Chapter 175: Twisted English

2022-05-20

One thing we need to understand—when a killer leaves behind nothing but very specific traces, it’s exactly what they want us to see. The investigators who checked the scene told us Captain Li practically flipped both apartments upside down during the search. Yet, other than those telltale stains on the bedsheets, nothing turned up.

I stood in front of Luo Xiaolu’s bed. No lights were on. The room was so dim and still it felt like time had come to a halt. If the killer left something intentionally, it wasn’t just to stake a claim; there had to be a deeper meaning. I switched on the UV lamp again. Staring at each glowing trace left behind, a realization started to take shape in my mind.

Ignoring the substance itself, I just looked at the glowing spots. The bright dots were scattered across the bedsheet in a seemingly random, irregular pattern. To create something like this wouldn’t have been a one-time accident or some chance occurrence.

Suddenly, an image flashed through my mind. If you stacked the bedsheets from 402 and 502 together, both beds being the same size and style, the sheets would line up perfectly.

Without another word, I yanked the bedsheet off and headed upstairs. Eyes followed me every step, curious and wary. The stains were almost invisible in normal light, but everyone understood—they’d been left by a man, evidence from the victim.

Maybe they were afraid of touching it. Some people kept their distance.

Gu Chen and Guan Zengbin didn’t comment. They just followed right behind.

“Help me lay out the sheet,” I said, tossing it onto the bed. “Line up all four corners—spread it out as neatly as possible.”

Once we’d finished laying it, I flicked the UV lamp back on. The stains from both sheets overlapped, still a tangled, chaotic mess—until we adjusted them twice, and something strange happened. The glowing, random spots twisted together to form a few crooked lines of English letters.

I might’ve spent more time in high school English classes reading detective novels than studying, but I still knew my 26 letters. Gu Chen was about as hopeless as me, so both of us turned to Guan Zengbin.

Guan Zengbin’s face was dark and focused. He stared at the string of English letters.

I gave a little cough to break the tension, reminding him that we weren’t exactly language whizzes.

“At least you two can tell it’s English,” Guan Zengbin said, pulling out his phone to snap a photo.

I nodded. “Yeah, I recognize the letters, but put together like this, I’ve got no clue what they mean.”

“You slackers,” Guan Zengbin muttered while snapping pictures, then translated as he read: “Evil descended upon the world, named the ugliness of man. The prologue to this story begins with the furious blood of two women, and what must start—the main story.”

“I understand every word you just said,” Gu Chen scratched his head, “but together it makes zero sense. Did you translate it right?”

Guan Zengbin lowered the camera and looked at Gu Chen. “Don’t underestimate a forensic scientist’s English. Especially not technical terms—you’ll never hear half of them in daily life. Word for word, that’s what it means. But translation aside, what’s the killer really trying to say? That’s the mystery.”

Sentences like this, scrawled out in such a weird way, were never meant for us. Maybe the message was for the killer alone. Judging from the situation, that seemed likely.

“But why write it in English?” Gu Chen wondered aloud.

I thought for a moment. “Chinese characters are square and organized. If the killer wrote in Chinese, anyone could spot the patterns right away. To make it harder, they’d have to split characters into fragments across separate sheets, which is a lot more work than just using English.”

Tugging my hair, I couldn’t help but mutter, “People like this—their minds just work differently. They see the world as something totally apart from us, and what they try to express is alien, too.”

“You don’t think it’s a message from some extremist group, do you?” Gu Chen asked, still scratching his head. “It kind of sounds like it.”

I shook my head. “No idea. Let’s check out the backyard.”

We stepped out to find a crowd at the door, all curious about what we’d just been doing.

Someone joked, “Impressive! We all missed it but you and your team caught on. They should never have transferred you. We could learn so much if your group stayed.”

I replied, “You were all there at the last case. You know how it ended.”

Patting his shoulder, I went on, “When I looked out the upstairs window, I saw the backyard was a mess of footprints. It hasn’t snowed lately, but it’s been warming up. Could you tell which ones belonged to the victim?”

He gave an awkward laugh. “Security spotted the body first. When they saw someone collapsed on the ground they assumed it was a faint or something, not a corpse, so a few of them rushed over. Their footprints ruined the scene. Then the paramedics arrived, and only after did we get there.”

“When we arrived the tracks were useless.”

I scratched my head. “Alright then.”

Without firsthand evidence, we couldn’t get a direct look at what happened. Right now, I was in 502—Zhao Kaifang’s apartment, the first victim in this case. I walked over to the shoe cabinet and turned back. “Say, when the body was found, she wasn’t wearing shoes, right?”

He nodded, curious. “Yeah, how’d you know that?”

I shrugged. “The killer wrote that he followed her footsteps, killed Zhao Kaifang, then put on her shoes to leave. So if he took her shoes, how could she be found wearing any?”

“Right!” He slapped his forehead. “Totally slipped my mind.”

I turned to Guan Zengbin. “Tell me, what would a white-collar worker wear home after work?”

Guan Zengbin pouted, then grinned, “Heels, of course!”

“Even in winter?” I asked.

Guan Zengbin nodded. “There are winter heels, you know.”

I nodded, opening the shoe cabinet. They say a woman’s closet is never full, and I guess that goes for shoe racks, too. Inside was a jumble of shoes. I pulled out a pair of heels and held them up.

“Let’s go,” I told the group.

“Where to?”

“I want to show you something interesting,” I said.

We headed downstairs, just as Xiao Liu finished talking with Team Leader Shao. As Xiao Liu headed up, he spotted us and came over. “Wu Meng, did you find anything useful?”

Gu Chen couldn’t stand Xiao Liu’s attitude and shot back, “What’s it matter to you? Our teams are competing, remember? Either you go or we go at the end—so don’t expect any handouts.”

Gu Chen strode off first.

He’s usually pretty quiet, but he sure got chatty around Xiao Liu. Guess that means he does care, somewhere deep down. People’s feelings rarely match what comes out of their mouths.

Xiao Liu watched Gu Chen leave, a lonely look on his face.

I patted his shoulder gently. “You know what Gu Chen’s like—he’s harsh but soft on the inside. If we find anything you’ll know. Ask him later when we’re back. Let’s go.”

Xiao Liu sighed. “Thanks.”

We made our way to the backyard. Lately, the weather’s been warming up. With the city’s urban heat, only quiet places kept any snow at all. I looked at Guan Zengbin. “Ready, Binzi?”

I gave the heel in my hand a little shake.

Everyone understood right away.

“A reenactment!” They sounded excited.

Guan Zengbin didn’t hesitate. She sat down, yanked off her shoes, and crooked a finger for me to help her put the heels on. I was more than happy to oblige. They fit her pretty well—Zhao Kaifang was about 1.7 meters tall, much like Guan Zengbin.

If the killer followed her footprints, it would have started with him cutting through the complex at an angle, heading straight through the garden, not sticking to winding paths but making a beeline for the apartment building. That’s how the footprints were left.

“So, who’s going to play the killer?”

Guan Zengbin glanced at me, then at Gu Chen.