Chapter 254: An Old Case Resurfaces

2022-05-20

Compared to that earlier image from the non-smartphone, these new photos were much sharper. It was obvious they’d been taken up close, each one capturing the woman’s body from a different angle.

Zhao Mingkun and I went through the photos one by one, searching for anything useful. But with seven years having gone by, I couldn’t help but wonder if any evidence left would still matter. Starting with the victim’s head, the high-res images showed a lot we hadn’t seen before.

Her face was covered with tiny scratches, thin and sharp. They looked like something clawed by slender, pointed objects. Suddenly I remembered the little girl and couldn’t shake the feeling that these marks might’ve been left by fingernails too.

“Did you ever find the eyes at the scene?” I asked as I scrutinized the photos. “So much time has passed—most of the first investigators are retired or transferred now.”

The old woman didn’t question my identity at all. She replied, “No, we never found them. That was a big question. We searched the construction site for ages but there was no sign of the victim’s eyeballs. Back then we figured maybe some animal took them during the night, or maybe the killer did.”

I nodded, staying silent as I kept flipping through the pictures.

Looking at where the limbs had been removed, it was obvious the killer wasn’t exactly ‘professional.’ Both the arm and the leg were cut off at spots packed with muscle, the bone there thick and tough. When you think about it, this means whoever did it was working against the body’s natural structure. Any experienced butcher could tell you, if you want to cleanly carve up meat, you have to work along the bones.

It said a lot—the killer clearly had no real understanding of human anatomy. This wasn’t the work of a doctor or someone like a butcher who regularly dealt with bones.

Also, if someone plans to do something like this, you’d expect them to use a sharp tool. That’s just common sense. Like, if you’re going to play basketball, you wouldn’t bring a soccer ball to the court. That made me think the killer might not have intended to commit murder and dismemberment in the first place.

I tapped my finger against the desk, asking, “So, did they ever find the tools? And what was the actual cause of Lü Zhiqiu’s death?”

The old woman replied almost instantly, as if those days were still fresh in her mind. “I remember it clearly. Later, the investigators did look for the tools, but they never found them. We think the killer took them away too. But from the state of the body, it doesn’t look like it was cut up with a kitchen knife or a dagger.”

I nodded, pointing at the edge of a severed limb. “Right. Judging by the cut marks, the blade was about three millimeters thick. That’s way too thick for a kitchen or butcher’s knife. And it seems like whatever was used wasn’t even sharpened.”

The old woman nodded and added, “They said Lü Zhiqiu died from a heavy blow to the head. The killer struck her hard, right on the back of the skull.”

With that, she picked out one photo from the pile and turned it over for me to see.

You could tell from the wound’s shape and size—it was a long, rectangular injury.

It made you think immediately of something you’re always likely to find at a construction site—the most basic thing—a brick.

“So, the murder weapon was a brick, but the tool used for the dismemberment is still missing to this day?” I asked.

The old woman nodded. “That’s right. And that brick was never found either. That’s why this case has been so hard to solve. Everyone thought it was someone she knew, but aside from the body, there wasn’t a single clue.”

At that, a scene played itself out in my mind:

On a night when everything was quiet, the killer called Lü Zhiqiu to the construction site. At midnight, work had stopped, everyone else asleep. Lü Zhiqiu, along with some other professionals, was off in the distant dormitory singing and drinking. It was hushed, not a soul in sight.

Lü Zhiqiu waited, expecting someone she knew to show up. That person would turn out to be her killer. After a short conversation—maybe an argument, maybe something else—Lü Zhiqiu turned to leave.

Watching her walk away, the killer was suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of rage, picked up a brick on impulse and slammed it into the back of Lü Zhiqiu’s head.

That hit—every ounce of anger and resentment the killer felt was poured into that swing. With a hard crack, Lü Zhiqiu’s skull fractured into several pieces. Bone shards stabbed into her brain. It was instant—she died right there, too quickly to feel pain or even know what happened. Just like that, she slipped away forever.

The killer stood in the moonlit construction site, breathing hard. The moon’s pale light lit up the ground and the figure who’d done it.

Looking down at the corpse, the killer finally smiled—every trace of bitterness and resentment was released in that moment.

After a short break, the killer checked the body, then took the brick, the tool used for dismembering, and those two eyeballs before leaving.

By the next day, the body was finally discovered.

It was a good theory, but something important was still missing: motive. In almost every real murder case, the killer always has a reason. So here’s the question—why did someone want to kill Lü Zhiqiu?

I asked that out loud.

The old woman glanced at me, then shook her hand. “People thought about that at the time too—tried to look for anyone who might’ve held a grudge. But Lü Zhiqiu was just an ordinary girl. She was kind, always upright, popular with her classmates. She never made enemies. I just can’t figure out why anyone would murder her.”

“A crime of passion?” Zhao Mingkun asked. “You can’t deny, Lü Zhiqiu was really beautiful in those photos.”

The old woman replied, “I mentioned it back then too. Lü Zhiqiu seemed to have had a boyfriend, but we didn’t get involved in her personal life. I did wonder if she’d been taken advantage of by one of the workers at the site, but if something happened, she never told me. So I don’t really know.”

“So it wasn’t a crime of passion?” Zhao Mingkun said.

I raised a finger and wagged it. “Not necessarily. Some people are attracted to bodies, others are drawn to the soul.”

“If they can’t have her, they’d rather destroy her than let anyone else?” Zhao Mingkun offered.

“Maybe,” I said.

Then I shifted gears. “But think—why would someone go through the trouble of cutting up the body?”