Chapter 370: Death by Suicide

2022-05-20

I just couldn’t have imagined it. After all this time searching for Zhang Zuochen, it turns out he died half a year ago. That means his supposed transfer to another school must’ve just been a smokescreen set up by Zhang Zijun and Guo Limin. But why would they go to such lengths?

When someone dies, their household registration needs to be canceled within a certain time frame—it’s what makes the death official. Delays can happen, but certainly not for this long. With Zhang Zuochen gone for half a year, it’s obvious Zhang Zijun and Guo Limin hid it on purpose.

Otherwise, Zhang Zuochen’s death would’ve shown up in official records. No one canceled his registration, barely anyone seemed to know. Hiding a kid’s death like this—there must be a reason.

I turned to Gu Chen and asked, “Zhang Zuochen’s been dead for half a year, but from what Zhang Zijun told us, you’d never guess. Something doesn’t add up. Did Uncle Chen mention what caused Zhang Zuochen’s death?”

Gu Chen nodded. “Uncle Chen just mentioned it briefly. It definitely wasn’t murder. If it had been, Zhang Zuochen’s parents would’ve called the police. There’d be a record. Uncle Chen only found out when he was looking into Guo Limin. After Zhang Zuochen died, they both moved away. Uncle Chen still hasn’t located where Guo Limin lives now.”

So this proves the divorce wasn’t over a failed marriage, nor was the school transfer because of it. The way Zhang Zijun twisted the timeline shows it—he’s the killer.

I asked, “Did Uncle Chen mention the location when you spoke to him on the phone just now?”

Gu Chen nodded. “He tracked down a neighbor who knew the situation back then and said we could go talk to them.”

He checked his watch and added, “We’ve got some time before it gets dark. If we investigate this first, it won’t interfere with tailing Zhang Zijun later.”

I snapped my fingers. “So someone’s already watching Zhang Zijun?”

Mary nodded. “Yes. As soon as we split from Uncle Chen, we arranged it.”

“Let’s go.”

An eight-year-old child died half a year ago, and nobody talked about it. No records, no files. Something about Zhang Zuochen’s death just feels off. When I brought my questions to people who were there that year, their answers weren’t exactly clear either.

Sitting across from me was a woman in her fifties, popping sunflower seeds as she recounted the past. Her brows furrowed and eyes flicked as she animatedly told the story. Around her sat another dozen women in their forties and fifties, nodding along, sometimes chiming in.

One woman turned to spit on the ground, then started her tale.

These women knew Zhang Zuochen because, for the past four or five years, they’ve gathered beneath the electricity pole to play cards, rain or shine. They’ve watched the neighborhood kids grow from toddlers to grade-schoolers.

Zhang Zuochen was no exception. Every day after school, he’d pass by this group of card-playing grannies on his way home.

Half a year ago, one day was anything but ordinary. It was hotter than usual, the sun hanging high overhead. The card game beneath the pole got intense, the makeshift table rattling with every slap of the cards.

In the chorus of cards slapping against wood, Zhang Zuochen, his backpack nearly taller than he was, walked down the road with a broken yo-yo in hand, silent as ever.

No one knew what he’d been through that day.

One of the women played her hand and spat again, her eyes catching sight of Zhang Zuochen. She clicked her tongue and called out, “Hey, college boy, your parents coming home late again today?”

Zhang Zuochen heard her but, shy as he was, didn’t know what to say. He forced a smile for the grannies and hurried on his way without a word.

A bit embarrassed, the woman muttered to herself, “That kid’s just too shy.”

The rest didn’t think much of it and went on playing cards.

None of them could’ve guessed it was the last time they’d ever speak to him. Zhang Zuochen’s parents were always busy, never home to make him dinner, so they’d just give him money to buy food at a restaurant.

After dropping his backpack at home, Zhang Zuochen passed the pole again. The same woman spotted him and commented, “Out to eat alone again? Having money isn’t always a good thing.”

“Three with one,” another woman called out, “Money’s good—gets to eat out every day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” came another spit.

Later, after her forty-second spit, that first woman frowned. “Zhang Zuochen’s really late today. He should’ve been back by now.”

“That’s odd,” another said, “He’s usually home by now.”

“Ah, let him be. Maybe he’s just off playing somewhere.” The last one slammed her cards against the table. “Let’s keep going.”

“Yeah.” The first woman stood to stretch her legs after hours stuck on the bench.

She twisted her body, getting ready to spit once more. But just as she turned, she swallowed the spit back down.

She’d seen something she’d never forget.

Not far from them, up on a tilting old electricity pole, dangled a child gently swaying in the breeze. He wore all black. The setting sun cast a long shadow beneath him. Looping around his neck was a jump rope—its handle painted with a smiley face.

The pole was thinner than most, already leaning from age. For a kid, climbing it wasn’t too hard.

She knocked over the table and staggered to the pole, two others on her heels. They looked up. Zhang Zuochen didn’t move at all. While the others played cards, he’d quietly climbed the pole. Listening to their voices, he’d looped the rope round and round.

Then, he’d slipped his head through—silently, no struggle, not a sound.

“Quiet kid, even in death,” one of the women said.

And that was it. Zhang Zuochen was gone.

The women called his parents. They figured it was better his family handled things, not them—not their place to call the police or make a scene.

Night fell quickly. Beneath the body, the three women stood frozen like silent sentinels. That old pole had no lamplight; his black clothes all but vanished against the night. Even people walking home never knew a child’s lifeless body hung just above.

These women had lived long enough—or so they claimed—to see life and death come and go.

Another spit. “Tell me, what could drive an eight-year-old to this?”

“Who knows? Go ask the village chief,” another replied.

And so they just stood there, only the sound of the occasional spit on concrete.

Finally, Zhang Zuochen’s parents rushed back. They didn’t own a car yet—Zhang Zijun pedaled furiously, Guo Limin perched on the back. The bike rattled as Zhang Zijun sped, frantic to reach their child. Suddenly, a strong arm grabbed him—so forceful, it nearly pulled him right off.

They looked up. A woman, heavyset and imposing, spat and pointed straight at the pole. That’s where Zhang Zuochen’s body hung. Zhang Zijun climbed up and brought his son down.

That’s all the women could tell me. As for what happened after, they didn’t know.

Listening, I realized there were only three primary witnesses, yet now this whole room was packed. But it was easy to spot the one who kept spitting—the storyteller from earlier.

I asked, “How come you all know the story? Weren’t there just three of you there?”

One woman replied, “Oh, you know how word gets around. One person talks, another listens—next thing you know, the whole neighborhood knows. Why, are you saying something didn’t add up? I always thought so myself. How could an eight-year-old hang himself? What kind of burden could a kid like that have?”

“Are you sure it wasn’t murder?” another leaned in close, “Maybe someone else killed him?”

The spitting woman shook her head. “No way. Nobody would dare do something like that right in front of us. And even if the boy was shy, there’s no way he wouldn’t cry out or struggle. It had to be suicide.”

“Doesn’t anyone know the reason?” I asked, frowning. “Nobody knows why he’d do it?”

Everyone just shook their heads.

No one had any idea.