Chapter Fifty-Two: The Case of the Boy in Red

One month later, Chief Wang urgently summoned the Seventh Major Crimes Unit. He didn’t say a single word, just tossed four plane tickets at me. “You, Old Lin, Tang Jingjing, and Li Hong—head to Mountain City.”

I immediately grew tense. From Chief Wang’s expression, I knew another urgent case had arisen.

I hurriedly asked, “Chief Wang, what’s the assignment this time?”

Chief Wang smiled at me. “Nothing serious, just go over, take a look, no need to linger. Think of it as a business trip. The hot pot base in Mountain City tastes great—bring me back some when you return.”

I could only force a bitter smile. “Chief Wang, don’t set me up.”

Chief Wang widened his tiger-like eyes. “When have I ever set you up? Everyone knows I protect my own.”

Tang Jingjing asked why Li Xingchen wasn’t going. Chief Wang explained Li Xingchen was involved in this case as well, but there was no need for him to travel so far. If anything was needed, we could contact him by phone anytime.

The flight lasted over three hours. Once we landed, the local police picked us up in a squad car. I thought we’d report first to the city bureau, but the car kept driving until we reached a remote little village in Banan District. The station chief came out personally to greet us.

He knew our identities were special and was very courteous. Seeing his old bureaucratic face, I felt uncomfortable and said, “Let’s hurry to the scene.”

The chief nodded repeatedly. “Right, right—let’s see the scene first. Xiao Li, go reserve a table at the Welcome Hotel. Tonight we’ll treat our distinguished guests from afar.”

Old Lin was clearly displeased by this public-funded banquet, waving his hand to decline. He’d heard Mountain City’s noodles were delicious—today, we’d just eat those.

The chief immediately agreed and drove us to the crime scene.

Yellow police tape cordoned off the area. Two officers were on guard, and a crowd had gathered outside, murmuring amongst themselves. The chief angrily charged forward, scolding the onlookers, who all knew his foul temper and quickly cleared a path.

The chief hurried us into a small courtyard. The door seemed forced open, the lock smashed. Inside was a typical two-story house, a bit shabby from the outside, but the interior appeared clean and orderly, nothing out of place.

He led us through the living room, opened the back door, and took us into the narrow gap between the house and the wall. The passage was so tight only two people could walk side by side, and the dim lighting made it impossible to see.

The chief slowly turned on his flashlight, revealing a scene so chilling that Tang Jingjing shuddered all over, nearly running out.

It was so sudden—the chief should have warned us!

But there, hung on the wall, was a boy around ten, wearing an adult’s swimsuit with a red skirt draped over it, bound tightly with ropes. The skirt had been flipped up to cover his face; his chest was bulging, but it wasn’t breast tissue, as this was a boy.

Suddenly, a familiar term flashed in my mind: “The Mountain City Red-Skirted Boy Mystery.”

This was a famous supernatural case—almost everyone had heard of it. It happened in 2009; the victim was also a thirteen-year-old boy, found in exactly the same manner as the one before us.

I sucked in a cold breath, catching a whiff of decay, and shut my mouth to avoid inhaling further.

Old Lin’s emotions surged; I saw him swaying and hurried to steady him.

“Why wasn’t the boy taken down? How long has he been hanging here?” Old Lin roared in anger.

The chief was immediately frightened. Despite his position, he was a level below us and stammered, “Our officers were preserving the scene, but this is inhumane. I’ll pursue the responsible officers when I return!”

He quickly sent someone to take the boy down.

Tang Jingjing looked at me. “Doesn’t this scene seem familiar?”

I nodded. “The 2009 Mountain City red-skirted boy case.”

Tang Jingjing asked, “Do you think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Let’s wait for the autopsy.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

I asked the chief about the boy’s parents—who usually cared for him, why no relatives were present.

The chief explained both parents worked out of town, the grandmother usually watched him. Upon learning her grandson was dead, she suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and was hospitalized, still in critical condition. The parents were rushing back, expected to arrive late tonight.

I asked, “How long has he been dead?”

“The grandmother only noticed his disappearance yesterday at noon; the body was found by neighbors this morning.”

“Can you reach the parents? We need their consent for an autopsy to find the real cause of death,” I pressed.

The chief said they were trying, but since the parents were on a flight, their phones were off.

I felt a headache coming. “Without parental consent, we can’t proceed. Could we wake the grandmother and have her sign the autopsy authorization?”

The chief asked, “Can I sign on their behalf? The parents would want to know the cause of death.”

I shook my head bitterly. “Forget it—let’s wait until they land.”

Without an autopsy, we could only conduct a routine examination. I donned gloves and checked: the deceased was male, thirteen, wearing a new swimsuit, the red skirt was old and of unknown origin.

The cause of death was evidently asphyxiation; his hands and feet were bound with multiple knots—very professionally done.

Beside the body lay a toppled stool. Set upright, it stood thirty centimeters from the boy’s feet.

This finding was bizarre—how was he hung up with a thirty-centimeter gap, especially with his hands and feet tied?

Suicide? Or murder? It was impossible to tell at a glance.

Just then, the station’s informant called the chief, saying they had reached the parents and obtained permission to proceed with the autopsy if absolutely necessary.

I didn’t pause for rest, immediately instructing the chief to transport the body to the forensic room. The forensic room hadn’t been used in a long time, cluttered with miscellaneous items, and it took seven or eight people a considerable time to clean it.

Once clean, Old Lin and the others watched from the side. The chief seemed uncomfortable, so I suggested he investigate the boy’s relatives, wondering if any family disputes could be involved.

He nodded and hurried off. I warned Old Lin that the next part would be gruesome—perhaps he’d prefer to wait outside and I’d report my findings later.

Old Lin shook his head. “No matter. I’ve seen plenty of murder and dismemberment cases.”

I glanced at Tang Jingjing, who braced herself and said she’d be fine.

I first inspected the exterior, searching for signs of assault. Aside from a single whip mark on the back, there were no other wounds. I used a light paper method to check for hidden injuries, but found nothing.

I made an incision at the neck, peeled back the skin, and examined the lungs. The lungs were shrunken, alveoli ruptured—classic symptoms of asphyxiation. I counted seven or eight ruptured alveoli, caused by excessive internal pressure compressing them after suffocation.

The other organs were normal, with no signs of disease. I checked the mouth and throat, finding some milky-white substance in the trachea. Cutting open the stomach, I found a large amount of milky-white material mixed with green gastric fluid.

I immediately took samples for testing.

The station lacked proper laboratory facilities, so samples were sent to the county hospital for analysis. Otherwise, nothing else unusual was found.

I stitched the body up and reported my inconclusive findings to Old Lin.

Old Lin frowned. “You still can’t tell if it was murder or suicide?”