Chapter 046: He Is the Murderer

Chen Fan was still confused. I pointed to a surveillance camera mounted on a roadside utility pole and told him to go to the police station and retrieve the footage from those three days. In this area, there were hardly any surveillance cameras, except in places where crowds gathered. Fortunately, because this street was busy, a camera had been installed on the pole.

Realizing the significance, Chen Fan didn’t waste time asking further and immediately ran toward the police station. The Chaoyang Restaurant’s employee was growing impatient, and I didn’t keep him; I let him return at once. Luo Feng asked if I suspected someone on this street had taken advantage of the crowds to swap the cash in the employee’s and owner’s wallets.

I nodded. Luo Feng found it hard to believe, “Could the owner and employee of Chaoyang Restaurant really be that careless? Being robbed three times and still not noticing?”

Frowning, I said we’d wait until Chen Fan brought the footage back to see for ourselves. After about an hour, Chen Fan finally returned, drenched in sweat. Luo Feng complained about how long it took, and Chen Fan explained that his earlier outspokenness at the station had made most officers resent him, making it difficult to get the footage.

We wasted no time and went to a video shop to play the surveillance recordings. The camera was old-fashioned, the footage not very clear, and often stuttering. The street was packed with people, making it even harder to distinguish anything.

We zoomed in as much as possible, and when the footage reached the time of the first day’s meal delivery by the employee, we watched closely. Sure enough, we saw someone pushing a bicycle across the street, face blurred, but by his clothes and bike, we could confirm he was the Chaoyang Restaurant’s delivery worker.

Nothing unusual happened during the delivery. About half an hour later, the employee pushed his bike back. This time, we slowed the footage, but with so many people, all we could see was the delivery worker’s head. Even after careful observation, we found nothing odd.

We played the footage from the other two days on separate machines. Comparing them, we finally noticed something.

For three days, the first two had the employee delivering food, and the third day, the owner did it. Both passed through the crowded street, and, due to the throng, pushed their bikes. Each day, on their return, we spotted a man with a cropped haircut walking very close to them.

The footage was too blurry to tell if it was the same person sticking close to them. On the surface, nothing seemed strange; the camera only caught their heads, and their bodies were concealed by the crowd.

That man followed the employee and owner, only separating from them when they left the crowded area. Soon, they all vanished from the camera’s range. But on the last day, as the man sticking close to them was about to exit the camera’s view, I caught a gesture: he wiped his brow with his hand.

Luo Feng asked what was odd about that gesture. I thought for a moment and told him, human actions often reveal inner states—a classic point in criminal psychology. I pointed to Chen Fan, who was pinching his chin in thought, saying his gesture showed he was thinking.

Wiping one's forehead could be a sign of relaxation. What struck me was that this gesture appeared only on the last day, suggesting he felt he’d accomplished everything and, with his nerves relaxing, unconsciously made that motion.

“That’s not definitive,” Chen Fan, being a policeman, had studied criminal psychology. “Maybe he just felt hot and wiped away sweat? Look, after wiping his forehead, he flicked his hand—that’s clearly shaking off sweat.”

Chen Fan replayed the footage.

I smiled slightly, “Actions and psychology are never absolutely linked; everything is subjective conjecture. But when subjective signs accumulate and connect, they become the key to solving a case. As a cop, don’t you understand this?”

As forensic science advanced, objective evidence grew more important, but its limits meant that subjective evidence and reasoning still held sway. Chen Fan was still unsure, so I asked, “In this cold weather, unless you’ve exercised vigorously, is it likely you’d sweat enough to need to wipe your forehead and shake your hand?”

At last, Chen Fan understood, “You mean this man is the suspect, and his sweating was because, after getting the food, he ran to catch up with the employee and owner, then swapped the cash in their wallets?”

“Just speculation,” I replied. “I can’t guarantee accuracy. But all three meal deliveries happened at noon.”

That residential area was mostly populated by laborers, who either returned home late at night or at noon to rest from exhaustion. If the suspect, after collecting the meal, immediately left the building, it’s unlikely anyone would notice. Even if spotted, he could act casual, and people wouldn’t pay attention; later, if the police asked around, they’d still get nothing.

Leaving the residential area, taking a shortcut, and catching up with the employee and owner was entirely possible.

Luo Feng’s brow furrowed tightly. He asked how confident I was; I shook my head, emphasizing again it was only my theory. Luo Feng still couldn’t believe it—though the street was crowded, it was narrow, and the man with the cropped hair walked close to the employee and owner for only about five seconds.

In five seconds, he’d have to unzip the wallet, pull out cash, slip in the pre-prepared spirit money, and zip the wallet again. All while walking, and making sure no one else noticed. Luo Feng couldn’t imagine anyone pulling it off; even seasoned pickpockets would struggle.

That was what puzzled me as well. I remembered Fat Ji, whose pocket had mysteriously gained a piece of spirit money. When Fat Ji was alive, I’d tried slipping one into his pocket carefully, but he detected it immediately.

We thought for a long time but couldn’t figure it out.

Time passed swiftly. When we left the video shop, night was falling. Chen Fan sighed, lit a cigarette, and complained that if he couldn’t solve the case within the allotted time, he’d have no face left as a policeman.

Everyone was tired. Back at the hotel, we each turned in. As I lay in bed, the little ghost curled up beside me. Half-asleep, the hotel phone rang; it was the front desk clerk, informing me that a parcel had arrived for me and asking me to come collect it.

I got out of bed and fetched the parcel.

It was a letter, no sender listed, only my room number written on it. I asked the clerk, who said someone had tossed it at the front desk, telling her to give it to the guest in that room, then left immediately. The clerk described the person as bundled up tightly, wearing a mask.

I opened the letter. Inside was a sheet of paper and an old photograph.

The moment I saw the photo, my heart clenched.

Two people appeared in the black-and-white picture—my now deceased father, and me. I remembered this photo well: it was taken when I was a child, with my father, in front of a park. I was five or six then; my father was still young.

Both faces in the photo wore smiles, but the smiles seemed harshly glaring.

I unfolded the letter; on the vast sheet, only one line was written: “If you wish for revenge, immediately leave the port district and come to the capital city to find me. I can help you. If you stay in the port, your life is at risk.”

Aside from that line, there was no signature or name. I quickly searched my mind for who might have sent the letter, but after a long time, I couldn’t guess.

Just then, Luo Feng knocked. I handed him the letter; he was startled after reading it.

He immediately asked who sent it; I shook my head, saying I didn’t know.

Luo Feng cursed in frustration, “Is this person missing a screw? Doesn’t say who they are, how are you supposed to find them?”

His voice woke the little ghost. Glancing at the clock, it was already past eleven at night.

Luo Feng asked if I wanted to leave the port district immediately; after all, this wasn’t the first warning that staying would be dangerous. I thought for a moment, shook my head, and said another day and a half wouldn’t make much difference. Besides, the source of the letter was still unclear.

“This case must be solved,” I told Luo Feng. “I’m increasingly convinced this case is connected to the person I’m seeking.”

After a short wait, Luo Feng’s men finally gathered two lists. When I received them, I took a deep breath, placing all my hope in these names.

Two lists—one from the rural village, the other from the secular disciples of Sansong Temple. Holding them, I started searching name by name. Luo Feng’s organization was reassuring; the lists included not only names but also basic information, including their professions.

Though I already knew the general situation, seeing the list of Sansong Temple’s secular disciples—especially their professions—still surprised me.

Each one was indeed very successful, prominent figures in various fields.

At last, I found a name that appeared on both lists.

“So the murderer was him. Now, everything can be explained.”