E’Yuan smiled calmly. “Old Bai, you needn’t worry about that. My master has seen it all — have you ever seen her frightened?”

Bai Jin rolled his eyes. “As I recall, a certain someone threw up the first time he attended a crime scene — and threw up all over me. I still feel nauseated thinking about it.”

“Bai Jianchuan, must you bring that up in front of my master?”

Yan Qing smiled. “It’s completely understandable the first time. You get used to it.”

Bai Jin stepped forward and pushed open the door to the guardhouse. A wave of blood-soaked air struck them full in the face.

Yan Qing inhaled through her nose. “E’Yuan, do you smell anything else?”

“I think so.” E’Yuan sniffed as well. “Like the smell of burnt meat. Revolting.”

The room was roughly ten square meters, with a single window, the glass of which lay shattered across the floor.

Along the wall beneath the window sat a battered wooden desk. The cup, newspaper, and various books on its surface had been thrown into disarray. Below the desktop, a three-drawer unit had been yanked out and upended on the floor, its contents scattered everywhere, two green glass bottles of grain liquor lying among them.

In the middle of the room stood an iron stove connected to a metal flue pipe that ran up and out through an opening above the window.

The fire in the stove had long gone cold; its surface was icy to the touch.

Not far from the stove, a single bed stood against the wall, made up with an army-green sheet and a floral cotton-padded quilt.

The victim was sitting on the floor in front of the bed, his head resting against the mattress, arms hanging limply at his sides, bare-footed. His slippers lay separately — one near the stove, the other in the corner to the west.

He was dressed in a grey-blue work uniform, now so thoroughly soaked in blood it was nearly impossible to make out its original color.

“Whoever did this had no mercy.” E’Yuan shook his head. “There must be dozens of wounds on this body.”

The victim’s head and face were crisscrossed with lacerations. One eye had rolled from its socket and hung against his left cheek.

The carotid artery at his neck had been severed; blood had sprayed across the bed behind him and across the floor in every direction, pooling into a vast dark stain.

The front of the deceased’s garment was torn open. A bloody cavity gaped in his left chest — empty. The ribs had been wrenched apart by brute force. The victim’s heart was gone.

Shi Ting made his way to Yan Qing’s side the moment she entered. “The body has dozens of wounds. I can’t say yet what weapon was used.”

“Given the sheer brutality of it, the killer must have harbored a deep and bitter hatred for this man,” Yan Qing said. “It’s as though they wanted to cut him into a thousand pieces.”

As she spoke, E’Yuan crouched beside the body for his examination. “Lividity is concentrated primarily in the lower extremities. Finger pressure produces slight blanching.”

E’Yuan flexed the deceased’s toe joints. “Rigor at the toe joints is not pronounced. Time of death was approximately eleven o’clock last night.”

Yan Qing watched with quiet approval. Thinking of the arrogant young forensic examiner she had first met, she could barely recognize that person in the one before her now. He was growing at a pace that was visible to the naked eye.

“What is the cause of death?”

E’Yuan examined carefully. “The severing of the carotid artery would appear to be the fatal wound.”

“What makes you certain the chest wound is not the fatal one?” Yan Qing asked.

E’Yuan was stumped.

“Without definitive evidence,” Yan Qing said, “we must not allow assumptions to take hold. Both the wound at the neck and the wound at the chest are capable of causing death.”

“I’ll remember that, Master.”

Shi Ting asked from nearby: “Can you determine what kind of weapon caused these injuries?”

Yan Qing shook her head. “The wounds on the body vary in size, but they all share one characteristic: sharp wound angles, largely clean wound margins, with significant loss of surface skin. Looking at the external examination alone, some of these are stab wounds, others are incised wounds — but one thing is certain: they were not caused by a dagger, a kitchen knife, or anything of that kind. The specifics will have to wait for the autopsy.”

“The killer extracted the victim’s heart,” E’Yuan noted, measuring the chest wound. “What would they want with it — were they planning to cook and eat it?”

E’Yuan’s remark brought to mind the strange smell Shi Ting had noticed upon entering, and he turned to Yan Qing. “Did you catch that burning smell as well?”

“Yes, though I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.”

Shi Ting walked to the stove in the middle of the room and crouched down, pinching a small amount of ash from beneath it. “This ash is fresh. The stove was lit last night.”

“It hasn’t even reached November yet, but this room lets in the cold from every direction — the window is in terrible condition as well. Without a fire in the stove at night, you’d freeze solid.” E’Yuan interjected. “It’s perfectly normal for the victim to have lit the stove.”

A round iron lid sat on top of the stove, with an inward-facing ring set into it. When the fire was burning, one would hook the ring with an iron tool to lift the lid and add coal.

Shi Ting removed the lid. The acrid burning smell immediately grew stronger.

He reached his gloved hand into the stove and felt around among the ash and debris. After a moment, he drew out something coated in charred soot — blackened beyond recognition.

Bai Jin called from the doorway: “Please don’t tell me that’s the victim’s heart.”

“It is,” Yan Qing confirmed. “When a heart is burned, it contracts and hardens. The surface has formed a black crust. It’s been burning for quite some time.”

“The killer cut out the victim’s heart and threw it into the stove?” Bai Jin stared in disbelief. “What kind of grudge requires that?”

Shi Ting said, “There are also signs of the scene having been searched. What would a guardsman keep in a guardhouse worth finding?”

“Exactly — even if he had valuables, he wouldn’t keep them here.”

“Not necessarily.” Shi Ting pointed to the deceased’s left wrist. “There are fresh circular pressure marks on the skin. He was wearing a watch. That watch is now gone.”

“A guardsman’s watch wouldn’t be worth much — it seems the killer wasn’t particularly discerning, taking anything of apparent value they came across on the scene.”

Among the scattered items on the floor, Shi Ting noticed a stone amid the broken glass — fist-sized, sharp-edged, clearly not something that belonged indoors.

He placed it in an evidence bag and handed it to a nearby officer, then peeled off his soiled gloves. “First have the body transported back to the Military Police Bureau for autopsy. Has the person in charge of the factory arrived?”

“Yes, they’re waiting outside.”

Shi Ting nodded, then turned and pushed Yan Qing out of the guardhouse, adding carefully as they went: “You and E’Yuan head back first. Don’t overtire yourself. Take care of yourself.”

E’Yuan leaned over helpfully. “Seventh Brother, rest assured — I’ll handle all the hard and dirty work. I won’t let Master wear herself out.”

Yan Qing smiled. “It’s fine.”

Shi Ting raised one finger and gave her cheek the gentlest of touches — the affection in his gaze warm enough to melt ice and snow. “Off you go.”

Bai Jin clapped a hand to his chest. “Seventh Brother, have you given any thought to my fragile little heart?”

Shi Ting looked at him with a slight frown.

“I am a single man, and my heart is an extremely delicate thing. Could you two perhaps refrain from being quite so affectionate in front of me? This kind of display very easily gives me the urge to take revenge on society.”

Shi Ting raised an eyebrow. “You can’t take even this much?”

“Seventh Brother, you’re not seriously considering staging a passionate kiss in front of all of us, are you?”

“Anything is possible.”

Bai Jin looked to the sky in despair. “Have mercy, Seventh Brother.”

At that moment, a man in a grey mandarin-collar suit, hair slicked back, round spectacles perched on his nose, came striding over.

“Director Shi, a pleasure, a pleasure.” The man extended a hand with a broad smile. “I just received a call from Mr. Liu — he asked me to cooperate fully with Director Shi’s work.”

Shi Ting shook his hand. “You are the person responsible for this factory?”

“That’s right. Everyone calls me Old Qian.”

“Factory Director Qian, please come and identify the body.”

“Of course, of course.” Factory Director Qian approached the guardhouse doorway, took one look inside, and immediately turned away with the expression of someone about to be sick.

Seeing his face go white, Shi Ting said mildly, “If you need to be sick, Factory Director Qian, please go ahead.”

Factory Director Qian covered his mouth and trotted to the side of the road, where he retched thoroughly. By the time he was done — eyes streaming, nose running — he wiped the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief and walked back with red-rimmed eyes.

“Director Shi, I do apologize. It’s my first time seeing something like this. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Perfectly understandable. Human nature.”

Factory Director Qian composed himself and said: “This is our factory’s guard. His name is Fan Dabao, thirty-three years old, a native of Shun Cheng. His wife and ten-year-old son live in the shantytown over there.”

“How long has Fan Dabao been working here?”

“He’s one of our longest-serving employees. He used to work in the dyeing workshop, but after falling ill he could no longer manage the heavy labor. The guard at the time had just left, so we put him in that position. By now he’s been with the factory ten years, and in this guard post for five. There isn’t a soul here who doesn’t know him.”

“How was his reputation? Did he have any enemies?”

“Fan Dabao had no bad habits to speak of. He was generally timid, liked a little drink, liked to brag a bit, and had a habit of taking small advantages where he could. As the man who controlled comings and goings at the gate, he could sometimes be understanding when a worker arrived a little late and let them through anyway. All in all, he was a fairly unremarkable sort of person — not the type to make serious enemies.”

“When does your factory pay wages?”

“Yesterday,” Factory Director Qian answered without hesitation. “The fifteenth of every month, on the dot. Our factory is doing well — we never withhold wages.”

Shi Ting fell into thought. “When does Fan Dabao normally go home?”

“Once a week, around midday on Sundays. He’d drop off his dirty clothes, pick up some clean ones, and return to the factory, usually spending only one afternoon there.”

“Who was he closest to here at the factory?”

“That I wouldn’t know. We have over two hundred people here, and staff comes and goes — besides the management and long-serving workers, I really couldn’t say.”

Shi Ting pressed Factory Director Qian no further. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Not at all — it’s the least I could do.” Factory Director Qian hurried to shake Shi Ting’s hand again. “I’m in the office building on the grounds. If there’s anything you need, Director Shi, please don’t hesitate to say so. If you need to conduct an investigation inside the factory, just let my secretary know — he’ll make all the arrangements.”

Shi Ting thanked Factory Director Qian, then had Bai Jin call in the person who had reported the crime.

The person who had filed the report was a textile worker from the factory named Xiao Feng. She had entered the guardhouse at the start of her morning shift and discovered Fan Dabao’s body.

Xiao Feng had been badly shaken. Two officers spent a considerable time calming her down before she was finally composed enough to speak.

Bai Jin lit a cigarette and held it between his teeth, narrowing his eyes. “Seventh Brother, do you think this Xiao Feng might be a suspect? What reason would a female worker have to go into the guardhouse? Wasn’t she afraid Fan Dabao might take advantage of her?”

—