Chapter 31: Likes to Set Fires

Wei Zhenguo went out in the afternoon and returned the next morning with darker under-eye bags and deeper wrinkles.

With him was a young man under twenty, short and thin, wearing a look of indifference, except for his eyes, which darted rapidly.

Once all the formalities were settled, Wei Zhenguo immediately led the man into the interrogation room.

The police interrogation room was on the first floor, a small space of thirty to forty square meters.

In the center stood iron bars, a door, and locks dividing the room. The half nearest the door was the interrogation zone, furnished with a desk, computer, and chairs; the inner end was the suspect restraint area, containing only a solitary interrogation chair.

The interrogation chair was colloquially called the “tiger bench.” Made entirely of steel, its base was fixed to the floor, with ankle restraints snugly encircling the suspect’s ankles, wrist restraints on the armrests, and a police rope hanging from the backrest to bind the suspect’s body to the chair.

This restraint system not only prevented suspects from suddenly attacking others but also stopped them from self-harm.

For the police force, any injury occurring inside the interrogation room—regardless of cause—demanded careful handling and could not be explained away with a few simple words.

“Open it.” Wei Zhenguo supported the suspect with one hand and signaled his colleague to unlock the door.

Click.

The iron lock and door opened.

Wei Zhenguo entered with the suspect, then signaled his colleague to close the door.

Click.

The iron door and lock closed.

After those two sounds, the suspect’s indifferent expression vanished quietly.

Wei Zhenguo pointed to the tiger bench and said, “Sit down.”

The suspect swallowed hard: “Why? What crime have I committed?”

“Stop talking nonsense.” Wei Zhenguo’s brow furrowed, able to pinch a lamb skewer without letting it fall—today he wouldn’t indulge the man. With a colleague, he effortlessly restrained the suspect onto the interrogation chair.

Several more “clicks” followed as the restraints locked into place; the suspect’s brow twitched, his face tight as if pinching a cotton swab.

Click.

Click-click.

Wei Zhenguo and his colleague opened the iron door, stepped out, closed it, and sat down on the opposite office chairs.

The interrogation room’s walls were thick and sound-absorbing; once the outer door shut, the entire room fell silent.

A heart-stopping silence.

Even those who had been inside before still felt oppressed upon re-entering.

Wei Zhenguo wore a grim face and signaled his colleague to begin.

After routine questions about name and age, and seeing the suspect’s emotions stabilize slightly, Wei Zhenguo spoke coldly: “Lu Xin, do you know how we caught you?”

“I… you’ve got the wrong person.” Lu Xin held his neck stiffly.

“People leave traces; geese leave sounds. With today’s technology, do you really think we don’t know what you did?” Wei Zhenguo raised his voice. “I don’t need your confession to send you away. If you don’t talk, your sentence will be longer.”

This statement was half-true, half-false. While zero-confession convictions did exist and were not rare, confessions still carried greater power and value than physical evidence. For one thing, when superiors inquired, their first question was always, “Did he confess?” and investigators most wanted to answer, “He did.”

This case was especially unusual—Wei Zhenguo hoped to use this minor case to uncover a major one, yet he lacked sufficient evidence for either the major or minor case.

Jiang Yuan had matched Lu Xin’s partial fingerprint, but the standard for conviction is higher than for investigation. Investigation requires only eight matching features; fingerprint identification requires thirteen identical features. Just this one point made the partial fingerprint insufficient.

Moreover, fingerprints, as circumstantial evidence, cannot alone prove guilt.

Yet Wei Zhenguo’s face showed no trace of anxiety or difficulty—only wrinkles and darkness.

“Have you ever been punished by public security authorities?” Wei Zhenguo asked knowingly—the fingerprint had been matched precisely because of this record.

Lu Xin remained silent.

“We’re asking you a question,” barked the officer beside Wei Zhenguo.

Lu Xin flinched, waited a few seconds, then said, “I’ve been punished before.”

Precisely because he’d been punished before, he knew “confess and be lenient, resist and be harsh” was no empty threat—especially at trial, where resistance meant heavier punishment, possibly adding years to his sentence.

Likewise, this information was documented and impossible to hide.

Wei Zhenguo took over, speaking calmly: “Why?”

“Didn’t they already deal with it…”

“Answer what I ask.”

Lu Xin’s face tensed; after a pause, he said, “I got into a fight. Just detention. Also took some things from others.”

“You started a fire in the restaurant kitchen, then got into a fight, right?”

“Yeah, it was an accident. They wouldn’t let it go.” Lu Xin looked dismissive.

Wei Zhenguo sneered. The officer on the previous case had been misled—this guy had fooled him and avoided deeper scrutiny. A suspect who set fire to a small restaurant kitchen? How could that be an accident? Clearly, after coming to the city, he’d gotten bored and felt the urge again.

He tapped the table lightly and said calmly, “You’re lying.”

Lu Xin looked at Wei Zhenguo with an innocent expression.

“You didn’t accidentally set fire to the kitchen—you deliberately did it. Your fingerprint is on the oil bottle at the scene.” Wei Zhenguo stared sharply at Lu Xin and signaled his colleague to show the photo.

Through the bars, the breaks in the fingerprint weren’t clear—it looked like a complete print.

“That… that was from the fight. I grabbed the oil bottle.”

“Why grab the oil bottle?”

“I wanted to hit someone. Then I put it down. I never used it to hit anyone.” Lu Xin’s answers flowed smoothly.

Wei Zhenguo smiled. “You wanted to use the oil bottle to start a fire, didn’t you?”

Lu Xin’s eyes flickered. “No such thing.”

“You really like setting fires, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Then how do you explain the fingerprint I found at the ignition point?” Wei Zhenguo pulled out another fingerprint chart and said slowly: “Once is coincidence. Twice, three times—can that still be coincidence? Do you think the judicial system is stupid?”

Lu Xin’s lips moved; his expression could no longer be held.

He now regretted not wearing gloves… but when the urge struck, where could he find gloves on the spot? Besides, wearing them was inconvenient and drew suspicion.

Wei Zhenguo waited long enough, then spoke with overwhelming pressure: “Speak.”

“I… I didn’t…”

“If you don’t confess, I’ll convict you based on the fingerprint.”

“No, I…”

Wei Zhenguo slammed the table. “Talk!”

Lu Xin’s body trembled. After a hesitation, he looked at the two men and finally said: “I didn’t really mean to set fire. I just hated that scrap collection station, and since I was smoking, I tossed the paper on the ground and lit it…”

This was the only time he’d set fire recently. The damage was minor; he left soon after, and the fire was put out quickly—probably by the scrap station owner himself or some concerned bystanders.

In Lu Xin’s view, a case of this scale wouldn’t lead to a harsh sentence.

Wei Zhenguo and his colleague exchanged glances, silently signaling each other.

The case Lu Xin confessed to clearly wasn’t among the ones they already knew about.

This meant Lu Xin was a repeat offender who had committed even more crimes.

Wei Zhenguo’s heart stirred slightly, but his face showed no expression. He looked at Lu Xin and said coldly: “Tell it in chronological order.”

“Yes. This March, Xihong District, Wuli Pu scrap collection station.” Now that he’d started, Lu Xin’s demeanor relaxed; he recounted everything in detail.

…