Attending ex-girlfriend's wedding, arresting the groom's officer on the spot

The forensic examination determined the time of death to be between 8 p.m. on July 18 and 2 a.m. on July 19—he didn't get to see the brightest starry sky, but remained forever in that grove of trees. "Contact his wife, Wang Li," Zhang Hui said, closing the file, "and his freight company. Check the recent transport routes and contacts. The murderer is very likely in these relationships."

The coffee cans in the office were empty, the ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, but everyone's eyes lit up. The tedium of sifting through over 1000 pieces of information, the frustration of more than 20 rejections, all transformed into motivation at the moment the deceased's identity was confirmed. Zhang Hui picked up Li Jianfeng's photo; the man smiled and gave a thumbs-up, the background a backdrop of snow-capped mountains and blue sky. "We'll find out," he whispered, as if promising the deceased, "who left you in the woods."

By the time the technical department entered Li Jianfeng's information into the system and marked him as "confirmed dead," the clouds on the horizon had already turned golden. The information war that had lasted all night was finally won, but the real battle had just begun—to find the murderer from Li Jianfeng's social network, the one wearing work boots, smelling of diesel fuel, and capable of accurately striking the left side of his chest.

The next morning, as the sunlight streamed through the windows of the Criminal Investigation Division's meeting room, Lu Chuan slammed his enamel mug heavily onto the table, tea stains spreading across the bottom in a blurry map. "Everyone's here. Let's begin." His gaze swept over the officers present; each had a thick case file spread out before them. In the topmost crime scene photograph, Li Jianfeng's figure, huddled in the camphor tree grove, appeared bluish-gray, his fluorescent green windbreaker flickering like a will-o'-the-wisp in the dark woods.

Yang Lin stood up first, and a 3D model of the southern suburban forest immediately appeared on the projector screen, with the size 44 work boot print highlighted in red. "There are three key traces extracted from the scene," he said, drawing an arc on the model with his laser pointer. "First, the drag mark from the cliff edge to the body's location, 30 centimeters wide, containing the deceased's DNA; second, the size 44 serrated shoe print, with 30% greater pressure on the outer forefoot than the inner forefoot, a stride width of 18 centimeters, estimating a height of 175-180 centimeters, and an outward-pointing gait; third, the half-broken trekking pole with diesel fuel, the tip showing moderate wear, matching the condition of the deceased's backpack." He suddenly pointed to a corner of the model, "Most crucially, the tire tracks on the firebreak, spaced 1.5 meters apart, with a tire width of 245 millimeters, indicating a truck or SUV, and the blue fibers embedded in the tire treads perfectly matching the nylon 66 composition of the deceased's jacket."

Zhang Kai opened the autopsy report, the table estimating the time of death casting a shadow on the projector. "The deceased, Li Jianfeng, died between 8 PM on July 18th and 2 AM on July 19th," he circled the rectal temperature of 28°C in red pen. "The high humidity environment delayed the decomposition process, but combined with the degenerative changes caused by osteophytes in the lumbar vertebrae—which perfectly matches his occupation as a truck driver—this time window error cannot exceed 2 hours." He paused, pointing to the anatomical diagram of the ruptured left ventricle. "The fatal injury was a puncture wound to the left ventricle by the broken ends of a rib, resulting in 200 ml of blood in the pericardium. From the injury to death, no more than 10 minutes had passed. The murderer's attack was precise, as if they knew exactly where to strike for maximum lethality."

Wang Shuai's notebook was covered with sticky notes, the top one of which read, "Li Lijun, male, 34 years old, outdoor photographer, no time to commit the crime." "We interviewed the social connections of the complainant, Li Lijun," he tapped the words "nothing unusual" with his pen, "His hiking records show that he comes to the southern suburbs to take photos every Saturday, and he even posted a photo of the sea of ​​clouds on his WeChat Moments on July 18th, the timeline matches up. But he mentioned a detail: last week on Trail No. 7, he met a man wearing dark blue overalls, carrying a black backpack, who stared at Li Jianfeng's camping gear for a long time, but at the time he thought he was just an ordinary hiker and didn't pay attention."

Zhang Hui projected Li Jianfeng's freight registration photo onto the screen. The man in the photo was wearing blue overalls, and the mole on his left eyebrow was particularly noticeable under the flash. "The deceased was 44 years old, a long-haul truck driver, driving the Dongzhou-Xi'an route," he pointed to the mole in the photo. "He didn't return to the company after returning from Xi'an on July 17th. The GPS on the truck suddenly shut down at 3 pm on July 18th, and the last location was at the entrance of the firebreak road in the southern suburbs." He suddenly pulled up Li Jianfeng's call records. "The last call was at 2:58 pm on July 18th, the last four digits were 6789. The owner's information was not registered under his real name, but the base station location showed it was near the southern suburbs."

The smoke in the meeting room gradually thickened. Veteran detective Zhou Jianguo stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Could it be a robbery?" His finger traced the photo of Li Jianfeng's hiking backpack. "Long-distance drivers usually carry a lot of cash; they might be being targeted." Yang Lin immediately pulled up the inventory list: "There was only 800 yuan in cash in the bag. The cell phone and ID card were gone, but the outdoor gear worth over 20,000 yuan was untouched—if it were a robbery, there's no reason they would leave out the expensive hiking watch and GPS navigator."

“That’s strange,” the young officer, Xiao Zhao, pushed up his glasses. “No robbery, no assault, could it be a revenge killing?” Zhang Kai shook his head, the cold glint of the scalpel still seeming to flash before his eyes. “The victim only had two fatal wounds: blunt force trauma and a ruptured heart. There were no signs of torture, so it doesn’t seem like a revenge killing—revenge killings usually involve multiple blows, driven by venting anger.” He suddenly remembered something. “But the killer knew that striking the left side of the chest would be fatal. That’s too professional. Either they have some knowledge of anatomy, or they’ve been in fights before and know where the most vulnerable spot is.”

Wang Shuai suddenly opened Li Lijun's interrogation record: "He said that the man in the dark blue overalls was carrying a black backpack with half a metal object sticking out from the side of the bag. At the time, he thought it was a water bottle, but now he thinks it might be a blunt object like a wrench." He pointed to the firebreak in the photo, "If the murderer drove here, lured Li Jianfeng into the woods, committed the crime, and then drove to dump the body, that truck or SUV is the key—check all similar vehicle types that passed through the firebreak in the southern suburbs on the afternoon of July 18, especially those registered under the names of construction companies or logistics companies."

Zhou Jianguo stared at the diesel fuel test report on the screen: "The oil stains on the deceased's cuffs and next to the cigarette butt at the scene were all diesel fuel, consistent with the composition of the fuel commonly used in his truck." He tapped the words "construction industry" with his finger. "Could it be a dispute among competitors? Like a feud over a source of cargo?" Zhang Hui pulled up Li Jianfeng's freight records: "He's been running this route for five years and has never argued with anyone. His colleagues say he has a gentle personality. Last time someone stole his cargo, he just smiled and said, 'I'll earn it back next time.'"

Yang Lin's laser pointer suddenly stopped on the vines at the edge of the cliff: "The dark blue nylon thread here is exactly the same as the residual fibers in the ligature groove on Li Jianfeng's wrist," he gestured as if making a binding motion. (End of this chapter)