Chapter 37

Mu Zhiyang also crouched down, carefully examining the fingerprints.

The fingerprints were incomplete, mostly concentrated at the fingertips, with the central areas poorly pressed and overall small in area.

“Too much time has passed?” Mu Zhiyang looked disappointed. He’d used a $200 brush and expensive copper powder, yet still hadn’t lifted a complete fingerprint.

Jiang Yuan first took out a camera and took as clear photos as possible, then stood up, stared at the captured fingerprint patterns, and said slowly: “They’re fragmented, but we should still be able to extract a dozen or so characteristic points.”

Mu Zhiyang stretched on tiptoe to look at the prints, surprised: “The shape’s barely recognizable, the ridges are blurry—how can you pull out a dozen characteristic points?”

“You should see the fingerprints from the arson case I worked on a few days ago.” Jiang Yuan bent down again to photograph the prints, then began taking pictures of the crime scene.

Mu Zhiyang slapped his forehead: “My imagination’s too wild… sigh, only you’d do this—anyone else, this case would be impossible to crack.”

If the county bureau’s field techs had lifted these prints, the trace evidence unit would’ve pretended to ignore them. What else could they do? In this state, whether it was Old Yan or Xiao Wang, they couldn’t match them.

Even if the fingerprints were slightly more complete, the two of them still wouldn’t have wanted to handle it.

Complete fingerprints are easy to match—anyone with hands can do it. Fragmented ones? The more broken, the more frustrating. At the level of the arson case, it’s not just frustrating—it drains mental energy, and not just any mental energy, but that of expert trace analysts…

Cases solved by burning out top-tier brain cells like this—if it’s just a few electric bikes stolen—the investigating officers would feel embarrassed.

Jiang Yuan himself didn’t have to explain much—he politely said: “I only know fingerprints. The police station probably has other methods.”

“We have methods, but that doesn’t mean we’ll solve it,” Mu Zhiyang said. “Electric bike thefts? Most are hit-and-run. They stay in one place for a while, spend all their money, get scared, then move to another—like tourists.” Mu Zhiyang suddenly felt a strange envy.

Zhou Ta, who had just returned from finishing the scene report, heard the latter half and agreed: “True. Some even know not to steal from your own neighborhood.”

“I’ll match the fingerprints as soon as possible.” That’s all Jiang Yuan could do. Delaying too long meant even if he matched them, the suspect might flee—another real-world headache: even knowing where the suspect was, the paperwork for cross-jurisdictional operations, the time and energy consumed, the burning budget—all were headaches.

Imagine two officers—likely four—driving a thousand kilometers to another city, coordinating with local criminal investigation units, requesting help to track and arrest the suspect, spending huge sums on fuel, tolls, overtime pay, meals, and lodging, only to bring home a petty thief who stole a few electric bikes—and maybe even fail to catch him… Anyone thinking of that would feel a deep sense of unease.

Compared to the younger Mu Zhiyang, Zhou Ta found Jiang Yuan even harder to understand.

But he was used to doing more, saying less—he helped Jiang Yuan organize the gear, then hurried straight to the parking area outside the compound.

Arriving, all three put on gloves and masks and began rummaging through the storm drains, trying to find the cigarette butts and trash seen in the video.

Three people, two large bags—soon they all stood up, satisfied.

“Polluted this badly, only the cigarette butts might be usable,” Jiang Yuan sighed. The drain held many butts—he retrieved them all, collecting each one individually in small evidence bags.

Jiang Yuan spent over fifteen minutes on this single task.

Mu Zhiyang watched and grew tired—he pulled off his gloves, covered his nose, then grimaced and let go: “The garbage water’s soaked in—can we even get DNA from this?”

“Should be fine. Cigarette butts preserve DNA very well,” Jiang Yuan carefully examined the butts. “As long as they don’t mold, even ten-year-old butts can yield DNA.”

“That powerful? Why? Because the smoke soaks in?” Mu Zhiyang, who spent his days following his master on cases, had never paid attention to this.

Jiang Yuan nodded. “One reason is the long smoking time. Another is the butt’s structure—it resists external erosion. When testing DNA, you can easily tear out the cotton fibers one by one.”

“So we always say at the station: criminals need to study. You know, in this day and age, someone still drops cigarette butts at crime scenes. We investigators are just as clueless—leaving evidence everywhere…” Zhou Ta chuckled and shook his head.

Unlike the veteran auxiliary officer Zhou Ta, Mu Zhiyang saw it more clearly: “They don’t mean to leave evidence—they just can’t think straight. Once I followed my master to a homicide scene—we found the killer had just murdered someone, ran out of the alley still bloody, smoked a cigarette, then dropped the butt right there. He knew better, but his mind was too panicked to care.”

“That makes sense. Theft cases are easier—the perpetrators are sharper, harder to catch.” Zhou Ta said.

“Thieves do it often, so they’re skilled. Murderers? Usually do it once or twice and get caught—no chance to practice.” Mu Zhiyang began summarizing.

“Murder’s complex—scenes are chaotic, bodies everywhere… it’s like a big project. Theft is small-scale. Someone jumping straight into a big project is bound to mess up.” Zhou Ta also drew his own conclusions.

Jiang Yuan held up the evidence bag: “Let’s go back. I don’t know if we’ll get a DNA match.”

“Do your best, leave the rest to fate—that’s how it is,” Zhou Ta said. He’d followed this long and hoped for results, but he was more familiar with failure than success.

Jiang Yuan merely nodded slightly—this was, after all, his first full case.