I didn't leave the scene immediately. Instead, I called Huang Xiaotao and asked her to bring my forensic tools.
As soon as the others heard I'd been attacked, they rushed over. Huang Xiaotao was the first to arrive, worry written all over her face. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head. "No. Remember that mysterious man who saved us before? He showed up again. Saved my life."
She glanced at the steel pipe, sliced clean in two, and gasped. "Your secret bodyguard is seriously impressive. Too bad he didn't bother to catch the attackers."
Who knows what goes through that guy's head?
I had Huang turn on ultraviolet light and used a forensic umbrella to examine footprints. There were three sets—one belonging to the mysterious man, one size 40 sneaker, and one size 35 leather shoe. I told Zhou to bring plaster for casting.
Huang asked, "Do you think these two attackers are connected to the killer?"
"Very likely," I said. "They might've been trying to kill me…"
That was my guess. But if they really wanted to kill me, their methods were oddly inefficient. Why not just use a knife?
...
...
I noticed some hardened concrete residue on the steel pipe. No fingerprints—clearly the assailant wore gloves. Just then, Wang Yuanchao returned from the far end of the alley with a matching steel pipe in hand. "Found this at a nearby construction site. The weapon was taken from there."
So it wasn't premeditated? Then what was the motive?
Suddenly, Huang asked, "Oh right—why were you buying sanitary pads?"
I smacked my forehead. "Crap! Bingxin is still stuck on the toilet!"
Huang rolled her eyes. "Why didn't you say something earlier? I had some in my bag. And don't go out alone at night again."
"Got it!" I nodded.
We returned to the hotel. More than the killer's identity, what baffled me now was that mysterious man—who was he?
Later, while crossing the street, I deliberately slowed down, waiting for a car to approach. Just as it neared, I stepped out in front of it.
Screech—brakes slammed. The driver cursed, "You suicidal punk!"
Huang rushed over and scolded me. "What are you doing?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"I wanted to see if the mystery man would save me again."
She gave me a helpless smile. "Only you would think of something like that. What if you actually got hit? If you really want to find him, let's use proper investigative methods."
—
The next day, Huang asked Bingxin to rest at the hotel while the two of us visited local auto repair shops. There weren't many in this small county, so by noon, we had a lead—one mechanic named Cao Dazhuang had disappeared last year.
"Did anyone report it?" I asked the shop owner.
He pulled up a message on his phone—the last text from Cao Dazhuang.
Boss, sorry for leaving without notice. My cousin in the city called me over to help. Don't worry about paying me.
A classic move by the killer. I was now almost certain Cao was the latest victim. But we'd still need DNA to confirm.
We asked for his address. The owner told us he had rented a place, likely occupied by someone else by now.
Still, we got the address and visited the landlord. The landlord remembered Cao leaving abruptly. "His friend came to pack his things and paid the overdue utility bills."
"Do you know the friend's name?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No idea. That was half a year ago."
"Try to recall anything," I pressed.
After thinking a moment, the landlord said, "He was a tailor, I think. I saw him once at a shop. Said hello."
We got the shop's address.
Turns out Cao Dazhuang's 'friend' was none other than Zhang Qiang.
Huang and I exchanged a look. That couldn't be a coincidence. I had a gut feeling the cases were linked.
As we left, Huang asked, "Should we pay the tailor shop another visit?"
"No need," I said.
She smirked. "Playing hard to get, are we? Nicely done."
Cops often don't confront their top suspects immediately—it's better not to startle the prey. Clearly, Huang shared my suspicions about Zhang Qiang.
I'd developed a habit from years of criminal profiling: when I suspected someone, I'd place them into the killer's profile and look for contradictions.
Right now, the killer was just a dark shadow—but Zhang Qiang fit that shadow eerily well.
"What now?" Huang asked.
"I want to organize my thoughts."
"Let's grab something to eat, then."
I bought a county map from a street kiosk, and we headed to a fast-food place. I spread the map on the table and marked where each victim had lived.
Huang brought over a plate of food. "Detective Song, back at it with your divination ritual?"
I shook my head. "Just trying to find what links the victims."
"They were all young and pretty women," she said.
"That's a common trait, not a common thread," I corrected. "What I mean is—despite having different jobs, did they have any shared habits, routines, or places they frequented?"
"Women love clothes," she mused. "Maybe they were all customers at the same tailor shop. If that's the case, those two are even more suspicious."
"Hmm," I murmured. "Is that really it?"
She said, "I'll have someone check if all the victims had visited that shop."
I nodded. "Great. Let's do a crime reconstruction this afternoon."
"Wait, what?" she blinked.
"Just a normal reconstruction," I clarified. "No necromancy involved."
Back at the precinct, we held a brief case meeting. Huang assigned officers to investigate the victims' last-month whereabouts and Cao Dazhuang's social circle.
After the meeting, we found an empty conference room and recreated the first murder.
According to the files, the victim had been disfigured with boiling oil while still alive, and then killed with a strike to the back of the head.
I immediately sensed a contradiction.
"You were right earlier," Huang said. "It feels like there were two killers."
I shook my head. "That's not what I mean. Imagine we're the murderers—how do we pull this off without leaving a trace?"
"Well, first off, no fingerprints—so we wear gloves," she said. "Then, we avoid using anything traceable, like power tools or chemicals. As for the body, dump it somewhere remote. The longer it takes to find, the better."
"Suppose you're a tailor, and the victim's wearing something from your shop. Do you remove it?"
"Of course!" she answered instantly.
"What's the best way to disfigure a body?"
"Lye. Easy to get. Easy to clean up. Way safer than boiling oil—and doesn't leave obvious clues at home."
I nodded. "Exactly. The first murder was inefficient—very amateur. But oddly, all subsequent killings followed that same method. It's like the killer wanted to make a statement. Could it be to match that folk tale—something no cop would actually believe?"
"Or…" I said, voice lowering, "the first killing was spontaneous. Everything afterward was mimicking it."
A light sparked in my mind.
"I think we're looking at an evolving serial murder case."