71 The Things in My Pocket

When I gave Fang Lin’s head a gentle push and it rolled aside, I was utterly stunned. In that instant, I even forgot to be terrified, acting purely on instinct as I took a step back and drew in a sharp breath, only managing to let out a scream after a moment.

Jin Ze quickly arrived by my side and saw Fang Lin’s head, which I had pushed away. Because it had rolled so that the face was still toward the bed, her features remained hidden; only her long hair splayed messily across the sheets, making the scene especially horrifying.

Jin Ze pointed his gun at the bed but did not disturb the scene, instructing me instead to notify Fang Qinghe and the others.

Before I could make the call, the ward door was flung open and five or six armed police officers burst in, Fang Qinghe among them.

He immediately demanded to know what had happened. When his eyes landed on the bed, he froze for a moment, then quickly ordered his team to begin their investigation.

Jin Ze reported, “Leader Fang, just now I heard a strange ringing from inside the room while I was at the door. Chen Mu and I rushed in, and aside from Chen Mu lifting the blanket, we have barely touched the scene.”

Fang Qinghe asked directly, “Besides you two, has anyone else entered the ward before?”

Jin Ze replied, “I’ve been at the door the whole time, barely moving. I didn’t see anyone else go in.”

Fang Qinghe frowned, glancing at both of us. “Where’s Xiao Liu? Didn’t I assign him to be with you on night duty? Why is it just you and Chen Mu here?”

Xiao Liu was another detective, not part of the Cold Case Unit, but arranged by Fang Qinghe to assist Jin Ze as backup. After all, Jin Ze was capable, but hardly infallible—even a tiger can nap and miss something.

At the mention of Xiao Liu, Jin Ze suddenly turned to look at me, then said, “Earlier, Chen Mu went out for a bit. I was worried he might cause trouble, so I had Xiao Liu follow him. Chen Mu returned, but Xiao Liu didn’t. Maybe something came up. Since I couldn’t leave my post, I didn’t go looking for him.”

Hearing this, I stiffened. I thought, “I never left! Why is Jin Ze setting me up like this?”

Though I trusted Jin Ze, this was a matter of life and death—every detail could be crucial. So I quickly said, “What? I left? Jin Ze, are you mistaken? Haven’t I been by your side the whole time?”

Jin Ze insisted, “No, you left about half an hour ago. You didn’t go into the ward, just stepped outside. I could tell you were sleepwalking, so I had Xiao Liu follow you for your safety.”

At that, my heart skipped a beat. Damn it, of all times to fall asleep and sleepwalk—if I’d gone into the ward, Fang Lin’s death might have been pinned on me! I shuddered at the thought.

Just as I was feeling lucky, Miao Miao arrived. She photographed the scene, then put on gloves and turned Fang Lin’s head to face us.

Seeing her face, my heart shattered. It really was Fang Lin. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, but her expression was almost peaceful, as if she hadn’t struggled much in her final moments.

The cut at her neck was clean, with a bit of minced flesh oozing out, as though a sharp blade had severed her head in one stroke. I couldn’t understand how Fang Lin could have ended up like this.

But there was almost no blood at her neck—it had been wiped clean, displaying a chilling composure that immediately made me think of Bai Ye. No one else came to mind.

But how could Bai Ye have gotten in? I instinctively glanced toward the window. Surely there was heavy surveillance; if anyone approached, the police would have acted immediately. There was no way Fang Qinghe would only now be appearing.

Just then, Miao Miao lifted the blanket completely off Fang Lin.

Only then did I take in the entire scene, and what I saw stunned me, leaving me with only disbelief.

Fang Lin’s body lay prone on the bed, gripping a long, bloodied knife. It looked like this very blade had been used to sever her head.

A chill went down my spine. One word flashed through my mind: madness. Could Fang Lin have cut off her own head?

I’d heard of a deranged case where someone, using anesthetics and a knowledge of medicine, managed to decapitate themselves. But to witness it firsthand was beyond horrifying.

What was even more unsettling was that after being decapitated, the blanket was still covering her. Could she have covered herself after death?

At this point, Miao Miao spoke up. “Judging by the marks on the victim’s neck, there are clear signs of both strangulation and cutting. She was likely killed and then decapitated with a soft metal weapon. As for this knife, though it’s covered in blood, the stains on the blade are uneven. The killer probably wiped blood on it deliberately to create this illusion and mislead us.”

When she finished, Fang Qinghe immediately went to check the bathroom, but the detective stationed there, Jiang Haodong, was already gone. Jin Ze had checked the bathroom first and found it empty.

Fang Qinghe returned to the bedside, still appearing calm, though I noticed his mouth twitching with suppressed fury. Who could blame him? After setting such a tight net, Fang Lin had still been killed and decapitated. His restraint in not cursing was a testament to his self-control.

But finally he snapped, clenching his fists before growling, “All team leaders, assemble here at once!”

There were five squads in this operation: Jiang Haodong’s team inside the ward; the team at the door—me, Jin Ze, and Xiao Liu; a squad lying in wait on the ground floor; a surveillance video team; and a communications monitoring team. Each squad was small, yet every function was covered. Still, the murderer had succeeded, and even the always-elegant Fang Qinghe was furious.

After a thorough review of each team, aside from Jiang Haodong’s mysterious disappearance, there were no glaring errors.

But the video surveillance team quickly uncovered something odd. In addition to the cameras at the hospital entrance, a hidden camera had been installed in the ward itself, positioned by the window to cover Fang Lin’s bed. If anything happened to her, or if the camera was tampered with, it would be noticed immediately. So how could anything have gone wrong?

The problem lay with detective Jiang Haodong, who had been stationed in the ward. Surveillance footage showed that about half an hour earlier, Jiang Haodong emerged from the bathroom, walked over to the bed, and stood by the window, lighting a cigarette. It looked normal, but his position perfectly blocked the camera’s view of the ward, so it captured only him. Since Jiang Haodong was an insider, just smoking at the window and showing no suspicious behavior, the monitoring officer saw nothing amiss. After a few minutes, Jiang Haodong left, and when he was gone, everything seemed normal in the room—Fang Lin was still in bed, head covered by the blanket.

If Jiang Haodong hadn’t disappeared afterward, no one would have suspected a thing.

After watching the footage, Fang Qinghe’s neck veins bulged. He lowered his voice and ordered, “Notify headquarters at once—Jiang Haodong is to be apprehended.”

It was now obvious: Jiang Haodong was the mole within the police force. His actions had blocked the camera, giving the killer an opportunity.

I didn’t know Jiang Haodong well, but Fang Qinghe’s trust in him was clear—he was closer to Fang Lin than even Jin Ze, more trusted. How could such a person be a traitor? Did Fang Qinghe misjudge him, or was there more to the story?

As I pondered this, a voice suddenly rang out in the ward: “Give me back my tongue... give me back my tongue...”

The sound was shrill and chilling, making my skin crawl.

But I quickly realized it was the phone that had previously played the ghostly ringtone.

The earlier “The ghost is here, the ghost has come to kill...” had been the ringtone; this “Give me back my tongue” was the text alert.

Who could have guessed the killer would be so composed, orchestrating such a terrifying display at such a perilous moment, even changing the alert to something so dreadful.

Fang Qinghe immediately picked up the phone and checked the message. I was standing nearby and glanced over instinctively.

It was an internet message: “Chen Mu, what’s in your pocket?”

I instinctively looked down and saw that my pants pocket was bulging—something I hadn’t noticed in the chaos.

I quickly reached into my pocket, and my heart leapt into my throat—I felt as if I’d just grabbed a severed hand.

Steeling myself, I yanked the object out. The moment I saw it, terror seized me.

In my hand was indeed a severed hand—and clenched tightly in its palm was a tongue!