Zhou Jin had no familiarity with this case.

That was hardly surprising. The Huaiguang serial murders were a cold case from twenty years ago — and one that had long since been closed.

Back then, in the city of Huaiguang, over the span of a mere three months, five young women had been killed one after another inside their own homes.

The most striking feature shared across all five cases was this: each female victim had been dressed in a vivid red skirt, rose petals were scattered across the scene, and the cause of death was a laceration to the wrist, leading to fatal blood loss.

Given that the severity of the cases had far exceeded expectations, the authorities had reached out to various media outlets in advance, prohibiting any speculative reporting until the investigation had made progress.

Although the internet was far less developed then than it is now, silencing the mainstream press did nothing to stop the countless whispers circulating among ordinary people.

Analyses and theories of every kind flooded in from all directions, true and false alike nearly impossible to tell apart. Whatever the case, the serial murders had caused no small stir and drew intense attention across Huaiguang.

At that time, Wang Pengzhe had still been working with the Huaiguang Municipal Criminal Investigation Unit.

In the beginning, his investigative approach had been the same as what Zhou Jin had described — conducting standard inquiries into the victims, while placing particular emphasis on investigating the very first case.

Starting from the origin point, to identify the motive behind the killer’s ritual as quickly as possible.

The police had deployed enormous manpower to search and screen suspects — rounding up all manner of petty criminals and those with prior records — but no substantive breakthrough had come.

“Professor Wang produced his first criminal profile quite early, but at the time, criminal profiling hadn’t matured to the point where it could be applied directly to case investigations. No one gave it much weight.”

By now, they had left the convenience store and were walking along a long street bathed in the soft glow of nighttime lamps. The rain fell in a fine, quiet drizzle, landing on the umbrella with a gentle, hushed rustle.

Zhou Jin held her umbrella loosely, tilted at a careless angle against her shoulder. She turned her head sideways, looking at Jiang Hansheng.

He held the umbrella in his left hand, the beer can in his right.

The lamplight swept across the side of his face — the hollows beneath his eyes deep, the line of his lips cool and composed.

He said: “Just when the police found themselves completely at a loss — a man who claimed to be the killer turned himself in. His name was Chen Li. He was an accountant.”

Zhou Jin frowned. “He turned himself in?”

Jiang Hansheng nodded. “The reason the Huaiguang serial murder case was able to be closed back then was precisely because Chen Li came forward.”

“The police had Chen Li identify the crime scenes. He described his criminal process with remarkable clarity, and it corresponded point by point with the evidence they had gathered at the time. According to his confession, he had been dissatisfied with his ex-wife’s infidelity, and had killed those five women in succession as an outlet for his hatred.”

Zhou Jin said: “Since the authorities had sealed off information, the only person who could have known the details of the crimes was the killer himself — so it was Chen Li?”

Jiang Hansheng’s eyes deepened slightly. “Chen Li’s confession matched the evidence on every point — except one. In the first case, forensic investigators recovered traces of a semen stain from the female victim’s body. DNA testing confirmed it did not belong to Chen Li.”

Zhou Jin: “Why?”

Jiang Hansheng: “The explanation eventually given was that the victim had engaged in sexual activity with another man before she was killed. This inconsistency was never examined closely, and the case was closed.”

Zhou Jin said, her voice edged with indignation: “That’s far too hasty a conclusion.”

Jiang Hansheng noticed her tightly knitted brow, and a faint, gentle smile touched the corner of his lips. “You reacted the same way Professor Wang did. I’ve heard that he charged into the unit chief’s office at the time and nearly flipped the desk — he refused to let the unit close the case.”

He lowered his voice with a deliberate air of mystery and added: “That’s only what I’ve heard, of course. The man himself won’t admit to it.”

Zhou Jin thought of Wang Pengzhe with his cigarette dangling from his lips, and smiled. “That sounds exactly like something Professor Wang would do.”

“But there was nothing to be done.” Jiang Hansheng’s voice settled back into something heavier. “Chen Li arrived at exactly the right moment.”

Whether it was the panic-stricken public or the already exhausted police force — everyone needed a “Chen Li.”

So what if the DNA didn’t match? A minor inconsistency like that could be explained away with any convenient excuse, and no one would press further.

No one except Wang Pengzhe.

He held to his position, arguing that Chen Li himself bore far too little resemblance to his criminal profile, and that the case still contained too many unanswered questions.

On top of that, all five female victims had been sexually assaulted before their deaths. The semen traces found inside the first victim almost certainly belonged to the killer.

If it didn’t belong to Chen Li, then whoever it did belong to still needed to be identified. An inconsistency of that magnitude could not simply be set aside.

But with only his unsupported assertions, who would readily believe him?

The police needed evidence, and Wang Pengzhe had none that was conclusive.

Zhou Jin asked: “What did Professor Wang believe the killer was like?”

Jiang Hansheng considered for a moment, then answered: “An adult male. A local of Huaiguang. Single, living alone. No fixed employment, but with a certain degree of financial means — and either skilled in conversation, or of presentable appearance.”

The timing of the five murders followed no particular pattern — two had occurred during holidays, three on weekdays — which indicated the killer was not someone working a standard nine-to-five.

According to the forensic autopsy reports, none of the victims’ bodies showed any restraint injuries, meaning that from the moment the killer selected his target to the moment he killed her, the women had not put up any significant resistance.

Combined with the examination of the crime scenes — doors and windows intact in every case — it was clear that the female victims had initially brought the killer into their homes of their own accord. By the time they realized it was a trap, there had been no opportunity left to resist.

Wang Pengzhe believed the killer held a degree of appeal in the eyes of his female victims — falling into one of three categories: wealth, talent, or looks.

Chen Li, by contrast, worked as an accountant at a small company, earned a modest income, had an unremarkable appearance, and was taciturn by nature — making him generally unpopular in his workplace.

Everything about him ran directly counter to Wang Pengzhe’s profile.

Of course, these were not the killer’s most distinctive characteristics.

The most defining feature of this case was that the killer had a particular image in mind when selecting his targets — women wearing red skirts.

This detail was the crux of the entire matter. It was a key criterion by which the killer chose his victims, and the underlying motive threaded through the entire series of murders.

There had been a woman in a red skirt who had left the killer consumed with hatred. By killing women who resembled her, he was venting that hatred.

Wang Pengzhe believed the killer had suffered some form of emotional devastation — a point that actually aligned with the motive Chen Li had stated. However, when Wang Pengzhe sought out Chen Li’s ex-wife and questioned her, what he found was far removed from what he had imagined.

Chen Li’s ex-wife was a deeply traditional and plain woman, conservative even in the way she dressed.

She gave Wang Pengzhe a definitive answer: she had never worn a red skirt. She had not been unfaithful. Her divorce from Chen Li had been nothing more than a matter of incompatibility.

Hearing this, Zhou Jin said: “Chen Li’s ex-wife could prove he had lied. Wouldn’t that be enough to overturn the case?”

Jiang Hansheng shook his head. “Before Professor Wang had even submitted his report, Chen Li died from liver cancer while in detention.”

Zhou Jin: “…”

A thought surfaced in her mind. Chen Li had perhaps been taking the fall for someone else. He had quite possibly come into contact with the real killer, learned the details of the crimes from that person directly, and then turned himself in to the police.

What had driven him to do so — that answer had become a mystery almost impossible to unravel, buried alongside his death.

Wang Pengzhe had arrived at the same theory, but without evidence, a theory would always remain nothing more than a theory.

Jiang Hansheng said: “Even Professor Wang found it difficult to say with certainty at the time — because after Chen Li died, no similar murders appeared again.”

“And criminal profiling was still very much in its theoretical stages back then. It had always served only as a reference for investigations, and sometimes the truth proved the theory entirely wrong.”

The beer can in his hand was empty now. Jiang Hansheng crushed it flat without effort.

Zhou Jin watched his footsteps become slightly unsteady, and drew a little closer, taking hold of his arm.

She asked: “Are you all right?”

She hadn’t pushed him to drink any more, yet somehow — she wasn’t quite sure how it had happened — Jiang Hansheng had quietly worked his way through both cans.

Jiang Hansheng smiled at her. His expression was difficult to read, and he said with great seriousness: “I’m completely clear-headed.”

Zhou Jin muttered inwardly: there was no way to tell that from looking at him.

Jiang Hansheng took aim at a rubbish bin in the distance and tossed the crushed can with a light flick. It struck with a clean, crisp clang — landing perfectly inside.

He turned back, his dark, bright eyes fixed on Zhou Jin.

“…”

Two or three seconds passed before Zhou Jin caught on. She smiled and offered her praise: “That was impressive.”

Jiang Hansheng gave a satisfied nod, then reached out and drew Zhou Jin in under his umbrella.

Zhou Jin simply folded her own umbrella away, steadied Jiang Hansheng with one hand, and the two of them walked side by side through the rain.

When he showed no sign of continuing, Zhou Jin reasserted her firm tone and pressed on: “Don’t think a few drinks gets you off the hook. You still haven’t answered what I asked. What does the Huaiguang serial murder case have to do with ‘8·17’ — and with my brother?”

Jiang Hansheng answered: “Two special police officers died during ‘8·17.’ One was your brother, Zhou Chuan. The other was a member of the special police unit — Li Jingbo.”

Zhou Jin said: “I know. Li Jingbo and my brother were very close.”

Zhou Chuan had been the unit’s top sniper. Li Jingbo had once served as his spotter.

Jiang Hansheng explained: “Before Li Jingbo died, he had engaged in close-quarters combat with one of the ‘8·17’ criminal members. Forensic examiners recovered traces of blood from beneath his fingernails.”

A look of puzzlement crossed Zhou Jin’s eyes. This was a detail she had never heard before.

Jiang Hansheng continued: “After testing and cross-referencing, it was confirmed that the DNA in that blood sample matched the DNA from the semen trace recovered in the original Huaiguang serial murder case.”