Chapter Eleven: The Suicide Note

My heart suddenly plunged into panic. This was already the fourth victim in this case, and the burden on my shoulders grew even heavier.

“What on earth happened?” I asked.

“The gatekeeper hanged himself,” the hospital replied. “He left only a note.”

“All right, please help us cordon off the scene. We’ll be there immediately.”

I hung up and ordered everyone to get in the car at once.

Li Xingchen’s curiosity was instantly piqued. “What’s happened?”

“The gatekeeper hanged himself,” I said. “We’re heading over now.”

Without another word, we hit the gas and sped toward the psychiatric hospital. Most of the day had already been spent on the road, and as soon as I got in the car, I felt a bit carsick.

Tang Jingjing sighed repeatedly, saying she missed home.

I smiled and patted her shoulder. “The revolution is not yet won, comrade; we must keep striving.”

“This is what you men should be doing,” Tang Jingjing complained, “I’m just a girl; I shouldn’t be mixed up with the serious crime unit.”

“Sis, you’re wrong about that,” Li Xingchen chimed in. “Look at the woman who’s entangled with Lin Yunshan—she’s a woman too, and yet she’s behind four deaths, leaving things so mysterious we’re running around like headless chickens.”

Suddenly, an idea struck me. I turned to Li Xingchen. “Did you just say that woman might be the real culprit?”

“Did I say something wrong?” Li Xingchen replied.

“That’s right, she could very well be the murderer.” I slapped my thigh.

Before, we’d used the police’s habitual logic to analyze her, subconsciously treating her as an outsider with little connection to the case. Li Xingchen, however, viewed things differently, and with that single comment, he revealed a possibility we hadn’t considered.

When Li Xingchen spoke, Old Lin gave a wry smile, admitting our thinking was too rigid—next time, we’d need to pool our ideas.

Li Xingchen was puzzled. “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong? Look at your reactions.”

When we arrived at the hospital, several security guards were already standing outside the ward. There were no onlookers—the news of the gatekeeper’s death hadn’t spread yet.

Tang Jingjing flashed her police badge, and the guards let us through. Inside, we saw the gatekeeper hanging from the ceiling fan, his eyes wide open, body swaying violently in mid-air. The stark white surroundings made the scene even more unnerving.

I quickly ordered Li Hong to take the victim down, but my gaze was drawn to a note left at the scene.

This was the gatekeeper’s final message.

“It was the ghost infant who killed me, the ghost infant!”

Eight characters, shocking and chilling. Our faces changed instantly as we read them.

“This isn’t right,” I said. “The handwriting is elegant and neat—it looks like a woman’s script. Besides, does the gatekeeper even know how to write? To produce such beautiful handwriting, he’d need some education, and wouldn’t be working as a gatekeeper at a school.”

Tang Jingjing said it was easy to check and immediately called the school. It turned out the gatekeeper did know some words, but only license plates—about second grade level. His handwriting was rough, like a child’s.

“So the note wasn’t written by him,” I said, my eyes gleaming. “Whoever wrote this must be the killer.”

Old Lin suddenly spoke to me. “Young man, did you notice this spot?”

I followed the direction of Old Lin’s finger and saw that one corner of the note was damp. But what did that mean?

Old Lin analyzed, “I suspect this dampness came from tears. The writer was crying in pain while writing. Emotionally, the killer might not have wanted the gatekeeper to die.”

“So the gatekeeper committed suicide?” I immediately recalled my father’s forensic teachings about hangings: three things to check—the palm, the nape, and the spot beneath the feet.

I swiftly examined the gatekeeper’s palm and found marks left by the rope—evidence he pulled the rope himself.

I checked the back of his neck—no crossed rope marks, so he wasn’t strangled by someone else.

Then I noticed another detail: the stool he used wasn’t directly beneath the hanging spot, nor was it kicked over—it was far from the gatekeeper.

A scene played out in my mind: a woman finds the gatekeeper hanging, panics, tries to save him. Perhaps she isn’t tall enough and can only reach his legs, so she moves the stool closer, stands on it herself. But when she tries to hold him, she realizes he’s already dead. In anguish, she abandons the rescue, and to divert suspicion toward the supernatural, she writes the note in tears.

How did she leave? Not through the main door, obviously—she must have gone out the window. I checked and found the window unlocked, which could only be locked from the inside.

It seemed she really did escape through the window.

I wanted to check for fingerprints, but instead found a fiber on the window—a sign the killer wore gloves. An old hand, unlikely to leave such obvious traces.

I returned, sighing. “Clearly, the female killer and the gatekeeper were close.”

Li Xingchen was shocked. “Even that old man could attract someone? What taste! The world’s gone mad…”

“I don’t mean that kind of relationship,” I said. “I suspect it was familial—maybe a daughter or wife. The gatekeeper’s suicide must have been to protect the killer. Think about it: who would willingly give their life for someone else? What relationship would that be?”

“Mistress!” Li Xingchen blurted out.

I rolled my eyes. “Idiot.”

Li Xingchen protested, “Why not?”

“I think it might be a daughter or spouse, or a close relative,” Old Lin added.

“OK!” I nodded. “I suggest we investigate along those lines. Old Lin, take your team and see if Lin Yunshan has been close to any particular woman lately. I’ll take mine and look into the gatekeeper’s background—see if he has a wife or daughter.”

Old Lin smiled in understanding.

We split up. I took Tang Jingjing and Li Xingchen.

Old Lin took Li Hong and Mouse.

We knew little about the gatekeeper, so we headed to the school to investigate.

We pulled up his file at the school and found he was a solitary old man. He’d guarded the school gate for over thirty years, never married, and was never seen particularly close to any woman.

We questioned a few teachers who knew him well. They all said the gatekeeper never courted anyone—they’d even tried to set him up.

But he once said, “Once you’ve seen the vast ocean, no other water will do; except for Mount Wu, no clouds are real.”

The meaning was clear: he’d once fallen for a woman, deeply and passionately, so he lost interest in others.

Who would have guessed the seemingly plain gatekeeper had such a romantic story? And that poetic line—how could a man with only elementary education understand its meaning?

I asked the teachers if they knew what the woman he’d loved looked like.

Unexpectedly, one teacher gave us a crucial clue. He said that after class, he often chatted with the gatekeeper and noticed he had a peculiar habit: he liked to hold and look at a photograph, again and again.

Out of curiosity, the teacher tried to see who was in the photo, but the gatekeeper guarded it fiercely and never let anyone look.

I was instantly interested in that photo, suspecting it held vital clues.