Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Onlookers

Zhao Weiping let out a soft sigh, drew out a file, and boldly inscribed the title: Final Report on the Female Corpse Case at the Fertilizer Factory.

He began to write: Huang Juan, female, twenty-three years old, Han ethnicity, formerly a worker in the raw material crushing workshop of the fertilizer factory. On such and such a date, she died in the crushing workshop. Forensic examination concluded that there were gear marks on her face, no other obvious wounds on her body, and her heart had stopped suddenly. Investigation revealed that the deceased had been emotionally depressed before her death, possibly suffering a sudden mental disorder leading to cardiac arrest; as she fell, her body was at a forty-five-degree angle and landed precisely on the machine’s gears, damaging her face...

As Zhao Weiping’s pen moved, his thoughts raced back over every detail of the case. The workshop’s doors and windows had been tightly locked; not a single suspicious fingerprint or footprint had been found. By all rights, the autopsy should have closed the matter, but Zhao Weiping could not shake the vague sense that something was amiss. He could not say exactly what—perhaps it was just the intuition honed by years of handling cases.

The recent tomb robbery and dismemberment case had already left him weary and overwhelmed. Only now had he begun to see a glimmer of hope: an informant reported that two items, suspected to have come from that ancient tomb, had appeared on the black market. But as for who had bought or sold them, there was no way to find out. The methods were professional, the loot disposed of quickly, and not a single usable clue left behind.

With another sigh, Zhao Weiping lit a cigarette and called out through the door, “Xiao Shen, come here and take this file to the chief for his signature.”

“All right…”

Fertilizer Factory, Security Office.

Cui Yue was engrossed in a book titled The Later Chronicles of Yue Fei. A short fellow pushed open the door and joked, “Hey, Scholar, reading again?”

Cui Yue looked up and grinned mischievously. “Ha, Zhang Hao, back so soon? How’s the new girl from Sichuan in Workshop One—pretty?”

“Pretty, of course! Fair-skinned, ponytail. But not as lovely as your Willow, of course.”

“Get lost! Watch your mouth—if someone hears, they’ll believe it’s true.”

“But it is true—”

Before Zhang Hao could finish, Cui Yue hurled his book at him, aiming for his face.

Zhang Hao ducked quickly, shouting, “Mercy, good man!”

“I’ll stomp your dog’s head!” Cui Yue laughed and cursed.

After a bit of horseplay, the two finally settled down.

Suddenly, Zhang Hao said, “Cui Yue, let’s go for a walk.”

“No, I just got back from patrol.”

“Don’t be so dull. The section chief’s off today. I know a place—let’s grab Da Zhuang and have some fun. I guarantee you’ve never been there.”

Cui Yue eyed him skeptically. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve patrolled this factory a hundred times—there’s not a corner I haven’t seen.”

Zhang Hao saw through his doubt. “Really, come on, come on.” He dragged Cui Yue out, and the two of them joined Da Zhuang as they left the security office.

From south to north they walked, until their feet were ready to smoke from exhaustion.

“Zhang Hao, why’d you drag us to the back gate? There’s nothing here.” Cui Yue grumbled.

“You know nothing. Go through this gate, up the little hill—a warehouse. There’s good stuff nearby.”

“A warehouse? I’ve been patrolling for ages and never seen it. The section chief never mentioned it.”

“Your brain’s rusted. It’s just scrapped lathes and parts, watched over by one guy. No need to patrol.”

The three trekked through the back gate and along a mountain path, arriving at a gentle slope surrounded by fields brimming with melons and vegetables.

“Well? Not bad, right?” Zhang Hao said proudly.

“Not bad at all.” Da Zhuang was already drooling.

Cui Yue, too, felt tempted but uneasy. “This… isn’t right. What if the farmers catch us and report it to the factory? We’ll be in trouble.”

“Relax. It’s so hot, no one’s out. Besides, we’re all brothers here—what’s wrong with sharing a melon or two? The friendship between workers and peasants is unbreakable!” Zhang Hao joked, full of twisted logic.

But Cui Yue remained uneasy, glancing around nervously. Ever since he’d been caught stealing candy at age ten and received a thorough beating from Cui Yuanjun—so fierce his backside swelled up—he’d never dared touch what wasn’t his. The pain had left a lasting impression.

But Zhang Hao and Da Zhuang paid no heed. Like hungry tigers, they rushed into the melon patch.

Without a care for Cui Yue, Zhang Hao and Da Zhuang each grabbed a big watermelon, grinning ear to ear.

As Cui Yue kept watch, he noticed something odd. On the western edge of the field, atop a small mound, three sticks of incense were planted in the earth, and a rough bowl held half a bowl of white rice as an offering.

Cui Yue stared for a while, a sense of unease creeping over him. The arrangement looked strangely familiar, as if he’d seen it somewhere before.

“Hey, you two, come here—something’s not right,” he called out.

But there was no reply; only the sound of rind cracking rang out. Turning, he saw Zhang Hao and Da Zhuang had already smashed their melons and were devouring the red flesh, thinking, “If you won’t eat, we will—first come, first served.”

“No, I mean—look at that!” Cui Yue urged anxiously.

Just then, both men suddenly froze, watermelon juice dripping all over their clothes, as if transfixed and unable to move.

Cui Yue was so startled he dared not speak. Could it be another haunting? He’d been jumpy ever since the incident, haunted by the memory of that vengeful ghost’s eyes.

“Hahaha!” Suddenly, Zhang Hao and Da Zhuang burst into laughter, seeing Cui Yue’s anxious face. They’d often teased him since he’d fainted at the crime scene last time, and had just conspired to scare this “bookish scholar.”

Da Zhuang laughed so hard he was gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face.

Realizing he’d been tricked, Cui Yue stamped his foot in frustration, snatched a clod of earth, and hurled it at them.

“Eat, eat—go on, stuff yourselves!”

“Coward, we were just having a bit of fun,” Zhang Hao said, struggling to keep a straight face.

As they continued to joke, Da Zhuang kept laughing, unable to stop, as if he’d swallowed a century’s worth of laughing gas—his back bent, his tears streaming, and soon he could not even make a sound. His expression grew pained, his eyes rolling, and yet his mouth kept moving. At this rate, he’d surely laugh himself to death.