TTB C5

Chapter 5

2 “A cut across her palm, requiring thirteen stitches.”

At three o’clock in the afternoon, two police vehicles from headquarters pulled up outside the missing couple’s apartment building.

Officer Xu from the Fourth Sub‑Bureau was waiting at the entrance. Seeing them arrive, he greeted them with a broad smile, extending a cigarette as he led them upstairs:

“Thank you for coming, leaders from the Bureau. The wife’s disappearance was handled by me back then, later when the husband went missing, I led the team too—but there were really too few clues to go on.”

He Lin took the cigarette. Back during his special operations days, cigarettes were off‑limits—too damaging to fitness. One teammate who smoked secretly was caught countless times and scolded every time by the captain.

But after these two years in criminal investigation, working alongside old detectives and leaders, He Lin had picked up the habit.

Out of the corner of his eye, Li Shang noticed the exchange of cigarettes and frowned. “Focus on the scene.”

He Lin chuckled lightly: “I know. Not smoking now.”

He slipped the cigarette back in his pocket; the others followed suit, refraining from lighting up.

The apartment door opened. A stale, sour odor drifted out—moldy air from days without cleaning or ventilation.

Xu began grumbling about the difficulty of their job: how few people in the sub‑bureau had to cover such a huge jurisdiction.

While chatting, He Lin surveyed the interior.

Li Shang busied himself with his freshly issued recorder and law enforcement body cam, before trailing He Lin closely, noting details.

The entryway shoes: Guo Mucun’s slippers remained, several other pairs scattered, impossible to tell what, if anything, was missing.

The flat was cluttered and grimy; trash hadn’t been cleared in weeks. The fridge was stocked with expired food.

On the coffee table lay both ID cards, bank cards, miscellaneous documents, and medical records—stacked haphazardly.

The bedroom: socks tossed randomly, cobwebs in corners.

Only the living room’s center seemed recently cleaned—floor dragged, surface neat. No obvious blood, no signs of struggle.

He Lin squatted down, sharp gaze glinting: “See here—the floor’s been specifically wiped. Just this section.” He outlined the area with his hand.

For a man living alone, haphazard at housekeeping, to suddenly scrub only a patch of the living room…very off.

Li Shang silently recorded everything.

He Lin asked Xu: “When Tang Ailian disappeared, was this place thoroughly searched?”

Xu thought. “We spoke with Guo several times. Her ID was at home, she hadn’t taken belongings, so it didn’t look like travel. Guo had an alibi, insisted she was alive. We visited repeatedly, but since it wasn’t classified a criminal case, we never applied for a search warrant.”

“You should have searched.” He Lin moved the television aside. Behind tangled cords shone faint, dried specks of reddish brown.

That shape and spray pattern—every detective knew it. Blood spatter.

“Blood,” Wu Yunsheng confirmed, crouching. “Old stains, not recent.”

He gestured with Fang to demonstrate: an injured person likely seated, struck in the head, bled onto the TV, surface wiped—trace left hidden behind.

“Photo of Tang Ailian,” He Lin said.

Li Shang produced it swiftly.

He Lin held it up: “Taken late July, her retirement memento. Notice—her expression dead serious. Sunshine, over 35℃ that day, others in shorts, yet she wore long sleeves, buttons tight.”

Wu nodded grimly: “She may have been hiding something.”

“This spatter wasn’t fatal. But this man—Guo—appears a habitual abuser.” He Lin asked the technicians: “Have the luminol?”

“Yes.” Out came the spray. Trainee forensic staff readied sample kits.

“Check living room and bedroom thoroughly,” He Lin ordered.

Li Shang, new to the process, donned a mask, took a bottle.

Patiently, He Lin showed him where to spray, explaining: “Most domestic violence occurs in living room or bedroom. Also—check thresholds. Victims try to flee.”

Fang asked curiously: “Why doors specifically?”

“Because beaten wives, weakest party, will instinctively run. Bloodstains often mark the doorframes,” He Lin said.

When luminol reacted, glowing traces lit the house.

Large patches in the bedroom doorway trailed toward the front door—dripping streaks, leading to the entrance.

And on the inside of the door—bloody palm prints, most distinct midway up, fading downward—until collapse.

A scene emerged vividly: Tang Ailian staggering, clawing at the door, beaten down.

He Lin analyzed: “This blood at the door—compare to this.” He lifted a medical record from the table. Though handwritten doctor’s notes strained his eyes, the diagram told enough.

Li Shang read aloud: “Palm laceration, required thirteen stitches.”

Fang peered: “It says patient claimed it was an accident while cooking. Impossible! The angle needed to cut that deep into the palm? Ridiculous.”

Xu’s face looked as patchy as the blood on the walls. He wiped sweat: “We never had reports of abuse. The man seemed honest. We didn’t see it…”

Wu and He Lin exchanged a pointed glance without speaking.

Every seasoned cop could sniff out a wife‑beater. But domestic abuse was hardest to prosecute—victims hesitated to report, cases fell in gray zones. A quiet rule often prevailed: unless the victim speaks, officers don’t “make trouble.”

Technicians marked evidence, bagging samples.

A faint odor tugged at Li Shang’s sensitive nose. He followed it into the kitchen, opening a cupboard. From its corner he retrieved a half‑drunk, moldy box of milk. “Here’s something.”

Fang exclaimed: “Brother Li, sharp nose!”

He Lin and Wu remained reserved, but Xu’s face changed. He stared at the milk carton pensively.

Fang asked: “What’s up with the milk?”

Xu explained: “We were investigating burglaries nearby. Thieves posed as milkmen—left cartons like these. Same brand. I didn’t expect it here.”

The coincidence rang bells for others too.

Wu had heard rumors from neighbors.

He Lin had read internal reports.

Fang blurted: “Is this the ‘Milk Bandits’ from those short videos?”

Only newcomer Li Shang was clueless to the tale. Yet ironically, he had found the clue.

New‑media sensationalism had dubbed them “Milk Bandits,” but the reality was grim.

Yun City had seen a string of burglaries. Targets: solitary residents.

The gang marked doors of lone dwellers. In afternoons they left gifts: free eggs, cartons of milk, small notes with a fake delivery contact.

Older residents, unable to resist a “freebie,” drank the milk—drugged with sedatives.

At night, burglars, masked and gloved, slipped in, clearing cash and valuables. Victims slept unaware.

At first, police thought it simple burglary; rain‑wet nights left scant forensic clues.

Until one woman stored the milk instead of drinking. That night, catching a burglar red‑handed, she screamed—he fled.

Chemical tests confirmed sedatives in the carton. Thus, method exposed.

Success rate soared for the criminals—even as police work grew harder. Patrols warned community guards, urged residents not to accept gifts from “milk salesmen.”

And yet—during Guo’s disappearance, the gang operated nearby. Shortly after, they vanished again.

Could Guo have been one of their victims? Living alone, old block, weak security—perfect target. And now a half‑used milk box showed up.

He Lin bagged it: “Test for sedatives.”

Fang scratched his head: “But weren’t they after money only? Never killed?”

Wu replied grimly: “They hadn’t. But what if Guo woke, saw them? What then?”

He Lin thought hard. “If true, we must merge investigations.”

Officer Xu pointed: “That case was already escalated to headquarters’ Anti‑Burglary Unit. You’re all in the same Bureau—you could collaborate.”

Footnotes

¹ Luminol: A chemical spray that reveals latent blood traces, glowing blue under low light even after wiping.

² “Milk Bandits” (牛奶大盜): A sensational nickname used in Chinese media for a real string of burglaries, where thieves disguised as milkmen drugged victims with tainted “free” milk.