Chapter 447: Entry at the Town Police Station

The notebook lay open on the table, turned to the April 24th page. At the top was the entry from that day, the penciled strokes worn to a faint shine. The electric fan turned overhead; each pass sent the page corner lifting, then settling back down.

Zhi'an was washing dishes in the kitchen, the water running hard, bowl knocking against bowl—clink, pause, clink.

She switched to a ballpoint pen, blue, one that wouldn't bleed through the paper.

Below the April 24th entry was that copied line: "The tape on the crate wasn't the same strip as the night before." A blank line, then an entry added in July: Pang Chunlai, saw it.

The pen tip came down below that line.

August 10, night. Picked up by a car. His son went with him.

She finished writing and lifted the pen, holding it suspended over the paper. There was still half a sentence from the neighbor woman left unrecorded—the car headed toward the road into town. She thought about it and left it off the page. The pen tip came down again.

August 14. Padlock on the door.

Zhi'an came out of the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder, a clean bowl in his hand, and set it on the dish rack.

"Does writing it down do anything?"

"It does."

"What does it do." He pulled the towel off his shoulder and wiped his hands. "The man's own son said he was the one who took him."

"It still has to be recorded. What day, what time, who said it, what they said."

"Who's going to read it?"

"Just record it."

Zhi'an sat down across from her, pulled the notebook over for a glance, and pushed it back.

"Going up again tomorrow?"

"I'll make a call tomorrow."

"To who?"

"The town police station." She reached over and turned the fan back toward the paper on the table.

"The police handle this?" Zhi'an tilted it back his way.

"I don't know."

"Then why call."

"Call once. Then I'll know."

Zhi'an hung the towel over the back of the chair and sat for a while. "Jie."

"Yeah."

"What if he doesn't come back on his own?"

She closed the notebook, pressing her hand flat on the cover.

"There's still a bag of salt sitting on that stone stool."

Zhi'an got up to take the laundry off the balcony line. The drying pole rattled twice outside the window. She pulled out her phone and scrolled to the top of her contacts: the number saved under a name, powered off. The one saved as just a string of digits, also powered off. One person between the two entries. One was the old man's. The other was his son's. She didn't know the son's name.

She didn't write again that night. The notebook stayed on the table, the space below those two lines left empty.

At 9:20 the next morning she got to the office. Downstairs He Xiufen was clearing the breakfast tables, plastic stools turned upside down on the tabletops—flip one, stack one. She went upstairs and pushed open the window; the smell of noodle broth rose slowly, mixed with the morning damp of the Old Town District.

At 9:30 she dialed 110, gave the city, gave the town name. The operator provided the station duty room's number. She copied it digit by digit into the notebook and dialed.

"Duty room." There was a fan whirring on the other end, and the click of a walkie-talkie.

"Hello. I'm a lawyer with Jiangzhou Zhengping Law Firm. My surname is Shen. I'd like to report something."

"Go ahead."

"In Baixi Village there's an old man, surname Pang, Pang Chunlai. He lives in the row of houses behind the village committee back wall, third house from east to west. On the night of August 10th, around eleven, a car came. His son helped him into it, carrying a bag, and the car headed down the road toward town. On the morning of August 14th I went up there and found a padlock on his door, locked from outside. His senior phone—I called three times on August 13th. All powered off. I called his son's number twice. No answer. On the afternoon of the 14th, the son called back and said he'd taken his father out for medical treatment, staying with relatives out of town, stop looking. I asked which relatives. He hung up."

"What's your relationship to him?"

"Not family. He's a witness in a case. I'm the petitioner in that case."

"Which case."

"Chengdong District Court. Criminal retrial."

Pen scratched on paper on the other end.

"ID number."

"Don't have one. No photo either."

"Age."

"Over seventy, can't say exactly. Getting on in years, doesn't walk well. Needs help over the threshold."

"His son's name."

"I don't know." She said, "I only have his phone number."

"Give it."

She read the digits one by one, then repeated them to confirm.

"When did you last see him?"

"July 1st, at his home, until one in the afternoon. He talked, I wrote it down page by page. He signed his name and pressed a thumbprint."

"After that."

"July 21st, someone from the court went to his home and questioned him once. Also signed. On the morning of August 10th, he was still buying a bag of salt at the village store."

"After August 10th."

"Nobody's seen him since." She said, "Windows and doors shut. The stove's cold."

"Did he have any bad blood with anyone?"

She set down the pen in her hand.

"He wouldn't make enemies. He was afraid of people."

"Being afraid of people and having bad blood aren't mutually exclusive."

"This year he spoke about something that happened nine years ago." She said, "After he spoke, someone from the factory came asking at his door. August 10th, the car came."

No immediate reply. The fan noise made one full turn.

"We'll call his son and ask. Leave me your number."

She gave it. The voice said: "I'll call you back if there's anything."

After hanging up, she circled the station's number in her notebook. At ten o'clock she spread out the legal aid materials for Li Huilan's case and worked through them page by page. Two outside calls came in—one asking about a filing fee, one asking for Director He.

At 10:40 she pulled the kraft paper envelope from the bottom of her bag and spread three photocopied pages from an interview record across the desk, reading from the top. Page one was the location: one stone stool, door facing east, third house. Page two was that night. At the bottom of page three was the line she'd written, with his thumbprint pressed beside his signature—in the photocopy, just a flat black smear. She ran her fingertip over it. Nothing to feel.

At eleven, a customer downstairs called loudly for extra noodles. She returned the three pages to the envelope, tucked it into the bottom of her bag, and zipped it shut.

At 11:20 the screen lit up. She set down her pen.

"Attorney Shen?"

"That's me."

"His son says the person is staying with relatives out of town, getting medical treatment, doing fine. It's an adult, and the family member says he knows where he is. We don't open a missing-persons case for that. The situation you reported—it's been registered."

"What's the son's name."

"We have the name."

"So you reached him."

"We reached him."

"He said out of town at some relative's—did you verify that?"

"His son says he's living with relatives, the man's fine, no danger. We're not pursuing it further."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"We don't issue certificates for this sort of thing." The voice said, "It's registered here at the station. If you want paper, have the family come in."

"The only family is this son."

"Then it's the son who comes in."

"What if the court sends a formal inquiry?"

"If the court sends an inquiry, we respond to court inquiries." The voice said, "Talk to the court."

"All right." She said, "Thank you."

She hung up. The phone lay on the desk, screen up. After a moment it went dark on its own.

At 12:40 she went down for noodles. He Xiufen set a bowl in front of her and sat down across, peeling garlic.

"What did the police say?"

She repeated the officer's line: "An adult, and the family says he knows where the man is. We don't open a missing-persons case. The situation you reported—it's been registered."

He Xiufen pressed a clove onto the table and smacked it with the flat of the knife.

"Registered." She said it again. "Registered means there's an entry now, in their book."

"To push further, you need evidence to the contrary."

"Who holds the evidence to the contrary."

"His son does."

He Xiufen pushed the crushed garlic into her bowl and stood up to get the soup from the back.

"Drink the soup." She said, "You've got things this afternoon."

At two o'clock Shen Zhixia went upstairs with her notebook. She didn't go in—she pulled the half-open door shut from outside and stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. She found the number in her call history—August 13, 10:30 AM, Criminal Division, Chengdong District Court.

"Criminal Division, hello."

"This is Shen Zhixia. Last time you asked me to provide the witnesses' names and contact information."

"Yes."

"First witness, Lu Jibai. Name and number unchanged, same as last time."

"Mm."

"Second, Pang Chunlai. I can't reach him."

"When did that start?"

"August 13. I called his senior phone three times that day. All powered off. On August 14 I went up to Baixi Village. There was a padlock on his door, locked from outside. The old woman next door said a car came around eleven on the night of August 10, his son helped him into it with a bag, and the car headed down the road toward town."

"What about his own family?"

"Just the one son. At 1:50 PM the son called me from that number. His exact words: 'I took my dad out of town for medical treatment. We're staying with relatives. Stop looking.'"

"What did you ask?"

"I asked which relatives. He didn't answer. He hung up. I called back twice. Powered off. This morning I filed a report with the town police station. The duty officer called the son and reported back: the man's out of town at a relative's, getting treated, doing fine. An adult with a family member saying he knows where the man is—not opened as a missing-person case. The situation's been registered."

There was a sound of typing on the other end.

"Has the senior phone number changed?"

"No. Still powered off."

"Give me the son's number."

She read it off, digit by digit, clearly.

"The notice was mailed to the village at that address." The clerk said, "The signed delivery receipt hasn't come back to me yet."

"What if no one signs."

"It'll be returned, and I'll note it in the file and report to the presiding judge."

"The Intermediate Court questioned him once." She said, "July 21st, at his home."

"I know. That record came with the case. I've seen it."

Her eyes fell to the open notebook in her hand.

"He signed his name on it and pressed his thumbprint."

"I've seen it." The clerk said, "Attorney Shen, I'll note everything you've said today into the file. Summoning witnesses for court is the court's business. If there's anything new, call this number again."

"All right."

"Noted."

The other end hung up first.

She pushed the door open and went back inside, leaving the phone on the corner of the desk, screen up.

The inner room's door stood open. He sat behind the desk, the stack of squared paper spread in front of him. The first page had a header in writing: "Defense." Below it, several lines, half-finished. The pen rested on the paper, its tip pressing into the last stroke, ink pooling into a small dark dot.

He didn't move. She didn't make a sound.

That stack of paper had to be submitted by the 26th. On her desk calendar, the box for the 26th was still empty.

Downstairs someone dragged a plastic stool across the concrete floor, stopped halfway. Outside the window, cicadas pressed wave after wave of noise.

She opened the notebook to the April 24th page. The space below those two lines was still empty. She pulled the pen from the holder and held it, tip poised over the blank space, and stopped.

In the inner room, his pen stayed still too.

Downstairs, a pot of water boiled, the lid rattling.