Concealment

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Staring at Zhang Wentong’s raised middle finger, I was utterly confused. I’d seen corpses before, but never one like this—was he expressing contempt for the world in death?

Jin Ze handed my funeral garb over to Miaomiao and said, “Miaomiao, later on, have the blood stains on this garment tested. See if it’s Zhang Wentong’s blood.”

As soon as Jin Ze finished, I immediately objected, “How could that be? Look, there’s no blood on Zhang Wentong. He wasn’t brutally murdered by blood loss, but probably strangled or poisoned. The blood on this funeral robe looks like it came from a struggle—these two things shouldn’t be related.”

I was still speaking when Miaomiao, with her curvaceous figure, suddenly turned to look at me. To be honest, she was stunning, and I felt a little embarrassed to meet her gaze. But her look was full of disdain, even tinged with mockery, leaving me puzzled.

Just as I wondered why she looked down on me, Miaomiao flipped Zhang Wentong’s body over. When I saw his back, my scalp tingled and I shivered uncontrollably, suddenly understanding why she held me in such contempt.

There was a hole in the upper left of Zhang Wentong’s back, bigger than a grown man’s fist and quite deep—who knows how much blood flowed from it. My earlier deduction was completely baseless. As a forensic expert, Miaomiao naturally found me ridiculous. Damn, I wished I could dig a hole to crawl into.

Miaomiao pointed to the wound on Zhang Wentong’s back and said, “The deceased, Zhang Wentong, died within the last half hour, but his injury occurred about an hour ago. The killer carved a hole in his back, precisely where the heart is. The knife work was extraordinarily skilled, clearly someone versed in anatomy. Zhang Wentong’s heart is still in his chest, but all the vessels around it have been severed—and all this was done while he was alive. He was alive when his heart’s vessels were cut, and died from massive blood loss.”

Hearing this, my scalp prickled all over, and I felt suffocated and overwhelmed. The killer was too twisted; I couldn’t imagine what grudge Zhang Wentong had with them to deserve such torment.

But soon, something felt off. If the killer tortured Zhang Wentong so viciously, he should have struggled desperately, so why was his middle finger raised?

Could it be that Zhang Wentong didn’t feel pain and enjoyed it? Or maybe he didn’t fear death, and even in dying wanted to show contempt for his killer?

I was pondering this when a sudden thought struck me, and I quickly said, “This place looks clean. Except for that wound, there’s no blood on Zhang Wentong. Could this not be the crime scene, and there’s another one elsewhere?”

As soon as I spoke, Miaomiao glanced at me and said, “You managed to notice that, did you?”

At first, I was excited—the cold, proud forensic expert actually spoke to me and acknowledged me. But soon, I realized her tone was sarcastic, as if mocking me, and I understood: everyone else knew this wasn’t the crime scene, only I, the amateur, thought it was a big discovery.

Sure enough, He Ping soon walked over to Jin Ze and said, “About an hour ago, I suddenly received a call from Dr. Zhang. He said he had important information for me and told me to meet him in his office. I went there immediately and found a lot of blood at the scene—I believe that’s the actual crime scene. Dr. Zhang was murdered there before he could tell me the details. I called Miaomiao and gathered the police. We quickly found Zhang Wentong’s home, and here we found the processed body, which you already knew, Jin Ze.”

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Jin Ze nodded, “Looks like we were a step behind. The killer is always ahead of us. Zhang Wentong must have discovered something, but the killer didn’t want it exposed to us.”

He finished and turned to look at me, as if implying something, which made me uneasy. I was already feeling suffocated, so I couldn’t help but say, “Stop suspecting me all the time. Dr. Zhang said before his death that I’m normal. Even if I do have sleepwalking, I couldn’t possibly be capable of murder.”

But as soon as I said it, I realized I’d shot myself in the foot. Zhang Wentong died right after assessing me, and before dying, he called the police about his discovery. My words sounded like feeble excuses.

Everyone stared at me in silence, and the feeling of confusion and helplessness was unbearable.

Suddenly, I remembered the phone call Zhang Wentong had made to me. Grasping at this last straw, I hurriedly said to Jin Ze, “Wait, the phone call—Zhang Wentong called me just now, you heard it too. How could a dead man make a call? Maybe Zhang Wentong himself was problematic. You shouldn’t just trust him, but investigate him as well. As a twisted person, it’s possible he sacrificed himself for some purpose. If Zhang Wentong was working with the killer, his death could have been used to frame me and mislead the police. Who even proves he’s really dead? What about the call he made to me?”

As soon as I finished, I saw a strange flash in Jin Ze’s eyes. He looked at me and said, “Chen Mu, I have to say your ideas are insane—truly twisted.”

I had no response; I was just trying to clear myself.

Jin Ze paused, then continued, “But your suggestion is possible. Of course, Zhang Wentong’s death is a fact—the body is right here. As for the voice in the call, I think the killer had him record it before he died.”

Then Jin Ze turned to Miaomiao, “Miaomiao, when you arrived here, you took photos of the primary scene, right? Let me see them—I want to check for any clues before we disturbed the site.”

Miaomiao handed him a camera, and Jin Ze started flipping through the pictures. He happened to be beside me, so I craned my neck to look too.

The scenes in the photos were similar to what we saw now, except Zhang Wentong’s body had been moved. Nothing seemed useful, so Jin Ze quickly flipped through them, finding nothing special.

But as I viewed one photo, something caught my eye—a detail that stood out.

The corpse before us had its left hand extended, but in the photo, Zhang Wentong’s left hand was clenched, not just into a fist, but making a gesture resembling the number six.

Yes, Zhang Wentong’s left hand was making a six.

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Thinking of six, my mind suddenly illuminated, and everything clicked together.

Zhang Wentong was signaling with his hands: left hand six, right hand with the raised middle finger might not be contempt, but the number one!

Exactly, left hand six, right hand one!

The realization almost made me laugh out loud, and I muttered, “What the hell, is this some crazy ‘Six Plus One’?”

When I said that, Miaomiao, He Ping, and the others looked at me, not understanding my words.

Jin Ze also noticed it then, turning to Zhang Wentong’s left hand and furrowing his brow, “Six and one—what was Zhang Wentong trying to convey?”

My thoughts were already racing ahead, and I immediately said, “No, it’s not six and one—it’s sixty-one!”

Jin Ze and the others all turned to me, and suddenly I was the center of attention.

I looked directly at He Ping and the others and asked, “Who moved Zhang Wentong’s left hand just now? It was clenched before, but now it’s extended.”

He Ping, with his square face, quickly answered, “It was me.”

I suddenly raised my voice, adopting an interrogator’s tone, “So, He Ping, you’re the one hiding deepest. Tell me, what are you trying to conceal?”