Chapter 51: High-IQ Suicide

2022-05-20

“Are you sure this will work?” Guan Zengbin asked, sounding doubtful.

“Do it!” I shouted.

Right after my yell, a flash of red shot up from the courtyard, soared right over the rooftop, and vanished in an instant. All that remained was a dent in the ground. The so-called ghost we saw that night wasn’t a ghost at all—it wasn’t even a person. To be precise, it was a mannequin.

The mannequin was dressed in a red dress and wore a long wig, making it hard to tell real from fake in the darkness. We tied a long spring to its back, pinned it into the ground, and hooked a fishing line to it at just the right angle. One pull and the spring would launch the mannequin into the air.

“Told you, there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Guan Zengbin said, watching the mannequin fly off.

“What on earth are you guys doing out here?” Xiao Liu walked into the courtyard.

Gu Chen took one look at Xiao Liu, who was drenched in sweat, and laughed. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been running around in a panic.”

Xiao Liu glanced between the three of us, then said, “Bad news. Gao Rui just killed himself.”

I couldn’t help but feel a jolt of shock at those words.

“Gao Rui? He committed suicide?” I blurted out.

“They’re dealing with it now. Why don’t we head to the scene?” Xiao Liu suggested.

“Let’s go!”

The suicide took place at Zhang Mingliang’s house.

When we arrived, the local officers were already taking statements. Since Xiao Liu had told them not to move the body, it hadn’t been touched yet. Forensic techs were busy collecting evidence, their main focus on finding any trace of a third party at the scene.

Actually, the first thing you do when you find a body is confirm the person’s identity and the nature of their death.

There was no doubt the deceased was Gao Rui. Our challenge was figuring out exactly how he died.

In forensic medicine, deaths usually fall into four categories: suicide, homicide, natural death, and accidental death.

But out of those, murderers often disguise homicide as suicide, natural, or accidental deaths.

Now, Gao Rui’s body lay right in front of us.

It was Zhang Mingliang’s bedroom. Gao Rui lay peacefully on the bed, dressed in a sharp suit. His expression was calm. If you paid attention, you’d notice his lips and earlobes had a striking red color, almost like someone had brushed rouge across them. The bed itself was tastefully arranged, scattered with red rose petals.

A bottle of red wine sat on the nightstand, already a third empty. Next to it was a wine glass with a bit of wine still inside. An old-fashioned radio rested underneath the table, still playing music, untouched.

“Even if a thousand songs play in the days to come, drifting far as I walk on. Even if a thousand evening stars shine, brighter than tonight’s moon. None compare to this beautiful night, none can wash away the thoughts in my heart, not knowing when I’ll sing with you again…”

It was an old Cantonese song, heavy with the sorrow of parting. It left all of us with the weight of farewell.

It looked like Gao Rui had planned out everything, right down to the date and the way he’d die. Gao Rui had reasons to end his life—besides Zhang Mingliang, no one had ever truly entered his world. With Zhang Mingliang gone, there was nothing left for Gao Rui to hold onto.

By now, Guan Zengbin had her gloves and shoe covers on. She leaned in close to Gao Rui’s face and took a deep sniff.

“Huh? There’s no bitter almond smell,” she murmured under her breath.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

She pointed to Gao Rui’s lips and ears. “Look, his mouth, ear canal, and earlobes are all bright red, a sharp contrast to his skin. That’s the classic sign of cyanide poisoning, and cyanide usually smells like bitter almonds. But I didn’t catch the scent.”

“There’s a letter here!” Gu Chen called out by the pillow.

I quickly put on gloves and went over to check the letter.

A quick read was enough to understand the gist.

The letter fell into two parts. One made it clear that his death had nothing to do with anyone else—it was a suicide. The second gave his bank account info and instructed the money inside to be donated to Project Hope.

“Have it sent for handwriting analysis,” I told the forensic team nearby.

Guan Zengbin said, “I suspect cyanide poisoning. Judging by the rigor mortis and lividity, he’s been dead for only an hour or two. That’s all I can tell for now; we’ll need the autopsy for more clues.”

“Alright,” I nodded, then said, “Let’s get the body over to the funeral home. Once we’re done here, we’ll perform the autopsy.”

“Anything else?” I asked the forensic techs.

Everyone shook their heads. “There are only Gao Rui’s traces of life here,” one said. “We did find another set of fingerprints but they belonged to Zhang Mingliang, who’s already dead. So honestly, it looks like suicide to us.”

From the way things were set up, suicide really did make the most sense.

Truth is, suicide takes brains. It’s not as easy as most people think.

Judging by the preparations Gao Rui made, he clearly wanted to go out with dignity.

There aren’t many people who die as calm and composed as Gao Rui.

“There’s a syringe in the drawer,” Gu Chen kept searching the room.

“Careful,” Guan Zengbin warned. “I couldn’t smell cyanide earlier, so he probably injected it directly into his veins.”

I looked at the syringe. It had Yucai High School’s logo stamped on it. Gao Rui had been a teacher there, but after what happened, there was no way he could keep teaching. Still, maybe he’d already gotten the syringe and cyanide from the school lab beforehand.

Gao Rui taught biology and handled experiments all the time. The lab was open to him.

“Who was the first to find the body?” I asked.

A woman’s voice answered from outside, “It was me! I live across the hall.”

I stepped out to take a good look at her. She was a middle-aged lady, probably about fifty.

“How did you discover the body?” I asked.

Wearing a pained expression, she said, “Such misfortune… I really should’ve gone in sooner. I always take a nap after lunch so that’s what I was about to do. But songs kept playing across the hall and I couldn’t fall asleep—guess it’s nerves from getting old.”

“Around one o’clock, I knocked on his door and told him to turn down the music. He didn’t answer so I let it go. But half an hour later, the music was still going. I was getting annoyed so I knocked again. I waited and waited, but no one replied.”

“So I called property management. They came up, but still no one opened the door. Eventually, they used the spare key to get in. We found him lying there. At first I thought he’d just fallen asleep. When I tried to wake him, he didn’t move. I checked his breath—nothing. That’s when we called the police.”

Her first knock went unanswered around one o’clock. That put it over two hours before we arrived.

“Seal off the area,” I told everyone.

The autopsy took a while but wasn’t dull. With Guan Zengbin there, I understood more about myself than ever before. Each slice of the knife felt like it cut right into me.

We saw that Gao Rui’s body showed large patches of bright red lividity.

Guan Zengbin said, “Time of death is about 1:10, give or take two minutes. His blood didn’t clot and stayed bright red. Prussian blue tests confirm cyanide poisoning. Needle marks on the wrist also show he injected cyanide intravenously.”

As the autopsy continued, Guan Zengbin added, “He really was a biology teacher—he knew the human body inside and out.”

“How so?” I asked.

She replied, “There was no food in his stomach, and no stool in his intestines. He probably gave himself an enema beforehand to avoid soiling himself after death. Injecting into a vein meant no violent vomiting from poisoning. When we found him, his body was spotless—he even died with dignity.”

She went on, “He drank some red wine before he died. The alcohol made his blood flow faster, which helped the poison reach his heart quickly. It also dulled his nerves a bit, making death less painful. Realistically, after the injection, he probably passed away peacefully within a minute.”

So it really seemed Gao Rui had committed suicide: the farewell song, the way he cleaned himself up, the carefully arranged bed, the sharp suit, the suicide note.

All of it pointed to a well-prepared death—he was absolutely determined.

I always see detectives on TV asking, “If it was suicide, why go through all that trouble? It must be murder.”

But really, if someone wants to say goodbye to the world for good, they’ll tie up every loose end, finish what needs finishing, pay off every last favor, and then leave quietly.

It’s not surprising for people to do a lot before taking their own life.

“The lab just sent over the handwriting results,” Xiao Liu announced as he walked in. “The letter matches Gao Rui’s writing, and the bank account and password both check out. There’s a few hundred thousand in there.”

“How did he get that much money?” I wondered aloud.

Xiao Liu said, “They checked—before Zhang Mingliang died, he sold his family’s house back home. After he died, the money went to Gao Rui. Now that Gao Rui’s gone, it’s just left there.”

“Check all of Gao Rui’s recent bank transactions,” I said.

Hearing that, Gu Chen quickly added, “Wait—you think there’s something suspicious?”

“There’s a detail that bothers me,” I said firmly. “I think someone else was with Gao Rui in that room.”