Countryside Police Station: An Unsolved Case

阿乙

Thirteen years on， that case at the Aocheng Chemical Plant still bothers me， poking and prodding somewhere deep down inside of me， like a riddle that I’ll never figure out. It was during a bright midday at the plant. The workers carried their lunch boxes out to the edge of the fissured concrete lot. They talked amongst themselves: Everything was fine last night， and today， it’s gone. When Sergeant Zhao Dezhong arrived from Aocheng Police Station with two cadets in tow—Xiao Li and I—we saw a heavy-duty cart sitting on the ground with its two wheels missing. It felt incredibly unjust， like seeing a man whose prosthetic limbs had been swiped from him.

According to the head of security at the plant， stealing the wheels off the cart would have been as difficult as robbing a bank. There were meter-high walls around the entire plant， with another meter or so of razor wire mounted on top. The plant had only a single gate， manned around the clock by capable men. At night， security details patrolled the grounds. On top of that， at the time of the incident， the workers were still on site in their brightly lit workshops.

“This is nothing less than a provocation!” said the head of security.

In the days when Sergeant Zhao had been a soldier in the reconnaissance corps， he had once turned a comrade-in-arms over to a military tribunal for pilfering important supplies. He quickly concluded that the theft at the plant was an inside job. The type of thief that moved around to look for marks would need to check the place before making their move， and they would have a difficult time assessing what might be available to steal in the plant， or even getting a general lay of the land. Furthermore， statistics showed that 65 to 80 percent of industrial facility thefts were committed by the workers.

“Luckily，” Sergeant Zhao said， “everyone here lives in the dormitory， so no one has left the plant yet.”

We drew up a scheme with the plant’s head of security. He would call the workshop directors， who would call the section chiefs， who would then assemble the workers. Each group would be questioned in turn. There were only two questions: What were you doing between three and five in the morning? Do you have evidence proving you were sleeping or working at that time?

The answers that the workers gave were not particularly important. What was crucial was to observe their physiological reactions to the questions. Sergeant Zhao ordered Xiao Li and I to act as living polygraph machines， carefully observing the respondents’ movements. When the workers came in for questioning， their reactions were consistent: They glanced around the office， awkwardly trying to figure out where to put their hands， and steadfastly refusing to meet our gaze. Some of the men fell under suspicion because they were too young or had unconventional hairstyles， but they turned out to have solid proof of their whereabouts during the time of the theft. They said that Lao Wang would confirm their alibis. Lao Wang， an honest and straightforward man， told us that the men had all been working overtime that morning， and they had not left their stations even for a bathroom break.

“The fox is more cunning than the hound，” Sergeant Zhao observed. “They have better mental resilience， too.”

After the investigation， the head of security told us it was time to eat. Before Sergeant Zhao would eat， he wanted to make sure that none of the workers were allowed to leave the plant. The head of security assured him they would ensure nobody left. After that， we were led into a private dining room in the canteen. There were four dishes served in large basins， including one with fish， another with a whole chicken， and a soup with soft-shelled turtles. The head of security opened a bottle of liquor and pulled out a neatly folded American dollar bill from under the cap. “Whoever can drink me under the table，” he said to his subordinates， “will receive some American money.”

Sergeant Zhao protested that he wasn’t much of a drinker， but still pounded three glasses at the security chief’s insistence. He was soon drunk. “All right，” he mumbled， “that’s enough for today. Let the workers go if they want to. Alert the night patrol to watch for the thieves trying to move the goods.”

We rushed to the plant the next afternoon. The head of security assured us they had kept a close eye on the plant grounds. Nothing suspicious had been spotted. Sergeant Zhao said that was good since it meant the culprits had not attempted to move the goods. After that， we began looking around the plant like someone looking for a lost set of keys—confident they would turn up somewhere. We believed they might be hidden under a broken machine or tucked beneath a tarpaulin on the edge of a cesspool. As we passed a utility shed， Sergeant Zhao jumped to look at the roof. He couldn’t jump high enough， so he told me to investigate. I couldn’t jump high enough either， so Xiao Li jumped to look. All he could see were some broken asbestos tiles.

We even considered the possibility that the thieves had taken the wheels up a tree， hidden within the branches and leaves. But we only discovered the nests of innocent birds up there. We were so wrapped up in disappointment that dinner passed in stunned silence. We didn’t hear a word the head of security said. Only the delicious oily food left an impression， especially the fine dish of celtuce.

It was time to redirect the investigation. Back at the station， the aura of Sergeant Zhao’s “Outstanding Reconnaissance Soldier” award was beginning to fade as he got frustrated with himself. After a long time， he stopped grasping his hair and， in an exhausted weak voice， said: “The goods aren’t at the plant. If this was an inside job， we need to account for external involvement as well. We also need to consider whether this might have been an outside job.”

The next morning， we went to the plant but walked around the exterior wall instead of going inside. Weeds studded with dewdrops grew at the base of the wall. Sergeant Zhao told us to look for places where the vegetation had been pressed down. The wheels weighed at least several dozen kilograms， so there would certainly be some sign of them being tossed over the wall. However， the morning’s search only turned up sanitary pads covered with dark， clotted blood， and a few rat carcasses that expelled clouds of flies when we approached. “Maybe the weeds have bounced back，” Sergeant Zhao said. “Let’s go over to the reeds.”

As we left the base of the wall and descended a road into the reeds， we entered a strange， shady， infinite otherworld， where our shoes were quickly covered in mud. As I walked， I felt my hunger increasing. I wondered if I might encounter a shrew popping out to wink at me. I had eaten them many times before since they were considered a delicacy in Aocheng. I saw a few holes in the swampy ground， but they were flooded. Wheels， wheels， wheels， I reminded myself， you must find the wheels. My attention began to wander again. Just as I was about to meander into the void， to stagger into the night， I saw Xiao Li’s backside floating out of the last sliver of light. He was taking a piss.

When it got dark， we turned and headed back toward the station. As we went， we caught sight of a figure standing on one of the ridges between the nearby paddy fields， waving with a flashlight in hand. As we approached， we saw that it was the plant’s head of security. “Thank you for your hard work，” he said. He shined the flashlight onto our shoes. “Look at those shoes，” he said anxiously， “covered in mud.”

“It’s nothing，” Sergeant Zhao said. “Anyone discouraged by this sort of hard work has no right to call themselves a police officer.”

Naturally， we returned to the plant for dinner. A deputy director of the factory came to join us. After we exchanged a few words， silence fell. The men from the factory became quiet because they felt sorry we had to go through so much trouble trying to solve a case at their plant， and we were quiet because we were eating free food and solving no crimes. Both parties broke the silence almost simultaneously. “We really thank you. We can’t thank you enough，” the deputy director blurted. “You see that we haven’t made much progress in the case，” said Sergeant Zhao.

The head of security stepped in: “Let’s eat!”

As we left the canteen after dinner， I saw a few gray-haired workers in filthy uniforms beating out a rhythm on their ceramic basins. It seemed like an old song that no longer made sense to my generation. As we passed， the sound died down， then picked up again as we walked out.

Back at the station， Sergeant Zhao sat on the sofa without changing out of his boots or washing up and sighed deeply. Before we could say anything， he stood up and called to us， “Quick! Get a flashlight. We’re going up the mountain.” Xiao Li and I weren’t happy. Our legs were sore and swollen from walking all day. Sergeant Zhao noticed us hesitating. “Fine，” he said， “I’ll go by myself.” At that point， we had no choice but to follow him.

There was some moonlight. We trudged through the weeds and reeds， shining our flashlights onto what seemed like a path with no end. “You can imagine the thief must have rolled the wheels down this trail. Look around for tracks. I don’t think he would have carried the wheels over his shoulder the entire way，” said Sergeant Zhao.

We saw nothing. We only felt exhaustion. As we stumbled sleepily forward， Sergeant Zhao cried out， “I’ve got something here!” Gathering ourselves again， we crouched down to look. There were two parallel tire tracks， with a wavy intermittent pattern. It was exactly what we were searching for.

Sergeant Zhao beamed like a child. “He had to set the wheels down，” he said.

Our morale rose as we rushed forward for another five or six minutes before spotting an earthen hut. Beside the hut was a cart with an extra wheel next to it. Overjoyed， Sergeant Zhao went over to kick the door. The farmer inside woke up， switched on the light， and came to the doorway. We picked up the wheel and went into his hut to study it. The light was too dim to see， so we trained our flashlights on the wheel. There were three leather patches resembling ringworm scabs on the tire. It didn’t match the stolen wheel from the factory. But anyone could have made repairs like this as a disguise， just like a murderer will change their hairstyle to hide from authorities. Sergeant Zhao wanted to rip off the patches， but the farmer protested: “Don’t rip them off!”

Sergeant Zhao， hell-bent on pursuing justice， ignored him and went on trying to peel off the patches by hand. After a while， he was forced to take out his nail clippers to rip the patches off. He felt the places the patches had covered， then looked closely again at the tire. It seemed the tire had really needed repairs. Sergeant Zhao wasn’t satisfied， however. He produced a pocket knife and enthusiastically plunged it into the tire. The sound of his work filled the hut. The tire deflated.

“This tire is falling apart，” Sergeant Zhao said. “You’ve done nothing wrong， and it belongs to you. Take it to the station tomorrow and I’ll have it fixed up for you.”

On the way back to the station， I hung my arm over Xiao Li’s shoulder， and we walked together like two wounded soldiers. “It’s awfully strange，” we heard Sergeant Zhao say， “for something so big to just go missing. It’s strange. Disappeared， as if by magic...”

For the next several days， we stood guard at intersections and inspected junkyards. We even sent people to gather intelligence， but nothing turned up. We had lunch and dinner at the plant every day. After a week of freeloading， we felt bad and chose to stay at the station. But the head of security turned up and said he had prepared a banquet for us at Yuncui Restaurant. Sergeant Zhao blushed. “We can’t accept a reward that’s not deserved，” he said.

“A reward that’s not deserved?” the head of security said. “You have already done a great deal for us.”

“What have we done?” Sergeant Zhao said. “A tire is worth fifty yuan. We’ve had just about two thousand yuan of food.”

“Don’t say it like that，” the head of security said. “It might only be fifty yuan today， but tomorrow it’ll be five thousand， then fifty thousand， then five hundred thousand. That’s a great amount of state property being lost.”

“We haven’t even figured out what happened to that fifty yuan， though，” Sergeant Zhao said.

“You have at least scared the criminals，” the head of security retorted.

“I won’t go to the banquet，” Sergeant Zhao said. “You can go ask the others.”

“I won’t leave until you agree to go，” said the head of security.

“Fine，” Sergeant Zhao said， “then don’t leave.”

The head of security went in to see the station chief. The chief paced his office with his hands clasped behind his back like the upright Song dynasty politician Bao Zheng. He listened to the head of security’s story， nodding and grunting， then shouted: “Zhao! Xiao Ai! Xiao Li! Get in here.”

When the four of us—Sergeant Zhao， Xiao Li， the chief， and I—arrived at the banquet at Yuncui Restaurant， a dozen dishes were already steaming on the table. A dozen people stopped cracking sunflower seeds and got up to greet us. The head of security introduced each of them: “This is Director Zhu， Director He， and…” The chief waved and interrupted him. “Thank you，” the chief said. “Thank you very much. We already know each other.”

The head of security directed the chief to another table， saying shyly， “And here are my wife and child. That is section chief Yang’s wife. Everyone came tonight.”

The commander reached out to shake their hands， greeting everyone.

In the end， Sergeant Zhao paid for a set of second-hand wheels out of his own pocket. He sent me and Xiao Li to bring them over to the plant. “Yes， these are the ones!” the head of security said when he saw the wheels. He pushed them out to the concrete lot excitedly. In the distance， we saw the cart that was still missing its tires. It reminded me of a heart-stricken woman waiting for her lover to return.

A Yi 阿乙

A Yi is an emerging writer with three books translated and published in English so far， including his latest works Two Lives: Tales of Life， Love and Crime and A Perfect Crime which have gained recognition domestically and internationally. Growing up in a small town in Jiangxi province， A Yi worked as a police officer in his hometown before becoming an editor. His literary journey began in 2008 with the publication of his short story collection titled The Grey Story. Since then， he has authored over a dozen novels and short story collections in Chinese. A recurring theme in A Yi’s works is the portrayal of small-town life， exploring its darker aspects and delving into the minds of criminals， drawing inspiration from his experiences as a former police officer.

International Repercussions

Content warning: The following story contains graphic descriptions of injuries.

The highway doesn’t end when it passes through other counties. It keeps going to Wuhan， to Shaanxi， Gansu， Ningxia， to Rome even. But when it reaches us， it must come to a halt. Our county isn’t a destination for the nation’s floating population， unless you count the proprietors of the Wenzhou Hair Salon. Once the entire country stops hula-hooping， our county picks up the fad. Our county is the world’s appendix.

But from Qinglongshan police station， I worked my way up to the county public security bureau and the county government office. That somehow took five years. Over that period， my former chief was only sent to Baihu county at the same rank. One day， the chief and I were sitting at a mahjong table with the head of residents’ affairs and his retired predecessor. We were four generations， seated at each edge of the table. The head of residents’ affairs wasn’t having much luck， so we rolled dice to decide how to reshuffle our positions. We ended up each shifting clockwise， each moving one seat to our left. I felt the residual body heat left in the chair by the rear end of the police chief. When I glanced over at the gray-haired， ceaselessly coughing retiree on my right， I couldn’t help but feel a bit gloomy. This is how life is buried.

The other day， I slipped lazily out of the municipal offices around noon and looked up at the sky. It was so blue that it made me a bit uneasy. But I noticed some gray in the air， too. It floated around for a while， then fell. I saw the county Party secretary and his deputy， accompanied by the county head and his deputy. Their hands stuffed in their pockets， huddled together， sighing. I had hoped to sneak around them， but one of them called out to me: “Go buy us some nutritional supplements.”

“What standard should I follow?” I asked.

“Severely injured，” he said.

That meant hitting the five-hundred-yuan mark. I rushed out of the gate and toward the shop across the way， where I knew I could put down a signature in exchange for yak bone powder and some other stuff. “I bet you haven’t got wind of this， but the three big guys of Baihu county all got severely burned in a fire，” the shopkeeper said.

I asked: “Which three?”

“The township head， the chief for military affairs， and the police chief.”

My heart sank when I heard the news. I was almost hit by a car as I crossed the street.

As I headed toward Renmin Hospital， I heard some county officials talking. “The fire wasn’t even worth fighting，” one said. “Imagine， getting burnt up like that!” said another. I tried to imagine what “l(fā)ike that” might be. Did their clothes burn off of them? Did their flesh melt away? Were they just a pile of greasy bones on a gurney? I felt my pace slowing. When I entered the hospital， the stench of Formalin nearly killed me. The way the doctors and nurses were shouting， I thought the station chief was about to die.

After half an hour of uncertainty， a doctor opened the door to the emergency room and let us in. The county officials lined up in a row and stood on tiptoes to try to peer through the glass at the top of the door. They muttered curses under their breath. I followed their gaze. Two lights shone through like flashlight beams. I steadied my breathing and took a detailed look. I saw someone burned as black as charcoal. It was as if the smoke still clung to him. I figured it must be the station chief. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

The station chief’s wife came， dragging a bedroll under her arm and a ball of distress in her heart. I mentioned the nutritional supplements. “This is a little something from the county. We want to help you get through this.”

At first， the station chief’s wife couldn’t stop crying， but when she saw that I was even more distraught than her， she stopped weeping and came to comfort me. After a few back-and-forths， she finally rushed back to the ward. But she went into a different room than I had been led into. I wondered if I had mistaken someone else for the chief. The fire， after all， had scorched its victims beyond recognition. That could be good news: Perhaps the station chief was not injured quite so severely; otherwise， why would his wife comfort me instead?

I decided to peek inside. It wasn’t a good idea. The station chief was like a Russian black bear or an Egyptian mummy， lying silent on spotlessly white sheets. His condition was even worse than that of the man I had seen upon arriving.

I went to the hospital again after work a few days later. A pale blue light shone down on the station chief. They said they were sterilizing his skin using ultraviolet lights. I thought the disinfection was necessary. There were lumps of black and red flesh on his face， some already expelling pus. They looked like dozens of revolting worms. Before long， pus started oozing out. The station chief grimaced a few times， and the doctor hurriedly grabbed tweezers to wipe it away with gauze.

I didn’t want to look too closely at his face， so I glanced at his arm. It was burned black. I looked at his hand. It was burnt bright red and the flesh had turned soft and curled up. I bit the inside of my cheek until I couldn’t take it any longer. I decided I needed to do something. I calmed and steadied myself. “Chief，” I said， “it’s not as terrible as everyone is saying. It doesn’t look that bad at all.”

The station chief began to weep. “Really?” he asked. He called to his wife: “Hongxia， bring me a mirror.”

“The doctor told me that you can’t be exposed to any light，” she said in a relaxed tone. “The mirror’s reflection would be too bright.”

The station chief moaned again. “I didn’t believe it when they told me that I looked fine，” he said. “But I’ll take your word. You are an honest man. You wouldn’t try to deceive me now.”

“Right， right...” I said.

The station chief’s wife saw me out. I told her that I couldn’t bear to see him cry. It made my heart hurt. She comforted me: “He was laughing， not crying.”

I went back after a few days. The station chief was checking himself carefully with a mirror. His body had formed a thick layer of scabbing that made it look like he was wearing a suit of armor. I noticed a copy of Stories magazine beside his bed. I picked up the magazine and started reading， thoroughly enjoying it. The station chief asked me if I had noticed the advertisement on the back cover. It was for a product called Mili Scar Ointment. He wondered if it really worked.

I flipped to the advert. It read:

“From an ancient recipe handed down through generations; tested by clinical practice; verified by traditional Chinese medical theories; proven by modern pharmaceutical technology. Technologically advanced， highly effective， easy to use， proprietary blend.”

The advertisement included a before-and-after image: on the left side was fetid meat， and on the right side， was the result of applying the product—healthy flesh. “It probably works，” I said. “Otherwise， someone would have destroyed the editorial office.”

I opened an issue of Zhiyin magazine on the headboard and happened to flip to another advertisement for scar ointment. There was a before-and-after picture attached to it， too. After applying the ointment， the scars disappeared without a trace， leaving the flesh rejuvenated. I knew the station chief must have seen burn victims before. Their faces looked like scorched pizza. How could he believe the claims in the advertisements? But， I decided， the alternative might be to give up hope completely.

As I pondered this， the station chief suddenly wailed: “I’m so itchy. It’s driving me mad.” He writhed like a centipede， rolling back and forth in a terrifying way， shuddering. We couldn’t decide whether or not to hold him down by force， so all we did was listen to him howling away like a diesel engine on the bed. Sometimes he called for a shovel， sometimes for a rake， anything to scrape away the feeling of tens of thousands of ants crawling all over him. Tens of thousands of ants!

I was so shocked and fearful that I had developed an itch， too. I pressed down the urge to scratch it， for fear that the station chief would think I was showing off. All I could do was endure the pain. It was like purgatory. The station chief ranted for a few minutes， then quieted down， enduring the pain.

“Is it any better?” I asked pathetically.

Tears and snot began to run down the station chief’s face. He made no comment.

After a few days， I went to the hospital with Lao Yuan， the deputy head of the local public security bureau. Lao Yuan was the one who taught me how to write government documents. We were to work together on an essay praising the station chief as a model public servant. We planned to pass it up the chain of command. At the same time， the station chief suddenly seemed rejuvenated: Except for his grizzled hands， the rest of his body was bright red， like a steamed shrimp or a flushed young girl. The burns turned out to be not fatal at all and actually resulted in him growing new skin. He was in good spirits. He smiled and offered us canned food from his cache. We turned him down.

The station chief bit into a chunk of pear， squinted， and began telling us about the fire.

It had been in the evening. The station chief was daydreaming when the township head rushed into the room， calling for help fighting a fire. Seeing no way to get out of the task， the station chief got into the township head’s car and picked up the section chief of military affairs along the way. They arrived at a hillside， where a crowd was fighting a fire， whose bright yellow flames licked up toward the sky. The crowd beat the fire with their clothes and splashed water on it.

The three men drove a bit further， parking the car in a safe place on the other side of the hill. The three men—the station chief， the township head， and the section chief—got out of the car and rushed forward. Looking down from the ridge at the scarlet smoke， gesturing at the flames， they looked like a trio of founding fathers. It was an impressive scene. Unfortunately， God had other plans: The east wind suddenly gave into the west， and the fiery lion tossed his mane and began trampling on the dry saw grass that ran toward them. The three men froze for a while before realizing the only solution was to flee. A terrible roar came from the fire as if the beast had scented human flesh.

The station chief said: “At the time， I don’t think I could even feel the ground or the dry grass beneath my feet. I felt like the whole universe was reduced only to the sound of my lungs huffing and puffing， and my heart thudding. I could only feel the flames clawing at my backside.” Time is what it takes to save a life， after all. Suddenly， the township head in front of him fell. They couldn’t do anything to save him. The two men glanced at one another， then took off， racing like Carl Lewis and Ben Johnson in the hundred meters at the 1988 Olympics. “That was when I realized thighs are a great hindrance to speed，” the station chief said.

The station chief ran until it seemed he had entered a void， unsure whether he was leaping forward or flying. Suddenly， he felt heat across his body， as if he had been dashed with boiling water. He screamed in pain but gritted his teeth and kept running. He ran for a long time. Finally， he realized that the flames were already far ahead of him. He blacked out and collapsed to the ground.

“The fire was already ahead of me， and I was still chasing it like a fool，” the station chief said. “It seems the township head made the most scientific decision. He threw himself to the ground， and the flames went right over his head. That’s why his injuries were minor. He kept a clear head. The section chief and I were nothing but kindling for that fire.”

“Does saw grass have much economic value?” I asked.

Lao Yuan said: “It can be used to produce paper. But we don’t have a paper mill in this county. If we were to export it， it wouldn’t even cover the transportation expenses. I’ve heard it can be woven into sandals， too， but who knows how to do that these days?”

“Completely useless， then，” I said.

“Right，” Lao Yuan said. “Completely useless. When we write the report， we should change the saw grass into something more valuable. We can say it was a stand of virgin forest. We could even say that the fire threatened nearby factories.”

“Are you referring to the chemical plant that secures people’s livelihood?” the station chief said. “You two are full of shit. It was just a field with a bunch of saw grass. Nothing was lost when it burned.”

“Then why were you rushing to save it?” Lao Yuan asked.

“It was the township head that got us up there，” the station chief said. “He said that since it was already dark outside， the American satellites could catch sight of the flame if we didn’t put it out. We’d be in big trouble.”

A few days later， I wrote up the report and brought it to Lao Yuan for editing. He spent two days on it. He read it back to me in a steady cadence. When it got to the key moment， he asked， “It’s moving， isn’t it?”

“Very moving，” I replied.

“For what he sacrificed，” Lao Yuan said， “he deserves a third-class merit.”

When I passed the report up the chain of command， there was no response for a long time. After making a few inquiries， I learned that the county leadership was holding it up. They were worried it might cause problems for their winter fire prevention campaign.

Author’s Note:

In my early twenties， I worked as a police officer in the most remote area of an inland province in central China. There， everyday events could all have been turned into thrilling fiction， but unfortunately， at the time I didn’t realize the wealth before me. In 2006， four years after leaving the police force， I picked two stories from my memory to write about. Here they are.