Read Novel Full Chapter 222: The Handling Unit Column
Chapter 222: The Handling Unit Column
The registered letter arrived at 9:20 in the morning. The mail carrier stood outside the noodle shop's glass door and shouted up for someone to sign for it—for the Zhengping firm. He Xiufen went downstairs to sign, and came back holding a signed receipt in one hand and a kraft paper envelope in the other, the flap sealed with a red perforation stamp pressed down squarely and precisely.
"Who is it from?"
"Wenchang Road Subdistrict."
He Xiufen didn't rush to open it. She took scissors and cut along the bottom edge of the flap, leaving the envelope intact, then pulled out the letter and handed it to Shen Zhixia.
"Read it."
One page, official letterhead format, three items.
"One: The May 20 event was organized by this unit. Three people attended and filmed that day: two staff members of this unit, who took a number of photos with mobile phones, and one videographer hired by the handling unit, responsible for capturing event footage.
"Two: This unit and the District Justice Bureau have released a total of three posts with images and video; links are on the attached page. Aside from these, no other public releases have been made.
"Three: The original footage captured that day was collected and stored by the handling unit after the event concluded. This unit retained no copies."
Below, two lines of attribution:
"Handling unit: Jiangzhou Xingyao Culture Media Co., Ltd.
External videographer: Guo Jianping (contact number on the attached page)"
Dated July 9, with a round seal in the lower right corner.
Shen Zhixia read the third item again.
"Read it again," He Xiufen said, standing beside her, her eyes on the two attribution lines.
"The original footage captured that day was collected and stored by the handling unit after the event concluded. This unit retained no copies."
"The two attribution lines. Read them together."
"Handling unit: Jiangzhou Xingyao Culture Media Co., Ltd. External videographer: Guo Jianping. Contact number on the attached page."
He Xiufen took the letter from her, held it up to the window light, and checked whether the round seal crossed onto the edge of the attached page. The attachment was a single page: three links on the top half, two lines of small print on the bottom—the videographer's name and a mobile number.
"Does the subdistrict know what it's writing?" Shen Zhixia asked.
"It doesn't," He Xiufen said, slipping the attachment under the letter. "It only knows that it hired a company to run an event that day, that the company took the footage when the work wrapped, and that the collection ledger doesn't have its name on it. It's answering you according to the ledger. Not one word more."
"So this piece of paper effectively splits two things apart for me."
"Go on."
"Who was there that day—that's not its business. Who took the card away—it wrote that out clearly for me."
[Thud. The footage isn't in the hands of the people who organized the event. It's in the hands of the people who collected it.]
He Xiufen folded the letter back into the envelope, but didn't slip it in. She laid it flat on the desk.
"Two things today. One: merge this page with the three pages you already have into a single document. Two: go to the police station and have yesterday afternoon's segment filled in. Write down exactly when you did the notarization and exactly when that account disappeared."
"Paper first, or police station first?"
"Police station first. I'll wait here for the page-merge." She pushed the letter toward the corner of the desk. "Dry your hands before touching it. Don't smudge the red seal."
* * *
Eleven o'clock. The same window at the police station. The same officer was on duty, a thick register book open on the desk in front of him.
She passed over three items: a photocopy of the extraction record from the Chengnan Notary Office, the acceptance record for the homepage webpage evidence, and a printed screenshot—two account names arranged one above the other: "Jiangzhou Kuaikan" and "Jiangzhou Sukan," with an empty space between them.
The officer picked up the screenshot and studied it for a long moment.
"Yesterday afternoon, at 2:40, it was still there. By 3:20, it was gone."
"The page shows it was deregistered. Time of deregistration unknown."
"Then a little after four o'clock, a new one sprouted up. Same profile photo."
"The cover is the same frame."
The officer clicked his pen cap on, then off again. "Deleting an account deletes the page. It doesn't delete the people doing the work. This new account can be written in—it posted on its own, and the name, the time, the cover are all there on your paper." He added a line to the register, tore off a receipt, and handed it out.
"They called that girl," he said, pausing. "Have they called you?"
"No."
"Then your turn hasn't come yet."
Shen Zhixia folded the receipt and tucked it into her bag. The officer called her back.
"When you get home, change everyone's name in your phone to their actual names. Don't save 'Little Brother.' Don't save 'Mom.' The first rotten thing that happens to someone who loses a phone is people going through the contacts and calling one by one."
* * *
At 2:30 in the afternoon, back at the office. Four pages spread out in order.
The first was today's letter. The second was yesterday's notes: the eleven-digit number listed in the homepage's business cooperation section—identical to the annual report phone number for Dingchang and the same number on the quotation sheet; the account had been deregistered that afternoon, while another account, "Jiangzhou Sukan," was registered at 4:07, using the same cover frame. The third page was the previous year's Editing Labor Settlement Sheet—reconnected audio breaks, patched levels, insert one frame—fourteen cells in all, with the final batch of payment never made. The fourth page was the three lines from the bank: Dingchang's corporate account had received seven deposits over three months, from Jiangzhou Taiying and Jiangzhou Sheng'an as payers; above Sheng'an hung Jiangzhou Hengyue Capital.
She took out her notebook, opened a fresh page, and began writing line by line, cross-referencing against the papers.
"One: The original footage captured at the May 20 event was collected and stored by the handling unit, Jiangzhou Xingyao Culture Media Co., Ltd., after the event concluded (per Item Three of the Wenchang Road Subdistrict Explanatory Statement and its attribution)."
"Two: The telephone number listed in the business cooperation section of the 'Jiangzhou Kuaikan' homepage is numerically identical to the telephone number listed in the public annual report of Jiangzhou Dingchang Culture Media Co., Ltd. This account was deregistered on the afternoon of July 9; at 4:07 p.m. the same day, another account, 'Jiangzhou Sukan,' was registered, with a cover identical to the frame in the evidence under examination in this case."
"Three: The processing methods listed in the handwritten delivery record on the back of Jiangzhou Xingyao Culture Media Co., Ltd.'s prior-year Editing Labor Settlement Sheet bear similarities to the seam-processing patterns found in the evidence under examination. Whether the same person produced them remains to be investigated."
"Four: Jiangzhou Dingchang Culture Media Co., Ltd.'s corporate account received seven deposits within three months, with Jiangzhou Taiying and Jiangzhou Sheng'an as payers. The shareholder of Jiangzhou Sheng'an is Jiangzhou Hengyue Capital Management Co., Ltd. (The above is subject to the bank's reply letter and publicly available information.)"
"The above four items are to be confirmed by expert opinion and evidence investigation results."
He Xiufen brought over the tea and stood reading it through twice, then pointed at the first line.
"On this page—which lines mention Xingyao?"
"The first and the third."
"What about the second?"
"The second mentions Dingchang, and that string of numbers."
"The second line names no one." He Xiufen set down the enamel mug. "The second line is the stone slab propping up the first two lines. You raise it level with the first line and they'll immediately have something to say—'Show me what connection that company has to these two accounts.'"
"Then can I add a sentence at the end saying these four items point to the same company?"
"No."
"Just one sentence."
"You are not allowed to write 'therefore' on this page." He Xiufen looked at her. "If he can't figure it out, writing 'therefore' won't stop him from pretending not to see it. If he can figure it out, he won't sleep easy even without you writing it. Every word on this page is going to need someone to stand on it and vouch for it someday. The word 'therefore' is the heaviest. Don't use it yet."
Shen Zhixia set down the pen and looked at the final line. The phrase "to be confirmed by expert opinion and evidence investigation results" was her own addition, and she hadn't revised it.
[Thud. Four sheets of paper. One boat.]
"Tomorrow." He Xiufen pulled over the desk calendar and drew a red mark on the July 11 box. "Tomorrow you write that company's name into the defendant column of the complaint."
"Jiangzhou Xingyao Culture Media Co., Ltd."
"Write it in. That page in your hand—whoever you mail it to, it's just asking for directions. It needs legal standing first. If they're not the defendant, why should they give you anything?"
"What about the videographer on the attached page?"
"Set him aside for now." He Xiufen slipped the attachment back into the letter. "He's got the card in his hands, but he needs to see a piece of paper with Xingyao's name written on it first. Only once someone's standing in the defendant's seat will he dare bring out what he's holding."
"Same as that settlement sheet."
"Same." He Xiufen put the letter into the metal cabinet. "Remember this: every person along this chain has their courage growing out of this one page of yours."
* * *
At 6:40 in the evening, she came downstairs to head home. The noodle shop was lifting the steamer baskets, white steam fogging the glass. The woman behind the counter called out to her through the vapor.
"Miss—"
"Yes?"
"Around four this afternoon, someone left this on the counter. Said it was for Lawyer Shen from the Zhengping firm upstairs." The woman bent down and retrieved a white envelope from under the counter. "I asked if I should run upstairs and call you. He said no need, just leave it here."
The envelope was white, no stamp, no return address. The recipient line was handwritten in five characters: Shen Zhixia, Lawyer. The strokes were neat and even, horizontal and vertical lines perfectly straight, like someone who'd practiced from a copybook.
She held the envelope and stood still for half a second. She didn't open it. She turned and went back upstairs.
He Xiufen glanced at the envelope, then at her.
"Take it home. Have Tang Guo photograph it. She has steady hands." She reached over and switched off one of the room's lamps. "From the moment it's opened to the moment it's spread out—one continuous shot. No cuts. Keep the envelope. Don't smudge a single character."
"Director He—"
"Don't ask what the person downstairs looked like. Don't go check the surveillance footage." He Xiufen stacked the case files on the desk. "He's not afraid of you seeing him. He's afraid of you leaving this envelope as just a piece of paper."
At 7:20, she got home. Tang Guo had just showered, hair wrapped in a towel. When she saw the envelope, she pulled the towel off and went straight to set up her phone.
"Stand over there. Don't move." She laid the envelope flat on the coffee table, filmed all four sides of it first, then started recording. "Open it."
Two things inside the envelope.
A photograph, portrait orientation, taken at night: the building's entrance door, the hallway light on, an old mop leaning in the doorway corner. The Spring Festival couplet on the door had faded to a pale pink, pasted there for the New Year, one corner curling up.
A sheet of A4 paper, folded in thirds. Unfolded, three lines in pencil, pressed deep into the paper, as if written on a desk with something hard underneath.
"That material for the 18th—two pages is enough."
"That couplet on your door—it's faded."
"The one in high school—gets out of evening self-study at 9:30."
[Thud. This envelope—the recipient line has your name on it.]
Tang Guo set the phone down. The recording was still running, the timecode ticking upward frame by frame. The room was so quiet you could hear someone downstairs closing up their stall, a tricycle rattling over a loose brick in the alley with a hollow clang.
"Call the police," Tang Guo said.
"First thing tomorrow." Shen Zhixia smoothed the paper flat. "Photograph it first. Number it. Bag it."
"I'm still recording."
"Keep recording."
Just past 9:30, a key turned in the lock. Zhi'an came in, dropped his backpack on the shoe cabinet, and froze when he saw her standing in the entryway.
"Sis, what are you doing standing here?"
"Waiting for you." She slipped both hands into her coat pockets. "Finish your homework and get to bed early."
"Not much homework today." Zhi'an bent down to untie his shoelaces; the knot at the end had come loose again. "The hallway light's out. The stretch at three and a half floors is pitch black."
"I'll buy you a flashlight tomorrow."
"I'm not a little kid."
He went into his room. Tang Guo looked up at her from the coffee table. Shen Zhixia shook her head at Tang Guo, then turned and switched off the hallway light.
At ten o'clock, she added three lines to the notebook for the day:
"On the evening of July 10, someone left an envelope with no return address on the counter of the noodle shop downstairs, saying it was to be forwarded to Shen Zhixia. Contents: two items—one photograph, depicting this unit's entrance door and the Spring Festival couplet on it; one sheet of A4 paper, three handwritten lines in pencil. The envelope has been separately bagged."
When she finished, she opened her phone and sent a line to that unsaved number: "They wrote me a letter."
The reply came back at 11:50 p.m., a single line: "Don't throw the letter away. And don't reply."
She stared at those words for two seconds, then flipped the phone over and laid it face down on the desk.
On the first page of the notebook, the first line was what she'd written that afternoon: Handling unit: Jiangzhou Xingyao Culture Media Co., Ltd.
She placed the bag containing the envelope on top of it, wrote the number, and fastened the clamp. Between these two pages, eight days lay in between.