Cracking the Walnut
Sometimes this happens: because of a subconscious dismissal, you fail to connect two things even when similarities exist.
Marcus Shaw reviewed the video footage again, zooming in on the "man in black," then tried to summon every memory he had of the grilled cold noodle lady. Their builds were indeed somewhat similar.
But the "man in black" looked broader and taller. What disguise had she used?
Following this line of thought, Marcus Shaw recalled the shoe prints recovered from two previous crime scenes—the heel edges had been blurred. Now he understood: she'd worn shoes several sizes too large and stuffed them with thick height-increasing insoles, which was why her gait looked off and the prints were misshapen.
But how did she make herself look bulkier?
Marcus Shaw stared at the monitor, thinking hard. Suddenly a flash—something at the edge of a frame. He rewound and played at quarter speed. There it was: a corner of fabric briefly appeared, and the figure seemed to be tucking something into the pants.
Marcus Shaw understood instantly. She must have been wearing a puffy down jacket underneath, making her look bulkier.
No wonder—despite the hot weather, every time she appeared on camera, she was in black long sleeves.
But why would she want to kill him? Why kill all these people?
What was her connection to the original Shane Mercer case?
Had she set up her food cart outside the station to surveil him?
Was the robbery she'd reported even real—or was it staged?
A chill ran down Marcus Shaw's spine.
Was Finn Carter in on it with her?
And when she was chased off by the urban management officers—had she reported herself, too? Had she heard rumors and made a timely exit?
She looked like such a simple person. How could her mind run so deep?
The questions in his head multiplied like bacteria—splitting, breeding, entangling, spreading until his brain ached.
Marcus Shaw started investigating Vera Magnus's social connections and personal history. He found nothing.
Truly bizarre.
Then he remembered—in their earlier conversation, she'd claimed to be an orphan. Though her words weren't necessarily trustworthy, it was worth checking.
Lenny Briggs had said they were from the same hometown. So Vera Magnus must also be from Millbrook.
Marcus Shaw searched for orphanages in Millbrook, but after a thorough look, came up empty.
It was a small place—formerly a poverty-stricken county.
Marcus Shaw stared blankly at the monitor, thinking: the Shan brothers were also from Millbrook. They were all from the same place. There had to be a deeper connection between them.
So he started researching the Shan brothers instead.
Beyond the catering company's business registration, the only records for Shane Mercer were his vocational school enrollment.
He'd originally been a migrant, but a recent education policy allowed exceptional admission at half tuition. Likely his brother had pushed him to learn a trade so he could support himself.
A pity he'd fallen in with the wrong crowd and never finished.
Sean Mercer's records were completely blank. Marcus Shaw guessed he'd been working odd jobs all along—no one paying social insurance or medical coverage for him, probably earning very little, no tax records to speak of.
The trail went cold again. Marcus Shaw sat frozen in his chair, legs feeling like they'd sunk into a swamp—numb, lifeless.
Then a flash of insight: Millbrook didn't have an orphanage, but Beacon City—being a prefecture-level city—surely did.
One search confirmed it. He called immediately.
The man who answered had a gravelly voice and couldn't stop coughing. Marcus Shaw explained his purpose, gave Vera Magnus's name and approximate age, and asked him to look through records from thirty or forty years ago.
Silence on the other end. Then a violent coughing fit. Marcus Shaw had to hold the phone away from his ear.
"That was how many decades ago? So many records—I can't possibly look through them right now." More coughing.
"How about this—could you at least check whether the records still exist? If they do, I can come look myself. I won't trouble you to search."
Again, silence—this time for two or three minutes. Marcus Shaw checked his phone several times, thinking the call had been dropped. He was about to hang up and try later when the coughing resumed: "They're here, but they've gone a bit moldy and dusty. I'm not touching them."
Marcus Shaw's face lit up. He arranged a time with the man, reported to Captain Harris, and set off for Beacon City.
The records were relatively well-preserved, bundled with thin hemp cord, stacked in cardboard boxes like scrap paper.
Narrowing by time period, they eventually identified two boxes. When opened, a powerful musty smell rushed out—as if countless invisible insects were flying straight into nasal passages and lungs.
The director stood in the doorway—early fifties, fleshy face, oily complexion, dark bags under his eyes, seriously thinning hair. He coughed several times and said, "You can look for it yourself. I'll go check on the children at the playground."
Marcus Shaw agreed. As the director turned away, Marcus Shaw heard a cigarette lighter click.
The papers had yellowed—thin, brittle, impossible to flip through vigorously. Some sections had been water-damaged, pages stuck together with wavy yellow watermarks. You had to peel them apart gently, or they'd tear.
The handwriting varied—fountain pen ink in pure blue or blue-black, some meticulous, others wild and sprawling. Where water had soaked through, the ink had bled into fuzzy halos, a single page's writing ghosting onto the next, requiring careful deciphering.
After nearly twenty minutes, he'd found nothing but irrelevant names.
Marcus Shaw's stomach tightened. Had he gone down the wrong path? Should he be searching orphanages in Changchun instead? Or what if she'd never been in a welfare institution at all?
Just as doubt set in, three large, right-leaning characters caught his eye: Willa Magnus.
There was a small two-inch black-and-white photo. The girl had shoulder-length straight hair, a center part with a white scalp line visible. Her eyes were large but vacant, almost protruding.
Marcus Shaw stared at the photo for a long time. Though the little girl was very thin, he could still recognize her—from the lip shape and the eye spacing, this was Vera Magnus.
The birth year listed was 1972. She'd be in her forties now—close enough.
He pulled out the two pages relating to her, photographed them with his phone, and went outside to find the director.
The director was sitting on a large millstone, smoking. He saw Marcus Shaw approaching and gestured with his cigarette. "Find it?"
"Found it." Marcus Shaw hurried over and showed him.
The director glanced at the pages twice, then turned back to his cigarette.
"This Willa Magnus—do you remember her?"
The director coughed again, smoke spilling from his nose and mouth. "I'm not much older than her. How would I remember?"
Fair point. Marcus Shaw tried again: "Are there any retired staff from the orphanage who might still be reachable?"
The director flicked his cigarette butt to the ground, ground it under his toe, exhaled a plume of smoke, and said, "What kind of case is this? Is all this really necessary?"
Just then, a small red cloth beanbag landed on Marcus Shaw's shoulder.
He turned to see a girl with double ponytails—maybe six or seven—her fluorescent green shorts a bit dirty. She was inching forward cautiously, and behind her, two other little girls were urging: "Go get it, go get it!"
Marcus Shaw bent down, picked up the beanbag and gently tossed it. It landed perfectly in the girl's hands—but the beanbag split at the seam, spilling millet across the ground.
Marcus Shaw hurried over. "Did I throw too hard? I'm really sorry."
The girl looked down. "It's okay. I can sew it when I get back."
The other two girls ran over, saw the broken beanbag, and told the ponytailed girl: "What can you even do? You're so useless."
Marcus Shaw was about to intervene, but the ponytailed girl simply tucked the beanbag into her pocket, looked up, and said to her playmates, "I'm bored of this game anyway. Let's jump rope instead."
The girls resumed playing, their shrill laughter scattering into the air.
Marcus Shaw turned to the director and said, in a low voice, "Several people have died. It is very necessary."
The director said nothing. He stood up, brushed off his pants, and walked toward the far end of the playground.
Marcus Shaw followed, confused. He heard the director tell the woman knitting nearby: "I'm going out for a bit. Don't just knit—keep an eye on the children too."
They wound through several turns and arrived at a community elder care center. The director coughed, greeted the staff, and led Marcus Shaw inside.
In the main hall, a group of elderly people had gathered: four old men playing erhu, three old women singing with hands on hips, and one white-haired man enthusiastically clacking bamboo clappers.
They turned down two more corridors, climbed to the second floor, went left down the hall, and stopped at a small room with the door ajar. The director knocked twice and called, "In?"
A muffled voice from inside: "Come in."
An elderly woman with graying hair, a face full of wrinkles and age spots—her front teeth all gone—sat at a table cracking walnuts.
The room smelled of something that had gone bad.
The director snatched the iron nutcracker from her hand and sat across the table. "Why are you doing that?"
The old woman said, "When you're old, you need to nourish the brain. If the mind goes, you might as well be dead."
"If you want walnuts, buy a bag of kernels. Why go through the trouble?"
The old woman smiled. "Kernels are expensive. It's more economical to crack them yourself."
The director slammed a walnut open. A shard flew off and struck an enamel mug on the table with a ping. Marcus Shaw was suddenly reminded of Captain Reed—how he'd always asked others to fetch him water, but never Marcus Shaw.
As he was thinking, the old woman popped a piece of walnut into her mouth and ground it slowly with her back teeth. She asked, mumbling, "Who's this?"
Marcus Shaw quickly introduced himself. The director explained the purpose of the visit. The old woman took the two pages, put on bottle-thick reading glasses, and studied them for a long time. She swallowed what was in her mouth, let out a long breath, and said, "Little Lotus—yes, I remember her."
Marcus Shaw leaned forward.
"She looked obedient enough, but she was wily as a monkey—not someone to mess with. I remember once, a boy named Xiao Jiu pulled her hair. She caught two mole crickets, put them in a bottle, and slipped them into his bed in the middle of the night. Nearly scared him out of his wits—he ran a fever for half a month."
The room fell silent, save for the director cracking walnuts.
"What happened to her in the end?"
The old woman picked up another piece of walnut from the table, slowly placed it in her mouth, and chewed it thoroughly.
"I think she stayed until she was a bit past ten, and then a man came and adopted her."
Marcus Shaw frowned. "Adopted? Who?"
The old woman worked her jaw for a moment. "Adopted, yes. I remember it was a tall man—seemed to be in construction, a contractor."
"A contractor? What was his name?"
The old woman countered, "Is it not in the records?"
Just then, a loud crash came from the hallway—something had fallen.
Marcus Shaw peered out. The old woman said, "Don't worry—that's Old Lady Fan across the hall. She does that whenever she's upset. Throws her washbasin."
"What's she upset about?"
"Her children never come visit."
Marcus Shaw said nothing.
The old woman added, "At least I don't have that problem—no children, no worries."
The director cracked another walnut, producing two perfect halves. The old woman glanced at the documents on the table, slapped her thigh, and said, "Ugh, look at this brain of mine—I just read it and already forgot. It's not written here. If it's missing, it probably got lost when they reorganized things later."
"Do you at least remember the surname of the man who adopted her?"
The old woman thought for a long time but couldn't recall.
Just as Marcus Shaw's heart was sinking and he was about to put the papers away, the old woman spoke again: "But I heard he took his construction team to Changchun, worked on some big projects, and settled down there. Hmm—now I remember—the man's surname was Magnus. the double-M in Magnus. His given name, I don't know."
Walking out, Marcus Shaw couldn't help asking the director, "How long did she work at the orphanage? How does she have no children?"
The director coughed several times, then finally said, "She spent her whole life at the orphanage. When she got old, she moved to the elder care home. Let other people take care of her for a change—makes sense, doesn't it?"