Chapter 2: The Crime Scene

Zhou Sen was merely a junior patrol officer attached to the Nangang Police Station in Ice City. His daily duties consisted of patrolling the streets and maintaining public order, with the occasional petty theft or minor case to handle.

Murder, however, was another matter entirely—a major crime, reserved for the Criminal Division of the Police Department. His rank had just been promoted from Sergeant to Second Lieutenant; in theory, he no longer needed to brave the elements on the streets. Yet, since his new post hadn’t been assigned, he had to continue serving as a “patrol chief.”

...

Nangang District, Gogol Avenue (also known as Commerce Street). In front of a two-story European-style villa, a black sedan was parked across the street.

As a beat cop, he had developed a sharp eye. He could identify any car running through Ice City just by glancing at the license plate. He hadn’t been born with this skill—it was his adoptive White Russian father who’d drilled it into him (often with a whip). Thanks to that, among the patrol officers from all six precincts of Ice City, his expertise was unmatched.

Police tape cordoned off the entrance, the area swarming with armed officers from the city’s main police force. Zhou Sen and Ye San’er stepped down from a trotting carriage. At the sight before him, Zhou Sen instinctively shrank back. He recognized the car across the street; it belonged to Lin Dakuan, Chief Investigator of the Secret Service Division at the Police Department. The man, with his large head and perpetually narrowed eyes, always wore a sly, insidious smile. In truth, he was a staunch collaborator—infamous for his cunning and treachery. He’d even earned a nickname, “Big Head Lin,” though no one dared call him that to his face.

The deceased was a White Russian editor from a newspaper—not a Japanese expatriate. Why, then, was the Secret Service Division involved? Zhou Sen’s instincts screamed that this was no ordinary case.

Cases like this were best avoided if possible. The secret police were universally despised by the locals—too many anti-Manchukuo and anti-Japanese patriots had met their deaths at their hands. Zhou Sen’s former self harbored a deep aversion to men like Lin Dakuan. But, as fate would have it, Lin Dakuan had a good relationship with his adoptive father, meaning Zhou Sen was obliged to greet him respectfully as “Uncle Lin.”

Suddenly, the villa’s courtyard gate swung open. Surrounded by a cluster of black-uniformed officers, a short, middle-aged man wearing a leather overcoat and a sable cap emerged, as if he were the sun and they his orbiting stars.

On closer inspection, his head did seem disproportionately large for his body—hence the nickname. The cold, unfeeling stride could only belong to someone from the Secret Service Division.

“Big Head Lin”—the moniker was well deserved.

Zhou Sen instinctively withdrew his foot from stepping forward and turned to mutter, “San’er, didn’t you say there’s a lamb noodle shop you like? Come on, let’s go now!”

“Boss, Mr. Qiu Shan specifically ordered you to come to the crime scene immediately...” Ye San’er, clueless to the situation, reminded him.

Wrong words at the worst time. Zhou Sen felt the urge to strangle him—how had he never noticed this fool’s lack of tact before?

Lin Dakuan had already approached, spotting both Zhou Sen and Ye San’er. He greeted them with a sly smile.

“Xiao Sen...”

“Oh, Uncle Lin, good morning. What a coincidence.” Zhou Sen immediately put on a different face, forcing a smile and trotting over obsequiously.

Lin Dakuan was not someone to offend, at least not before Zhou Sen understood his own situation thoroughly. For now, caution was best.

“Looking a bit pale—this street is your patrol area, isn’t it?” Lin Dakuan, just a hair shorter than Zhou Sen, lifted his chin slightly as he spoke.

“Yes, Uncle Lin. As soon as I got word from the station, I hurried over,” Zhou Sen replied, bowing his head.

“I know you’re intimately familiar with everyone and everything in your district. Help me analyze—how did this Xie Erjin die?”

“Uncle Lin, you’re putting me on the spot. I haven’t even seen the scene yet—how could I possibly know how Xie Erjin died?” Zhou Sen protested. He only knew that the villa housed an editor from the Songjiang Daily, but as for how the man died, he wasn’t a mind reader.

“How about you go in and have a look? It’s your job, after all. I’ll wait outside,” Lin Dakuan chuckled, making it clear he had no intention of leaving.

“No, Uncle Lin, I couldn’t let you wait out here in the cold. Why don’t you show me how to inspect a crime scene?” Zhou Sen quickly flattered him. When dealing with Lin Dakuan, one had to be wary; inspecting the scene alone was out of the question.

This instinct seemed ingrained in his very bones—a survival mechanism from his former self.

“You little rascal, always so sly,” Lin Dakuan said with a laugh, pointing at Zhou Sen. He turned coldly to the others: “No one else comes in. Officer Zhou and I will be inside for a bit—don’t let anyone in.”

“Yes, Chief Lin.”

...

“There’s not much to see downstairs. The crime scene is upstairs—the body’s already been taken to the morgue for autopsy,” Lin Dakuan explained as he followed Zhou Sen through the door.

“The maid reported it. She made breakfast this morning, went upstairs to call her employer, and when he didn’t respond, she found Xie Erjin dead in bed—killed with a single stab.”

As he spoke, they reached the upstairs bedroom.

The fireplace was long extinguished, but the room was still warmer than outside—at least it kept out the bitter wind.

A glass tumbler stood on the bedside table. Most people would use it for water, but Zhou Sen knew that White Russians favored it for vodka.

The scent of vodka lingered in the room—a familiar aroma to his former self.

Blood spattered across the quilt, with a nearly dried pool beneath the pillow. It was clear Xie Erjin had been killed in his sleep, the blanket thrown back, caught off guard.

The scene seemed largely undisturbed; the maid understood the importance of preserving evidence and had called the police immediately, waiting for their arrival.

Lin Dakuan took out a handkerchief, covered his mouth, and coughed. “This is the scene. Tell me what you see.”

Zhou Sen grimaced. He knew Lin Dakuan was testing him.

Truthfully, he was intrigued by crime-solving, but had never had the chance—everything up to now had been speculation.

He felt a surge of excitement, but also a sudden wariness. Lin Dakuan’s behavior today was unusual; caution was wise.

He paced the room, scrutinizing every detail, before finally speaking in a contemplative tone: “Uncle Lin, as you said, Xie Erjin was killed with a single stab—clearly homicide. But there are no signs of forced entry on the door or windows. How did the killer get in and out?”

In fact, Zhou Sen had already noticed the extinguished fireplace and its chimney. The murderer likely entered and exited through there.

But how the killer avoided the intense heat of an active fireplace, and left no traces in the room, was still unclear.

“Uncle Lin, I’m afraid I lack the experience to say more.”

“Xiao Sen, why not take a closer look at the fireplace?” Lin Dakuan smiled, pointing at it.

“The fireplace? What’s so special about it? Surely no one could fit through there?” Zhou Sen feigned surprise, squatting to open the grate and peer inside.

“Uncle Lin, come see this…”

“What did you find?”

“I think I see marks on the inner wall of the chimney, as if someone climbed through!”

“Excellent—you’re observant. The murderer did, indeed, escape through the chimney,” Lin Dakuan said with satisfaction. “So, tell me: how would you go about catching this killer?”

“Uncle Lin, are you testing me?” Zhou Sen forced a smile. If he said nothing, he’d surely fail the test. He hurried to reply, “Someone able to move through such a narrow chimney must be extremely slim and skilled at climbing. To kill with a single blow, the killer must be well-trained, with steady hands and sharp eyes. There can’t be many with such skills in Ice City. We could start by checking past cases for suspicious individuals.”

He recalled he’d attended police academy—he shouldn’t appear too incompetent.

“Not bad. Others say you’re a feckless playboy, but I see you simply haven’t applied yourself properly,” Lin Dakuan nodded approvingly.

“Thank you, Uncle Lin. May I be excused now?” Zhou Sen asked eagerly.

“Not so fast. I have something else to discuss with you. Why not go somewhere for a drink?”

“I’d rather not, Uncle Lin. You’re on duty, and I wouldn’t want to delay your investigation.”

“You really don’t want to spend time with your Uncle Lin?” Lin Dakuan’s face darkened.

“No, Uncle Lin, I…”

“But today truly isn’t the right time. Here’s what: tomorrow at eleven, meet me at the Iberia Restaurant. Don’t be late, and don’t skip it. This concerns your future—understand?” Lin Dakuan made it clear it wasn’t a request.

Zhou Sen knew he had no choice but to agree.

“Don’t speak of this case to anyone else—keep it to yourself,” Lin Dakuan instructed, scrutinizing him. “And avoid women—you’re still young, but your health is already suffering.”

Zhou Sen forced a laugh and left the Xie residence.

This case was clearly no simple matter. For such a straightforward murder, any seasoned officer would suffice. Yet Lin Dakuan, head of the Secret Service Division, had come in person. Either the victim was special, or the murderer was.

Secret Service Division cases were not to be meddled with—one misstep could cost your life. Zhou Sen’s memories kept warning him of this.

Even without those warnings, he knew it already. After all, he’d been a writer for years, specializing in the history of the puppet regime’s secret police. The Secret Service Division of the Ice City Police Department operated under the guidance of the local Japanese intelligence agency.

Simply put, the Secret Service Division was not answerable to the Police Department.

Their cases always involved “anti-Manchukuo, anti-Japanese” activities or Soviet spies—matters far removed from the everyday lives of ordinary people, and infinitely more dangerous.

The Songjiang Daily was a key platform for “anti-Soviet” propaganda and for helping the Japanese maintain a facade of peace in Ice City. Xie Erjin’s death was far from a simple vendetta.

“Boss, is it over? What now?” Ye San’er sidled up, rubbing his hands.

“We’re going home,” Zhou Sen replied irritably.

“No lamb noodles?”

“We’re eating!” Zhou Sen snapped. After a night like this, and the strain of absorbing his predecessor’s memories, he needed a proper meal to recover.

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