Chapter 124: The Same World

The portraits of the five thieves were extracted, printed into a booklet, and handed to Wei Zhenguo.

Wei Zhenguo sighed again, then took it and left.

His weathered, hard-to-describe expression resembled that of a longtime regular who'd just watched a beloved older sister get married—somewhat sentimental, slightly mournful, emotionally charged, yet still unfazed in attending to other young women.

To be fair, Wei Zhenguo had personally arrested all five thieves, but their memories weren't vivid—until they were brought up again, then he remembered clearly.

Lao Juan was a curly-haired man, naturally born with curls; in his youth he was quite handsome and had an ambiguous relationship with his widow neighbor, twenty years his senior. Now that he was old, his looks had plummeted, and there were no more romantic rumors about him.

Another was a local troublemaker, the youngest of three older brothers; after marrying, his wife ran off with someone else, and he turned to idleness and petty theft.

Another was an orphan, with no elders to supervise him.

The other two were much the same, each with some kind of family problem.

Recalling the files of these five, Old Wei felt a headache coming on—they kept reoffending, never changing, always relying on luck.

He'd arrested countless thieves, and with more experience and seniority, Wei Zhenguo now mostly dealt with home burglaries, gang thefts, and itinerant thieves.

Petty pickpockets like these were usually left to rookies for training.

Because the stolen amounts were so small, investigating such cases was often more complicated than others—while murderers usually broke down during interrogation, pickpockets were the ones who profited from it.

Unlike murderers, who lacked training, pickpockets were already intimately familiar with police stations and investigation centers.

Many pickpockets started stealing as children, took breaks for years, then resumed stealing, took more breaks, stole again.

They'd endured countless interrogations and suffered plenty of punishment, so they knew how to weigh costs and benefits. Jail was inevitable, but they always found ways to minimize their time inside and make it more comfortable.

This kind of experience was something ordinary murderers simply didn't have—they went in and stayed for life, like married people who found it hard to leave, and impossible to try again.

But with Jiang Yuan helping gather evidence, Wei Zhenguo felt much lighter.

Taking Wen Ming and several other detectives along, Wei Zhenguo arrested thieves as he went, finally heading straight to a pickpocket's home and apprehending him.

The last pickpocket, Guo Jingbao, was eating watermelon at home; his living conditions were quite good—color TV, refrigerator, computer, a crystal candlestick and a shaggy rug in the bedroom. Though the furnishings were wildly mismatched, the place was cozy.

He was a thief who loved home.

The stolen goods were neatly arranged; wildly different items, when placed together, looked surprisingly harmonious.

The arriving police were speechless—how could someone spend this much time arranging their bedroom and matching decor, yet still choose to steal?

…

When Wei Zhenguo returned, he told Jiang Yuan and the others: "The last one we caught, this Guo guy, lives in real comfort. When he saw us, he actually had the nerve to say police can't enter homes to make arrests."

Jiang Yuan expressed admiration.

Mainly because his own home was just him and his father—two grown men. Their place didn't even have artistic flair; if it wasn't a pigsty, that was already a win.

"This thief seems to understand some law, but not really."

"They understand jack about the law!"

Wei Zhenguo scoffed. "A smart thief should be stealing in Beijing, Shanghai, or Guangzhou. What's smart about stealing in a county? Besides, if he were truly smart, he'd be hanging around bus and train stations for thirty years, watching people do business and learning from them—why keep stealing?"

Wang Zhong strolled over and chuckled: "Maybe he just likes a carefree lifestyle."

"More like a lazy, good-for-nothing lifestyle."

Still, thinking of the arrest scene, Wei Zhenguo couldn't help laughing.

"I went into his house—a fifty-year-old thief, everything spotless, the place warm and cozy. We almost thought we'd arrested the wrong person. There was watermelon and snacks piled on the table, his life more comfortable than ours."

He'd taken photos; when the group looked at them, they had to admit—it looked exactly like a social media hotspot.

A serious, intentional way of living.

Working hard to steal, then buying furniture—like he understood life perfectly.

…

"I'm going to interrogate him," Wei Zhenguo waved off, heading down to the investigation center.

The detective unit's investigation center had decent conditions; renovated a few years ago to ensure everyone inside—criminals and detectives alike—could eat, drink, and work without stepping out.

Both criminals and detectives.

Wei Zhenguo pulled Wen Ming and others over, pairing two officers to interrogate one thief, aiming to uncover more cases.

Interrogating petty thieves was about the only pursuit and pleasure left.

Otherwise, for a case involving only a few thousand yuan, even the prosecutor's office found it a hassle.

Petty thieves had experience too: when they couldn't hold out, they'd cooperate a bit, confess one or two minor cases. Though their sentence might increase slightly, factors like "good confession attitude" and "voluntary disclosure" reduced the actual time served.

That way, when they got to prison, they wouldn't lose face.

Besides, learning new skills inside prison took time; too short a sentence wasn't worth it.

Of course, they couldn't get truly stuck—if they ended up serving several years, it'd be a terrible deal.

Wei Zhenguo didn't interrogate anyone himself; he just wandered around the center, stepping in to interrogate for a few minutes wherever a team needed backup.

After pacing back and forth, Wei Zhenguo stopped outside Guo Jingbao's interrogation room.

"I really haven't committed any crimes lately. You guys arresting me like this is excessive."

"No, I get you have to get confessions, I understand you have targets—but I really haven't done anything lately. What am I supposed to confess?"

"Ask the officers at the police station—I've barely shown up recently."

Old Guo argued earnestly, bringing the interrogation room to a standstill.

Wei Zhenguo felt a flicker of curiosity.

Guo Jingbao's name was so plain it stuck in the mind—he claimed his mother named him "Jingbao" because she wanted him to be clean and well-fed every day.

He kept himself spotless every day, and stole to keep himself well-fed.

He'd been arrested several times.

Probably because Jin Yong's martial arts novels were huge back then, he called himself Guo Jing, dropping the "bao," but every theft he committed was stupid—police usually cracked the case within four hours.

So he earned the nickname "Dumb Guo."

This dumb thief, who'd never even left Ningtai County, was now stumping the detectives with his words—had he gone to school?

Wei Zhenguo was surprised.

He thought of this, then called a friend at the bus station police station.

After some small talk, Wei Zhenguo confirmed: Dumb Guo had indeed rarely appeared at the bus station lately.

Wei Zhenguo thought again, then called two other acquaintances.

It was also the advantage of fewer pickpockets—there were so few left on the streets that everyone knew them.

After asking around, Wei Zhenguo was astonished to discover: Dumb Guo really hadn't been stealing lately.

A thirty-year veteran pickpocket was suddenly slacking off—how could Wei Zhenguo believe it?

As the saying goes, a dog can't change its habit of eating shit; even a Labrador won't eat enough if there's not enough. At his age, Dumb Guo was at the critical stage of saving for retirement—how could he possibly rest? His home wasn't the kind of place a poor man lived in.

Wei Zhenguo was now certain: Dumb Guo had another case hidden away.

He knocked, then entered.

Wei Zhenguo nodded to the two interrogating officers and bluntly asked Dumb Guo: "You really haven't committed any crimes lately?"

"Really haven't," Dumb Guo insisted.

"Show him the video," Wei Zhenguo signaled the interrogating officer.

"Show it now?" The officer was confused. Usually, such evidence was held back to pressure suspects into confessing—unless they happened to confess to that exact case, it was considered dishonesty.

Dishonesty, incomplete confession—then even self-reporting didn't count, severely affecting sentence reduction.

This method forced suspects to keep confessing, keep confessing, until they had nothing left to say, then they'd be given a break—forcing them to confess again.

Many petty thieves fell into this trap of gaining small advantages but suffering big losses.

Worse, some interrogators even created a weird atmosphere in the room—"two items 20% off, three items 30% off, ten items get three free and free shipping"—to lure suspects into confessing more cases.

But Wei Zhenguo had his own plan, nodding again. The interrogating officer then played the video clip.

It showed Dumb Guo stealing luggage at the bus station.

"This? I just took it by accident," Dumb Guo didn't even think he was stealing.

"What was inside?"

"Nothing valuable—just clothes and shoes. People's suitcases these days are boring."

"What about the headphones?" Wei Zhenguo had done his homework—the victim had filed a report; a single phone call had given him all the details.

Dumb Guo hesitated a few seconds, then said: "I took the headphones."

Wei Zhenguo asked: "Anything else? What other cases have you committed recently?"

"None," Dumb Guo lowered his head.

Wei Zhenguo's hairs stood on end—he'd spent decades as a detective; if he couldn't see a case hidden here, he'd wasted his whole career.

Wei Zhenguo grunted and asked directly: "If you haven't committed any crimes lately, where did your income come from?"

"I… haven't committed any crimes."

"If you haven't committed crimes, where did your food, drink, and belongings come from?" Wei Zhenguo repeated.

The two young interrogating officers understood at once, their spirits lifting.

"I… saved money," Dumb Guo said.

"Saved from before?"

"Yes."

"Where did you save it? Alipay? WeChat? Bank account?"

"No… that… cash."

"Cash saved?"

"Yes."

"When did you save it? How did you earn this money?" Wei Zhenguo asked slowly, utterly unafraid of being exposed.

In the end, most of Fatty Guo's income came from pickpocketing, and he got cracked down on every two or three years—sometimes as often as every one or two years—roughly a five-year cycle.

When he was young, relatives helped him out, but by now, no one cared anymore.

So saving money was something Fatty Guo actually did—and a large sum of money, or a windfall, was worth investigating.

Fatty Guo tried explaining again, but when he couldn't make it stick, he just fell silent, looking like he intended to deny everything to the end.

Wei Zhenguo sat across from him, picking at his fingers, waiting nearly ten minutes before saying calmly, "Old Guo, we've known each other over twenty years, right?"

Fatty Guo still said nothing.

Normally, petty thieves like them had to tread carefully with homicide detectives—there was no way to openly defy them.

Especially now that the police officer had taken on the role of the good cop, how could a petty thief refuse to play along? Even Fatty Guo felt it was inappropriate.

Wei Zhenguo chuckled twice and said, "When I started, you were already a thief. Now, near the end of your life, you pull off something this big. Seeing you silent, I'm guessing you've got a murder on your hands?"

"No, Brother Wei, it's not necessary—is it really worth it?" Fatty Guo wasn't completely stupid; he reluctantly spoke up: "If you really want me to take the blame for you, pick something plausible. A murder? That's not believable."

Wei Zhenguo looked at Fatty Guo's demeanor and sensed it was wildly different from usual.

Given Fatty Guo's age and history, he clearly hadn't spontaneously awakened any criminal ability.

What did that mean? It meant someone had taught him.

Wei Zhenguo's interest was fully piqued. He asked a few more questions, confirmed his suspicion, then stood up and left.

The three men in the interrogation room were baffled, but since Wei Zhenguo hadn't called a halt, the two detectives kept playing the talking game with Fatty Guo.

Wei Zhenguo first went to the video office, then brought the footage to find Jiang Yuan.

What he needed was still a facial reconstruction.

Two video clips had already been extracted, both showing Fatty Guo with another person.

The youngest, Gao Jiansheng, pulled out the footage, looking slightly embarrassed, and whispered, "Still doing facial recon, but we followed your old method—it's a bit clearer, but the face is still blurry. We don't know how to adjust it."

"This image is more complex—the camera itself had poor quality," Jiang Yuan said as he watched. "There are many reasons an image can't be recovered: sampling resolution, frame rate, compression quality, camera positioning… all of these come from the surveillance system itself."

"You can't fix this?" Wei Zhenguo was startled.

Jiang Yuan "oh"ed and said, "Not impossible—just a bit difficult."

Jiang Yuan found a new algorithm, tapped in parameters rapidly, and within moments, a semi-clear photo of a recognizable face appeared before them.

"Holy shit!" Zhuang Wei, the original video tech, blurted out.

They seemed to be doing the same job, yet somehow they weren't even in the same world. Everyone could see it—but where the hell did you even put your hands?