Chapter 277: The Slaughterhouse Owner

Liu Jinghui wasn't the type to rely on manpower tactics, but over time, he ended up deploying as many as 150 officers from the Changyang City Criminal Investigation Brigade.

Liu Jinghui specifically called Yu Wenshu to explain the situation, making it clear he wasn't wasting resources.

Yu Wenshu shrugged it off, even offering generously: "When handling cold cases, using a hundred-plus people? What's that? Hahaha, as long as you solve it, even if you need a thousand, I'll find a way to get them for you. Use them freely—I'll drink three cups myself at the next meal if I so much as frown."

Liu Jinghui chuckled in agreement, exchanged a few more words, then hung up.

Yu Wenshu's message was clear: you can use personnel, but you must solve the case. If you solve it, using more people is fine.

But what if you don't solve it?

Part of why Liu Jinghui disliked manpower tactics was precisely this.

The responsibility was too great. Once so many people have invested so much labor, talking about romance or joy becomes impossible.

The problem was, Liu Jinghui's deductions weren't always successful—especially when coordination was inadequate. His insights into the core of the matter often failed to be verified before being quietly swept aside.

Although Liu Jinghui had handled several major cases, those cases usually had a central commander, and he typically served only as an advisor.

Most senior police officers from provincial bureaus operated this way: on the ground, they could offer many suggestions, but whether to act and how to act remained entirely in the hands of local criminal investigators.

He was a provincial-level official—high-ranking and respected—but he controlled neither personnel nor funds. Simply wanting to get things done meant constantly hitting obstacles.

Most local leaders spoke well enough in theory, but once the case entered territory they disliked or consumed more resources than they could bear, all their previous promises vanished.

But this time, Yu Wenshu had genuinely delegated authority.

Only not to Liu Jinghui.

Liu Jinghui glanced at Jiang Yuan. This guy had somehow conquered the head of the Changyang City Criminal Investigation Brigade—by treating the case like a personal mission.

Thinking about it, Jiang Yuan's cases rarely needed follow-up—they were almost always ironclad from the start.

Most of his homicide cases didn't even require suspect confessions; they were closed with zero statements.

Naturally, Jiang Yuan earned quick recognition from criminal investigation captains.

In contrast, Liu Jinghui's deductions often felt vague and unsubstantiated. When he couldn't prove them, prosecutors even demanded supplementary investigations.

"There's nothing else today. Jiang Yuan, go rest well and see if any good news comes in tomorrow," Liu Jinghui said, showing care for Jiang Yuan after his moment of envy.

Cold case investigations meant endless work and stacks of paperwork—but Liu Jinghui never asked Jiang Yuan to handle any of it.

Jiang Yuan glanced at the pile of documents on Liu Jinghui's desk and said with good sense: "We've been running around all afternoon. Let me help you draft some reports."

"This…," Liu Jinghui hesitated, worried Jiang Yuan couldn't write them.

Jiang Yuan sat beside him, picked up a report, glanced at it, then began writing swiftly.

Finished, he handed it to Liu Jinghui and took another.

Liu Jinghui read it over, surprised.

Unbelievably good.

Liu Jinghui looked at Jiang Yuan curiously: "You've trained in this?"

"Hmm… I dabbled a bit during school," Jiang Yuan replied. What could he say? That he'd picked up a Level 4 Document Writing skill? That his document-writing ability outclassed eight Liu Jinghuis?

Jiang Yuan couldn't say it, so Liu Jinghui flipped through the report twice.

He thought Jiang Yuan's writing was excellent—even when he tried to find errors, he couldn't spot any.

Official documents were dull by nature, especially ordinary ones—no flair, just templates to follow.

But official documents could become decisions, resolutions, evidence. To think they didn't matter? That was naive.

True mastery lay in the ordinary—this was the kind of writing that revealed the power of words, something only seasoned civil servants who'd endured years of bureaucratic grind could produce well.

Grassroots police officers usually wrote poorly.

Those who wrote well were typically from higher-level city or provincial bureaus—this skill was essential in both places.

Officers like Wang Chuan and Tang Jia, highly educated, eager to learn, and with access to training, were masters of document writing.

As for Jiang Yuan—Liu Jinghui didn't mean to discriminate, but if he'd been such a good student, why had he ended up in a county bureau? Wait—he was from Jiang Village; he'd taken the exam to return home.

Liu Jinghui sucked in a sharp breath and asked Jiang Yuan: "You say you 'dabbled'—how deeply?"

Jiang Yuan didn't hide it: "About the level of my crime scene investigation."

His Crime Scene Investigation Level 4 had slightly improved with practice. Document writing he hadn't trained in—but he'd acquired it at Level 4, so it was roughly on par.

Liu Jinghui drew in a full breath, grabbed a stack of reports, and tossed them at Jiang Yuan: "Try these."

Jiang Yuan smiled: "I'm not good at everything. Some types I just can't write."

He picked through the pile, selected six reports, then set one aside: "I'll start with these two. If there are problems, I'll let you know."

"Fine," Liu Jinghui said, slightly relieved—he wasn't some supernatural prodigy who could do everything… Then he reconsidered: Was this a high-level document-writing tactic—deliberate evasion?

"Good." Seeing this, Liu Jinghui felt slightly relieved—at least he wasn't truly a demon who dabbled in everything… Then Liu Jinghui thought again: Could this be some advanced application in official document writing—passing the buck to someone's face?

No standard meant flexibility. Flexibility meant power…

The power of grassroots civil servants flowed through the tips of their pens.

Liu Jinghui suddenly realized: Jiang Yuan wrote excellent documents, volunteered to write them, and now seemed to have already secured a justification for shifting blame…

Liu Jinghui then couldn't help but wonder: Jiang Yuan wrote official documents so well, and he volunteered to write them—that was essentially applying for power and gaining power, and now he'd even found a reason to shift blame…

Jiang Yuan returned to rest soon after.

He helped Liu Jinghui with documents partly because he saw how overwhelmed he was, partly to occasionally use his own skills and gauge the situation inside and outside the task force.

He helped Liu Jinghui with official documents mainly because he saw how overloaded the man was, and also because he occasionally used his own skills to get a sense of what was happening inside and outside the task force.

He preferred spending his time on the case itself.

He slept through the night.

When he woke, Jiang Yuan sat in the guesthouse, staring blankly for a while.

The hotels he'd been staying in lately seemed to have gotten worse. If every victim were some CEO or chairman, his living conditions would probably be much better.

Breakfast was Douhua, a local specialty from Dawan Village: large bowls with extra broth, served with steamed buns and pickled vegetables—all you could eat, but only these few items.

The taste was decent—edible, but not particularly good.

Liu Jinghui moved his command center to the local police station.

The station's workload was heavy too, especially in a large town like this—dozens of officers worked nonstop, and now half the corridor was occupied. Of course they were annoyed.

But Liu Jinghui didn't care—he had too many reports coming in from field officers, meaning arrests and interrogations were imminent. Basic infrastructure was essential; otherwise, the evidence chain would be challenged.

The station staff offered reluctant cooperation. Near noon, important updates began arriving.

"We found the slaughterhouse owner. According to our colleagues on-site, he likely knows something. We're persuading him to return—he'll take the afternoon flight." Liu Jinghui suppressed his excitement in the small office provided by the station.

Eleven years after the cold case began, a breakthrough had finally been achieved. If the slaughterhouse owner was truly involved, the case was essentially solved.

Even if the killer wasn't caught immediately, for a cold homicide case, reaching the fugitive-tracking stage was nearly perfect.

"Did he resist?" Jiang Yuan asked.

"He was verbally defiant, but he's probably weighing his options. We'll question him properly once he's in the interrogation room." Even if the suspect was wavering, questioning him outside carried huge risks—normally, suspects were brought back first.

In China's interrogation system, most ordinary people didn't resist strongly once inside the room. If interrogators clearly explained the pros and cons, and made them understand China's judicial system differed from America's—and that no lawyer could intervene—most suspects with minor offenses would confess.

Those who refused? That only excited interrogators, because such cases often signaled serious crimes, possibly even homicide.

Those who truly loved interrogation techniques and added pressure during questioning were relics of the old pre-trial system—especially when solving cold cases was treated as performance metrics.

Pre-trial interrogation no longer exists. If the slaughterhouse owner didn't commit murder, by the time he landed, he'd likely have figured it out.

"But transport officers can't pressure suspects during transit. Not only must they avoid pressure—they must constantly reassure them: 'It's fine, nothing's wrong, just explain everything when you get there…'"

A little-known fact: a police officer's most smiling moment isn't his wedding—it's when escorting a suspect.

"However, during transport, the escort personnel are unlikely to pressure the suspect. Not only must they avoid pressure, they must continuously reassure him, telling him it's fine, nothing's wrong, everything will be clarified once they arrive…"

The slaughterhouse owner was taken directly to the Changyang City Bureau's case handling center.

When he was seated on the interrogation chair, cuffed, and especially strapped down, the slightly corpulent slaughterhouse owner visibly panicked.

"Isn't this just an interview? Why the cuffs? And this… what's this thing?" He wriggled, chains clinking loudly.

"It's a restraint strap. Think of it as a seatbelt," Liu Jinghui replied. Then, seeing the man's expression, he cut straight to the point: "Do you know why we brought you in?"

"Debt collection?" the slaughterhouse owner asked cautiously.

"We're police," Liu Jinghui emphasized. "Do you remember the eleven-year-old cold case?"

"Which police?" the slaughterhouse owner asked back.

"I'm Liu Jinghui from the Provincial Bureau." He showed his credentials.

The slaughterhouse owner studied them carefully, then sat frozen for several seconds before saying: "I remember—the taxi driver died. You don't think I killed him, do you?"

"Explain clearly, and you won't be suspected."

"Hmm… alright. I can talk." The slaughterhouse owner sighed.

"Say it clearly, and it won't."

"Hmm… fine. I might as well tell you." The slaughterhouse owner sighed.