TTB C19

Chapter 19 

16 “Maybe we missed something.”

In the interrogation room, Cheng Xiaoyi turned and quietly conferred with Li Shang, asking if there were issues with the testimony.

Li lowered his eyes and showed her the notebook, tapping a point.

Catching on, Cheng asked, “When Wan Hong spoke with you then, did she tell you specifically how to handle it?”

In Tang Ailian’s account, some details here seemed skipped.

Seeing she couldn’t dodge, Tang lowered her head, hesitating for a while; fine sweat broke across her brow. With a sigh, she covered her face with both hands, her voice trembling: “Red Sister told me to kill him.”

“The method? Did she tell you exactly what to do?” Cheng’s voice, soft till now, turned firm as she locked eyes on Tang’s reaction.

Tang’s body quivered. “She… she told me to be nicer to Guo Mucun—let him hit, let him curse—wait till he dropped his guard, then drug him. And she gave me the drugs.” Sweat slid down Tang’s temples. “But I know him—I know Guo. That wouldn’t work. He’d beat me, and if not to death, he’d tie me up, lock me in. I’d have no way to drug him…”

“Later, when I went back, I found Guo already dead. What Red Sister prepared never got used.”

Cheng continued, “Where are those things?”

Tang lowered her head, voice timid. “Just a little, in a small bottle—they said it could kill rats, no special smell. After everything, I poured it down the toilet and threw the bottle away.”

Hearing this, He Lin spoke in their earpieces: “Press her on details—be thorough—don’t leave any suspicious point unasked.”

Cheng resumed, asking Tang to give a more precise timeline so surveillance could be pulled, and to identify any witnesses or physical evidence verifying her account.

Cheng scrutinized every detail; Tang strained to recall and answer.

After a few more minutes, something seemed to click in Tang’s mind; her breath quickened, eyes flying wide. “I know—it was Red Sister—it was Red Sister who killed him! She said Guo mustn’t impact things here—if he got media involved, she couldn’t place aides anymore!”

With that, her thoughts seemed to slide into place; her tone grew heated. “Exactly—her! She told me not to be afraid, to relax and just do it. Said she’d find someone to handle the aftermath. If not for her doing something, you police wouldn’t have taken this long to find me.”

Though blurted in agitation, He Lin had to admit Tang’s reasoning had some logic.

In Guo’s death, Wan Hong had done a lot; her suspicion was strong.

But with current evidence, the position looked worse for Tang.

Meanwhile, in the other room, Wan Hong faced questioning by Wu Yunsheng and Fang Jue.

She sat leisurely in the interrogation chair, arms folded, a faint smile on her face, speaking smoothly: “I gave those boys some information—how was I to know they’d go steal? I placed those women into caregiving—so what? I pitied them. That man’s death has nothing to do with me.”

In a few lines, she scrubbed herself clean, even sounding aggrieved—like the victim.

Fang couldn’t stand it; his face darkened. “By ‘doing good’ you mean putting those women in hospital aide jobs and then taking their wages? You used them as your cash cows.”

At their most helpless and fragile, she pulled them into the hospital for heavy ICU work, cut their ties to the outside, and kept them in her control—no different from selling people to a black mine.

Wan Hong retorted righteously: “How could that be? Their meals, supplies, daily needs don’t cost money? And doesn’t the hospital need greasing? If they hadn’t begged me in tears, why would I bother? Without me, they’d have been beaten to death by their men.”

Wu said, “You also run loan‑sharking. Is that ‘good deeds’ too? That’s illegal.”

“I lend neighbors a little money, they thank me with a little extra interest—what of it? Ask those who borrowed.”

Fang’s fists clenched—angry and disgusted.

She looked slick and smooth‑talking; she’d taken plenty in Pianyifang, yet painted herself as long‑suffering.

She stirred storms there—unemployed were seduced by her, women exploited.

Now she muddied the waters here—trying to confuse police and dodge the law.

“You’re exploiting legal loopholes,” Fang said, frowning.

Wan Hong snapped back, “I am exploiting them—but only because they exist. If there weren’t jobless people, why would they scramble to survive any way they can? If there weren’t so many wife‑beaters and abused women, where would I find cheap labor? These are social problems. Don’t pin it all on me.”

The officers across from her were left speechless. But such entrenched problems weren’t ones they could fix overnight.

He Lin reminded Wu via earpiece: “Don’t let her derail you. Bring it back. Tang says Wan gave her poison. But she denies being the killer—and says Wan likely did it. Push that.”

Wu cleared his throat and asked, “Did you have anything to do with Guo Mucun’s death?”

The smile faded; she remained stubborn. “Of course not. I had no grudge. Why kill him? Don’t listen to Tang—she’s shifting blame—trying to find a scapegoat.”

“You gave Tang a bottle of poison,” Wu said.

Wan flinched visibly, panic flickering in her eyes—then she recovered, feigning calm. “Officer, is that an accusation? Mind your evidence. What proof have you that I gave her drugs? You can’t find the killer—so you want me to take the fall?”

Wu pressed in, gaze fixed. “On the 28th last month, you saw Tang at the hospital. On the 29th, she took leave to return to the residence she shared with Guo. Also—on the morning of the 29th, you met Fan Xiaozhuang. That afternoon, he delivered drugged milk to Guo’s home; that night, they burglarized. All of this ties to you—how do you explain it?”

At least two layers of arrangements—perhaps more behind.

However far the police pulled, she could shed suspicion layer by layer. If this was her work, she was meticulous and skilled.

Wan was still for a moment; then: “Fine. If they’re heartless, I won’t cover for them. The killer was Tang. She told me her husband was trouble—she’d handle it herself. As for Fan, I mentioned the situation around here in passing—I don’t know about any drugs. That’s Tang slandering me. I won’t admit it.”

She likely believed Tang’s bottle was gone, and Fan had no proof—leaving the police with nothing concrete. Hence her boldness.

“What were you doing the night of the 29th?” Wu asked.

“Dining with several bosses, then KTV until nearly midnight—many can testify. I have an alibi. Don’t waste time—I’m clean.”

“I never told you Guo’s exact time of death—how do you know it?” Wu pierced the dodge. “And that KTV is close to Guo’s—twenty minutes each way. You had time to go. If you could get poison to Tang, you can obtain it.”

Her face changed again. She lowered her head, refusing a straight answer. “I guessed the time. Only then could Tang have killed him. I’ve said what I know. I have nothing more.”

By after nine, He Lin rubbed his temples. “Enough for tonight.”

Both teams exited and compared statements. Fang clicked his tongue, exasperated. “Two stories—Rashomon. Don’t tell me the place is haunted too?”

Li, head bowed over the files, spoke softly. “Maybe we missed something.”

He Lin said, “Good work. Finding two missing persons is major progress. We’ll re‑check evidence and continue tomorrow.”

—

Night wrapped the city tight.

Back home, He Lin was tired. He pushed through a bit of takeaway and washed the tension with hot water, then collapsed into bed.

His body stilled, but his mind spun on the case without rest.

Sleep was a thin sheet over his eyes—shadows shifting behind, none resolved.

Suddenly something fell from above—a woman who had jumped, in dark clothing. Like a purple carnation tossed to the ground after being crushed.

Her hair long; her body looked minced—wounds everywhere—hardly a patch of unmarked flesh.

He Lin noted—not all injuries were from the fall. Twisted limbs, red and purple scars layered on—silently telling what she had endured.

He thought—collect evidence, identify her quickly.

He stared at the dead woman—familiar—yet he couldn’t place her face or where he’d seen it.

She looked like Tang—only slighter; like Liu—only older.

He reached for the truth—looked down—and the paper in his hand was full of dense writing he couldn’t read. Anxiety surged—he turned instinctively for Li Shang—but Li wasn’t there.

At his side stood a man, silent—unreadable. He Lin couldn’t see the man’s face.

Then the man turned and walked away; the distance grew. A sour ache rose in He Lin’s chest, sprouting from within.

He tried to fill the taste with recalled sweetness—candies, lollipops—but the sour overpowered it all.

He woke then; it was just past seven in the morning.

Sleep gone, he washed and drove to the bureau.

In the dawn light, the building’s facade looked solemn.

Before he reached the unit door, he sensed someone inside. Behind frosted glass, a pearly glow—and the silhouette of someone seated.

He pushed the door gently. Li was already at his station—back straight, computer on, desk spotless, a cup of hot tea at his right hand—its steam scenting the room.

Hearing the door, Li lifted his gaze, looking at him steadily.

He Lin stood at the threshold, feeling something he couldn’t name—as if he had arrived alone at a cold home, opened the door, and found a long‑missed friend—warmth filling his chest.

Only Li looked pale—unwell. He seemed surprised anyone would arrive so early. One hand was set against the ribs, over the heart.

Seeing it, something tightened in He Lin; a phrase flashed into mind: “Xi Shi nursing a pain.”

“Not feeling well?” he asked.

Li lowered his hand. “It’s nothing.” Then, with a small nod, “Morning, Captain He.”