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.”