Chapter 587: Entanglement

Jiang Yuan and the others watched the middle-aged man sign his name, press his fingerprint, and then be taken away, directly to the detention center.

Cutting down any small tree might only result in compensation if caught, and cutting more or higher-value trees might lead to administrative detention at most—but this person felled an ancient, valuable pine tree, specifically named by the fortune-teller, obviously one that stood out; the park valued it at 20,000 yuan, with further assessment by the Price Bureau expected to be even higher, clearly warranting criminal detention.

Jiang Yuan watched the uncle leave with handcuffs on, and couldn't help saying, "The police station work is quite interesting."

"This is the more interesting part," Chief Tan smiled. Jiang Yuan said nothing more; the boring parts didn't need to be asked about—there were plenty of those in forensics too.

Creak. The interrogation room had been empty for just a few minutes when another suspect was brought in. Meng Cheng didn't even shift his seat, like a jaded HR rep, glaring and barking, "What's your name?" The suspect seated before him was tall and stout, with a finely detailed dragon tattoo on his arm and a bald head shinier than a turtle's.

His two copper-bell eyes, slightly widened, radiated menace. Upon hearing the question, he scowled and bellowed, "Report to the government, my name is Huang Biao."

"Been to prison before?" Meng Meng Chengbiao asked.

"Been!" Huang Biao lowered his head and muttered, "Sentenced to one year and two months for stealing diesel, sentenced to two full years for stealing diesel, sentenced to three and a half years for stealing diesel..." Meng Meng Chengbiao blinked, then recalled the case file: "Oh, you've been sentenced three times."

"Yes." The suspect Huang Biao bowed his head submissively.

"This is your fourth time."

"Yes."

"Let me see... this time you're directly involved in several cases, so your sentence will be long..." Meng Meng Chengbiao feigned seriousness, "Could easily be ten years." Huang Biao froze. "Wait, government... I... I just stole oil!"

"Let me read you this: What were you doing on April 7th, April 3rd, and March 21st this year?"

"This..."

"And on March 16th and March 14th, you were stealing oil too, weren't you?" Huang Biao stayed silent. He only appeared bold on the outside; facing prison, he had no courage left.

Meng Meng Chengbiao

"Hmm," he grunted, setting the file aside. "If you don't understand, I'll send you straight to the detention center. When we're done with today's work, I'll have my men take your statement again, alright?" Huang Biao jolted upright. "I understand! I understand!"

"What do you understand?" Huang Biao ventured. "What do you want me to do?"

"Name a few accomplices. It'll save us effort—and count as meritorious conduct." Meng Meng Chengbiao's tone was slick and smooth.

Huang Biao hesitated a few seconds, then asked, "How many?"

"Whatever you like. The more you name, the shorter your sentence. If you won't cooperate, someone else will." Meng Meng Chengbiao spoke in a shrewd, streetwise tone.

In reality, it was much the same. Those who acted brazenly were often reported by their peers. And among criminals, the circle of known associates was always small.

After a few more exchanges with Meng Meng Chengbiao, Huang Biao began to slowly talk. He named three men—all temporary partners in diesel theft.

The investigators recorded it without emotion. Ordinary small cases were this simple: arrest a few people, and the snowball begins rolling.

A typical example: prostitution raids. Now they all dig through the girls' payment records. Slow ones might not notify the johns until half a year later.

Diesel theft was much the same. Most offenders got under three years, but if you named a few buddies, you'd be out in a year or so—after all, shared pain is half the pain... Meng Meng Chengbiao squeezed Huang Biao dry, then had him escorted out. He took a sip of water, waiting for the next suspect.

Just as he'd told Huang Biao, only those willing to confess quickly got detailed statements.

Those who resisted were sent straight to detention. Later, after today's arrests ended, officers would go to the detention center to slowly bring them in for interrogation.

Jiang Yuan's evidence chain, based solely on what had been collected earlier, was already enough to make an arrest. Any additional evidence found on-site, or mutual accusations among suspects, easily met the threshold for criminal detention.

One after another, the interrogations quickly became a monotonous assembly line.

Meng Meng Chengbiao remained calm. Work was work—he'd faced similar situations before, when he worked in the Changyang City Criminal Investigation Brigade.

During major operations, several squads would go out together and bring back over a hundred suspects in one go—commonplace.

In provincial capitals, crime scales up. Of course, back in Changyang, there were always more interrogators—but the nature of the work never changed.

"Name?" Meng Meng Chengbiao opened a new file as the suspect sat down.

"An Zhiqiang." The suspect's voice trembled with fear. Meng Meng Chengbiao glanced up, showing no sympathy whatsoever.

Just today, he'd processed nearly a dozen cases. Though the suspects came from different places with different backgrounds, they were, at heart, all the same kind of people.

"Age?" Meng Meng Chengbiao asked.

"Twenty-five, twenty-six." An Zhiqiang answered. Meng Meng Chengbiao snorted, continuing methodically. Near the end of the interrogation, seeing An Zhiqiang shivering, he offered reassurance: "Don't be afraid. Behave well in prison, earn meritorious credit—you'll be out in one or two years."

"What if I report more people?" An Zhiqiang, having already named his "colleagues," clearly felt it wasn't enough.

Meng Meng Chengbiao smiled. "If you report more, you can earn more merit—but avoiding prison entirely is impossible, unless it's major merit."

"What about a murder case? Would that count as major merit?" An Zhiqiang's voice grew low.

"Absolutely. If you report a murder the police didn't know about, your own case might even qualify for suspended sentence." Meng Meng Chengbiao's attention sharpened.

Despite An Zhiqiang's weak demeanor, he might know something hidden. An Zhiqiang hesitated again.

Meng Meng Chengbiao probed gently. Then An Zhiqiang spoke, shocking him: "I saw my mother and her boyfriend kill someone—and dismember the body." Meng Meng Chengbiao, now in his forties, had never expected to uncover something this new. Murder with dismemberment was never easy. But reporting one's own mother—Meng Meng Chengbiao asked himself: if it were him, he'd rather serve extra years than do this. If confirmed, a murder with dismemberment meant almost certain death penalty. Meng Meng Chengbiao paused briefly, recording, thinking, then pressed on: "Where's the body?"

"They took it out and buried it," An Zhiqiang said.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Who was the victim?"

"I don't know. I don't recognize them." An Zhiqiang answered quickly. Meng Meng Chengbiao seized the moment, asked several key questions, then said, "Describe exactly what you saw." An Zhiqiang recalled, his body trembling, then spoke: "I came home early that day and heard noises from inside the room. I didn't think much—I opened the bathroom door..." He lowered his head. "My mother was dismembering the body. She told me she'd killed a sheep. The thigh... still had a shoe on it..." Meng Meng Chengbiao continued asking for details, while quietly sending a message to Jiang Yuan and the others.

At first, he wasn't sure if An Zhiqiang was telling the truth or lying. Some mentally ill people fabricated elaborate stories.

But as his questioning deepened, the likelihood of an actual murder became extremely high.