Xiaokun wore a jade pendant around his neck, hanging from a length of red cord. It was carved in the shape of a plump, endearing little rabbit.

“Xiaokun,” Shi Ting said, “what is your birth sign?”

Xiaokun blinked. “The rabbit.”

Shi Ting nodded. “Take good care of your mother.”

As they left Fan Dabao’s home, Bai Jin said: “Seventh Brother, I had a strange feeling back there. Fan Dabao’s wife looked grief-stricken on the surface, but for all her wailing, I didn’t see a single tear. Do you think she knew he was dead?”

“That woman is hiding something. We’ll look into her further.”

“Where do we go now?”

“You go back to the scene and see if you can find the wages Fan Dabao had hidden under the tile. I’ll do another walkthrough of the factory.”

He checked his watch. “The autopsy should be finished around noon. We’ll reconvene back at the Military Police Bureau.”

On the autopsy table in the forensic examination room, Fan Dabao lay exposed. According to E’Yuan’s count, there were forty-one wounds of varying sizes across the body. A number of them showed no vital reaction — they had been inflicted after death.

“Master, what kind of hatred must this killer have had for Fan Dabao to keep stabbing more than thirty times after he was already dead?”

Yan Qing put on her autopsy gown and mask. “Let’s start with the fatal wound.”

The deceased’s head bore ten wounds. One stab wound had been driven through the eye socket, causing the eyeball to dislodge.

These wounds were comparatively shallow, primarily lacerations, and insufficient to cause death on their own.

The fatal wounds were at the neck and the left chest.

“The right carotid artery is severed,” Yan Qing said, peeling back the skin of Fan Dabao’s neck layer by layer with her scalpel. “The cut end is clean, indicating a sharp weapon — though not exceptionally so.”

“Master, the wound at the victim’s left chest shows clear vital reaction — it was inflicted while he was still alive.”

In other words, the victim had been stabbed through the heart while still living — his heart wrenched out while he yet drew breath.

Yan Qing turned to look. “The wound margin is irregular. Look here — there are small skin flaps and jagged notching at the edges, with significant loss of surface skin.”

She examined the margins of the other wounds on the body. Much the same pattern was present throughout.

E’Yuan furrowed his brow. “Master, what do the skin flaps tell us? Can they identify the weapon?”

Yan Qing explained carefully: “Skin flaps at wound margins are difficult to produce with a sharp weapon. A dagger going in and out creates very smooth wound walls — no skin flaps remain attached. If a dagger develops a rolled edge — a small curl along the blade — then as it is withdrawn, that rolled section can catch and leave a small flap at the wound margin. But the wounds on Fan Dabao’s body clearly weren’t made by a dagger. Let’s approach it differently: what other implement could consistently produce skin flaps across multiple wounds? It would have to be something whose shape is less regular than a dagger, and less sharp.”

“I can’t think of what that might be,” E’Yuan admitted, shaking his head.

“That’s all right. If we’re thorough enough, the body may tell us the answer itself.” Yan Qing picked up her scalpel. “Now dissect each of these wounds in layers and see if anything new turns up.”

While E’Yuan worked through the wounds, Yan Qing found a number of subcutaneous hemorrhages and large contused areas on the deceased’s chest and abdomen.

“E’Yuan, take a look at these.” Yan Qing measured them carefully, then frowned slightly. “These bruised areas all measure approximately 14.0 cm by 7.0 cm. Think about what might produce that.”

Faced with the sudden question, E’Yuan concentrated hard for a moment, then shook his head.

“A human fist,” Yan Qing said with certainty. “The dimensions are more consistent with a male fist.”

E’Yuan was startled. “You mean Fan Dabao was beaten about the chest and abdomen with fists before he died? That’s strange — if the killer already had a weapon capable of killing him, why bother beating him first? And wouldn’t he risk Fan Dabao fighting back? Fan Dabao must have stood at least 177 centimeters, and he was well built — a face-to-face struggle with him would be no certain thing.”

“But the body tells us he was, in fact, beaten before he died.” She wheeled herself suddenly to the deceased’s head and searched carefully among the trimmed hair, and in a moment seemed to find something. The corner of her mouth curved slightly.

“Could it be that he got into an argument with someone — things escalated, and in the course of the struggle the killer used a weapon to kill him?”

“That possibility cannot be ruled out.”

Yan Qing drew a slow breath. “Let’s carry on.”

The clock on the wall pointed to noon, and the hammer struck twelve clear, measured chimes.

“There.”

Yan Qing used forceps to extract a small, glistening fragment from a wound on Fan Dabao’s leg. Had her eyes been any less sharp, a piece this tiny would have been nearly impossible to detect.

“What is that?” E’Yuan quickly held out a tray.

The thing was so small that it made no sound at all when dropped onto the tray.

E’Yuan carefully rinsed it clean with a thin stream of water, restoring something of its original appearance.

“It looks like glass,” he said, studying it closely through a magnifying glass.

“I know what the weapon is.” Yan Qing smiled with confidence. “Let’s clean up — Shi Ting and the others should be back soon.”

The temporary meeting area in the main hall downstairs had already been set up.

When Yan Qing and E’Yuan arrived, Shi Ting had just returned from outside. Spotting her, he came straight toward her with long strides.

“I picked this up on the way.” He pulled a paper bag from inside his uniform coat and pressed it into her hands. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

“What is it? It smells wonderful.” Yan Qing lifted it to her nose and inhaled.

“Roasted sweet potato.”

“I can smell the sweetness from here.” Yan Qing blinked playfully. “Thank you.”

E’Yuan looked over with barely concealed longing, pressing his lips together. “Seventh Brother, is there one for me? I haven’t eaten lunch either.”

“You can eat in the canteen. Bai Jin just headed over.”

E’Yuan was left in silence.

Poor E’Yuan, cast aside in favor of romance, had no choice but to shuffle off mournfully to the canteen for cabbage.

Shi Ting wheeled Yan Qing to the table and took the paper bag from her. It was still warm — the freshly roasted sweet potatoes gave off a fragrant, honeyed sweetness.

He took one out and carefully peeled away the skin. The flesh beneath had been roasted to a golden hue, glistening with fragrant caramelized sugar. It looked irresistible.

Yan Qing reached out to take it. He moved his hand aside.

“Don’t touch it — the sugar is very sticky. You’ll get it all over your hand.”

“Then how am I supposed to eat it?”

He held the sweet potato up to her lips. “You don’t need to use your hands.”

Yan Qing immediately looked around. Everyone was buried in their work, not a single head turned in their direction — or rather, not a single person dared to look.

“This isn’t quite right, is it?” Yan Qing said quietly. “It would be so embarrassing if someone saw.”

“Name one person who’s looking.”

“Eat.” He moved the sweet potato a little closer. “While it’s hot.”

Yan Qing laughed softly and nodded, parting her lips to take a small, cautious bite. Satisfied that it wasn’t too hot, she took a much larger one.

“Is it good?” Shi Ting asked.

“It’s delicious. Really sweet.” Yan Qing’s expression was full of contentment. “What about you? Why aren’t you eating?”

“Watching you eat is enough.”

“That won’t do at all — you’ve been working hard all morning. You can’t go without eating.” She took his wrist and guided the sweet potato to his lips. “You eat too.”

Shi Ting smiled and took a bite from the same place she had bitten.

“Well? Isn’t it sweet?”

“Are you asking about your taste, or the sweet potato’s?” He blinked at her with deliberate innocence.

Yan Qing needed a moment to understand what he meant, then flushed with indignation and struck him on the shoulder. “Shi Ting, you are absolutely insufferable. You don’t get any more.”

In the Military Police Bureau’s canteen, Bai Jin put down his lunch container and glanced at E’Yuan, who was standing there in a daze. “E’Yuan, you’re not full yet?”

“I’m completely full.” He had been fed more than enough — on secondhand affection.

“Then what are you standing around for? Let’s go.”

“I’m waiting for my master to finish her sweet potato.”

Bai Jin let out a short laugh. “So you’re pining for roasted sweet potato. Look at the state of you.”

E’Yuan pursed his lips with the air of someone whose feelings were beyond comprehension.

Bai Jin strolled into the main hall, humming a little tune. He glanced toward the meeting corner — and immediately understood E’Yuan’s dilemma.

The two of them sat facing each other, radiating a kind of effortless harmony, the sort that felt wrong to interrupt.

“Stop standing around. Get everyone together for a meeting.” Shi Ting looked over toward where Bai Jin stood.

Bai Jin pressed a fist to his lips, cleared his throat, and gave a salute. “Yes, sir.”

Everyone hastily finished eating and settled around the conference table.

Photographs of the victim, Fan Dabao, were pinned to the blackboard, assembled from different angles to reconstruct a full picture of the crime scene.

Shi Ting spoke. “During my walkthrough of the Min’an Textile Mill, I spoke with a number of workers. Nearly everyone knew Fan Dabao — he had been at the gatehouse for five years, and even those who didn’t know him well would recognize his face. The general impression of him was consistent: timid, inclined to small advantages, but warm-natured and willing to help when people came to him with matters large or small. Overall, his standing among the workers was fairly good.”

Bai Jin added: “Given that Fan Dabao had a decent reputation and his timid nature made it unlikely he’d make any real enemies, the killer’s motive becomes the key question.”

He took another sip of water. “Now for my findings. The area outside the scene was too heavily compromised to yield any useful footprints. Inside the guardhouse, on the tiles, I was able to retrieve several fresh shoe impressions — but unfortunately, comparison shows they’re all the same type: cloth shoes, the kind issued together with the factory work uniform. With over two hundred workers, shoe impressions alone aren’t enough to narrow down a suspect. Given the heavy foot traffic through the guardhouse every day, fingerprints also yielded nothing of value. That said, two items at the scene are worth noting.”

He held up an evidence bag. “Roasted peanuts — a fresh batch — and two white liquor bottles. The peanuts are fresh, which strongly suggests that on the night of the crime, Fan Dabao was sitting in the guardhouse eating peanuts and drinking.”

E’Yuan pushed up his glasses. “I can confirm Team Leader Bai’s deduction. The autopsy found peanuts and traces of ethanol in the victim’s stomach, though the ethanol level was not high — not enough to cause intoxication. Moreover, the peanuts were largely intact, indicating the victim had only just begun eating them when he was killed.”

“What was Fan Dabao’s tolerance for alcohol?” Shi Ting asked suddenly.

“According to those who knew him, he enjoyed a small drink but his tolerance was average — about three liang of liquor at most.”

“Each of those bottles holds half a jin. Fan Dabao couldn’t have drunk two half-jin bottles of liquor by himself.” Shi Ting’s expression sharpened. “On the night of the crime, there was someone else with Fan Dabao in that guardhouse.”

—

*Brother also wants roasted sweet potato, Brother also wants roasted pig heart skewers — Director Shi, feed me!*