Side Story: Dumplings
In November, freezing rain and snow battered the northeastern provinces, while the south basked under cloudless skies. Sunset painted the horizon red day after day, and only the occasional gust of wind rattled the precinct windows at night.
What rattled even louder was the battered phone I'd been using for five or six years, the caller ID flashing "Paul Ryan." I hit mute, shoved it back in my pocket, and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Give me the rundown."
"On it!" Lily jumped to her feet and launched into her report. "The skeletal remains were discovered at a construction site behind the old Cotton Mill residential compound. Time of death estimated at approximately thirty years ago. Female, aged twenty-eight to thirty, height approximately 165 centimeters. No visible trauma to the bones, so the exact cause of death requires further examination."
My apprentice, Ryan, projected the scene photos onto the wall and added details. "The victim was found curled inside a red hard-shell suitcase. She wore a green top layered under a white jacket, and bell-bottom jeans. Undergarments were intact, but she had no shoes, no jewelry—no rings, no earrings, no bracelets—and no identification documents whatsoever."
Lily chewed on her pen. "That outfit was pretty fashionable for thirty years ago, wasn't it? The victim probably frequented dance halls and bars—" She broke off with a start as her phone buzzed. "Takeout's here, I'll get it!"
I watched the fresh-faced recruit bolt out the door. Ryan grinned. "Eager beaver. Hal here would rather starve than move."
The veteran detective aimed a kick at Ryan's chair and glared. Lily returned with the same manic energy she'd left with, setting out containers and waving everyone over.
My phone rang again. I pulled it out and declined the call, then looked up to find Lily offering me an open container. Through the clear plastic, neat rows of dumlings stared back. Before the smell even reached my nose, my stomach heaved. A violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I swallowed hard, shoved past her, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Ryan's low mutter trailed after me: "Who ordered dumplings? The boss is allergic to dumplings—"
---
I threw up my lunch, mixed with stomach acid, then turned on the faucet, cupped water to rinse my mouth, and splashed my face. Gripping the sink, I gasped for breath. My reflection stared back—sunken eyes, stubble, a face that looked like it'd been plucked from a fortune-teller's "bad omen" catalog.
No help for it. This year had been brutal. Unemployment and bankruptcy swept through in waves, and within those waves, the desperate ones who fell back on old trades, who hit dead ends—they came in riptides.
Everyone thinks the same thing: life can't go on like this. So you need to make a choice. And because you need to make a choice, you have to pay something for it.
That was why I'd been sleeping on the precinct couch more often than I watched the evening news. Even Hal, who'd rather be home with his wife and kid than anywhere else, had been dragged through consecutive all-nighters.
I'd just wiped my face with my shirt hem when the phone rang a third time. This time I answered, and the voice on the other end launched straight into a slurred tirade: "You ungrateful bastard! You won't take my calls, you won't give me money—"
"You're drunk again."
"This month's living expenses! You're supposed to support your own father, and if you won't, I'll go down to your precinct and make them force you—"
I hung up before he finished and walked back to the office. Lily was scrambling to clear the containers, Ryan apologizing for her, offering to order something else. I waved them off. Just because I couldn't eat didn't mean the whole team should go hungry.
"Forget it. I'll grab some bread. This case is straightforward—homicide and corpse disposal, no question. The Cotton Mill compound is slated for demolition, but it used to be factory housing, so we can pull the resident roster easily. Ryan, Lily, take the victim's clothing description and start canvassing. Hal, cross-reference missing persons reports from thirty years ago and look for matches. Everyone's going to have to push through tonight so we can close the railroad dumping case and not be fighting on two fronts."
I grabbed my coat and headed out, bought a bread roll from the convenience store, and crouched on the curb, chewing while running through the scene photos in my head. That outfit, those fashions—I couldn't shake the feeling I'd seen them somewhere before.
---
A thirty-year-old murder case might as well be a cold case. Physical evidence had been thoroughly destroyed. Sifting a suspect from the masses would be a fantasy. If the cause of death couldn't be established and the victim's identity couldn't be confirmed, even a living saint couldn't crack it.
The one glimmer of hope: based on the victim's clothing, the killer was likely someone she knew.
The next morning, before heading to work, I swung by the old apartment. Paul Ryan—that is, my father—wasn't home. He probably hadn't come back the night before, either. After my grandmother passed in 2007, the old man took a buyout from the factory and blew the money on cheap booze. At least he hadn't caused any real trouble, or I wouldn't have been able to work my way through police academy on a part-time basis.
He wasn't around, so the bottle of baijiu I'd brought went to waste. I knocked on the neighbor's door instead. Uncle Liu and Aunt Liu had been on decent terms with our family when I was growing up. Aunt Liu and my mother were what you'd call "best friends" nowadays—whether the friendship was genuine or plastic, I couldn't say. She'd grown tired of the old man's drinking over the years and gradually drifted away, but she'd always looked out for me. I used to eat at their place all through middle school.
They say fate works in mysterious ways.
That evening, the skeleton's identity was confirmed. Ryan stepped out of the captain's office, and his face looked like he'd bitten into an apple and found half a worm.
"Boss..." He swallowed hard. "The victim's name is Lai Fengjiao. She's your mother."
Aunt Liu had recognized the clothing—she and my mother had bought matching outfits. DNA testing confirmed it. As the victim's son, regulations barred me from participating in the investigation. The case was transferred to my captain, and I was left to burn off my frustration on street patrols, competing with the local precinct for stats.
When I couldn't take it anymore, I kicked open the bathroom stall door and cornered Ryan mid-pee. My apprentice of three years nearly burst into tears.
"Boss... Chief, you know the rules—"
"I know." I lit a cigarette. "Who do you suspect?"
Ryan swallowed. I took a hard drag and raked my hands through hair that hadn't been cut in two months. "Fine. The husband's always the prime suspect—what evidence is there?"
"Chief..."
I pressed the cigarette into my palm until the ember died. "She was my mother."
Ryan, trained by me, perched on the toilet and gave me a fragmented rundown from behind the door. By the time he emerged, dusk was settling. I stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of baijiu, picked up some cold cuts, and brought everything back to the old apartment.
The Cotton Mill compound had been marked for demolition since late last year. The row nearest the hillside had been torn down to make way for a grand boulevard. By now, most of the residents had relocated. Only a handful of older tenants lingered, negotiating relocation terms.
The old man came home reeking of alcohol, though he managed to stay upright. He grumbled about what I was doing there while letting me in out of the cold. The apartment was a disaster zone. I swept the garbage off the coffee table, set down the food and alcohol, pulled up a stool, and sat down.
"Even your industrial-grade liquor has standards. I brought the good stuff." I opened the bottle and poured. In my peripheral vision, the old man twitched. "The year I made the police force, we drank together. Never touched it again. Let's have some tonight."
At sixty-five, my father had withered to nothing on the couch, thin as a withered vegetable. He wasn't picky—poured himself a cup and downed it without hesitation.
We drank our way through a modest round, the cold dishes mostly demolished. I picked at some peanuts, then spoke: "You always told me Mom ran off with a man and abandoned me. Was that true?"
I stared at the old man. The old man stared at his drink. A few seconds of silence, then he forced out: "What are you trying to do?"
I set down my chopsticks. "1990, wasn't it? When Mom 'ran away.' I was six. It must have been close to New Year's because we made dumplings—you mixed the filling, you rolled the wrappers, you folded them."
The old man didn't respond. He didn't drink either. His fingers trembled around the cup.
"I remember that afternoon. A classmate called me out to play. I ate dinner at his place and didn't get home until eight or nine." I fixed my eyes on him, watching the muscles twitch beneath his skin. "When I got home, Mom wasn't there. You weren't either. You came home late. I asked where Mom had gone, and you didn't answer. After a few days, people started asking where she was—why she wasn't at the mahjong table or dance class. You went to Grandma's place, and when you came back, you told me Mom had run off with a man. Grandma said the same thing—Mom had packed her bags, gone to Grandma's, and left the next day."
"What are you trying to do?" The same words, repeated.
"Someone said that night, they saw Mom go out bundled up in a winter coat, carrying a red suitcase. But when the body was found, she wasn't wearing a coat—she was curled up inside that red suitcase. Someone heard the two of you fighting. You screamed something about how she was 'asking for it.' Mom couldn't have taken a suitcase out and then climbed inside it and buried herself. You're 168 centimeters tall. Put on her clothes, hide your face—you'd look a lot like her—"
"You—what are you trying to do!" The old man surged to his feet and slammed his cup to the floor. "How dare you speak to your own father like that!"
I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "When I was little, I was always curious about those little foil packets and white powder. When I grew up, I finally understood. Mom met people at the dance halls—a rougher crowd, younger than you, more fun. She picked up some bad habits. You two fought about it constantly. That night was one of those fights, wasn't it? Grandma's legs were failing, and Mom wouldn't take care of her. Did you tell Grandma that since she was going to die anyway, you were the only one who could provide for her? That if you went to prison, Grandma would have no one, and I'd become an orphan?"
The old man's face hardened, the muscles bunching. He stomped into the kitchen and came back waving a cleaver, jabbing it in my direction. "You bastard—how dare you—what the hell are you trying to do!"
I'd hit my growth spurt after high school. Six feet and change, plus the department's training regimen—broad shoulders, narrow waist. The old man was terrified of me. He only dared strike the coffee table, the alcohol turning his eyes bloodshot, squeezing out a few catlike tears.
"She left with a man! That woman—that bitch—lived off me, spent my money, and went running around with other men! And those drugs—after I took everything from her, she still wanted to get high—" The cleaver bit into the table with a deafening crack. The old man slurred his way into fury, barely making sense, railing against her, railing against himself. "I treated her like gold! Never laid a finger on her! Any time we fought, I walked out! She's the one who—she ate my dumplings and then popped pills and killed herself, and now she wants to drag me down with her! I raised you! I didn't raise you so you could talk back to your own father!"
CRASH.
The coffee table split under the cleaver's impact. The old man froze, startled.
I moved. One hand locked onto his wrist and twisted backward. The cleaver dropped. My elbow connected with his throat—bone against bone—and shoved him into the couch. He let out a muffled groan, face streaming with tears.
I dropped my cigarette and ground it out next to the cleaver.
"Everything I just said to you, I've already put on record at the precinct. You can tell it to the judge."
I walked out. Behind me, the old man kept sobbing. I wiped a hand across my face and threw one last line over my shoulder: "The way you look right now— it reminds me of something Mom used to say to me—"
---
The next morning, the precinct received an emergency call. Someone had jumped from a building at the Cotton Mill compound.
Paul Ryan. Dead.
The thirty-year-old bones case was closed.
---
The captain wanted to give me extended leave. I refused and submitted my resignation instead. After leaving the force, I took a job as head of security for a large real estate developer. Hal got promoted to deputy captain. Ryan and Lily went public with their relationship.
Life seemed to settle back into its tracks. No more chaotic cases, no more father showing up at the precinct door to shake me down for money. I even had time to shave properly. A girl from the sales department gave me a Valentine's chocolate.
When Ryan and Lily announced their relationship, my apprentice was so excited he insisted on taking me out to dinner. Over drinks, he thanked me for everything I'd taught him over the years, said that if not for my father's case, I would've made captain for sure. Then his voice dropped.
"Chief... there was something I didn't dare say back then, because I was afraid it would hit too close to home. But I always felt something was off about that case..." Ryan squinted through the alcohol. "Thirty years ago—how could the Lius remember everything so clearly? Remembering what clothes Lai Fengjiao wore, remembering exactly what they heard you and your parents fighting about..."
I looked at him over the rim of my glass, thumb wiping condensation from the surface. "You think there's more to it?"
"Not exactly... I don't even know where to start questioning it. If you'd worked that case, you'd have cracked it wide open... Ah, probably just me overthinking." He pushed a glass toward me. "Here."
I clinked my glass against his and drank.
My apprentice always did have good instincts.
I didn't know how clear the Lius' memories really were, but I knew how clear my own were. That winter afternoon in 1990—Dad had gone out for soy sauce for the dumplings, Mom was asleep in the bedroom after an all-night dance session. I was a hyperactive kid, rummaging through the apartment until I found a small bottle of white powder. I found a piece of candy wrapper, tried to imitate what I'd seen Mom do—heat the powder and snort it. My hand shook, the bottle slipped, and it tumbled into the bowl of raw meat filling on the coffee table. The powder mixed in. I couldn't pick it out, so I stirred the meat, stuffed the bottle in my pocket, and left to find my friend. On the way, I decided it was too cumbersome to carry, and threw it into an open drain.
That powder poisoned an entire nest of rats in the drain.
That day, the last thing I said to the old man was: "Mom said, 'You're useless. You'd be better off dead.'"
See, the unemployed and bankrupt think the same thing I do: life can't go on like this. So you need to make a choice. And because you need to make a choice, you have to pay something for it.
Look at it another way.
Is that why he chose what he chose?