Chapter 5: Chapter Five: The Suspect

The body was discovered in the morning; the autopsy was finished just before afternoon.

After changing clothes, Wu Jun pulled Jiang Yuan to a secluded spot and whispered, “Find some cardboard or something, and start a fire.”

“Start a fire?” Jiang Yuan’s mind was still full of autopsy images; he couldn’t process it right away.

“I’ll tell you when you get it,” Wu Jun waved his hand.

Jiang Yuan silently went out, found two cardboard boxes, and handed them to Wu Jun.

Wu Jun tore them apart, lit them with a lighter, waited until the flames caught, then rubbed his hands and said, “Let’s jump over the fire to shake off the bad luck.”

“This… isn’t necessary,” Jiang Yuan hesitated.

“Don’t doubt me—I’ve seen too much,” Wu Jun said, then sprinted from one side, like a Corgi, and leaped forcefully over the fire.

“You too,” Wu Jun waved, signaling Jiang Yuan to jump over the fire.

Jiang Yuan sighed, “Today’s the funeral of my Seventeenth Uncle—he doesn’t need this. He was always kind; every time he came back to the village, he smiled at everyone, whether he knew them or not…”

“What if he made a new friend last night?” Wu Jun stood on the other side of the fire, the flames casting flickering light across his face and his shadow.

Jiang Yuan paused for two seconds, took two running steps, and leapt cleanly over the fire.

Only after both cardboard boxes were fully burned did Wu Jun light a cigarette, gaze pensively at the dying embers, then say to Jiang Yuan, “I’ll go report to Captain Huang. You clean up here, then check the cafeteria—see if there’s any food left. If not, buy some instant noodles and bring them to the office next to the autopsy room. We’ll make do. That’s how it is being a cop—you’ll get used to it.”

“Alright,” Jiang Yuan replied without further words.

“The cafeteria’s this way,” Wu Jun pointed, then his phone rang. He nodded to Jiang Yuan, picked up the receiver, and said, “Captain Huang, confirmed: second cervical vertebra fracture, no other injuries. Time of death is around 7 a.m. No signs of pre-mortem wounds, but there are traces of post-mortem movement…”

Jiang Yuan listened for a few moments; when Wu Jun finished his autopsy report, he borrowed tools to sweep the ashes and headed for the cafeteria.

Autopsies were physically draining—he was already starving.

The funeral home had a cafeteria, a dining hall, and a small convenience store.

The dining hall and convenience store catered to bereaved families and charged high prices. Many arrived early, before dawn, and waited until noon; those who couldn’t hold out were exploited.

The cafeteria was for staff—small in size, low in cost. As an outsourced employee of the funeral home, Jiang Yuan showed his credentials upon entering and received a temporary meal card.

At the serving counter, he saw a young girl with a long ponytail, just standing up, no mask on, smiling brightly: “Only a little vegetable left—we didn’t expect you. You’re the new forensic doctor from the county bureau, right?”

“Yes. How do you know?” Jiang Yuan smiled, then looked down—the only food left was a small portion of stir-fried greens and stir-fried bean sprouts, both looking unappetizing.

“We heard the new forensic doctor is especially tall. Also, the only people who come here besides funeral home staff are from civil affairs and religious affairs—everyone’s known.” The girl with the long ponytail grinned, dimples appearing. “If you’re not in a hurry, I can cook you some noodles?”

Jiang Yuan’s gaze shifted to the small kitchen at the back—two simple stoves, with side dishes stored in bins beside them.

Seeing the kitchen environment, Jiang Yuan felt a sudden thought: “Do you have rice? Can I make fried rice myself?”

The girl with the long ponytail hesitated, looked up at Jiang Yuan’s tall, refined appearance, then smiled: “We’re a small place, no strict rules—but few people cook for themselves. Can you use these stoves?”

“Yes.”

“Then come in,” she lifted the right cover panel, looked up at Jiang Yuan, and smiled, “Even if you cook your own fried rice, you still have to swipe your card for egg fried rice price.”

“Got it,” Jiang Yuan replied, stepped inside, picked up the large spatula—and for some reason, it felt oddly natural in his hand.

The girl with the long ponytail brought rice and eggs. Jiang Yuan used two eggshells to transfer the yolks, cracked them into four or five bowls of rice, turned on the stove, poured oil, and began stir-frying…

Back in school, his cooking skill had been limited to adding an egg to instant noodles; now, flipping the spatula, he moved with surprising ease.

Watching his movements, the girl with the long ponytail frowned slightly—until she saw him add the vegetables, then couldn’t help saying, “You don’t have to be so stingy with ingredients.”

Jiang Yuan paused, scooped and dropped the spatula—still taking only a tiny bit of diced radish—and said, “No need. It’s enough.”

The girl: “You don’t have to be so polite.”

Jiang Yuan: “I’m not.”

Their conversation ended abruptly.

Jiang Yuan focused entirely on making fried rice. He had no real cooking skill—he was simply repeating his Seventeenth Uncle’s methods, using ingredients with extreme frugality.

Watching him, the girl with the long ponytail felt a faint pang of sadness… such a frugal egg fried rice—his past life must have been hard. What a pity.

“I’ll save you a portion to try,” Jiang Yuan calculated three servings, scooped out his and Wu Jun’s, then gave the girl a bowl.

“You don’t have to… I already ate,” the girl said, staring at the golden, translucent fried rice in the bowl—how could one egg feed three people? It was absurd.

“Don’t be polite,” Jiang Yuan smiled, said no more, and left with the food box.

Watching Jiang Yuan leave the cafeteria, the girl with the long ponytail looked down at the fried rice again—it looked surprisingly good. She turned, grabbed a spoon, took half, put it in her mouth, and nodded involuntarily.

“Turns out it’s pretty tasty,” she murmured to herself, deciding to save a small portion for the cook. After deciding, she happily picked up the other half and devoured it.

…

“This is good,” Wu Jun took a bite of the fried rice Jiang Yuan brought back and praised it.

“The cafeteria only had a little greens left—I made the fried rice myself,” Jiang Yuan ate two mouthfuls, raised the bowl toward the morgue, and silently honored his Seventeenth Uncle.

Wu Jun’s eyes lit up: “You should’ve told me you had this talent!”

“I only learned fried rice. From my Seventeenth Uncle,” Jiang Yuan cut him off.

Wu Jun froze, stared at the fried rice, hesitated a few seconds, then shook his head, wolfed it down, drank two sips of tea, and said, “When we get back, organize the photos, fill out the autopsy report, and if any colleagues return, lend a hand.”

Jiang Yuan nodded.

Wu Jun glanced at Jiang Yuan, then said slowly, “Team Leader Liu found traces of cleaning agent in the victim’s restaurant kitchen, then bloodstains. Right now, the prime suspect is the victim’s wife…”

“Seventeenth Aunt?” Jiang Yuan showed mild surprise, but no strong emotion.

A husband dead, killed by his wife—this happened with high probability in any country. Jiang Yuan could only sigh.

Seeing Jiang Yuan’s emotions were stable, Wu Jun nodded and said, “Team Two is searching for the weapon. Everyone else is at the scene. We’ll stay here and guard the office.”

“Alright,” Jiang Yuan replied, quickly finished the last of his rice.