At the sound of that word, Jiang Hansheng’s brow furrowed faintly.
His interpretation of red was different from Zhou Jin’s.
The “red dress” was a symbol associated with Qi Yan’s mother. Qi Yan had suffered a profound betrayal by his mother during adolescence, leaving him with indelible psychological wounds. Whenever he saw the color red, he was overtaken by an uncontrollable anxiety, irritability, and recklessness.
This was also the reason Jiang Hansheng had deliberately chosen to wear red during his published profile interview with Qi Yan all those years ago.
For Qi Yan, red represented “hatred.”
But viewed from the perspective of the victim, red could represent “sensuality.”
If the female victims of the Huaiguang serial murders were “symbolic stand-ins” for Qi Yan’s mother, then why had a mother left her son with his deepest impression of her most “sensual” side?
A question formed in Jiang Hansheng’s mind. He set it aside for now without voicing it.
Zhou Jin climbed the stairs and went out through the door into the alley behind the club.
On the night in question, the alley had had club staff working there, moving things about. The police had already questioned the relevant personnel — several of them remembered Chen Xiaoyu clearly.
She had been strikingly beautiful, and the red dress stood out like a beacon in the dark night. She had been alone on the street, sobering up in the fresh air, and passersby had inevitably glanced at her more than once.
According to the staff, it had not been long before Chen Xiaoyu’s “boyfriend” followed her outside as well.
An investigator produced photos captured from a dashcam and showed them to the staff for identification.
The response had been: “It was too dark. I can’t say for certain.”
Zhou Jin twirled her umbrella and looked up and down the street from one end to the other, saying: “This street connects through at both ends to busy districts, and there were staff coming and going. The killer was truly audacious — bold as anything, taking Chen Xiaoyu away right out in the open.”
What had he used to lure Chen Xiaoyu away?
Zhou Jin thought of the killer’s appearance in the photograph: by contemporary standards of attractiveness, his features were clean and well-proportioned, his build tall and strong.
For Chen Xiaoyu, he would have been, at minimum, a perfectly acceptable prospect for a one-night encounter.
Zhou Jin remembered Wang Pengzhe mentioning that this man bore a striking resemblance to Qi Yan.
That had sparked her curiosity.
Zhou Jin asked: “Qi Yan — the actual perpetrator in the Huaiguang serial murder case — did the task force ever investigate his family background and personal relationships?”
Jiang Hansheng said: “They did, but turned up nothing. Even the name Qi Yan — he told me that himself.”
Zhou Jin: “…”
She thought of how Jiang Hansheng had been abducted, pressed her lips together, and tightened her grip slightly on her umbrella handle.
Jiang Hansheng’s tone was entirely matter-of-fact.
After he had been rescued by Yao Weihai, and once his condition had improved slightly, an officer came to his hospital room to take a statement.
Jiang Hansheng lay in his hospital room and carefully recalled everything that had happened during his captivity. Hampered by the physical and mental exhaustion his condition had put him through, in the end he had only been able to give the police a single name — Qi Yan.
The task force had drawn on the criminal profile report Jiang Hansheng had submitted, along with that one name, and over time had poured substantial numbers of grassroots police personnel into canvassing and investigating in an effort to further verify Qi Yan’s identity. It had all come to nothing.
The criminology research lab had originally planned to study Qi Yan as a landmark case, but the absence of any background information on the killer’s family or personal history made it very difficult for the project to move forward.
Zhou Jin thought: Like a ghost, truly. No wonder Professor Wang cursed Qi Yan for haunting them even from beyond the grave.
Rain pattered against the umbrella, producing a rustling roar, white droplets splashing in all directions.
In the quiet between them, Jiang Hansheng went over the process by which the copycat had killed Chen Xiaoyu once more in his mind, and still could not find any point of difference.
Zhou Jin noticed that his brow was slightly furrowed, and assumed she must not have been much help. She said: “My mentor always says, finding nothing is itself a finding — at least it lets you set aside that line of investigation.”
Jiang Hansheng: “…”
Finding nothing is a finding?
Perhaps the fact that there were no differences between the two cases was itself the key.
All at once, Jiang Hansheng’s gaze sharpened, and an overturning thought flashed through his mind —
What if — just, what if — Qi Yan had never died?
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