Where is the King of Dogs?

Fang Qinghe said he would change his strategy against the murderer by detaining me, and that he wanted to use me to draw out the mole. I found his reasoning persuasive, and, comparatively speaking, I much preferred staying at the police station to sleeping at home as bait for the killer. Even though I knew I’d be safe at home, those unsettling events that kept happening there always left me shaken and drained.

So I nodded to Fang Qinghe and said, “Leader Fang, I’ll cooperate with you fully.” Yes, I wasn’t just paying lip service; I’d always trusted Fang Qinghe, and after our recent conversation, my faith in this cultured, refined man had only deepened. He struck me as someone whose wisdom was forged by time, graceful and calm, decisive and bold in action.

Fang Qinghe smiled, patted my shoulder, and said, “You’ll have to bear with us for the next few days.” After that, he asked me to walk ahead while he followed behind. We left the basement together and departed from there.

I rode in the same car as Jin Ze, who hadn’t been privy to the conversation between Fang Qinghe and me, so he didn’t know about our agreement. In his eyes, I was still a suspect, but he didn’t treat me as such. He remained quiet along the way, seemingly lost in thought, occasionally turning to look at me, probably trying to judge whether I was truly the murderer.

When we arrived at the police station, I gave a brief statement. Since I hadn’t actually been convicted, it was impossible for them to transfer me to prison, so they sent me to the detention center instead. Normally, the cells held about ten people each, but because of my special situation, I was placed in a room alone, which made it easier for them to monitor me. Fang Qinghe had mentioned that several hidden cameras had already been installed in my cell, including outside the door. The reason for sending me to the detention center rather than keeping me in the holding room at the station was to give the murderer a chance to approach me, since the crowd at the detention center was much more mixed, and the likelihood of the murderer appearing was far higher.

Ironically, I slept exceptionally well my first night in detention. Perhaps it was because I’d finally escaped the eyes of the voyeur. Unlike the other detainees, I didn’t have to participate in manual labor or attend lectures, so I was free to eat and sleep as I pleased, and, oddly enough, it left me feeling more relaxed.

But by the second day, impatience began to set in. Everything was too calm. While I was safe for now, if things remained this way, it would actually be detrimental for me. If nothing happened outside, it would, in a sense, prove that I was indispensable to the killings. This would support Fang Qinghe’s theory: without my involvement, the murderer wouldn’t act. But if this calm continued, it might indicate something else entirely—that with me locked up, I couldn’t split my personality to direct my accomplice, and so the case had stalled...

By the third day, I was genuinely anxious. For the first time, I found myself hoping to hear news of another murder, cruel as it sounded. I desperately wished for something to happen.

But nothing did. Suddenly, panic overtook me. The murderer was frighteningly calm, seemingly aware of why Fang Qinghe had detained me, content to wait, perhaps even more patient than the police.

Of course, there was another thought gnawing at me. My resolve was starting to waver. Often, in fleeting moments, I wondered if I really did have a split personality. Had I truly participated in these crimes? What memories had I forgotten? Perhaps that was exactly what the murderer wanted.

Just as I was on the verge of a mental breakdown, on the third night, something unexpected happened.

That night, after eating in the detention center, I anxiously reviewed the case again, coming up empty, and once more began to suspect I might be suffering from dissociative identity disorder. Suddenly, the iron door to my cell swung open.

When I saw who was at the door, I was stunned. Two men stood there: He Ping, and—to my shock—my father.

I’d grown up in a single-parent household. My father was a bricklayer, always working in the south. Though his work was tough, he earned five to six thousand yuan a month. He paid the down payment for my apartment. I never wanted to spend his money or see him toil for me, but I knew it made him happy, so I accepted his help. I’d always been grateful and loved him, but we rarely interacted, and I’d long felt guilty for not being a better child. When all this happened, I never called him because I didn’t want him to worry.

So seeing my father suddenly standing at the detention center door, even after days of near breakdown, I couldn’t help but shed tears for the first time.

My father walked over, his calloused hands gently wiping away my tears. “Silly child, why cry? You just made a small mistake. It’s not a big deal. The family doesn’t blame you. Just take care of yourself.”

Hearing his words, I realized he seemed unaware of the real reason I was detained. I glanced at He Ping, who was standing in the doorway with his back turned. I couldn’t see his face, but I guessed he must have brought my father back from out of town.

But why had He Ping brought my father back and taken him to see me at the detention center?

My father opened the lunch box he’d brought, saying he’d made chicken soup and my favorite lotus root cakes. He urged me to eat well, assuring me that everything would be fine once my detention ended.

I ate a few lotus root cakes and drank some chicken soup, feeling much calmer. Then He Ping announced that time was up, and my father couldn’t stay much longer. My father left with him, but he left the lunch box for me, telling me to eat slowly. He Ping didn’t say anything.

After they left, I ate another lotus root cake, but suddenly felt something strange in my mouth. I spat it out and discovered a plastic tube, inside which was a rolled-up note.

At that moment, a jolt ran through me. Was my father trying to pass on a message to me?

I pretended not to notice anything, because I trusted my father unconditionally—even more so than Fang Qinghe and the others.

I clasped the tube and feigned sleep. Once I was sure the cameras couldn’t see me beneath the blanket, I shone a bit of light inside and unrolled the note to read it.

It contained a single, enigmatic line: Where is the Dog King?

I was bewildered. What did that mean? Was this really a note from my father? What did “Where is the Dog King?” refer to?

I struggled to decipher its meaning, but as I pondered, my mind grew foggy, as if I were about to fall asleep.

I’d never experienced sudden dizziness or blackout before, so I immediately realized something serious: I was likely poisoned. Was the food my father brought tainted?

Fear surged through me. First the cryptic note, then the feeling of being poisoned—I sensed I was caught in some kind of conspiracy, but I refused to believe my father would harm me.

As I was about to lose consciousness, a voice sounded in my ear: Where is the Dog King? Where is the Dog King? Where is the Dog King...?

The voice was rhythmic, almost like a chant, each word stabbing into my eardrums.

Strangely, though I was dazed, I suddenly understood the meaning of the phrase. Was it a code?

With that thought, I forced myself to look toward the door. For monitoring purposes, there was a small barred window in the upper part of the door, allowing those outside to see into the room.

I glanced through the bars and was startled—there was a face at the window. Someone was standing outside, repeating that phrase: Where is the Dog King? Where is the Dog King?

When I saw his face, a chill ran down my spine. It was Zheng Wei, the forensic doctor who had been strangled by Liu Yang.

Terror gripped me. Zheng Wei was dead—how could he be standing outside my door?

Was Zheng Wei giving me a secret code?