Chapter 10: Another Murder Occurs

I thought for a moment, then sneered and asked Yunqing why she insisted I leave the Port District. I truly couldn’t understand it; before this, I had never met Yunqing. At first, I assumed she was afraid we would uncover some connection between her and the case, but upon closer consideration, she hadn’t asked anyone else to leave the Port District—only me. That was strange.

Yunqing brushed her sleeve and smiled meaningfully, still carrying herself like some enlightened sage. She said I was haunted by evil spirits, and if I didn’t leave the Port District soon, it would be too late. Seeing she still wouldn’t tell the truth, I grew a little angry, but I didn’t try to confront her further.

I told Yunqing that her mother had asked me to relay a message. Her expression changed instantly—she became flustered and sharply demanded to know why I had approached her family. With a half-smile, I teased, “I think you’re suspicious, but you won’t confess or say anything. Shouldn’t I investigate?”

Yunqing threatened me: if I dared to look into anything about her again, she wouldn’t let us off. Luo Feng, hearing this, was enraged; he said Yunqing clearly didn’t understand the situation—there were few in the Port District who dared threaten Luo Feng like that. I stopped Luo Feng from losing his temper, and told Yunqing everything her mother wanted her to hear, word for word.

Yunqing suddenly lowered her head; just then, a gust of wind swept by, making her look a little forlorn. But she quickly regained her composure and once again warned me to leave the Port District, then turned to go. I called after her several times, but she didn’t stop. As she was still within earshot, I thought for a moment and shouted, “I’ll be investigating Sansong Temple.”

Sure enough, Yunqing halted and turned back. The distance was too great for me to see her expression. She was silent for a long while, then spoke again—this time, without any threat or anger, but with a surprising sincerity.

She said my leaving the Port District actually had nothing to do with her; she was urging me to go purely out of kindness. She added that even if I didn’t leave, I must not go to Sansong Temple, or else I’d die without ever knowing how I met my end. With that, Yunqing left.

I pondered Yunqing’s words carefully. Luo Feng asked what exactly Yunqing was up to. Her behavior was highly suspicious, but all the suspicion seemed to be brought on by her own actions. She had performed rituals for both Chaoyang Ji and the residents of the apartment complex where the incident occurred, using methods that terrified everyone. Then, she repeatedly urged me to leave the Port District, which only heightened her suspiciousness.

I told Luo Feng my intuition suggested she might really have no direct connection to the “Ghost Banquet” case, but she was hiding something, and I had to investigate. Luo Feng shrugged, lit a cigarette, and didn’t press further. By the time we returned to the hotel, it was already quite late.

Ever since the elderly woman mentioned hearing loud music and the sound of heavy objects being moved, the police had gone back to the scene to investigate, but found nothing. I planned to revisit the crime scene as soon as dawn broke—now that Chen Fan was helping, we wouldn’t need to sneak around anymore.

The “Ghost Banquet” case remained an enigma; both the police and I had made no real progress in the investigation. These past few days, I kept thinking about Old Nine, who had tipped me off. I wondered if someone skilled in disguise had impersonated him to deliver the message, or if Old Nine had an identical twin.

But I quickly dismissed these theories. When Old Nine gave me the tip, the lighting was bright and he was very close to me. Disguise techniques aren’t as miraculous as legend claims; most experts rely on lighting or environmental factors for deception. Given the circumstances, that Old Nine could not have been a deliberate impostor.

Moreover, Old Nine had no twin—I had already sent people to investigate. At his birth, which was difficult, there were three or four midwives and nurses present. If there had been a twin, it could never have been hidden.

In the end, I focused on the timing of Old Nine’s death. I wondered if the killer had somehow tricked the coroner with some clever method. Yet, I still had no clue. Old Nine found me two days after the coroner’s estimated time of death. Accounting for travel time, if he was killed later, his real death would have been at least four days off from the coroner’s determination.

It was unlikely the coroner would make such a grave error.

The next day, some time had passed since the “Ghost Banquet” case had occurred. The police were under heavy pressure and the Port District was in an uproar. Early in the morning, Chen Fan and I went to the police station, but we couldn’t find Fat Ji anywhere. The officers told us Fat Ji hadn’t reported for work and couldn’t be reached by phone.

I sensed something was wrong and had Chen Fan ask if anyone had been sent to look for him. The officer nodded, puzzled—Fat Ji was never late. Just as he finished speaking, the station phone rang. The officer answered, listened for just a few seconds, then his face went utterly pale.

With trembling hands, he put down the phone and shouted to the entire station: Fat Ji is dead!

I was stunned, and the whole station erupted in chaos. Everyone hurriedly donned their caps and prepared to deploy. Because Fat Ji trusted Chen Fan, Chen Fan went along. At a time like this, no one cared if Chen Fan brought me. The police car circled two blocks and arrived at Fat Ji’s residence.

Fat Ji lived in a quiet, inexpensive villa—such housing was common in the Port District. Many officers were already on the scene, all from the nearby precinct. The area was cordoned off, and the female officer who had been sent to find Fat Ji sat outside the door, terrified and crying.

Someone asked her what had happened; she, shaking and sobbing, said Fat Ji was already dead when she arrived. The officers from the station didn’t stop to ask further, but rushed inside. Chen Fan and I tried to enter but were blocked by the officer at the door. After much pleading, only Chen Fan was allowed in.

I went around to the back door. The case had just occurred, so the villa wasn’t fully sealed off yet. I climbed over the wall and slipped in easily. Inside, nobody stopped me; some officers even greeted me, thinking I was an undercover cop.

Fat Ji was dead in his bedroom, upstairs on the second floor. I climbed a tree and, peering through the window, finally saw his body. Fat Ji lay on the bed; from a distance, the fatal wound seemed to be on his neck, a gash cutting across it. Blood was everywhere, and the room was in disarray.

My view was obstructed; I couldn’t fully assess the scene.

I called Chen Fan and told him to check every corner of the villa carefully. He was surprised I knew what the crime scene looked like, but didn’t question it, and followed my instructions. A few minutes later, he called back: the blood was everywhere, but outside the room, there were no suspicious traces.

I considered this and told Chen Fan to come out. By then, I had climbed down from the tree, and he asked how I’d gotten in. I didn’t answer, but told him to recount everything that had happened at the scene. Chen Fan said they found Fat Ji lying on the bed, still covered by the blanket.

There was no blood on the blanket, but lifting it revealed plenty of blood on the mattress. Fat Ji’s body, as far as they could see, only had a wound on the neck—a knife cut, five centimeters long and very deep. It was almost certainly the cause of death.

I pressed for details about the blood patterns. Chen Fan thought for a moment and said the blood was pooled in patches, with drops scattered between them.

I asked, “Were there any other types of blood stains?”

Chen Fan scratched his head and, after a while, confirmed there were none. He had been extremely thorough, following my instructions.

“Really no mist-like blood spatter?” I confirmed again and again—not because I didn’t trust Chen Fan, but because a police officer like him didn’t deserve trust.

Chen Fan shook his head.

“The primary crime scene isn’t in the room,” I told him.

Chen Fan was surprised, and asked how I could tell. I explained that a cut throat would spray blood in a mist; unless cleaned, it would leave mist-like stains on walls, floors, or other surfaces. Clearly, the body was present and the room was messy, but the killer hadn’t cleaned up.

The blood and the disorder in the room were deliberate staging by the killer, who simply didn’t understand forensic science.

I looked around. Chen Fan’s villa was in a cluster of similar homes, with surveillance at the main gate. So, the crime scene had to be within the villa complex—if the killer had moved the body from outside, the cameras would have caught it.

Carrying a corpse over the wall would also be difficult and likely leave traces.

“The best place for the crime is right here in the villa yard. Come with me.” I led Chen Fan around the yard. Behind the villa was a patch of weeds; Fat Ji was usually too busy to clear them. I rummaged about and quickly found a very small amount of blood in the grass—an area easily overlooked.

Chen Fan was astonished and asked how I’d guessed it.

Finding the crime scene wasn’t hard, but I suddenly noticed all the weeds were standing upright, except for a small patch that was bent—likely pressed down when Fat Ji fell. Other than that, everything else was normal, and the blood was scant.

Although Fat Ji was overweight, he still had the strength to resist; the killer couldn’t have attacked here without leaving signs of struggle...