man in his forties stood beside the car, wearing pajamas and a wrinkled black jacket, the zipper only half-zipped. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were red, there were tear stains on his face, and his lips were chapped and peeling. He saw Jiang Bo, rushed over, stumbled, and almost fell, only managing to steady himself by grabbing the car door.

"Are you a policeman? Where's my wife? How is she? Is she dead? Tell me! Tell me! I waited at home until midnight, but she didn't come back. I called her, but her phone was off. I went out to look for her, searched for two hours, and finally found her here. They said she's dead. Is she dead? Tell me!"

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Are you Zhao Xiaoyun's husband?"

The man nodded, his head bobbing rapidly, like a chicken pecking at rice. "Yes. It's me. How is she? Is she…?" He couldn't continue; tears streamed down his face, dripping onto his jacket and onto the ground. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably. He cried loudly, like a child, his face a smear of snot and tears. He cried for his wife, for his home, for those days that would never return. A woman beside him supported him, also crying, her body trembling, her lips quivering, unable to utter a coherent sentence. She was his sister.

Jiang Bo stood there, looking at them. He thought of the families, those who had waited their whole lives. They had received the truth, they had received an apology. But Zhao Xiaoyun's family hadn't received that. They had just learned she was dead. They didn't know who the murderer was. They hadn't received an apology. He couldn't make them wait too long. He couldn't make them wait a lifetime. He knelt down and patted the man on the shoulder.

"We will find the killer. Whoever he is, wherever he is hiding. We will find him. Go back and wait for news. I will let you know when there is progress."

The man looked up at him. His eyes were red, and so was the tip of his nose. "How long will you take? I can't wait much longer. I've been waiting all night. I can't wait any longer."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "It won't be long. I promise."

He turned and walked back to the pavilion in the middle of the lake. Liu Tong followed behind, and Tang Yuan followed as well.

"Liu Tong, check Zhao Xiaoyun's phone. Recover the data and find the last person she contacted. Check her call logs, WeChat chats, text messages, all her communication methods. Check her Moments and see who she's been interacting with the most recently. Check her running routes and see if she's been to any unfamiliar places recently. Check her colleagues, her students, her friends. Check everyone. Don't miss a single one. I need results before dawn."

Liu Tong nodded. "Officer, do you think the murderer knows her? Not just knows her, but is very familiar with her? That's why she came to see him alone at night? That's why she didn't tell anyone? That's why she didn't even reply to messages in the group chat and just went straight there?"

Jiang Bo stood in the pavilion, gazing at the lake. Moonlight shone on its surface, shattering into countless pieces of silver. Those names, those apologies, were all in his heart. Those who stood watching at the door were also in his heart. They were gone, but the murderer remained. He was still killing. He had to find him.

"The killer must have known her. He knew her running route, her daily routine, and when she was alone. He invited her to Mirror Lake Park, and she came. She knew him, so she wasn't on guard. She thought he was a friend, an acquaintance, a good person. She didn't know he would kill her. She smiled and talked to him, walked with him. She didn't know he would grab her from behind and strangle her. She didn't know he would throw her onto a stone bench and fold her hands. She knew nothing. She died without knowing why."

As dawn broke, the rain stopped. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating the lake and shattering it into countless golden fragments. Those names, those apologies, remained in his heart. Those who stood watching at the door, too, remained in his heart. They were gone, but the killer remained. He was still killing. He had to find him.