Chapter 2: Inside My Belly

“Move!” Team Leader Shao barked. “Search along both sides of the tracks! We can’t let him get away!”

“This is the primary crime scene!” Mary waved. “So here’s the real question—how did the killer manage to murder the victim so quickly, in the rain, without leaving a single footprint?”

I never studied theory systematically, but if you want to catch a criminal, you have to put yourself in their shoes. That’s another kind of reenactment.

Right then, a few people seemed fired up, eager to give it a try after my suggestion.

We stood to the side, watching. A young man hooked his fingers into the gaps of the wire fence, bracing his feet and trying to move sideways along it to the scene. It was obvious this wasn’t going to work. The gaps barely fit a couple of fingers, so you just couldn’t get enough leverage.

And there’s no way to do it in shoes—unless you’re barefoot. But then you’d have to support your whole body with your legs, something almost no one can pull off.

Someone else tried laying down stones, but even that would leave behind clear marks…

“Stop wasting your time,” I told everyone. “If we can find that homeless man, we’ll figure out how it was done.”

“Any theories?” Team Leader Shao asked.

“Wait for tomorrow,” I said.

The following morning, after breakfast, there was still no trace of the homeless man. The place where the body was found was lit by car headlights, but everything within a hundred meters on both sides was pitch black. Trying to hunt down a homeless guy in the dark, in the rain, is tough—some people like that are made for the night.

“I’ll take you somewhere,” I said.

“Where?” Team Leader Shao asked.

“The train station,” I replied. “But we can’t go with just our own crew—we need someone agile.”

In less than half an hour, Team Leader Shao brought me a partner. He was about my age, early twenties, built like a tank, muscles rippling under his clothes. He saluted the group smartly before turning to me. “Gu Chen reporting in—how can I help?”

I quickly waved it off. “I’m just a psychiatric patient—whatever, let’s get moving.”

Birds of a feather flock together. The best like to stick with the best, and the same goes the other way. Homeless folks always find each other. If you asked where the roughest spot in any city is, it’d be the train station for sure.

Standing in the middle of the station, crowds flowed past me. The others kept their distance, not sure what I was doing—watching from afar, a little on edge. Suddenly, a kid tugged on my sleeve. I turned, giving him a smile. He grinned back, clueless and sweet. One of his arms was twisted and clearly crippled.

“Spare some change…” he started, but didn’t finish.

“You’re exactly who I’m looking for!” I grabbed him.

The kid had no idea what was going on and started screaming and making a scene. In minutes, seven or eight adults stormed over. They were all in rags and shouted curses at me.

I yelled, “I know him!”

No one cared—just as I expected. Sure enough, to stop me from shouting, the group shoved me along, pushing me forward.

In every city, eight out of ten kids begging on the streets are controlled by someone. Of those eight, six are disabled, and none of them are local. Every one was snatched from somewhere else.

Even among kids forced into this life, fate has its own hierarchy. The little one in front of me? Clearly drew the short end of the stick. He looked seven or eight, numb to all this. Maybe his arm was snapped at five and he was sent out to beg even earlier.

The world of beggars isn’t much different from Wall Street. They all know how to maximize their profit. A crippled kid pulls more sympathy—and more money—than an adult. To them, compassion equals cash.

After weaving through back alleys, I was forced into a narrow alleyway. The little boy spat at me. “You ruined my haul. Beat him up!” he shouted.

As the crowd closed in, I raised a finger. “A fish out of water—sorry for intruding.”

That was slang, and it fit here. Basically, I was admitting I’d wandered into their turf and it was my bad.

A beggar who looked like their ringleader said, “Birds belong in the trees, fish belong in the water—stick to your own patch.”

If you knew their slang, you weren’t just any beggar. These were organized, professional beggars—like an official workforce, with steady pay and benefits. Every city has these career beggars. Sometimes they even make more than office workers.

“Hit him,” I said this time. As soon as those words left my mouth, someone burst out of the alleyway entrance.

After two cigarettes, Gu Chen dragged a beggar toward me like he was hauling a chicken. “They’re all scared of me now,” Gu Chen said. “Everyone else ran off. What should I do with this one you had me beat up?”

After downing three glasses of water, the beggar’s face flickered through all sorts of emotions.

“You brought me in just to find a homeless man?” He seemed to think we were being ridiculous.

I nodded.

People on different levels see the world differently. A meat bun falls to the ground and gets stomped into mush—an elite walks by, disgusted. A homeless person sees it and finds his lunch. To find a drop of water, you let the rest search for it. It’s like when a woman gets pregnant—suddenly it seems like every other woman is expecting too.

By the end of the afternoon, we got news about the missing homeless man. Several people said they’d seen someone who matched my description. He had one major feature: freakishly long, sharp, white fingernails—immaculately clean, because he sucked the dirt from under them every day.

So, to blend in, you need an ordinary face. Not too ugly, not too handsome—the kind of look people can stare at for half an hour then instantly forget. You can’t have standout catchphrases or habits, either, or you’ll get noticed.

When we finally found him, he was sprawled in a battered shipping container. He stank to high heaven. His overgrown hair was crawling with bugs, his body a walking dumpster, with filthy rags tossed beside him.

And one of his legs… was made of wood.

“He’s not the killer.” Team Leader Shao and I both said it at the same time.

We exchanged glances. Mary, though, looked confused.

I explained, “He matches my idea of the killer in most ways, but not completely.”

Team Leader Shao added, “I may not have Wu Meng’s gift, but the details tell us a lot. He really was at the scene last night—there’s mud on his prosthetic, and his hair’s still damp from the rain. The clothes he stripped off are soaked.”

“But he isn’t the killer. The most important clue…” Team Leader Shao pointed at the homeless man. “The autopsy says the female victim was assaulted before death. Look at this guy—how do you think he pulled that off?”

Mary wasn’t embarrassed at all, which kind of amused me. Noticing my look, she shrugged, “Your delusional ideas haven’t helped us catch the killer.”

I shrugged too. “But what if someone else struck before he did?”

Team Leader Shao shook his head helplessly. “You two, stop bickering. Focus! Bring him back for questioning. Besides, how did both the killer and this guy leave the scene without leaving footprints?”

With that, a few officers shook awake the homeless man, who’d been sleeping like the dead.

The first thing out of his mouth was: “That woman’s in my belly.”