Chapter Twenty-Six: Ironhead the Loach

When he arrived at the Jiangkou District Public Security Bureau, as soon as he immersed himself in official business, An Changpu quickly cast aside all thoughts of Qin Ruonan and focused wholeheartedly on working with the district officers to track down clues and movements regarding the small-time thugs. Once they received the composite sketches, the bureau sent them down to the local police stations, and responses came quickly. One of the men depicted was already a familiar face—an infamous local hooligan, notorious in the area and almost a “celebrity” at the precinct, having been in and out several times. Just as An Changpu arrived at the bureau, his colleagues had brought this ruffian in. The thug, however, was stubbornly keeping his mouth shut, answering every question only with a sly grin. His wealth of experience had taught him that as long as he stayed silent, the police couldn’t do much to him.

With An Changpu’s arrival, the officers in charge of questioning the thug breathed a sigh of relief. They didn’t know much about the particulars of the dismemberment case—only that the men in the sketches had allegedly harassed the victim and his family. Of all those sketched, only this one had been identified, and he was proving to be a tough nut to crack—impervious to both pressure and persuasion. Given the stalemate, it was naturally best for the case’s lead investigator to take over.

An Changpu took the thug’s file, thanked his colleagues, and headed straight to the interrogation room where the man was being temporarily held. As soon as he walked in, the thug glanced at him and, instead of showing any nervousness, broke into a broad, cheeky grin. “Huh? This officer looks unfamiliar! Don’t think we’ve met before!”

An Changpu looked him up and down, smiled in return, and waved his credentials before him. “That’s right. Lucky for you I’m a new face—if I were familiar, you probably wouldn’t get another chance to walk out of here.”

The thug stole a glance at An Changpu’s rank and paused for a moment before nodding toward him and asking, “What time is it?”

“In a hurry?” An Changpu didn’t answer directly but took a seat, replying with casual ease.

The thug chuckled. “Not exactly. Just want to know how long before you let me go.”

“That depends on you. We’ll have to see how you do,” An Changpu replied, deftly parrying as he leafed through the file. “Quite the record you have! Looks like, aside from the station chief, there’s no one more senior than you in the precinct. And what a nickname—‘Ironhead,’ is it?”

The thug was unfazed, slapping his shiny, bald head with a grin. “I’ve got nothing else going for me—just a hard head!”

“Do you know Lu Min?” An Changpu dropped the small talk and went straight to the point.

For a moment, the thug’s smirk faltered, but he quickly recovered his swagger and shook his head. “Never heard of him! Now, if you were talking about Lu Xun, I did memorize some of his essays back in school. Want me to recite a few for you?”

“If your middle school literature teacher heard that, she’d be quite touched, I’m sure. But since your memory is so good, it seems strange that you can’t remember whose house you trashed a while back. Or do you just do this sort of thing so often that you lose track? Was it always the same group, or did you have new faces now and then?”

Ironhead sensed An Changpu’s persistence and decided to play dumb, putting on a look of complete confusion.

“Never mind the recitations—no literature class today. Let’s have an art lesson instead!” An Changpu rose, ignoring Ironhead’s attitude, and laid a sketch before him. “Well? What do you think—does it capture your likeness?”

Ironhead glanced at his own image, swallowed, then forced a grin. “Not bad, I guess. My only complaint is you made me look a bit fatter than I am.”

“Oh? So aside from a little extra weight, the rest is pretty accurate? Since this sketch led us straight to you,” An Changpu fanned out a few more portraits, “I suppose finding your buddies in these other sketches shouldn’t be too hard either.”

Ironhead’s eyes darted over the images, blinking more and more rapidly. Watching him, An Changpu began to notice a pattern: whenever this seasoned rogue felt nervous or started plotting, his eyelids fluttered uncontrollably—a reflex he likely wasn’t even aware of. Earlier, as long as An Changpu kept things vague, Ironhead had remained confident and composed, certain he could stall the police. But now, faced unexpectedly with the sketches, he was clearly calculating his next move.

“You guys are really going all out this time! Is it worth it? I’m guessing this Lu Min is just an ordinary guy, nothing special. Why are you so invested?” After a moment’s silence, Ironhead tried to fish for information, hoping to gain some understanding of the situation.

An Changpu saw right through him, gathered up the sketches, and smiled. “See? I said you had a good memory! You even remember Lu Min’s background perfectly. So, tell me—who put you and your crew up to roughing him up?”

“I never bullied any Lu Min. And if I did, it was probably just because I didn’t like his face,” Ironhead replied evasively, his eyes shifting.

An Changpu regarded him with a sigh. “Honestly, you should change your nickname from Ironhead to Loach—you’re a slippery one. I don’t mind going in circles with you, but now’s not the time. I’ve got a homicide case to solve, and you seem like a smart guy. If you’re afraid of crossing someone powerful, or you’re determined to be loyal to your crew, you’d better consider carefully whether you have the guts to take the fall for this, or drag all your brothers down with you.”

Ironhead fell silent, blinking rapidly. An Changpu didn’t press him, instead tidied up the sketches and sat back, waiting patiently for Ironhead to speak.

Minutes passed in silence. The rogue’s sly grin gradually faded, replaced by a trace of inner turmoil and anxiety.

Nearly ten minutes later, just as An Changpu began to wonder if all his efforts had been for nothing, Ironhead finally spoke.

“I don’t know who you’re really after. And I don’t want to know. Don’t ask me—I can’t help you. Don’t try to get me to help find anyone, either—I wouldn’t know how,” he rambled, his words hazy and disjointed. “But Jiangkou’s Xinjie Street is always lively. There’s a little eatery called Wangwang’s, and the billiards hall downstairs isn’t bad. If you’re ever at a loose end, it’s not a bad place to hang out.”