Chapter 407 The Death of Pu Zheng

Lin Jianguo's voice on the phone was tense and suppressed: "The vibration frequency of the wind tunnel model is wrong. An abnormal peak was detected at 2 a.m., exceeding the design threshold by three times. Director He, you have to come and take a look."

He Yuzhu hung up the phone, his finger hovering over the receiver for two seconds. The moon was bright outside the window, its light casting a salty glow on the dusty walls of the office building across the street. He stood for a while, preparing to lie down—Yang Xiaobing had just brought Pu Zheng back from Brazil, and he needed to stay awake.

Less than half an hour after I lay down, the phone rang again.

Yang Xiaobing's voice was hoarse: "Director He, Pu Zheng is in trouble."

He Yuzhu sat up, his bare feet touching the floor. The coolness of the tiles crept up his feet in the early autumn night.

"What is it?"

"Heart attack. The people at the detention center said he cried out that his chest hurt, and by the time the on-duty doctor ran over, he was already curled up on the ground. His heart stopped twice on the way to the hospital, and they tried to resuscitate him for forty minutes in the emergency room, but they couldn't save him."

He Yuzhu held the receiver but didn't answer. Someone walked by in the corridor, the footsteps approaching and then fading away, finally disappearing into the stairwell.

"Has the forensic doctor arrived yet?" he asked.

"We're here. Old Sun is here too. At first glance, there are no external injuries, but he does have a heart problem—his medical record says coronary heart disease and old myocardial infarction. But..." Yang Xiaobing paused, "His nitroglycerin bottle is almost empty."

"We checked it before putting it in; the bottle was full," He Yuzhu said.

"Yes. Old Sun is investigating."

"Who's on duty?"

"Two people. Liu Jianguo, 35 years old, a veteran, served for six years. Zhao Tiejun, 28 years old, a police academy graduate, served for three years. Both said they had never seen the medicine bottle."

He Yuzhu hung up the phone and started getting dressed. His shirt collar was turned up, and he had to tug at it a couple of times to straighten it. Before leaving, he glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table: 2:43 AM.

The detention center corridor reeked of disinfectant and cheap cigarette smoke. Old Sun stood at the entrance to the morgue, a cigarette between his fingers, the ash burning down to a grayish-white powder on the cement floor.

He Yuzhu walked over, and Lao Sun put a cigarette in his mouth and lifted the white cloth.

Pu Zheng lay on the stainless steel table. His face was ashen, his lips bluish-purple, and his wrinkles were deeper than when he was alive. There were several electric shock burn marks on his chest, his skin was scorched yellow with blackened edges. An IV catheter was inserted into his arm, the tape loosely attached, one corner sticking up.

He Yuzhu stared at that face for more than ten seconds. The cold air from the morgue poured down from the overhead vents, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck. Pu Zheng had a dried drool trail at the corner of his mouth; he reached up to wipe it away, but then lowered his hand halfway.

"Where's the medicine bottle?" he asked.

Old Sun pulled a transparent evidence bag from his pocket, inside which was a small brown glass bottle. The label was badly worn, but the words "nitroglycerin tablets" were barely legible. He shook the bag, and two or three tablets rolled around at the bottom of the bottle, making a soft rubbing sound.

"Given his condition, this amount of medication won't last a week." Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette on the wall, leaving a black soot stain. "Before he was locked up, we checked his belongings, and the bottles were full. He's only been in the detention center for less than four days, and his medication is already this much less. Either he disposed of it himself, or someone else did."

"What did Liu Jianguo and Zhao Tiejun say?"

"Liu Jianguo vehemently denies ever seeing the medicine bottle. Zhao Tiejun said he dozed off while on duty, but didn't touch Pu Zheng's things." Old Sun put the evidence bag into his pocket. "I had someone check their backgrounds. Liu Jianguo was a soldier, his file is clean. Zhao Tiejun graduated from police academy, no problems there either."

"What about the surveillance footage?"

"There are surveillance cameras in the corridor, but not in the cells. Zhao Tiejun's shift went to Pu Zheng's cell three times. The normal procedure is once—to deliver water and check the beds. He went three times."

He Yuzhu turned and walked out of the morgue. The corridor was dimly lit, the bulbs covered in a layer of dust, making faces appear yellowish. "Where is Zhao Tiejun now?"

"Duty room. Old Lu is looking at him."

"Were fingerprints taken from the medicine bottle?"

Old Sun paused for a moment. "Not yet. I'll have someone make it now."

The bright incandescent light in the duty room made Zhao Tiejun's face appear pale. He sat on a folding chair, his hands on his knees, fingers interlaced, thumbs rubbing back and forth. Seeing He Yuzhu enter, he stood up, then sat down again.

"Zhao Tiejun." He Yuzhu pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him, less than a meter away.

"Here." Zhao Tiejun's voice was a little tense.

"You went to Pu Zheng's cell three times. What time was the first time?"

"Nine:40 PM. Routine bunk check."

"The second time?"

"It was 11:20. I heard him coughing, so I brought him a glass of water."

"And the third time?"

Zhao Tiejun swallowed. "It's 1:10 a.m. He said he felt tightness in his chest. I asked him if he wanted to call a doctor, but he said no, he just needed to lie down for a while."

"When you went in, did you see the medicine bottle on his bedside table?"

"I didn't notice."

Did you touch his medicine bottle?

"no."

He Yuzhu stared at him. Zhao Tiejun's eyes drifted slightly to the upper left before returning to their original position. He Yuzhu had seen this reaction far too many times—not lying, but nervousness. But nervousness is sometimes more dangerous than lying.

"Zhao Tiejun, you studied at the police academy. A patient with coronary heart disease had a nearly empty nitroglycerin bottle, and the duty officer went three times without noticing. Do you think anyone would believe that?"

Zhao Tiejun rubbed his thumbs together more rapidly. His lips opened and closed. After more than ten seconds, he finally spoke: "Director He, I... I really didn't notice the medicine bottle. I thought he didn't have any medicine on him, and that it was locked in the cabinet in the duty room."

"Who told you the medicine lock was in the duty room?"

"Nobody told me. I figured it out myself."

He Yuzhu stood up, walked to the door, and glanced back. Zhao Tiejun sat in a chair, head down, shoulders trembling slightly.

Four days later, in Myitkyina, Myanmar.

In this small town on the banks of the Irrawaddy River, the rainy season has just ended. Tall coconut trees line the streets, their shade adorned with fruit and jade stalls. Burmese, Indians, and Chinese mingle together, their cries of vendors rising and falling. The air is thick with the damp, earthy smell of damp earth and the cloying sweetness of roasted bananas.

Yang Xiaobing was wearing a Burmese checkered longyi, a straw hat, and his face was covered with tannarizine sunscreen—a yellow powder that mostly concealed the scar on his face. Old Lu followed behind him, wearing a dark T-shirt and work pants, carrying a canvas bag, looking like a backpacker.

They waited at the tea shop for three days.

Chen Zhiyuan didn't show up on the first day. He didn't show up on the second day either. On the morning of the third day, a barefoot little boy ran over and handed them a note that read in Chinese: "I know you're here. Tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock, at the riverside pier. Come alone."

Yang Xiaobing turned the note over; there was nothing on the back. He asked the little boy who had given him the note, and the little boy pointed across the street before running away. Across the street, there was only an old woman selling betel nuts, her head down, chewing them, red juice dripping from the corner of her mouth.

"A trap," Old Lu said.

"Maybe not." Yang Xiaobing folded the note and stuffed it into his pocket. "I'll go alone tomorrow. You stay on the outside."

The next day at four o'clock in the afternoon, at the riverside dock.