The Secret of the Slip
The long-haired man had been taken into criminal custody. That day, after Marcus Shaw stopped Lucas Lutz's bleeding and immediately called for an ambulance, he pursued the fugitive for several hundred meters but couldn't find him anywhere. Left with no choice, he returned to the school, found the man's address in the student records, and set out with Viktor Dunn to make the arrest.
When they reached the building, the long-haired man was just coming out of the entrance, one hand gripping a travel bag, the other a plastic bag—clearly planning to run. They tackled him on the spot.
They searched his bag and found a large quantity of drugs: three bags of crystal meth, five bags of maegu, and some new varieties disguised as cigarettes and gummy bears.
During interrogation, he admitted that he'd gone to the second floor because his addiction was flaring up. He'd smoked one of his "cigarettes" to hold himself together, then returned to finish the parents' meeting. The cigarette butt Marcus Shaw had collected did indeed test positive for drug residue—the facts were clear, the evidence solid.
Further investigation revealed he'd been dealing to support his habit. Marcus Shaw transferred the case to the narcotics unit to continue tracing the supply chain and downstream buyers.
Although the long-haired man had nothing to do with Mr. Hollis's death, the drug dealing, drug use, and assault on a police officer would likely earn him a ten-year sentence.
The next day, Marcus Shaw and Viktor Dunn returned to the school to continue their investigation.
Viktor Dunn reported that while he'd stayed behind the previous day, he and the technician had located the point where the surveillance power supply had been cut—two cables had been severed. There were no cameras nearby, no tools found at the scene, and no useful leads.
Marcus Shaw inspected the location himself. It was exceptionally well-hidden, and after cutting the cables, the perpetrator could have easily slipped away. The saboteur was indeed meticulous, leaving no obvious traces.
This line of investigation would have to be shelved for now. Their only hope was that someone had witnessed something.
The two men went back to the third-floor crime scene.
As they climbed the stairs, Viktor Dunn brought up Lucas Lutz's injury. "He's lucky to be alive. If you hadn't applied that emergency tourniquet, he probably would have bled out. Then again, he's always picking at us—who knows, maybe heaven was watching and decided to teach him a lesson."
Marcus Shaw didn't engage with that.
The room was sealed tight—windows and doors closed, tape across the frame. When they opened the door, a heavy, salty, stale smell washed over them.
They put on shoe covers and gloves and began a meticulous search of the room, hoping to unearth even the faintest clue.
But after bending and searching for over an hour, they found nothing but two hairs likely belonging to the deceased.
To preserve the crime scene, the room had been kept sealed and the windows unopened. Their throats felt parched and raw.
Viktor Dunn held out a little longer, then slipped out to cool off in the corridor. Marcus Shaw started examining the filing cabinet. It was full of lesson plans and books. He pulled a few out and flipped through them, then shoved them back—standing them up only to have them topple, then standing them again, everything in disarray, the books refusing to stay upright.
Just as he was about to close the cabinet door, another textbook slid to the floor. Marcus Shaw bent to pick it up. The laminated cover caught the light, revealing a dense pattern of indentations.
Marcus Shaw looked closely and could make out the characters for "female student" among the impressions. His attention sharpened. He painstakingly deciphered the full text from top to bottom:
Letter of Guarantee
I should not have violated female students. I am unworthy of being a teacher.
I voluntarily resign tomorrow, henceforth keeping my distance from students, and will never offend again.
Holly Chen
June 15th
A chill ran across Marcus Shaw's scalp. He recalled how narrow the slip of paper had been—no heading at the top, no signature at the bottom, just that single short line, with ragged edges on both the upper and lower margins. It was instantly clear: the killer had deliberately torn away the header and footer, transforming a letter of guarantee into a suicide note, creating the illusion that the deceased had taken his own life.
If they hadn't discovered this book—the one used as a writing surface beneath the paper—who would have guessed there was more to that slip than met the eye?
Indeed, you must never confine your understanding of things to their surface. What seems like an unambiguous clue may be exactly what the killer wants you to see.
This thought led Marcus Shaw to the forensic report he'd received that morning from his senior colleague: trace amounts of synthetic rubber had been found under the victim's fingernails, suggesting the killer had worn gloves—which explained why no fingerprints had been recovered.
Marcus Shaw's mind then drifted to the still-unsolved hallway murder case. The two killers' profiles were similar: both victims had suffered fatal head injuries. Could the same person be responsible? If so, what connected the two victims? And what motive could drive someone to devise such elaborate schemes, twice risking capture, to kill two people who seemed to have nothing to do with each other?
Leaving the crime scene and resealing the tape, the two went down to the second floor to check the deceased's office.
Two middle-aged female teachers were chatting together. When Viktor Dunn entered and flashed his badge, they quickly dispersed.
Marcus Shaw asked, "Which desk was Holly Chen's?"
One of them pointed to the far corner.
The desk was quite tidy. Books were arranged by size in a file holder, and three gel pens lay neatly side by side with their caps on.
Though Mr. Hollis taught mathematics, he loved reading literary classics—Boule de Suif, Lolita, Madame Bovary, and even a volume of Shakespeare.
Marcus Shaw pulled out the copy of Lolita and found it full of annotations. On page 280, a bold highlight mark accompanied a passage:
She could fade and wither, I didn't care, I would just look at her, and all the tenderness in the world would surge through me.
Marcus Shaw flipped through a few more pages without finding anything else of note, then asked, "Since he died, has anyone touched his things?"
The woman sitting closer looked up. "No. Nobody usually looks his way anyway."
She promptly lowered her head and resumed typing softly.
This gave Marcus Shaw an idea. He sat in the chair, leaned over, and powered on the computer. It took over a minute before the screen finally burst into color.
But it required a password.
Marcus Shaw asked, "Does anyone know his login password?"
No one answered. Even the typing sounds had stopped.
After a while, Viktor Dunn, standing to one side, said, "Guess we'll have to guess. What was his birthday again?"
Marcus Shaw opened his notebook, found the deceased's information, and entered the birthday in various arrangements—none worked. He tried the pinyin of his name and his phone number—still no luck.
The two of them were stuck at the computer.
Just as they were about to give up, Marcus Shaw noticed a textbook. He picked it up and found an inscription on the title page:
π—the most beautiful constant in the world, like a young girl's tender breast.
"That's sick," Viktor Dunn couldn't help muttering.
Marcus Shaw was about to put the book back when a flash of inspiration struck. He typed 3.1415926 on the keyboard, and the screen finally changed.
The desktop wallpaper was an anime girl in bare legs sitting on a beach, her eyelashes curved, her large eyes dewy and beseeching.
The files on the computer held nothing suspicious, and the recycle bin contained only a few math course slides.
Marcus Shaw opened the browser. The default homepage was a search engine. When he clicked on the search bar, a cascade of recent search terms dropped down.
He scrolled down until he found: "What to do if being threatened."
Viktor Dunn's eyes lit up. "Let's check the browsing history too." He pointed excitedly at the screen, as if he wanted to take over the keyboard himself.
Marcus Shaw pulled up the history and clicked through the entries one by one, but they were all mundane. Apart from the school's intranet, the site Zhong visited most was a mathematics forum.
He was about to close the browser when an accidental click revealed an email interface—still logged into the deceased's account.
Marcus Shaw opened the inbox. The first few messages had garbled subject lines, but when he clicked in, the contents made both men's eyes widen.
It was threat after threat.
The first email had been sent more than two weeks ago. The sender didn't identify themselves, only stating that they possessed several "interesting" videos—evidence of his sexual abuse of female students. Beyond that, there was no stated demand—it seemed intended merely to let him know. He hadn't replied.
The second email came three days later, threatening to report him to the education bureau, to send the evidence to the school leadership and his wife, to destroy his reputation and tear his family apart. He replied, asking who the sender was, where they'd obtained the videos, and why they were doing this.
The third email arrived a week later. The sender didn't answer his questions—simply reiterated the plan to report him. He seemed to have completely broken down, begging in his reply, asking what the sender wanted. Anything—just don't report him, he'd comply with any demand. The sender never replied—until the eve of the parents' meeting, when they sent just three words: "See you tomorrow."
The final email was sent on the day of the parents' meeting at 1:24 PM—just before Mr. Hollis was killed. It was an order: "Come to the third floor immediately, the rightmost room, alone. If you try anything, you'll face the consequences."
Then the correspondence ended abruptly. Mr. Hollis hadn't asked questions or replied—he'd simply obeyed, walking foolishly to his death.
Viktor Dunn said, "We carefully checked his phone. These emails weren't in his inbox."
"The killer must have deleted them. But the phone app and the web interface don't sync—the killer couldn't erase the web version. They didn't expect us to check the deceased's computer, let alone that he'd still be logged in."
With that, Marcus Shaw pulled out his phone and photographed every single email, not daring to miss a single character. Even then, he wasn't satisfied—he switched to video and recorded a long sweep of the screen.
Finally, he stared at the sender's email address, only to discover that each message had come from a different address—though they all shared the same suffix, which he didn't recognize.
He opened the search engine, pasted in the suffix, and a website appeared. The page was clean, bearing only one line of text: No registration required. Disposable email.
Marcus Shaw understood. This was an anonymous mailing method—each email address was valid for only ten minutes. Once time expired, the address dissolved like ice in the sea, leaving no trace.
His heart sank again.
Even knowing how the crime had been carried out, they still knew nothing about the killer.
The two men left the teachers' office, deep in thought, and headed for the first floor. Just as they reached the main stairwell, they nearly collided with a female student in uniform.
Seeing Viktor Dunn in his police uniform, she immediately lowered her head and turned to flee down the stairs. Marcus Shaw called out to stop her, and she froze in place, as if acupunctured, her body rigid on the steps.
The two officers hurried over. Marcus Shaw studied her face and found it faintly familiar. After a moment's thought, he fished her out of his memory.
She'd been at the school on the day of the parents' meeting—helping a teacher in a second-floor classroom, probably a class officer.
Marcus Shaw asked, "Why are you running?"
She didn't look up. A whisper drifted from her lips: "No reason."
Marcus Shaw observed her quietly, noticing that her hands were knotted together, one finger squeezed so tightly it had turned white as a scallion. She was thin, but her chest had already filled out—two mounds pressed against her uniform, faintly visible beneath the fabric.
"I remember you. You were at the school the day of the incident."
The girl said nothing. Her hands seemed to grip even tighter, as if she were trying to sever that finger.
"Did you see anything that day?"
She suddenly looked up and shook her head vigorously. Her eyes met Marcus Shaw's for an instant before darting away. She added, "No, I didn't see anything that day."
Marcus Shaw covered his mouth in thought, then asked, "Did Holly Chen teach your class too?"
The girl didn't speak. Her eyes were fixed on a stain on the stair railing.
"Tell us—what kind of person was Holly Chen? Let's just chat casually."
The girl turned her face. "You already know what kind of person he was, don't you?"
"We know very little. Fill in the blanks for us."
The girl's eyes drifted to the upper right as she said slowly, "His teaching was passable. He was quite strict. And... he was very concerned about the students." She lowered her eyes again, frowning slightly.
"Concerned about the students? How so?" Viktor Dunn interjected.
The girl looked up, glanced at Viktor Dunn, and said flatly: "Very concerned about students' grades. Well, a few students' grades."
Marcus Shaw immediately followed up: "How are your math grades?"
At this question, her pupils dilated briefly, then contracted again.
"They're... okay."
"And he was concerned about you too?"
Her face went instantly pale, and she started pinching her hand again.
When she didn't answer, Marcus Shaw rephrased: "I mean—was he concerned about your grades too?"
Her face flushed red. She said vaguely, "Yes, he asked once or twice. Just once or twice."
Marcus Shaw stood with one arm folded across his ribs and the other propping his chin, squinting at her for a long time without speaking.
"What do you think about his death?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, the girl responded as if someone had flipped a switch, firing off rapid-fire: "I don't have any opinion. Someone like him—dead is dead. They'll replace him with another teacher soon enough, and the new one won't teach any worse."
Her features crumpled together, drained of color, as if a layer of frost had congealed over them.
After a silence, Marcus Shaw said, "If you saw something that day, you must tell me."
The girl said nothing, standing like a statue.
Viktor Dunn added, "Otherwise, you could be charged with obstruction. That means prison."
Marcus Shaw shot Viktor Dunn a look. "Why say that? Don't scare the child." He turned back to her: "You don't need to be so nervous. If you have any information, just tell us. No one else will know. Don't hold back."
The girl's eyes seemed rusted shut, vacant for a long moment. Then she peeled her lower lip away from her front teeth and said without expression: "I did see a man. He looked like he was in a hurry."
"What did he look like?"
"I couldn't see clearly—he was gone in a flash. I just remember he wore a hat and was dressed all in black. Tall, but not extremely tall. Pretty stocky."
Viktor Dunn immediately asked, "Where did you see him?"
"On the first floor, the left side, at the very end."
Marcus Shaw and Viktor Dunn exchanged a look.
That was exactly where the surveillance power cables had been cut.