Read Novel Full Chapter 133 : The First Copy
Chapter 133 : The First Copy
January 3rd, Sunday. When Peng Weidong came upstairs, the scallion oil in the pot below had just started to sizzle, the smell climbing through the cracks in the stairwell, pushing down half the old-paper smell on the second floor.
He didn't sit. First, he set his phone on the long table, face-up, slid it over to Shen Zhixia. The top entry in his call log had no name—eleven digits, twice: 4:06 yesterday afternoon, 8:20 this morning.
"He called again," Peng Weidong said. "First thing out of his mouth was 'Master Peng.' I never told anyone my last name."
"What did he say yesterday?"
"Said he felt bad about my family's situation." He wiped his hands on his pants. "Asked how much my baby weighed."
"What about the factory?"
"The letter's been submitted. The workshop approved my leave through the fifth." He said, "These two days, I'm here."
Shen Zhixia turned to a fresh page in her notebook, wrote down the date, and put the phone on speaker between them. She didn't press record—anything recorded would need its own story told later. What she heard herself, she could remember herself.
She dialed. The first ring hadn't even finished when the other end picked up.
"Hello, Master Peng."
"I'm Peng Weidong's representative," she said. "Jiangzhou Zhengping Law Firm, Shen Zhixia."
Two seconds of silence from the other end—silent enough to hear keyboard keys clicking.
"You... got a lawyer." The man's voice was unhurried. "Should've said so."
"And you are?"
"I'm with the hospital." He said, "Don't ask what department. This matter goes through me."
"Fine." She pressed her pen against the notebook. "Then I'll say three things. First: the funeral expenses and arrangements—how they're paid, under what category, who approves them, whose stamp is on the receipt. Second: how much per day the baby's stay costs, and whether you asked around yourself or someone did it for you. Third—we're investigating the cause of death. Autopsy, medical damage appraisal, and how the hospital plans to cooperate."
The man answered the middle one first.
"Seven hundred and some a day for the baby. I asked." He said, "Brother, you've had it hard."
Peng Weidong's Adam's apple moved. No sound came out.
"The payment category's easy—call it a condolence visit." The man went on. "Tell me the amount. With your family's situation, we don't want to see you struggle. She's gone, and you still have a baby in the incubator. Once everything's settled, you'll have your hands free to look after the child."
"And the third?" Shen Zhixia asked.
"Autopsy." The man repeated the word, slowly. "Today's the seventh day."
Beneath the date she'd written, Shen Zhixia added a line: The other party brought up the seventh day on his own.
"She's already been there seven days." The man said. "You relatives picked the date yourselves; the funeral home has it scheduled. If you really want to do that, we won't stop you. The money still gets paid. It's just—when a body's been kept that long, it doesn't look good."
"Is Master Peng there?" he asked. "Let me say a few words to him."
"You can say them to me."
"He's family too."
"He's not answering money questions," Shen Zhixia said.
Peng Weidong leaned toward the phone. His voice was flat. "The family's discussing it."
The other end paused. A short laugh. "Fine. Discuss all you want. But fair warning—if you talk, we'll have to lay things out in the open too. In the end, it's still the family that loses face."
"I've noted that down too," Shen Zhixia said.
"No need."
"I'm noting the call time," she said. "9:04 to 9:11. Seven minutes. May I ask your name?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"To note it down."
"No need." The line went dead.
[Thud. What matters more than the money is that piece of paper.]
Peng Weidong set the blue cloth bundle on the corner of the table. He untied the innermost layer and first pulled out a sheet of paper, folded in half. The death certificate, issued December 28th. He recognized the four characters at the top, and he recognized the line beneath them too: cardiorespiratory arrest. What those words meant—he'd never asked. He didn't dare.
Next came the cold storage slip from the funeral home. Taken away at 3 p.m. on the 28th, 180 a day, five days paid. His hometown had picked the date: first cremation slot, the morning of January 5th.
"My mother-in-law cried yesterday," he said. "She says the spirit can't be moved on the seventh day."
"What happens if it is?"
"She says the spirit hasn't gone far yet."
Shen Zhixia picked up the death certificate, glanced at it twice, and set it back on the table, sliding it to his side.
"How much does that cost?" he asked.
"Several thousand to a bit over ten thousand," she said. "Might also come back with nothing."
He said nothing. He pressed both sheets back into the innermost layer of the blue cloth bundle.
At 9:20, footsteps on the stairs. He Xiufen came up carrying two bowls of noodles. One she set in front of Peng Weidong; the other she kept, sitting down. She laid her chopsticks across the rim of the bowl, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the drawer, and drew a vertical line down the middle with a pen.
Left side, she wrote: Money. Right side: Cause of death.
"Old Peng, I'm not here to lecture you. I'm laying out two paths."
"The left path—you walk it today, the money's in your hands tomorrow. Let me ask you one thing: the man won't even tell you what department he's from. Who's going to acknowledge that money later? The day he flips and says you reached for it yourself, what do you have to answer with?"
"The right path is slow. It's expensive. And it offends people." She tapped the paper with the end of the pen. "And the first step on that road is one only you can take. The autopsy needs a family member's signature. Only yours. If someone else signs, they won't accept it."
"There's still time," she said. "Counting from the day she left us, the forty-eight hours are long gone. The next deadline is seven days. Today's the third—exactly the seventh day. If you don't nod today and sign tomorrow, what they can find out is one thing less. I won't dress that up for you, and I'm not the one making the call."
Peng Weidong didn't look up.
"Have you been to the funeral home these seven days?" He Xiufen asked.
"Every afternoon." He straightened the chopsticks on the rim of the bowl. "To tell her how much the baby ate. Yesterday it was thirty milliliters. The nurse says they added a bit more today."
He Xiufen said nothing to that. She nudged the bowl closer to him.
"My brother and the others say a person only rests easy once they're in the ground." He spoke after a while.
"Then are your brothers going to raise your child for you?" He Xiufen caught herself. "That was harsh. Eat your noodles first. We'll talk after."
She turned to Shen Zhixia. "You make the calls. Find an appraisal office. Ask what they need, how much, and the soonest someone can be on-site. I'll ask at the funeral home—if the body's brought out for dissection, what the family signs and what they issue."
"And the order," she added. "First the autopsy to establish cause of death, then the appraisal on whether the hospital was at fault and to what degree, and only then talk numbers. Reverse those three steps and the money becomes hush money, and that signature becomes one you put on paper yourself."
Shen Zhixia stood by the window and made her calls. The first office said they didn't take medical disputes. The second transferred her twice before a man answered. His surname was Zhong, a forensic pathologist.
"Is the family present?" he asked first.
"Yes."
"A signed consent form from the family. Original. We don't accept copies." He said, "Death certificate, ID card, household register, marriage certificate, and a power of attorney from your firm. Where's the body now?"
"Funeral home, in the cold unit. Passed on the 27th. Today's the seventh day."
"Cold storage is workable. Freezing lets you delay, but every day you lose something." He said, "Have them issue a temperature log. Don't brush it off as a hassle—later on, if anyone asks, that's one place where things can be said clearly."
"Does the hospital need to agree?"
"Hospital agreement or not doesn't affect whether we take the case." He said, "What we need is the paper with the family's signature."
"Fees?"
"Itemized—dissection, sampling, sectioning, pathology, each billed separately. Toxicology's extra." He gave a figure. "Get the money ready, and get the words ready too. Once it's done, the body can't be put back. You have to tell the family that."
"I will."
"Have the form signed by tomorrow. I'll be there the morning of the day after." He paused. "One reminder: we only recognize the family's signature. If someone else signs, we don't take the case."
She asked one last question. "What if it's delayed a few more days?"
"Then it's no longer a question of whether it can be done." Zhong the forensic pathologist said, "By that point, I wouldn't dare write a cause of death for you."
She wrote down that line verbatim. Below it, one more line: Forensic pathologist Zhong, acceptance requirements, fees, earliest arrival the day after tomorrow.
[Thud. The seventh day.]
At four in the afternoon, the sun slanted in, falling across the long table and laying a bright band over its surface.
He Xiufen untied her apron by the stove and sat down at the table.
"Old Peng, that paper. Go get it."
Shen Zhixia took the kraft paper envelope from the cabinet. The two names across the seal line were still intact. She laid it on the table, pulled out her pen, and wrote on the back: January 3rd, opened in person, one page removed, three fold marks. When she'd finished, she and Peng Weidong each signed, and only then did she break the seal.
The paper came out, flattened. Folded more times than once—the creases had gone pale, the corners fuzzy. The slanted light fell exactly on the handwritten date in the top right corner: the 27th, 6:20.
He Xiufen didn't look at the writing first. She asked three questions.
"The morning she passed—where were you?"
"The first-floor corridor. Sitting on a plastic chair, from a bit past five until past seven."
"Did anyone talk to you?"
"No."
"When did this paper get into your hands?"
"Around two in the afternoon on the 27th. First it came tucked into a stack of forms." Peng Weidong said, "I didn't sign. She took it back."
"And then?"
"That evening she brought this one back. Said I should keep it."
"What time did she pass?"
"...3:40."
He Xiufen pressed her finger on the number. She looked up at Shen Zhixia. Shen Zhixia flipped back a page in her notebook—the page where, on the 31st, she had copied the medical records office screen line by line: Rescue Record, last modified, 6:20.
"The person had been gone for over two hours." He Xiufen said, "And someone was still sitting there writing. The time written down, on a handwritten form, matches the column in the machine."
She pushed the paper toward the middle of the table.
"This field has the word 'Signature' printed on it. Who should sign—the paper doesn't say, but everybody knows."
Peng Weidong bent over the sheet. In that field were three characters: Chen Xiaoman.
He stared for a long time. "...Her name."
"Did you ever sign for your wife?"
He didn't answer.
"Writing a dead woman's name in the family field," He Xiufen said, "serves exactly one purpose: to make anyone who sees this paper later believe she was the one who refused."
She turned the paper over, held it up to the light to check the back, then turned it back. She pointed at the small print in the lower right: This form is issued in duplicate. The tear line on the copy beneath was ragged, like someone had ripped it off casually.
"The one in your hands was torn off. Issued in duplicate." She said, "The second copy is yours. Where's the first?"
"The first copy, they said, was for the file." Peng Weidong said. "Mine was torn off for me to keep."
"The file copy has the same fields printed on it as this one." He Xiufen pressed down the corner of the page. "We'll go see who put pen to that one tomorrow."
"What if they won't show it?"
"If they won't, we write an application and have that whole book sealed too." She said, "Let them seal it for as long as they like. The seventh day is no longer ours to count."
Peng Weidong's voice dropped. "Then those three characters... who wrote them?"
"You told me yourself where this paper came from." He Xiufen said. "Those three characters on it—no one in your family wrote them. The minute those characters were written matches the minute in the medical record."
She turned the sheet back over, pressed her fingertip against the empty space in that field.
"The person who signed 'voluntary waiver of autopsy' is someone from the hospital."