Anti-gang campaign: Female bureau chief

Feng Dehuai lay on his back on the floor in the center of the living room, wearing a faded dark blue cotton nightgown, barefoot, with sparse, gray hair, and the wrinkles on his face had become even more pronounced after his death.

There was a clear blunt force trauma mark on the left side of his head, with the skin at the edge of the wound turned outwards and the blood dried, leaving a dark red mark on the floor.

His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and his fingernails were clean—there were no signs of defensive wounds or struggle, indicating that he had been fatally struck from the front or side without any warning.

Forensic pathologist Lao Zheng was squatting next to the body, conducting a preliminary examination.

Seeing Jiang Ruolan come in, he straightened up, took off one glove, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

He pointed to the wound on the left side of the deceased's head and said that the preliminary cause of death was traumatic brain injury. The weapon was a blunt instrument, and judging from the shape of the wound and the degree of fracture, it should be something like a hammer.

There were no signs of self-defense or struggle on the deceased's body, indicating that the perpetrator acted very quickly.

The time of death was approximately between 9 PM and 11 PM three days prior.

As for the paper flower, Old Zheng said he had examined it. The flower was placed on the deceased's chest after death. There was no blood on the paper, and the folding technique was very skillful. The folds of the petals were even and regular, indicating that it was not folded randomly. The person who folded this flower must have folded it many times or learned origami.

The petals have six layers, a number that has a specific meaning in folk funeral customs.

Jiang Ruolan squatted down and carefully examined the white paper flower.

Six-petaled white flower, yellow stamen, newspaper-rolled stem—whoever made it put in enough effort, and effort is the hardest piece of evidence to destroy.

What kind of murderer, after killing someone, would not rush to escape or destroy evidence, but instead sit down and fold a flower from photocopy paper, sticky notes, and newspaper strips, and place it neatly on the victim's chest?

If this were a home invasion robbery, the perpetrator should have taken the items and left, and wouldn't have lingered at the scene for so long.

If it is a revenge killing, the murderer will usually choose a more direct way to vent their hatred—stabbing, hitting repeatedly, or even disfiguring the face—rather than picking a flower after killing the victim.

The act of picking flowers itself signifies a certain emotion—it could be repentance, farewell, or a distorted ritual.

She stood up, walked to the filing cabinet, squatted down, and began to look through the low-income assistance application files scattered on the floor.

These files were neatly bound, each with a number, an applicant's photo, an approval form, and Feng Dehuai's handwritten review comments.

She casually flipped open a document; the applicant's name was Peng Guilan, female, 72 years old, widowed, no children, suffering from diabetic complications, applying for full subsistence allowance.

Feng Dehuai's opinion on the approval form was: "After on-site verification, the applicant has no real estate or savings, and the proportion of medical expenses is too high, which meets the criteria for the identification of people in extreme poverty. It is recommended to approve the application."

She opened another application; the applicant was Liao Guodong, male, 58 years old, a laid-off worker, whose wife was disabled and whose son was in prison. He was applying for subsistence allowance.

Feng Dehuai's approval opinion was: "Upon entering the home, it was found that his wife was bedridden and there was no heating equipment in the house. The situation is true. It is recommended to expedite the approval process."

Turning to another document, it was about an elderly woman named Sun Xiuying, 76 years old, living alone, a landless farmer with no fixed income. Feng Dehuai filled half a page in the approval opinion section, detailing what he saw during the home visit: "The elderly woman lives in a rented room of less than ten square meters. The roof leaks, the walls are moldy, and pots and pans are piled on the floor. She suffers from severe rheumatoid arthritis, her finger joints are deformed, and she has basically lost her ability to work. It is recommended that she receive the full amount of the minimum living allowance according to the highest standard, and that the street office be coordinated to solve her housing problem."

Lu Zheng picked up a file with shoe prints from the ground, flipped through a couple of pages, and frowned:

"Director Jiang, the most disorganized files are from 2012 to 2014, which were the applications Feng Dehuai handled in the last three years before his retirement. Those years were also the strictest period for Yi'an's minimum living allowance policy—the higher authorities required a complete cleanup of ineligible recipients. Feng Dehuai was then the civil affairs assistant at the Chengdong Subdistrict Office, responsible for door-to-door verification of all minimum living allowance recipients in the area. He offended many people because of this. There was a family surnamed Cui, the man named Cui Dashun, who ran a mahjong parlor in Chengdong. They had a three-story self-built house and had always received the minimum living allowance. After Feng Dehuai's door-to-door verification, he discovered that he had business income and directly removed his entire family from the minimum living allowance list. Cui Dashun led people to the subdistrict office to cause trouble several times, and once even threatened Feng Dehuai with a knife. Later, he was administratively detained by the police station, and after his release, he stopped causing trouble. But Cui Dashun died of illness last year. He had a son named Cui Ming—"

"Cui Ming?"

Jiang Ruolan turned to look at Lu Zheng:

"Which Cui Ming are you referring to?"

"Cui Dashun's son's full name is Cui Mingyuan. I've seen this name in the system before."

Lu Zheng placed the file on the table, logged into the police mobile terminal on his phone, and searched for information line by line on the screen:

"Cui Mingyuan, a 34-year-old unemployed man from the east of Yi'an City, has two prior convictions—one for theft and one for intentional assault, both of which were suspended sentences. His last formal job was two years ago, which he quit after less than three months. He used to do live streams online, talking about 'how poor people survive,' earning a living by accepting male viewers' comments and receiving tips. But last month, his mother was hospitalized, and he cried in his live stream to raise money for her medical expenses, saying that his welfare allowance had been taken away by an old man, and his mother had never had medical insurance, so she had to borrow money for all her medical treatment. His fans recorded this and posted it on a local forum. The post has been deleted by the administrator, but it is still cached in the backend."

Jiang Ruolan was silent for a moment, then said something that sent a chill down Lu Zheng's spine:

"He probably doesn't know yet that Feng Dehuai is dead. When he does find out, his first reaction will likely be panic—because his hatred for Feng Dehuai is public knowledge online."

She put the paper flower evidence bag into her briefcase, strode down the stairs, and Lu Zheng followed closely behind.

The two drove through the snow-covered streets in the east of the city and stopped in front of an old residential building.

Cui Mingyuan's apartment was on the fifth floor. The hallway lights were still broken, and the walls were covered with even more small graffiti than Feng Dehuai's building. Several layers of plaster had peeled off, revealing the gray bricks underneath.

Lu Zheng knocked on the door for a while before slow footsteps came from inside.

The door opened, and Cui Mingyuan stood in the doorway, wearing a faded gray sweater, his hair disheveled, and his eyes red and swollen, clearly having just woken up or had just cried.

Behind him was an extremely simple room—a single bed, an old computer, an induction cooker, several boxes of instant noodles and mineral water bottles piled in the corner, the curtains drawn tightly, and the room filled with the smell of instant noodle seasoning mixed with damp air.

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