|
|
楼主 |
发表于 2026-6-19 22:08:09
|
显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 devil 于 2026-7-13 17:53 编辑
Chapter 1: The Pile of Dossiers on the Desk of the Glutinous Rice Dumpling
The Dongguan Municipal People’s Procuratorate edifice rose in the morning light, its cool-gray glass curtain wall reflecting the nascent sun’s golden rays, bathing the entire street in a warm yet restrained luminosity. At 7:45, an elevator door slid open, and a diminutive white figure emerged, striding forth with short but resolute steps.
Li Xiaoxiong wore a tailored black prosecutor’s uniform, its peaked cap squarely atop its head, the national emblem on the cap badge gleaming with a muted dark-gold sheen, while the procuratorial badge on its left chest was meticulously aligned. Under its arm, it clutched a bulging briefcase that nearly dragged to the floor; in its other paw, it carried a takeout coffee cup, the straw protruding from the lid and swaying gently with each step. Its white fur shimmered with a creamy softness in the morning light, and its rotund belly strained the uniform into a gentle curve, yet the garment itself was ironed crisp and devoid of a single crease—clearly, it devoted time each day to grooming this attire, just as it would treat every dossier with scrupulous exactitude.
The corridor’s motion-sensor lights flicked on in sequence with its footfalls, casting a plump, rounded shadow across the polished floor tiles. An occasional early-arriving colleague would pass and offer a natural greeting: “Good morning, Procurator Li!” It would nod and reply in a low but steady voice, “Good morning.” Here, no one evinced any surprise at a polar bear cub wearing a prosecutor’s uniform and traversing the procuratorate building—because here, Li Xiaoxiong was simply Li Xiaoxiong, an *inter alia* prosecutor on the substantive roster, and nothing more.
It reached its office door, stood on tiptoe, and swiped its access card against the reader. The sensor was mounted too high; it had to press its entire body against the cold metal panel to reach it, its belly compressing against the surface with a soft dull thud. The door clicked open, and it sidled in, waddling on short legs toward its desk.
That desk was a standard dark walnut piece, with a stack of weighty legal tomes on the left and a vintage green-glass-shaded desk lamp on the right. To accommodate its stature, the chair was custom-made: the seat lowered to its minimum, and a thick wooden footrest was added beneath, topped with a small non-slip mat to prevent its leather shoes from skidding. Two piles of dossiers already towered on the desktop, their height nearly equaling its line of sight when seated.
It removed its cap, rose on tiptoe to hang it on the specially lowered coat rack beside the desk, then climbed onto the chair via the footrest, using both paws to tug stubbornly at the briefcase’s tight zipper. After the rasping metallic screech, it extracted the materials inside, spread them across the desk, and took a sip of black Americano through the straw—unsweetened, scalding, its damp black nose warmed by the rising steam.
Once all was in order, it opened the top dossier. The cover bore the inscription: *Case of Huang Lin’s Intentional Injury — Transferred for Prosecutorial Review*. The case number, the suspect’s name, the investigating authority’s seal—each line of type stood in neat formation under the fluorescent light, gleaming with a cold, pallid sheen. It turned the first page with its paw and began reading line by line. Time passed; the dossier materials unfurled before it like a gradually coalescing jigsaw puzzle. Though its reading speed was swift, it would pause after each page to jot notes in its notebook with a pen clutched in its paw, the nib scratching softly against the paper.
The honey-candy jar on the desk stood open; it had already consumed two pieces. In contemplation, it instinctively craved something to chew—the sweetness sharpened its focus, and its moist, black nose twitched faintly, much as some people bite their pen caps or twirl their pencils—a small idiosyncrasy of concentration.
The dossier’s contents gradually assembled the case’s contours in its mind. The victim, Huang Lin, twenty-eight, a professional auto-show model, stood 178 centimeters tall, possessed striking features, and enjoyed modest renown in the southern China exhibition circuit. The suspect, Zheng Zhong, thirty, a marketing director at a foreign-invested enterprise, had been the victim’s romantic partner, cohabiting for over two years, until approximately one month before the incident, when the victim expelled him from their shared residence, forcing him to rent a single room in a mid-to-high-end apartment complex. The date of offense: July 15, 2008. The modus operandi: incapacitating the victim with diethyl ether, then using a cleaver to sever both forefeet at the metatarsal level and absconding with the amputated parts. The injuries: catastrophic bilateral foot destruction; following amputation surgery, the right foot underwent Chopart joint disarticulation, the left foot a Lisfranc joint disarticulation, retaining only the calcaneal portions—the forefeet almost entirely lost. This meant the victim would suffer permanent disability, unable to ambulate normally, let alone return to the auto-show stage.
Li Xiaoxiong turned to the end of the *Request for Approval of Arrest* and read the investigative conclusion: “... the suspect, Zheng Zhong, motivated by emotional discord and harboring retaliatory intent, employed cruel means to deliberately injure the victim, Huang Lin, causing severe bodily harm. His conduct has violated Article 234 of the Criminal Law of the People’s Republic of China, and he is suspected of the crime of intentional injury (causing grievous bodily harm). Approval of arrest is recommended.” It set down the materials, narrowed its small eyes, and fixed its gaze on the phrase “motivated by emotional discord.” “Too tidy,” it murmured, its voice echoing starkly in the empty office.
It reopened the physical-evidence inventory and scanned each item line by line, its paw pointing at every entry as if tallying some precious and fragile artifacts: One cleaver—recovered, bloodstains on blade, DNA matched to victim; one ether bottle—recovered, no fingerprints on bottle surface, opened, approximately 30 ml remaining; one LV shopping bag—recovered, with blood-soak penetration marks; one pair of black high-heeled sandals—recovered, only heel and posterior portions remaining; one vacuum-sealed bag—containing left forefoot, cryopreserved; one glass sealed jar—containing phalanges and metatarsal fragments; one mobile phone—belonging to suspect, recovered; one access card—held by suspect, not applied for by him personally; one set of master keys—held by suspect.
“None of these pose problems,” it said, sipping its coffee, then pointing with its paw at an investigative report interleaved in the file. “The problem lies here.” That section described the ether’s provenance: “According to the suspect’s confession, the ether he used was purchased from a chemical supply store on Guantai Road. The store clerk, upon viewing the suspect’s photograph, stated that ‘the build and impression are very similar.’” Li Xiaoxiong wrinkled its nose; its furry face contorted into an expression that was not quite a frown but unmistakably conveyed dissent. “*Very similar*? Not ‘that is him’?” It took a red marker and underscored that sentence with a heavy line, the tip pressing so hard it nearly perforated the page.
It then flipped to the supermarket surveillance stills—three grainy black-and-white images showing a figure wearing a peaked cap and a face mask lingering in the cutlery section before checking out and departing. The image grain was pronounced; the suspect’s face was entirely obscured by cap brim and mask, revealing only approximate height and physique. “Face covered. But can the build, the attire—can they be one hundred percent identified as Zheng Zhong?” It mused, jotting another note.
It continued to the mobile-phone base-station location analysis report, which indicated that Zheng Zhong’s phone signal had appeared within the coverage area of the Golden Garden residential compound on the night of the offense, with the timeline closely matching the estimated time of the crime. “Useful, but circumstantial,” it said, nodding and then shaking its head. “No direct facial capture, no eyewitness who actually saw him enter the victim’s residence. The sole ‘witness’...” It turned to the statement of Huang Nan, the victim’s brother, which read: “... my sister called me and said, ‘My feet.’ When I arrived, she was already lying in a pool of blood. I don’t know who did it.”
Li Xiaoxiong set down the pen, leaned back in its chair—its round belly pressing flush against the desk edge—and stared at the fluorescent tube on the ceiling for a long while, its eyes stinging slightly under the harsh white glare. It rubbed its eyes and sat upright again. “The chain of evidence appears complete, but the core link has a gap. The ether purchase lacks definitive eyewitness confirmation; the surreptitious entry has no direct footage; the sole ‘witness’ is the victim, but she was unconscious and never saw the assailant.” It paused, its gaze falling on the photograph of the left foot recovered from the refrigerator. The severed foot lay in its vacuum bag, shrouded in frost, the black nail polish still visible, the five toes slightly splayed—like a meticulously preserved, macabre and disquieting “artifact.” “This is the most potent physical evidence—the severed foot in his refrigerator, plus semen DNA match—he cannot deny that.”
Yet it did not rush to judgment. Instead, it picked up its pen and jotted several keywords in its notebook, each followed by a punctuation mark that seemed to mimic a courtroom pause: *Ether purchase—witness identification ambiguous (risk point)*; *Covert entry—no direct imagery (risk point)*; *Severed foot plus DNA—irrefutable (foundation for conviction)*; *Confession—requires verification of stability*; *“Counter-surveillance sophistication”—why no fingerprints at scene? Why such thorough cleanup?* Just as it was writing, a knock came at the door.
“Come in.” Assistant Xiao Lin entered, holding a kraft paper envelope and a fax transmission. The envelope bore the red seal of the Forensic Medicine Center; the fax header showed it originated from the Technical Division of the Public Security Bureau. “Procurator Li, the supplemental forensic report just arrived from the Forensic Medicine Center, and the DNA comparison revalidation from the Public Security Bureau.”
Li Xiaoxiong took the materials, first tearing open the envelope with its paws to extract the forensic report. Upon opening the first page, a line leapt out: “... from the suspected stain extracted between the second and third toes of the left foot, human semen was detected, and the DNA profile matched that of the suspect, Zheng Zhong.” “Concrete confirmation,” it said softly, setting down the report without any conspicuous change in expression—yet a keen glint flashed deep within its eyes, like a hunter who has finally spotted the quarry’s most unequivocal tracks. It smoothed the report’s folded corner with its paw, reread the entire document from beginning to end, verifying every data point and signature, then set it aside and opened the forensic center’s supplemental opinion for a quick perusal.
The forensic pathologist had provided a detailed description of the left foot’s amputation margin: “... the transection lies at the mid-distal metatarsal level, with uneven wound margins, exhibiting multiple chopping marks, consistent with repeated hacking by a sharp instrument (e.g., a cleaver). The bone ends are severely comminuted, with partial bone fragmentation...” “Not a single clean cut—many blows.” Li Xiaoxiong’s voice was low, its trailing tone carrying a nearly imperceptible tremor—not from fear, but from indignation, a restrained fury tempered by professional discipline. “This was not a ‘momentary impulse.’ This was conscious, controlled violent catharsis.” It tapped the report’s relevant line with its paw, its claws clicking faintly against the paper, then closed the materials and looked up at its assistant. “Notify the Public Security Bureau—I’m going to the Forensic Medicine Center this afternoon to inspect the physical evidence personally. Also, arrange a re-examination of that chemical-store clerk; I want to interview him face-to-face.”
Xiao Lin nodded and turned to leave. “Wait,” Li Xiaoxiong called out again, its voice not loud but distinctly clear. “Where is the suspect, Zheng Zhong, currently detained?” “In the Municipal Detention Center.” “Schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning.”
After Xiao Lin departed, Li Xiaoxiong rose from the chair—or rather, it stood *on* the chair, because the seat was so low that only by standing could it reach the desktop. It stretched its paws across the surface, methodically organizing the new materials into the dossier, securing them with binder clips, its movements deliberate and slow, as though performing a ritual. Then it picked up the photograph of the left foot and stared at it for a long moment.
In the image, the severed foot—toenails lacquered black—reposed quietly inside the vacuum bag, frost coating the skin’s surface, gleaming with a murky luster under the cold lamp. The transected bone and soft tissue were enveloped in ice crystals, revealing splintered bone shards and coagulated dark-red blood clots. It was like a sealed, uncanny, and unsettling “artifact”—an object that ought not to exist in any civilized world. “What kind of person are you, exactly?” it asked the absent Zheng Zhong through the photograph, its voice so soft it was almost soliloquy. Then it returned the photo to the dossier, stepped off the footrest, and walked to the window. Outside, the courthouse’s silhouette loomed in the morning haze, its gray concrete mass gilded by sunlight. It took a sip of coffee through the straw. The coffee had gone cold, the bitterness more pronounced—but it did not mind. “No rush,” it said. “Let me first ascertain your every detail.”
When night descended, only a few scattered lights remained aglow in the entire office building, like solitary stars in the darkness. Li Xiaoxiong was still seated at its desk, surrounded by dossiers in various states of disarray—some splayed open, some closed and stacked, others festooned with colored sticky notes. The honey-candy jar was empty; it was now pinching the last piece of candy between its claws, peeling the golden wrapper and tossing it into its mouth, the wrapper spiraling down onto the desktop.
In its notebook, it had drawn a structural diagram of the chain of evidence, annotating each category of proof with different colors and risk assessments: *Core irrefutable evidence (green)*—severed foot plus DNA, and confession; *Auxiliary evidence (yellow)*—mobile base-station location, blood-drop trajectory, LV shopping bag; *Evidence requiring reinforcement (red)*—ether purchase (ambiguous witness identification), supermarket knife acquisition (no frontal facial capture), master-key provenance (unascertained), counterfeit ID (untraced). Beside “irrefutable evidence” it drew two asterisks, tracing them repeatedly with a red marker, and next to “ether purchase” and “supermarket knife acquisition” it placed question marks, followed by a small annotation: “If the defense attacks these two links, there is room for slippage. They must be reinforced.”
It closed the notebook, hoisted the briefcase—taller than itself—from the footrest, and jumped off the chair, landing with a thud but quickly regaining balance. At the door, it rose on tiptoe to flick off the light switch, its fingers producing a crisp *click* against the toggle, then glanced back at the desk—the dossiers still lay open, awaiting tomorrow’s continuation. “Li Xiaoxiong, you are not a bear; you are a prosecutor.” It spoke softly into the dark office, its voice low but resolute—as though reminding itself, and as though proclaiming to the empty room. Then it waddled out the door.
In the corridor, the motion-sensor lights kindled in sequence with its footsteps, one after another, like a ribbon of luminescence unfurling behind it. That rotund shadow, elongated by the lamps, drifted along the wall like a silent, tenacious night sentinel. The elevator door slid open; it stepped inside and turned to face the front. Then it stood on tiptoe and extended its paw. It could not reach the floor button. It sighed, jumped—missed—jumped again, still short. So it drew a deep breath and launched a third leap, exerting full force; its paw arced through the air and finally smacked the “1” button. The doors slid shut; it caught its breath and stood in the center of the car, gazing up at the digital display as the numbers ticked down, its small face betraying no emotion. Yet if one looked closely, one might notice its whiskers faintly upturned, as if suppressing a smirk. “Tomorrow,” it murmured, “I’ll have logistics lower the elevator buttons.”
The doors opened, and it strode into the night on its short legs. In the distance, the courthouse blazed with lights like a silent colossus overlooking the city. Li Xiaoxiong glanced back once, then continued forward. Little did it know that, in the months ahead, the First Trial Chamber within that edifice would become the battlefield for the most consequential trial of its career. For now, however, it merely clutched its briefcase—taller than itself—and toddled homeward. The city slumbered in the darkness; neon reflections flowed across the wet asphalt; its shadow, stretched ever longer and fainter under the streetlamps, eventually dissolved around the corner. Tomorrow, more work awaited—and this was but the beginning.
|
|