Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

As dawn broke, Jiang Bo returned from Mirror Lake Park and went straight to the technical department. The corridor lights were still on, the fluorescent lights humming softly, the sound echoing in the empty corridor like countless flies buzzing in one's ear. Tangyuan followed behind him, its paws tapping lightly on the floor tiles, making no sound. It knew something had happened again. Its ears drooped, and its tail stopped wagging.

The door to the technical department was open, and Liu Tong was already there. He sat in front of the computer, Zhao Xiaoyun's phone lying in front of him; the screen was cracked, like a spider web, but the motherboard wasn't broken. Technician Xiao Zhou was working on data recovery, his fingers flying across the keyboard, lines of code jumping across the screen, green characters flashing against a black background like some kind of mysterious code. Several cups of cold coffee sat on the table, along with a half-eaten packet of biscuits. Xiao Zhou's eyes were red, his lips chapped, and his hair was disheveled.

Jiang Bo stood beside it, staring at the pink phone as if it were a tiny corpse. The little flower sticker on the phone case had peeled off, the edges worn, revealing the plastic underneath. Water stains, lake water, were seeping into the cracks in the screen, leaving white rings after drying. He reached out, wanting to touch the phone, then pulled back. He was afraid to touch those images, afraid to see Zhao Xiaoyun's eyes before she died. He had already seen too much; he didn't want to see anymore. But he knew he had to see. Without seeing, he wouldn't find the killer.

"Officer, the data has been recovered." Xiao Zhou took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and there were still fingerprints on the lenses. "The last person she contacted was a WeChat account called 'Jiang Shui.' Just like the previous cases, the chat history was deleted, but the underlying data was still there. I recovered part of it. The other party was also very careful, using a virtual number and a proxy IP, but we still managed to find the IP address."

Jiang Bo leaned closer to look at the screen. The chat history was short, only a few lines long, a white dialog box with black text, like an inscription on a tombstone:

"Shall we go for a run at Mirror Lake tonight?" — Jiang Shui.

"Go. What time?" — Zhao Xiaoyun.

"Nine o'clock. Mirror Lake Park, meet at the pavilion in the middle of the lake." — Jiang Shui.

"Okay. See you there." — Zhao Xiaoyun.

Then came the last message from Jiang Shui: "Have you arrived yet?"

There was no reply. Zhao Xiaoyun didn't send any more messages. She arrived; she died. Her phone was thrown into the lake, got stuck in a crack in the rocks, and soaked overnight. Water seeped in through the crack, wetting the motherboard, but miraculously it didn't burn out. Xiao Zhou said it was luck. Jiang Bo said it wasn't luck, it was fate. Those who died didn't want the murderer to go unpunished. They were helping him.

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "What about the IP address? Can you find the exact location? Down to the building and the room?"

Xiao Zhou pulled up a map, zoomed in, and pointed to a red dot on the screen. The red dot looked like a drop of blood, landing on the location of the old pontoon bridge. "Old pontoon bridge. That little house. The one where the gentleman stayed. Login time: 8:55 PM. Zhao Xiaoyun arrived at Jinghu Park at 9:10 PM. Twenty minutes from the old pontoon bridge to Jinghu Park—just enough time by car, by bike, or by running. After the murderer sent that message, he left. He went to Jinghu Park, killed her, and then came back. He probably left in a hurry; he didn't even turn off his computer. When we logged in, his account was still online."

Jiang Bo stared at the red dot on the map: the old pontoon bridge, that small house. 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, scattered. But someone had gone in. That person used the gentleman's computer, used the name "Jiang Shui," arranged to meet Zhao Xiaoyun, and killed her. He was still there. He was still waiting. How long had he been waiting? From when did he begin waiting? From the day those cases were closed? Or from even earlier?

"Did the surveillance cameras capture it? Are there any cameras near that hut? Even just one, as long as it captures his face."

Liu Tong shook his head. His fingers tapped a few times on the keyboard, and several surveillance images popped up on the screen, all of them black. "The old pontoon bridge demolition area has no surveillance cameras. That area has been almost completely demolished, leaving only those few small houses. There's no electricity, no internet, and no surveillance. After the construction company left, nobody cared. That person knew there were no cameras there, so he chose that place. He was familiar with that ruin, knew where he could hide, where he could escape, and where he could hide from everyone's eyes. He probably lives there, he's always lived there. He didn't just go there occasionally, he's always been there. That small house is his home."

Jiang Bo turned and walked out of the technical department. Tang Yuan followed behind. He stood in the corridor and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted under the light, like those names, like those apologies, like those people who would never return. He thought of those names, those apologies, those people standing at the door watching. They were gone, but that person remained. He used their names, their computers, their small apartment. He hid in their shadows and killed. Who was he? How did he know those details? How could he imitate them so perfectly? Was he also standing at the door watching? Was he also powerless to do anything? Did he also say sorry? Did he also wait a long time?

The phone rang. It was Lao He calling. His voice was a little hoarse, as if he had just been woken up, or as if he hadn't slept at all.

"Xiao Jiang, I heard another one died? The woman jogging at Jinghu Park. I saw the news this morning; it said it's similar to the previous case. Any progress on your end?"

"Yes. Just like the previous case. Same method, same approach. The killer is imitating. Or rather, he's continuing. He used a WeChat account called 'Jiang Shui,' with the IP address located at the old floating bridge, in Mr. Dong's small house. Mr. Dong wasn't there, Dong Zhenhua wasn't there, but someone went in. That person used Mr. Dong's computer. He's still there."

Old He was silent for a moment. There was the sound of a lighter on the other end of the phone. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled. "Did you go to the detention center? Go see the sir. He might know something. He remembered so many names and wrote so many 'I'm sorry.' He must have seen that person. That person must have come to see him. He must know who he is. The sir won't lie to you, but he might hesitate. You need to ask him clearly."

Jiang Bo stubbed out his cigarette. "I'll go."

He went downstairs and got into the car. Tangyuan jumped into the passenger seat. He started the engine and drove out of the city bureau. The car drove onto Changjiang Road, heading towards the detention center. The sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low like a worn-out gray cloth covering the entire city. There weren't many cars on the road, only a few buses driving slowly. He gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but his mind was filled with those images—Zhao Xiaoyun's face, the smile on her lips, the marks on her neck, her shattered phone. And his husband's face, his white hair, his wrinkles, his eyes.

The detention center gate was still the same color, iron gray, the paint peeling off to reveal dark red rust underneath. The guard recognized him, glanced at his ID, let him through, and even nodded. 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 through the clouds, gleaming coldly on the walls like countless tiny knives. He remembered his husband's words: "Those names, those 'I'm sorry,' someone has to remember them. If no one remembers, they're truly gone." He remembered. He remembered everyone. But that person was also remembering. He remembered the women's routes, their habits, their weaknesses. He remembered how to kill, how to arrange the bodies, how to avoid surveillance. How long had he remembered? How long had he waited? How many had he killed?

The meeting room was on the first floor, in a long corridor where the fluorescent lights hummed. The sound echoed in the empty space, like countless flies buzzing around your ears, refusing to dissipate. Jiang Bo's footsteps echoed on the tiled floor, one beat after another, like a heartbeat, like a countdown. Tangyuan followed behind, its paws tapping lightly on the ground, making no sound. It also knew that the questions asked this time were important. The police officer on duty saw him, nodded, and pointed to the second room. He pushed open the door and went in.

The gentleman was already seated inside. He wore the 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 hanging on a hanger, ready to flutter in the wind. But he sat very straight; though his back was hunched, his spine was still strong. On the table in front of him lay the notebook, its blue cover worn and tattered, the edges curled, revealing the gray cardboard inside. He had filled most of it, the handwriting neat and precise, each stroke like an engraving, as if printed. 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. In that smile, there was waiting, anticipation, and peace of mind.

"You're here? You look terrible. Has something happened again? Has someone else died?"

Jiang Bo sat down opposite him. The chair was hard and uncomfortable. "Another one died. Zhao Xiaoyun, thirty-six years old, a teacher. A woman who jogged at night. Died in Mirror Lake Park, at the pavilion in the middle of the lake. Same as the previous cases. Same method, same posture. The killer used the name 'Jiang Shui,' used your computer, and used the small house you lived in. Sir, who is that person? You know who he is. He must have come to see you. He must have asked you something. He must have told you something. Why didn't you tell me? What are you waiting for?"

The man paused. His hand hovered in the air, pen tip pointing at the notebook, not falling. His fingers trembled slightly, the tremor traveling from fingertip to the pen shaft, leaving a small black dot on the paper. He looked up at Jiang Bo, staring for a long time. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. That kind of light—the kind that comes from seeing too much, remembering too many names, and saying too many apologies.

"He came to see me. He asked me, 'How long are you going to keep this up?' I said, 'Until I die.' He laughed. He said, 'You've kept this up for so many years, written it for so many years. Has the person you've been waiting for come?' I said no. He said, 'The person 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. Let me close my eyes in peace.'"

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 use your name? Why did he use your computer? Why did he use your little house? What's your relationship with him? Does he know my dad too?"

The man lowered his head. His tears dripped onto the notebook, soaking a name. "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. 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 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 do nothing. We all owed those who died a life."

Jiang Bo stood up. "Chen Weiguo? Wasn't he already arrested? Didn't he confess? Isn't he in detention? How could he be out here killing someone? How could he use your computer? How could he use your small apartment? How could he use the name 'Jiang Shui'? Wasn't he already sentenced?"

The man looked at him. His eyes were cloudy, but there was still light. "Chen Weiguo was arrested. Zhang Jianjun was arrested too. But there was one more person. That person, also named Chen Weiguo. He was Chen Weiguo's twin brother. He was also a policeman. He also investigated those cases. He also knew everything. His wife was also dead, also by the river. Like his brother, he stood at the door watching, unable to do anything. He had hated for so many years, waited for so many years. He couldn't wait any longer. He used his brother's name, his brother's computer, his brother's small house. He killed those people. He stood at the door watching. He couldn't go in."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Where is he? Is he still on the old pontoon bridge? Is he still in that little house? Has he been there all along? Has he been waiting? Waiting for me?"

The man nodded. It was a slow, gentle nod. "Yes. He's always been there. 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. He won't run away, he won't hide. He's right there. He knew you would come."

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's twin brother. He was also one of those standing at the door watching. He couldn't do anything either. He too had said sorry. But he had killed people. He deserved to die. He had killed so many people; he deserved to die.

The old pontoon bridge, bathed in the afternoon sun, resembled a forgotten ruin. Bulldozers still stood there, rusted and gleaming like a massive skeleton in the sunlight. Wild grass swayed in the wind, yellow and dry, rustling softly. The door of the small house was open, the light still on. A warm, dim light shone through the window, like an eye that refused to close. 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, not Sun Jianguo, not Zhang Jianjun, not Chen Weiguo. It was someone else. He wore a dark overcoat, his hair was completely white, and his back was hunched, like a withered old tree. He heard footsteps and slowly turned around. His movements were slow, like a slow-motion scene in a movie, like withered leaves in the wind. A very old face, wrinkles etched like knife cuts, deep and distinct. His eyes were deep-set, his cheekbones prominent, and his cheeks sunken. But 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. I've been waiting since the day you started investigating those cases. I knew you would come to me. You're just like your father. Stubborn."

Jiang Bo walked in. "You are Chen Weiguo's twin brother."

The old man nodded. The nod was slow and soft. "Yes. It is I. You look exactly like your father. You've come. You asked me. I answered. You can go now. Arrest me. Sentence me. Kill me. I deserve to die."

Jiang Bo stood before him. "Why did you kill those people? Why did you use your brother's name? Why did you use his computer? Why did you use his cabin? Why did you stand at the door and watch? Why didn't you do it yourself?"

Tears streamed down the old man's face. "Because I hate. I hate this city, I hate this river, I hate all the people who are alive. My wife is dead, but they are still alive. They resemble her, but they are not her. I hate them. I killed them. I've hated for so many years, killed so many people. Now I don't hate anymore. I've waited for you for so many years, and now I don't hate anymore."

Jiang Bo handcuffed him. The handcuffs clicked shut. The old man stood up and followed him out of the hut. Moonlight shone on him, casting a long, thin shadow on the ground, like a withered old tree.

They walked to the car, and the old man stopped, glancing back at the small house. The lamp was still on, its light dim and warm.

"I'm leaving. Let that light stay lit. People will come back. Mr. will come back, Dong Zhenhua will come back. They will write those names again, and say those 'I'm sorry's again. That light must not go out."

Jiang Bo helped him into the car. Tangyuan, perched on the back seat, looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the little 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.