A police academy classmate confirmed the story. The fugitive had murdered an elderly man two years prior and immediately fled, hopping across several provinces. Last year, thinking the heat had died down, he sneaked back to visit family. Within two days, someone recognized him.
The person who reported him was a delivery rider—he'd seen a wanted notice on social media. While picking up an order, he thought one customer looked familiar, so he secretly took out his phone, studied the man from a distance, and once certain, called the police.
"One of my colleagues added him on WeChat and told him to follow the suspect and share his real-time location. By the time we arrived, he'd chased the guy for several blocks, over half an hour. Finally tracked him to a small grocery store—man was buying an ice cream bar when we tackled him. The delivery guy only learned afterward how dangerous the man was—it scared him pale. We reported it to the city bureau and got him a commendation. I heard the delivery platform named him a Model Rider too."
Marcus Shaw took careful notes, then looked up and asked: "That murderer—is he still locked up?"
His classmate took a sip of water. "Absolutely. Life sentence. If he hadn't pleaded guilty and volunteered to transfer an apartment to the victim's family, he'd probably have caught a bullet. Anyway, he's sitting in there nice and well-behaved now."
Marcus Shaw pulled the murderer's file and started tracing his relatives and associates.
First stop: the killer's home. The door was opened by a sharp-featured woman in her thirties wearing an apron, stir-frying. Marcus Shaw showed his badge and said he wanted to ask about her husband. She glared, slammed the door shut, and yelled from inside: "Don't ask me! I've got nothing to do with that dead man! Whether he lives or dies is none of my business. If he kills someone else, I've got no house and no money either!"
Marcus Shaw stood on the doorstep listening to her clatter around the kitchen—pots, pans, sizzling oil—all the sounds crashing out into the hallway, which filled with the smell of stir-fried eggplant.
After a while, the noise stopped. Marcus Shaw said: "I'm just doing a follow-up, checking on your living situation. He hasn't offended again—he's actually doing well inside."
Eventually, she came clattering back and opened the door, but said nothing, just retreated inside.
The apartment was tiny—small living room, small kitchen, small bathroom, small bedroom. Barely thirty square meters total. Clutter everywhere: two bald mops, battered cardboard boxes, a stack of garish children's books, and a chair piled with a mountain of dirty laundry.
Nowhere to step—it was like a cramped secondhand junk shop. Marcus Shaw had to stand in the doorway.
The woman ignored him and called into the bedroom: "Come out and eat! I made it, now I have to beg you to come? Do I need to spoon-feed you?"
A girl of about seven or eight emerged, wearing a pale purple dress with a Mickey Mouse print, most of the sequins fallen off. Her eyes were large and watchful. She sat at the table without a word, staring at Marcus Shaw. He gave her a small smile, but she turned away, picked up her bowl, and began eating.
The woman emerged from the kitchen carrying another bowl and went into the bedroom. Sounded like she was feeding someone.
Marcus Shaw recalled the file: the murderer had an elderly mother, nearly seventy, bedridden for years.
He didn't learn much else. The woman was bitter, railing against her useless husband who'd committed such atrocities. He'd given away their home as compensation and then hidden in prison, leaving everything for her to handle. She worked odd jobs all day, came home to care for the old and the young, and squeezed into this overpriced rental. Life was a torment.
Marcus Shaw offered a few words of comfort, but they had no effect—she only grew more worked up. Seeing the futility, aside from her focus on mere survival, there was nothing useful to extract. He left quickly.
He visited three more of the murderer's close acquaintances—former coworkers, old neighbors. Two said they used to drink with him occasionally but had cut all ties after his crime. They had no interest in associating with such a person. The third was even more emphatic: "I think you've got the wrong person. I don't recall ever having a friend like that."
None of them wanted to talk, and none seemed likely suspects. When someone was spending the rest of his life in prison, his associates had no reason to go playing loyal over him.
So who could it be?
And if the methods matched the person who'd tried to kill him—what was the connection between himself and this delivery rider?
Marcus Shaw left the station with questions and returned with even more.
As he entered the office, the evidence department called: the victim's phone was in his pocket. If he thought it might be useful, he should come register and collect it.
It was a small-screen phone. Through the evidence bag, he could see the surface covered in sweat smudges, fingerprints layered on fingerprints, some caked into grime.
Scrolling through the call log, almost every number was local and unsaved—short calls, likely all food delivery customers.
The contacts list had very few entries: Mom, Dad, Uncle, Aunt, a few fellow riders. Recent calls were sparse.
The photo gallery was nothing but food delivery shots—every bag tightly sealed. He must have started photographing each order as proof, after that bad review accusation.
It wasn't until he examined the order history that Marcus Shaw found something off.