chapter 5
Chapter 5
In 1985, a family massacre occurred in the mountainous region of a neighboring county. All five members of the family perished without exception.
The crime scene was remote, and the family lived in isolation, so there were no direct eyewitnesses.
The police investigated the family’s social connections but found nothing. The perpetrator was not an enemy, but a random passerby from out of town. This greatly increased the difficulty of solving the case.
The police collected the suspect’s fingerprints from the victims and the murder weapon, and through interviews, learned a rough description of the suspicious individual, but still had no leads. The case was shelved for twelve years.
A murder must be solved, no matter how long it takes. Back then, a young police officer followed his mentor in investigating the case, becoming deeply obsessed with it. More than a decade later, that young officer happened to be transferred to our county. After my father’s disappearance was reported, he sensed something unusual.
The police came to my home and collected my father’s fingerprints for comparison. The results showed that they matched the fingerprints of the suspect in the family massacre twelve years earlier.
The moment I learned the truth, a dull thud struck my heart, pressing down hard, again and again.
In 1985, I was five years old. My father worked away from home, and when he returned, he would bring me a rattle-drum and take me up the mountain to play. His warm, large hand held mine-I never knew it was stained with blood.
After I started school, my father would ride his bike to pick me up and drop me off. On the way there, he urged me to study hard; on the way back, he praised me for being a good child. Those scenes of riding with the wind, filled with laughter and joy, turned dim, turned black and white, and finally shattered into pieces.
The towering figure I trusted instinctively collapsed overnight; the deep fatherly love I once had became nothing but an illusion.
The world shattered and reassembled. The dull rumble suddenly faded, leaving only one cold sentence-
My father is a murderer.