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墨書 Inktalez
"Captain Chen, here are the microscopic photos of the scalp of Number Three Victim."
Forensic Xiao Zheng handed over a stack of Kodak Paper, his fingers glistening pale beneath the rubber gloves. "Do these pinhole arrangements resemble the stitching patterns of a loom?"
In the photos, countless tiny pinholes aligned along the midline of the skull, forming a double-strand line with a spacing error of no more than 0.2 millimeters.
Chen Guohua took out his reading glasses, and the edges of the lenses flashed with images from Li Xiuyun's locker, specifically a copy of Shanghai Fashion. He recalled an article inside that introduced Su Xiu's stitching techniques, featuring an illustration of the edge-stitching needle known as "Double Dragons Playing with Pearls."
"Let's head to the Textile Factory." The veteran detective grabbed his police-issued cotton jacket from the back of a chair, the sound of the fabric startling sparrows pecking outside.
As he passed by the evidence room, he caught sight of a Carved Wooden Comb slowly seeping water droplets from its transparent bag—what was embedded in that wood grain was not blood but some kind of corpse oil mixed with Huaihua Fragrance.
At Qinghe Textile Factory, Workshop Three, thirty-seven Weaving Machines roared simultaneously, filling the air with the burnt smell of synthetic fibers.
Chen Guohua stood in front of the machine operated by Li Xiuyun during her lifetime, his index finger brushing over the brown frame wrapped in warp threads. In a corner of the shuttle box, several dark brown stains were embedded in the metal crevices; getting closer revealed a faint metallic scent of blood.
"This is a broken shuttle we replaced last month," said Old Ma, the workshop supervisor, wiping sweat from his brow. "Li Xiuyun always said this machine eats thread ends; once she nearly got her finger caught in it."
Chen Guohua collected the shuttle in an evidence bag and suddenly noticed the production excellence board on the wall. Beneath Li Xiuyun's photo was a faded silk flower; its petal patterns mirrored the braiding technique of the deceased's hair.
As he tiptoed to pluck the flower, the glass frame suddenly shattered, shards slicing through his fingertip and causing beads of blood to drip onto the shuttle. Those dried stains absorbed his fresh blood like a sponge.
"Captain Chen!" Young officer Xiao Zhao burst in with files clutched to his chest. "We found dental records for Coffin Shop and Charred Corpse!"
The pages rustled in the draft. Chen Guohua's pupils darted between two X-ray films: The wear on Charred Corpse's molars suggested an age equivalent to that of a fifty-year-old man, while Zhou Fulai, an apprentice at Coffin Shop who had dental work done last month, was only twenty-two.
Suddenly, the fluorescent lights overhead flickered ominously, sending chills down Chen Guohua's neck. He recalled that curled-up Charred Corpse at the fire scene—its carbonized right hand tightly grasping a bundle of hair, yet its knuckles grotesquely bent outward as if someone had forcibly pried it open to insert evidence.
At Zhenxi Coffin Shop's ruins, snowmelt mixed with charcoal ash crunched underfoot. Chen Guohua crouched before a charred beam, using tweezers to prod at a piece of unburned wood.
It was Thunderstruck Sophora, with snake-like burn marks embedded between its growth rings that matched perfectly with the broken texture on that half piece of wooden comb in his pocket.
"Officer Chen," Old Sun, who sold tofu, poked his head out from beneath his cotton jacket. "That night during the fire, I saw Fulai moving things on a cart."
Chen Guohua suddenly turned around, startling Old Sun, who took a half step back at the intensity of his gaze. "About three quarters of an hour ago, the cart was covered with an oilcloth, and the sound of the wheels crunching over the snow was particularly heavy.
By the way, there were some white things that fell out of the wheel tracks. I thought they were just wood shavings and didn’t pay much attention..." The old detective lunged towards a snow pile on the east side of the ruins. In the beam of his police flashlight, several crescent-shaped objects glimmered with a pearlescent sheen.
These were human nails, with dark red tissue still clinging to their edges. He recalled the charred fingers of the corpse—those nails had been completely removed long before the fire.
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