SES Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Some things are harder to do than to say.

Investigation is one of those things. Like Wan Fenghuo once said, sometimes you need a stroke of luck to get the information you’re after. Without it, you could be waiting three to five years—easy.

The first stroke of luck came from Li Tan. Following the thread from him led to the infamous Luoma Lake murder case.

The second was Cen Chunjiao. Through her, they uncovered what had happened at the small inn in Jinan—and the case in Erenhot, Inner Mongolia.

The third was Mu Dai. Ma Tuwen had once told him that he’d spoken to the girl with the “mental age of eighteen.” She didn’t understand much. It was her aunt who’d sent her. That woman’s name was Huo Zihong.

Huo Zihong. Luoma Lake?

Using that lead, Luo Ren dug deeper and discovered something fascinating. Huo Zihong was born into a rural, impoverished family of vegetable farmers. She dropped out of school early to help the family out at their market stall. When she turned twenty, a series of events changed everything:

First, her parents were killed in a traffic accident on their way back from the market. They didn’t survive emergency treatment.

Second, shortly after their deaths, Huo Zihong sold off everything in her hometown and moved to Luoma Lake, where she rented a place at No. 12, Chenqian Alley.

Third, not long after she moved to Luoma Lake, a murder occurred. One week later, she canceled her lease and left the area, never to return.

After that, her whereabouts became hard to trace. Her movements were erratic, as though she was deliberately covering her tracks. She eventually settled in Lijiang eight years ago, where she opened a bar and has remained ever since.

At one point, Luo Ren suspected that Huo Zihong might be the killer—until he discovered that the most likely suspects were already dead. And what’s more, they all died in eerily similar ways. Liu Shuhai, for instance—and his uncle Luo Wenmiao—both had their left feet hacked off and a square of skin sliced from their backs.

Huo Zihong must know something. And that something could be the key to all of the cases.

Unfortunately, Luo Ren’s attempt to confront her didn’t go smoothly. When he asked, “You’re Li Yaqing, aren’t you?” he’d only been about 80% sure. After all, people do change. As the saying goes, don’t underestimate someone you haven’t seen in a few days. Miracles happen. Even a vegetable farmer with only an elementary school education could, over the years, master poetry, calligraphy, music, and chess.

But Huo Zihong’s overly intense reaction confirmed his suspicion.

If this had happened two years ago—back when his uncle and Pingtin had just died—he probably would’ve lost control. He would’ve done whatever it took to force out a confession. But two years of torment—over 700 sleepless nights—had taught him restraint. So instead of pushing Huo Zihong, he chose to shift his focus to someone else.

Mu Dai.

Someone who lived with Huo Zihong every day. A single, seemingly meaningless detail from her could be enough to open a door.

But Mu Dai was sharp. Gaining her trust would require some upfront honesty.

In that sense, he’d made the right call. He’d been closely watching her expressions the whole time—from distracted, to drawn in, to visibly moved. By the end, emotionally, she was already on his side.

She stared at the necklace he’d just put back on and suddenly asked, “You… loved Pingtin, didn’t you? But… wasn’t she your sister? Or was it…”

Luo Ren’s eyes flickered. He didn’t respond right away. He was trying to decide how to answer. If he added love, guilt, and despair to an already tragic story, would it win her deeper sympathy?

But before he could speak, Mu Dai waved her hand. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

She felt a little embarrassed. He had just told her about a horrific family tragedy, and here she was asking some nosy, off-topic question. Way out of line.

She lowered her voice. “But… how can I help you?”

Luo Ren looked at her for a moment, then pulled a pen and some sticky notes out of his pocket. Mu Dai seemed to guess what he was planning and thoughtfully moved the bottle of chili vinegar off the table.

He wrote on three sticky notes and lined them up on the table:
1. Luoma Lake
2. Erenhot (desert plains)
3. Xiaoshang River

Then he wrote a fourth note, labeled “Scene”, and offset it below the three location notes, like he was building a chart. Beneath each location, he placed two more notes:
Wire, Human Puppet

He explained, “Each scene was the same. The victims were tied up with a string and posed to create a tableau. I think the type of string used was whatever they could find nearby. Luoma Lake and Xiaoshang River are both near water, so fishing line was easy to come by. My uncle had visited Luoma Lake, so he might’ve deliberately mimicked it. But the Erenhot desert case used a frayed rope.”

Mu Dai nodded. “But I’ve never even heard about that Erenhot case. No one’s talked about it.”

“Of the three, only Luoma Lake triggered a police investigation. Xiaoshang River’s scene got burned up in a fire, so it just looked like a normal arson case. As for Erenhot…” He hesitated. “I have a theory.”

A theory? Mu Dai wondered. Can that even be trusted?

Luo Ren seemed to read her mind. “I know. No one’s seen the actual scene. That part of Erenhot is remote—wild wolves roam the plains. Cen Chunjiao said Liu Shuhai committed the crime near winter. That year, there was a massive snowstorm in Inner Mongolia.”

“Normally, before a snowstorm, herders would move their livestock fast. But if a whole family had already been killed, and the sheep and cattle were left alone, they’d be stuck there. They’d freeze to death.”

“And when the snow came, the wolves would get even more desperate—sniffing out any source of meat.” He traced a circle on the table with his finger. “All it would take is the faintest scent of blood… and the place would turn into a slaughterhouse.”

Mu Dai understood. By the time spring came around, there’d be nothing left but bones. Anyone discovering it would assume it was a natural disaster. Even with a close investigation, they’d never know what happened.

Just like the Xiaoshang River, the crime scenes had been obliterated by unforeseen factors.

Her heart raced. These were three murders with identical MO—distinctive, chilling.

Luo Ren added another note: Time of Crime

Mu Dai pointed under the Luoma Lake column. “I know this one. It was twenty years ago.”

Luo Ren wrote: >20 years ago
Then, under Xiaoshang River: 2 years ago
And under Erenhot, he paused to look at her.

It felt like a pop quiz. Mu Dai got nervous. “Liu Shuhai died in 2010. If he committed the desert case, then it must’ve been more than five years ago…”

She recalled something from his bio in Bashu Garden and added quickly, “He left home in 2008 and died in 2010, so the crime must’ve been in between. You should put 6 to 7 years ago.”

She looked so serious, like a model student. Luo Ren smiled and wrote it down.

Now, the table had three full rows. Luo Ren asked, “See any patterns?”

Mu Dai leaned on her hand and studied it. “There’s a huge gap between Luoma Lake and the desert case.”

Exactly. Between Erenhot and Xiaoshang River: maybe 2–3 years. But between Luoma Lake and Erenhot, nearly 15 years.

What happened in that gap? Were there unreported murders? Or did nothing happen? And if so, why?

Luo Ren added a fourth row: Suspect

He wrote:
Luoma Lake: ?
Erenhot: Liu Shuhai
Xiaoshang River: Luo Wenmiao

Fifth row: Place of Death
? / Jinan / Xiaoshang River

Sixth row: Cause of Death
? / Amputation, Skin Removed / Square Skin Patch Removed

Seventh row: Other Notes
Only under Liu Shuhai did Luo Ren place a sticky note:
2007 Car Crash in Datong, Shanxi

Mu Dai perked up—she remembered reading that Liu Shuhai was a mild-mannered man, never so much as raised his voice. The only disruption in his life was the car crash, where he nearly drowned and was unconscious for 48 hours. He left home in 2008 and died in 2010.

Could that crash have changed something in him?

Luo Ren wrote one last note—but this time, he didn’t stick it down. He held it in his hand.

Mu Dai was dying of curiosity. If they were closer, she’d have yanked it from his hand.

Her eager but restrained expression made Luo Ren feel bad for teasing her.

The note said: Jinan

“That time, Pingtin asked me to come to Xiaoshang River. My uncle was missing, and we hadn’t heard anything yet. I asked her what she meant by ‘not acting like himself’…”

Pingtin couldn’t fully explain. Only someone close can spot those subtle shifts—she said he seemed like a completely different person. Sometimes he mumbled to himself. Sometimes he laughed strangely. Sometimes he exploded in his study and ripped up books.

That wasn’t like Luo Wenmiao at all. He had always been the refined intellectual type—graceful, reserved, scholarly.

Luo Ren asked: “When did this change start?”

Pingtin thought hard and said it may have been after he was invited to Jinan to give a lecture on the Western Xia-Song conflicts. The trip didn’t go smoothly. He took a long-distance bus from a nearby city, but he bought the wrong ticket, the bus broke down, and he didn’t get to Jinan until midnight at the West Suburb Bus Station.

Midnight. West Suburb Bus Station. Wasn’t that exactly when Cen Chunjiao was working at a nearby inn?

And wasn’t Liu Shuhai found dead in that same inn, in the middle of the night?

Mu Dai stared at Liu Shuhai’s name, too shocked to speak.

Luo Ren picked up his pen and drew a line connecting “Jinan” under Luo Wenmiao to “Jinan” in the “Place of Death” row.

Then he looked at her and said with certainty:

“Same day.”