The Corpse in the Bay Wharf

When Zhang Chu was discovered, he was floating face-down in the sea. By the time the fishermen hauled him up, his face was swollen from soaking in the water, his eyes were wide open, and he was dressed impeccably. There were no signs of struggle or violence on his body—save for a single, fist-sized wound in the center of his chest, from which blood still seeped.

When I arrived at the scene, the coroner was conducting a preliminary inspection of the body, while Guo Ming crouched not far away, his brow furrowed as he gazed out over the water.

“The deceased, Zhang Chu, thirty-two years old, was a manager at a foreign trade company. Time of death is estimated between ten and twelve o’clock last night. Cause of death is a stab wound to the chest, five centimeters deep, directly piercing the heart,” the coroner reported.

I nodded and walked over to stand beside Guo Ming, following his gaze out to sea.

“So, Detective Guo, have you found anything?” I asked.

Guo Ming didn’t answer directly. Instead, he replied, “Why do you suppose the victim appeared here?”

I shrugged. “I’m not a mind reader. How would I know?”

He turned to look at me. “There are no signs of struggle on Zhang Chu’s body, which means he came here willingly. And according to the coroner, he died between ten and twelve last night—when most people would be at home asleep. Why was he here at the bay?”

I was taken aback. I hadn’t considered that.

Guo Ming continued, “Also, though this is a port, it’s not a busy place. Few people come here, especially at this hour. Why would Zhang Chu come to such a place to be killed?”

I frowned. “Do you have any ideas?”

Guo Ming stood, brushing sand from his trousers. “Let’s go. We’ll start with his company.”

We drove to Zhang Chu’s office. The building was tall, its glass façade gleaming in the sunlight. The lobby bustled with people; business seemed good. In Zhang Chu’s office, we found only his empty desk, a few documents scattered atop it, and his computer still running. We rifled through the papers—just mundane work matters, nothing unusual.

“How was Manager Zhang as a person?” Guo Ming inquired of a staff member.

“He was a decent man—serious about his work, treated people well. Maybe a bit stubborn, sometimes got into minor disagreements, but nothing serious,” the employee replied.

“Any recent conflicts with anyone?” Guo Ming pressed.

The employee thought for a moment. “Not that I know of. He was easygoing. Never saw him lose his temper at anyone.”

Guo Ming nodded, asked nothing more, and we left.

“What now?” I asked as we stepped outside.

“Zhang Chu’s home,” Guo Ming replied.

At his apartment, Zhang Chu’s wife Zhao Li answered the door, visibly anxious.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked.

“We’re the police. Zhang Chu is dead. We’re here to investigate,” I said, showing my badge.

Her face turned ashen. “Dead? How could that be…”

She led us to the living room, her hands trembling as she poured us water.

“He didn’t come home last night. I tried calling, but his phone was off. I thought he was on a business trip. I never imagined…” Tears streamed down her face.

“When did you last see him?” Guo Ming asked gently.

“Yesterday morning, when he left for work,” Zhao Li said.

“Any strange behavior recently?” Guo Ming continued.

She thought for a moment. “Not really. He’d just been very busy—lots of overtime, some business trips.”

“Did he mention being in any danger lately?” Guo Ming asked suddenly.

Zhao Li shook her head. “No. He never said anything about that.”

Guo Ming nodded and we left.

“What next?” I asked.

“Let’s look into the places Zhang Chu frequented.”

Following Zhao Li’s leads, we visited his gym, a bar, a café—but found nothing of significance.

“We’re at a dead end. Where do we go from here?” I asked.

“The scene of his death,” Guo Ming replied.

We returned to the bay at dusk. The sea breeze was cool, brushing our faces with a touch of chill. Guo Ming walked to the water’s edge, watching the waves lap gently at the shore, deep in thought.

“Why do you think Zhang Chu chose to die here?” I asked again.

Guo Ming turned to me. “Have you noticed how clean the water is here?”

I was surprised, but nodded. “Yes, it’s quite clear—not polluted at all.”

“Zhang Chu was a man who valued cleanliness,” Guo Ming said.

“How do you know that?” I asked, puzzled.

“I’ve been to his office and his home—both immaculate. He cared about his appearance, always dressed neatly, hair perfectly combed.”

I nodded, realizing I hadn’t noticed before.

“If Zhang Chu allowed himself to be killed here, it means he trusted this place—and the person who brought him here. The killer was someone he knew well, someone he didn’t believe would harm him,” Guo Ming continued.

I frowned. “Who do you think the killer is?”

“We don’t know yet. But we can start by investigating Zhang Chu’s recent contacts.”

We returned to his company and checked his call history. One name stood out: Li Hao. They’d been in frequent contact.

“Who is Li Hao?” I asked.

“A colleague, and Zhang Chu’s closest friend,” Guo Ming replied.

We found Li Hao—he looked haggard, eyes bloodshot, and seemed uneasy at the sight of us.

“Why are you looking for me?” Li Hao asked.

“Zhang Chu is dead. Did you know?” I said bluntly.

He flinched, face draining of color. “Dead? How?”

“When did you last see him?” Guo Ming asked.

“Last night. We worked late together at the office. He said he was going home, and then we parted ways,” Li Hao replied.

“Did you leave the office at all last night?” Guo Ming pressed on.

Li Hao shook his head. “No. I was in the office all night, only left this morning.”

“Anyone to confirm that?” Guo Ming asked.

Li Hao hesitated, then shook his head again. “No, I was alone.”

Guo Ming nodded, said nothing more, and we left.

“Do you think Li Hao is a suspect?” I asked.

“Hard to say, but he’s definitely suspicious,” Guo Ming replied.

“Why?”

“He was the last to see Zhang Chu. If Zhang Chu was killed last night, Li Hao is involved.”

“But he says he never left the office, and there’s no one to verify that,” I pointed out.

“That’s what we need to check,” Guo Ming said.

We reviewed the office’s security footage from last night—Li Hao was indeed in the office the whole time.

“So that rules him out,” I said, disappointed.

“Not necessarily,” Guo Ming shook his head.

“Why not?” I asked, confused.

“Security footage only proves Li Hao didn’t leave the office—it doesn’t prove he didn’t kill Zhang Chu. He could have acted after Zhang Chu left.”

“So what now?” I asked helplessly.

“We go to Zhang Chu’s phone shop,” Guo Ming suddenly said.

“His phone shop? Wasn’t his phone at home?” I asked.

“Yes, but when we visited his home, his phone was switched off. Last night, when he parted from Li Hao, it was still on,” Guo Ming explained.

“You mean, someone took his phone after he died and turned it off?” I realized.

“Exactly. So, we need to check his phone for any anomalies.”

At the shop, we found Zhang Chu’s phone—a brand-new iPhone, powered off.

“Can you unlock it?” Guo Ming asked.

I nodded, pulled out my tools, and quickly unlocked the phone.

We scrolled through his calls, messages, social media—nothing out of the ordinary. But in his photo album, we discovered a stranger’s photo: a man in black, wearing a hat and mask, only his piercing eyes visible.

“Who is this?” I wondered aloud.

“No idea, but we can ask around,” Guo Ming said.

We showed the photo to neighbors, friends, colleagues—no one recognized him.

“We’re at another dead end,” I said, frustrated.

“It’s fine. We still have his phone,” Guo Ming replied.

Checking again, we found a hidden folder containing chat logs and transfer records.

The chats were cryptic, but suggested Zhang Chu was trading something with this stranger. The transfer records showed frequent, large sums wired to the man.

“So Zhang Chu was involved in something illegal,” I muttered.

“Most likely. And this man could be the killer,” Guo Ming said.

“But we don’t even know who he is,” I said.

“We can investigate Zhang Chu’s accounts—track where the money came from and where it went,” Guo Ming suggested.

At the bank, we found the money came from offshore accounts, always on the tenth of each month.

“So he received a large sum monthly,” I noted.

“Yes. Let’s trace those accounts,” Guo Ming said.

We contacted Interpol for help tracing the offshore holders. After some time, we learned the accounts belonged to an international criminal organization specializing in smuggling and drug trafficking.

“So Zhang Chu was entangled with this group,” I said, frowning. “But why would they kill him?”

“There are two possibilities,” Guo Ming analyzed. “He either betrayed them and they silenced him, or he learned something they were afraid he’d expose.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked, lost.

“We need to find a member of the organization—see if we can get more information,” Guo Ming decided.

After much investigation, we tracked down a member—a Chinese expatriate, well-connected within the organization.

When we found him at a bar, he was visibly nervous.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he asked.

“We’re police. Zhang Chu is dead. We need to ask you some questions,” I said, showing my badge.

He paused, then nodded. “I know Zhang Chu. He was a member, but hadn’t contacted us in a long time.”

“Why was he killed?” Guo Ming pressed.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I can tell you this: Zhang Chu held a high position. He knew many secrets. If he tried to betray the organization, they wouldn’t let him live.”

“Do you recognize this man?” I showed him the photo.

He glanced at it, then shook his head. “No, but I can ask around.”

Two days later, he brought us news. The man’s name was Wang Qiang—a hitman for the organization, tasked with “cleaning up” problematic members.

“Wang Qiang?” I frowned. “Such a common name. How do we find him?”

“I can help you contact him, but you have to promise me something,” the informant said.

“What condition?” Guo Ming asked.

“Help me disappear—somewhere the organization can’t find me.”

We considered and agreed. He arranged a meeting with Wang Qiang at an abandoned warehouse.

When we arrived, Wang Qiang was already waiting. He was unremarkable in appearance—neither tall nor strong—but his eyes were sharp and cold.

“Why are you looking for me?” he asked.

“Did you kill Zhang Chu?” Guo Ming asked directly.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I killed him.”

“Why?” I pressed.

“He betrayed the organization. I was sent to silence him,” Wang Qiang replied.

“What secrets did he know?” Guo Ming pursued.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m just a killer—I don’t ask questions.”

“Will you help us find other members?” I asked.

He sneered. “Do you think I’d lead you to them? I killed Zhang Chu—the organization will come after me. If I lead you there, I’m dead.”

“Do you still think you have a choice?” Guo Ming drew his gun, aiming at Wang Qiang’s head.

Wang Qiang stared at him, then slowly raised his hands. “Fine. I’ll take you.”

With his guidance, we located one of the organization’s hideouts and raided it, arresting several members.

Through interrogation, we learned why Zhang Chu had betrayed them: he had fallen in love with Zhao Li and wanted to leave the criminal world for a normal life with her. The organization refused, threatening to kill both him and Zhao Li if he tried to leave. Forced to stay, Zhang Chu secretly gathered evidence, hoping one day to bring the entire group to justice. But his plan was discovered, and Wang Qiang was sent to kill him.

The case was finally solved. Justice, at last, for Zhang Chu’s family and the authorities.

Guo Ming gazed out the window, taking a deep breath. “Justice may be delayed, but it never fails to come.”

With the organization destroyed, light returned to those corners once shrouded in darkness. Zhang Chu’s sacrifice was not in vain—his courage and resolve brought hope and redemption to many.

At his grave, Zhao Li laid a bouquet of fresh flowers, tears streaming down her cheeks. She whispered, “Chu, do you see? The bad people have been caught. You can rest now.”

Guo Ming and I stood silently nearby, watching. As detectives, we have witnessed countless stories of joy and sorrow, but moments like these always stir something indescribable within us.

“Guo Ming, do you think all we’ve done is worth it?” I asked.

Guo Ming did not answer immediately. He looked into the distance. “Everyone has darkness within their heart. But as long as we strive, we can bring light to it. Zhang Chu was such a person. He showed us what justice and courage truly mean.”

I nodded, filled with respect. Indeed, everyone harbors darkness, but only by facing it bravely can we become better.

Though this case had ended, our work continued. In a world full of uncertainty and danger, we must remain ever vigilant and courageous, using our wisdom and strength to uphold justice and light.

The sun shone on our backs, bringing a touch of warmth. We turned away from the grave, setting out on a new journey. No matter what obstacles or challenges lay ahead, we would press on unwaveringly—for we are detectives, guardians of justice.

As our figures faded into the distance, peace and serenity settled over Zhang Chu’s grave. His life was brief, but his spirit would be forever etched in our hearts, urging us ever forward.