Chapter 799

"You actually got an article published in Qiushi?"

After receiving Wang Shouyi's call, Song Ju hurried over, concerned about his top officer.

Of course, he wasn't short of capable people—criminal investigation, economic investigation, technical investigation, drug control, anti-trafficking—all were solid officers. But frankly, their work paled in comparison to Wang Yan's.

Not to mention Wang Yan's iron-fisted impartiality and fearlessness toward power, his "whoever breaks the law, I'll deal with them" style—just his extraordinary ability in mass work alone was enough to warrant treating him like a patriarch.

Within his jurisdiction, the mere existence of Bali River Police Station—whose public satisfaction rose from last place to the top, with crime rates clearly dropping and case-solving rates rising—was enough; most of that credit belonged to Wang Yan alone.

And now, with Wang Yan constantly talking about the "Bali River Method," it seemed he wasn't just blowing smoke—if this method truly took root, Wang Yan would definitely make Wang Shouyi wear a white shirt and give speeches everywhere, and as his direct superior, he himself would get eight words: rapid promotion, boundless future.

Earlier, when Wang Yan confidently said he was submitting articles to various public security journals and Qiushi, Song Ju hadn't thought much of it. But now that there was concrete news, it was entirely different. Before, it was just bragging; now, it was genuinely possible—even if the chance was small, it still existed.

Song Ju's thoughts, Wang Yan naturally understood. A deputy department-level official under thirty was already very young, with a promising future ahead—and now, with what seemed like a chance to break through his ceiling, no wonder he was excited.

Wang Yan shook his head with a chuckle, pulled out his phone, and found the email from Qiushi: "Take a look—do you think I'd lie to you? The first article comes out next month; they'll send me a copy. Then won't you know everything?"

Song Ju carefully read the email content on the phone, then slapped Wang Yan's arm hard: "You really are something, hahaha…"

He laughed heartily.

Wang Yan's article clearly reflected Guangming District and Bali River—now it had reached Beijing directly. Later, CCTV reporters might even come for a special interview, further boosting coverage in internal publications—what kind of impact would that have? What immense benefits would this bring to Wang Shouyi and to him, the branch director?

"It's all about serving the people. As long as you earnestly work for the masses, solve their problems, and truly stand on their side, you'll gain something—you'll gain deeper understanding of the masses, yourself, the Party, and the country. What I've written is insignificant, merely personal observations based on upholding our theoretical principles, applying dialectical methods, and serving the people wholeheartedly."

Watching Wang Yan speak with righteous dignity, reciting official clichés, Song Ju shook his head with amusement: "You're truly wasted as a police officer."

Wang Yan smiled: "I really do want to be a police officer. I wrote in my Qiushi article that I'm willing to spend my whole life rooted in the grassroots, serving the people of Bali River, coordinating and resolving all kinds of problems, ensuring the people live in peace and happiness—that's a solemn vow I've made."

"I just worry the organization will need you someday," Wang Shouyi said, clapping Wang Yan on the shoulder—his joy was no less than Song Ju's.

Before Wang Yan caused trouble, he'd hoped for a full department-level post; after the trouble, his expectations dropped—he was content just keeping his section-level benefits. But now, with this development, he couldn't help but look toward a full department-level post again. His retirement prospects rose and fell like a rollercoaster, tied to Wang Yan's actions, his heart pounding anxiously.

After a few laughs, Wang Yan waved his hand: "Song Ju, Chief, enough celebrating. No need to get so worked up. I'll write a few papers or articles whenever I have free time—there's plenty more. You two chat. I'm on duty today; I've scheduled a legal education session with the school. Time's running out—I'm off."

Amid their smiles, Wang Yan didn't linger with the two mentors, already stunned by the huge surprise and dreaming of a bright future. They were leaders; they were busy. He was just a small cop—he couldn't intrude. In fact, he'd already planned to leave earlier, but Wang Shouyi had called Song Ju, forcing him to wait another twenty minutes, then chat for over ten. He immediately called Yang Shu, got in the car, and headed toward a nearby elementary school.

As previously mentioned, school leaders treated Wang Yan with total compliance—offering maximum support. Some even said if time ran short and he couldn't finish his talk, they'd clear an entire class period just for him. To the school leadership, Wang Yan was treated like a direct superior—whether students attended class didn't matter; what mattered was whether Wang Yan was satisfied.

He encouraged diligent students to study hard, scolded lazy ones to behave, discussed common issues among students, and added anti-trafficking publicity—children as young as ten weren't immune to abduction; elementary students needed to be cautious too.

Elementary school was about prevention. Young kids, aside from arson or poisoning, rarely caused serious harm themselves. The real danger came in middle and high school—those half-grown boys could turn into monsters.

Under the principal's farewell, Wang Yan and Yang Shu left the school and began patrolling the streets. They used the police terminal to check IDs of suspected drug users, scolded jaywalkers, helped lost children find their distracted parents, and especially checked parked cars near crowded areas to see if any child had been left behind. Such incidents had happened before—vigilance was essential.

They wandered aimlessly until afternoon, when Wang Yan received a new text. After reading it, he and Yang Shu headed to Bali Street.

In fact, his phone rang almost every few minutes; texts came constantly. When busy, he didn't even know how many missed calls piled up each day. After all, he carried the hopeful expectations of nearly 130,000 people in his jurisdiction—he was extremely busy.

Having visited over twenty thousand people, and with his actions spreading widely, countless residents in his jurisdiction who hadn't yet been visited learned his phone number and WeChat through various channels, thinking: "Whether it's useful or not, I'll add him anyway—what if I need him?" After all, Officer Wang's reputation was stellar; the public genuinely had expectations—they all wanted to see what this was all about.

If the public didn't trust Wang Yan, why hadn't the next step been taken yet? Despite all the neighborhood committee members in other communities—except Xincheng Aofu and Fengdan Bali—having been arrested, no further action had occurred.

At this point, he could no longer reply to everyone, yet he still maintained his original pace, trying his best to respond to every call, every text, every WeChat message.

This time, the text he happened to see came from the deaf-mute couple he'd visited in Dongning Village—they'd received a hundred-yuan counterfeit bill and asked him to come take a look. Since he and Yang Shu were already patrolling, he headed straight there.

Compared to Xia Jie, Li Dawei, and Zhao Jiwei, Yang Shu's advantage was that he never asked pointless questions. When Wang Yan said go, he went; he waited to ask questions later. That was a great trait.

Soon, the two arrived at Bali Street.

It was late October; the weather had turned cool. The street's vibrancy compared to two months ago was truly worlds apart. It was barely five p. m., and while Bali Street still had crowds, it no longer felt crushingly packed.

Wang Yan greeted people with smiles all along—he'd visited Dongning Village thoroughly, so every vendor and shop owner here he'd met. Many pedestrians here were locals who knew him well.

At the stall next to the deaf-mute couple's, under Yang Shu's fascinated gaze, Wang Yan grinned and gestured to the couple.

Counterfeit money was important, but Wang Yan didn't ask about it right away. The couple had simply received one fake bill—they couldn't possibly know much. After they briefly explained the situation and showed the bill, Wang Yan pulled out an evidence bag, had them place the money inside, handed it to Yang Shu, then began chatting with them about their current lives.

Their life was going fairly well—they'd moved out of Dongning Village into a new home they bought in Fujia Garden. Business had been slow lately, but they'd expected it—it was no different from previous years. Both sets of parents were healthy. After their past experience of losing a child, they'd enrolled their son in a daycare. He only came to help them on weekends, assisting with collecting money.

As Wang Yan gestured with the couple, driven by people's love of spectacle, a half-circle had formed around the two stalls, each person holding a phone, filming from different angles.

Wang Yan's face beamed with smiles; the couple's faces lit up too. Everyone could tell they were long-time acquaintances. In fact, even without thinking, as the community officer who knew the jurisdiction best, he absolutely couldn't be unaware of such a vulnerable group. The street and community offices were the same—they had to know and understand them. Not knowing was unacceptable.

Wang Yan knew even more thoroughly. Though he hadn't finished visiting the entire jurisdiction, he knew every mentally ill person, disabled person, and impoverished household within it. Of course, impoverished households were relatively few—after all, they lived in apartments, which cost hundreds of thousands. It was more that, due to certain reasons, the family owned only a house, still burdened with a mortgage, teetering on the edge of collapse.

All this had been compiled by Zhang Zhijie. As a community officer with over a decade of experience, Zhang Zhijie was competent—even though he now felt discouraged every time he saw Wang Yan. But Wang Yan couldn't compare himself to him; after all, no one else in the country had been granted such freedom to conduct home visits.

After all, without the ability to solve problems, home visits would only intensify police-public tensions. A designated officer sent solely for home visits? Even with your feet, you'd know it'd become a perfunctory formality. Even if someone truly entered homes with the original intention of serving the people, facing all kinds of situations, problems, and human weaknesses, they'd begin doubting themselves, wavering in faith…

Yang Shu had just realized this truth recently, so he admired Wang Yan deeply. Though he tried to avoid using subjects when speaking to Wang Yan, he often started sentences with "Brother Yan," completely without shame over being three years older or having a higher degree.

He diligently maintained order, watching the crowd's center—where Wang Yan, like a leader, stood. He knew: Brother Yan was about to go viral again.

Viral he certainly would be—police officers conversing fluently in sign language with deaf-mute people? That was inherently unusual. Wang Yan knew this himself, but he didn't care much, nor could he care. Though he disliked the spotlight, he was a police officer—filming was inevitable. And from another perspective, the more famous he became, the more widely and miraculously his deeds spread, the safer Bali River would be.

After chatting with the couple for a while, Wang Yan smiled at the filming crowd and said: "I won't discuss the case details with you comrades. But I must remind you: you can film, you can post online—but don't add your own fabricated text. I believe you all mean well, but I still need to remind you."

"Also, these two's business is honest. I'm not saying other vendors aren't honest—I've eaten their food and seen how they prepare ingredients. When I talked with them, I delayed their business, affected their earnings. So comrades, don't just film—buy something too. That's all. Everyone, disperse."

The couple were honest people, striving hard for a better life. Wang Yan casually promoted them, helping them open a shop sooner. This event would go viral online—just saying this one sentence meant tomorrow, many would come specifically to buy their goods. Don't underestimate netizens' love of spectacle and sympathy.

But in reality, the couple were wealthy—even with slow business, together they earned fifteen to seventeen thousand a month, far more than many office workers in high-end buildings…

Watching the crowd line up and edit videos for posting, Wang Yan went to ask several other stall owners. All said they'd received counterfeit bills these past two days, but none had taken it seriously.

Running a business, you sometimes get counterfeit bills. Most people just accept it as bad luck, or if unscrupulous, pass it on. So the counterfeit bill the deaf-mute couple received likely came from someone else who'd gotten it elsewhere and wanted to spend it. The couple looked easy to fool, and when busy, they didn't have time to inspect bills closely—so receiving counterfeit money was quite normal.

But Wang Yan treated it as a serious matter. He immediately took Yang Shu back to the station, ate dinner there, and spent over half an hour extracting over a dozen different fingerprints from the bill.

Usually, people grip bills tightly, leaving thumb and index finger prints on both sides. Many hold bills with both hands, checking them under light for authenticity—these fingerprints all needed individual identification.

Now Wang Yan was truly attentive—he'd carefully scanned the entire bill and found only this many. He did a quick comparison: six were from the deaf-mute couple; the rest were strangers. This meant the bill had circulated no more than three times. More importantly, among the remaining fingerprints, one must belong to the counterfeiter or seller.

The quality of this hundred-yuan bill was quite high—otherwise, counterfeiters wouldn't bother with hundreds, focusing instead on fifties or twenties. Lower denominations are rarely scrutinized closely. But hundred-yuan bills? Even if you can't tell real from fake, people habitually rub them, flick them, check watermarks under light. Counterfeiters are terrified—hence the term "ghost hands," designed to avoid detection.

It was already night; off-duty duties couldn't be delayed. At night, Bali River was extremely lively. Even with the cooling weather, the bustling spots remained packed.

Watching Wang Yan's cheerful expression, Yang Shu asked: "Did you find something from that counterfeit bill?"

"You're going to get credit."

Such familiar words—Yang Shu had heard them from Xia Jie, Li Dawei, and Zhao Jiwei. Zhao Jiwei earned a third-class merit, possibly a second-class one pending; Xia Jie received two commendations; Li Dawei got far less—no merit, though he still had some credit, just not enough to qualify.

Was it finally his turn? Who didn't want merit? Yang Shu wanted it too.

He asked: "You really found something?"

"On that counterfeit bill, the fingerprints of the couple have been ruled out; the remaining ones belong to no more than three people. I suspect it was just made, still warm. The forgery technique is also quite good—even those who can spot fakes won't notice the flaws at a glance. So this is likely a major counterfeiting operation. If we find a breakthrough among those few individuals and shut down this den, you'll at least get an award."

Wang Yan said, "Tonight I'll match the fingerprints. Tomorrow I'll report to the chief and the others—you'll come along. Otherwise, your contribution is too small; when the case blows wide open, it won't meet the criteria for merit. This case is different from previous ones—it involves technical expertise. Aside from accompanying me to meet the deaf-mute couple, you've hardly participated in anything else."

"But don't get your hopes up too high, or you'll be bitterly disappointed if no merit is awarded. It all depends on where the den is, how many people are involved, and the total amount of counterfeit money— you understand that. So just enjoy the moment for now, don't take it too seriously. Whether or not you earn merit, you still have to do your job."

"Then forget it…"

"There's no need to feel embarrassed. We're different. I don't care either way—I'm fine with or without merit. I could even quit being a cop, because all I want is to serve the people at the grassroots level. You have your own ideals and ambitions; you want to do more, and merit benefits you. Take it when you can, grab it when you can. As long as you hold onto your original intention, as long as you strive for your ideals, that's enough."

"The process doesn't matter—the result does. You've worked with me for a few days now. In handling many cases, I'm far from being a good cop. When old folks act unreasonable or play dirty, I've even threatened their children. But what was the outcome? Those unreasonable old folks quieted down, and the neighborhood became peaceful. That's a good result."

"To put it bluntly, no one cares how it was done. The simplest success theory—whose failure stories do you listen to? Everyone listens to rich people bragging about how they got there. We're public servants—we answer to the state, to the Party, to the people. That's enough. Be flexible. Don't trap yourself in rigid thinking; otherwise, you'll never progress."

Yang Shu looked again at the gleaming Wang Yan—truly, he who desires nothing is strong…