Chapter 6: Returned Once More (Please Add to Your Favorites!)

A sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead.

Clearly, he couldn’t openly refuse now. In the Nangang Police Precinct, defying Akiyama was a surefire way to ensure hard times ahead.

Akiyama was Japanese; he couldn’t be handled the same way as Lin Dakuan.

What’s more, Lin Dakuan wasn’t his direct superior, nor was this a formal occasion. Saying he was “afraid to die” was harmless enough. He wanted to get rid of this “dogskin” uniform, but he couldn’t be hasty about it.

“Mr. Akiyama, though I know nothing about intelligence work, if you think I’m up to the task, and you’re not worried I’ll ruin things for the Special Affairs Section, then I’ll go.” He had no choice but to adopt a tactic of “advancing by retreating.”

If it came to doing actual work, he was no good at all—but causing trouble, making things worse, now that he could manage.

Upon hearing this, Akiyama felt a flicker of uncertainty. Although he had ulterior motives for transferring Zhou Sen to the Special Affairs Section, if by doing so he caused more problems for their work, wouldn’t it be like lifting a stone only to drop it on his own foot?

And since Bai Shoutian wasn’t in on the plan, if things went south, he’d have no way to explain himself to Deputy Director Shibuya.

“How about this: I have a case here, transferred over from the Police Headquarters. Go handle it.” After a brief pause, Akiyama pulled a file from the stack on his desk and handed it to Zhou Sen.

Many of the daily documents exchanged between the puppet Manchukuo authorities were written in Japanese. Especially after the “September 18th Incident,” the Japanese authorities had forcibly established Japanese as the national language of Manchukuo, pushing its usage, while “the national language” was demoted a level, merely permitted for use.

The file Akiyama handed Zhou Sen was written in Japanese.

This posed no difficulty for Zhou Sen. The original soul was fluent in both Russian and Japanese; with the transfer of memories, it was a matter of an instant.

Glancing at the file, Zhou Sen’s expression changed. Wasn’t this the murder case of the White Russian editor Sherkin from the “Songjiang Daily” on Gogol Street two nights ago?

Hadn’t the Police Headquarters’ Special Affairs Section already taken over? Why was it being handed back to Nangang Precinct?

“Mr. Akiyama, about this case—”

“This murder happened in your patrol district. I’m assigning you to handle it. Is there a problem?” Akiyama cut him off, raising an eyebrow.

“Mr. Akiyama, the case occurred in my district, but typically, robberies, homicides, and other serious crimes are handled by the Judicial Section. If you give this to me, won’t that make my colleagues in the Judicial Section resent me?” Zhou Sen countered swiftly, arguing his point. He wanted no part of this case; it was far too complicated.

“I heard you visited the scene yesterday, and had some unique insights into the case?” Akiyama let out a dry chuckle.

“I was called in by Director Lin from Headquarters—and besides, you told me to check out the scene…”

“I only told you to maintain order, to keep people from disturbing the scene—I didn’t tell you to investigate it, did I?” Akiyama grinned.

Zhou Sen nearly choked. This was pure wordplay—a shameless dodge.

“I know Headquarters’ Special Affairs Section has already determined this was a simple case of residential homicide, which is why they’re returning it to us. Since you’ve been to the scene and know the situation best, I’m giving the case to you. Zhou Sen, do you understand me?” Akiyama’s tone brooked no argument.

“Yes, sir.” Zhou Sen’s reply carried a hint of bitterness. This was a barefaced lie—what choice did he have?

Sherkin’s death was no ordinary case of burglary and murder.

…

Though Zhou Sen reluctantly accepted the case, he still had to bow respectfully to Akiyama before leaving.

“Brother, you’re out!” As he came down from the second floor, Ye San—dressed in police uniform—trotted up, slightly out of breath. “So, which department did Mr. Akiyama assign you to?”

“San, who notified you yesterday?”

“It was Special Assistant Jin. As soon as I clocked in this morning, she called me over and said there’d been a murder on Gogol Street. Mr. Akiyama wanted me to go with you to check it out,” Ye San replied, puzzling over the details.

“She didn’t say anything else?”

“No, nothing…”

Zhou Sen gritted his teeth, his expression darkening. “I knew it. That woman’s up to no good.”

“Brother, did Special Assistant Jin do something to you?” Ding San was confused. “Weren’t you rather fond of her before?”

“Get lost. Go call Old Six and Big Guy over—I need to talk to you all.” Zhou Sen swore.

Old Six and Big Guy were his subordinates—three of them, all rank-and-file policemen. Old Six, surnamed Gu, was sixth in his family and a few years older than Zhou Sen, a veteran on the force. Since the Japanese favored police academy graduates for promotion, Zhou Sen, with his formal training, had advanced more easily, squeezing out the likes of Old Six.

Not that all chances were gone—if you picked the right person to follow, anything was possible.

Big Guy was two years younger than Zhou Sen, originally an apprentice at his family’s flour mill. His father, seeing his loyalty and honesty, pulled some strings to get him into the police, hoping he’d be a reliable aide for Zhou Sen.

But Zhou Sen’s predecessor hadn’t been fond of him. He was stubborn—unlike the obedient Ye San, when he dug in, he wouldn’t listen to Zhou Sen at all. But his father’s word was law.

He was a headache for Zhou Sen.

He and Ye San were dubbed Zhou Sen’s two “Generals of Roar and Hah.”

When Zhou Sen first joined the police, it was Old Six who took him under his wing—half a mentor. When Old Six’s wife had a difficult labor, Zhou Sen arranged the hospital and doctor; mother and child survived, and Old Six became truly loyal.

Zhou Sen wasn’t ignorant of workplace ways; he had a few reliable men under him—better than being a solitary commander.

As a sergeant, Zhou Sen didn’t have a private office at the precinct—just a shared desk in a crowded room. He rarely went in; too many eyes and ears meant it wasn’t a good place to talk.

He had a base on Haicheng Street—a private place he’d bought with his savings after graduating police academy and joining the Nangang Precinct. It was his alone.

Not open to outsiders, it was converted from a storeroom—a world apart within. Only trusted aides knew of it.

He used it for leisure, for work, for rest—sometimes, he’d hide out for ages. Here, he could find peace and do as he pleased.

He was a man with ambition—at least, not as idle and shiftless as he appeared.

Having his own space saved him a great deal of trouble.

“Boss,” Big Guy called. His name was Uen, a Mongol, descended from exiles sent to Ningguta. Only after the fall of the Qing did his family regain their freedom.

Old Six was short, with rough, dark skin—a face that made him look older than his thirty-some years.

When Zhou Sen entered, Old Six quickly stubbed out his cigarette and hurried over. “Boss.”

Each had their own way of addressing him, which Zhou Sen didn’t mind.

Usually, when Zhou Sen shirked his duties here, it was Old Six who covered for him, doing most of the work. Of the four sergeants, Zhou Sen had the smallest team.

“San, shut the door!” He tossed the file onto the table.

“Right away, boss.”

“Boss, Old Cui’s men came into our patrol district today, harassing the merchants who work with us…” Old Six, after sitting down, began to report.

“Leave him be. Old Cui’s only capable of these petty tricks. As long as I outrank him, he can’t stir up real trouble. Let him be for now—as long as he doesn’t go too far. We have more important things to handle.” Zhou Sen replied.

On hearing this, Old Six brightened. “Boss, what important thing?”

“Mr. Akiyama just gave me a case. If we solve it, it’ll be a major achievement. Old Six, that might be your chance.” Some things, Zhou Sen couldn’t tell even his closest men; even between father and son, there were secrets.

Old Six’s face flushed red. Zhou Sen’s “chance” meant a shot at promotion. After Zhou Sen’s own advancement, Old Six’s hopes had faded—now, with a glimmer of hope, how could he not be excited?

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Old Six. This case is anything but ordinary—if we’re not careful, trouble will come knocking,” Zhou Sen cautioned.

“Boss, this wouldn’t be the Sherkin murder on Gogol Street, would it?” Old Six was no fool.

Zhou Sen nodded.

“Boss, that’s a criminal case—shouldn’t the Judicial Section handle it?”

“Old Gu, you don’t know. The Special Affairs Section took it over yesterday, and today Mr. Akiyama assigned it to our boss,” Ye San explained.

“But why?” Old Six was puzzled.

“Who knows? All I know is, this case is tricky. I didn’t want to take it, but what could I do? You all know what kind of man Akiyama is. If we cross him, life at the precinct will be a nightmare.” Zhou Sen sighed.

“No way to refuse?” Old Six, despite yearning for the opportunity, wasn’t sure it was a good thing.

“If I could, would I be this worried?” Zhou Sen replied. “Old Six, you know the people on the street. Go find out where Sherkin liked to spend his time, and whether he had any enemies.”

“Got it, I’ll go.”

“San, spread the word among our people—anyone who brings useful information will be well rewarded.” Zhou Sen instructed Ye San.

Many who made a living under the police umbrella—good or bad—were sources of information and eyes on the street. Without them, how could such a small team control such a large district?

“And me, boss?” Uen asked.

“You’re coming with me to the ‘Songjiang Daily’ to learn more about Sherkin.” Zhou Sen quickly assigned their tasks.

If he wanted any hope of getting to the bottom of this case, visiting the “Songjiang Daily” was essential.