That afternoon, Jiayi visited every major and minor hospital and registered clinic around Baishana, inquiring about a patient named Liu Fuqiang. As the doctors and nurses responded, she keenly observed their expressions to confirm that there was nothing odd about their faces, that they were not lying or hiding something.
By dinner time, she had finally completed all the entries in her notebook—
There was no patient named Liu Fuqiang, no medical record of this person.
A person clearly suffering from a severe condition, yet never sought medical treatment?
Was he just letting nature take its course, a form of chronic suicide?
Impossible. How could a person with coronary heart disease survive so long without taking heart medication?
Her BB-call incessantly beeped, transmitting the message 【Yi Ji】 and thus Jiayi, disheartened, boarded a ding-ding tram, swaying from Hung Hom back to Sham Shui Po.
She followed the route that the double-decker bus in the corpse-sitting case had taken through the city, and finally arrived at Edward Street.
Since Ding Baoshu and Jiaru learned to make various kinds of milk tea, he had taken over the milk tea preparation at Yi Ji after school. The young boy stood behind the counter on a small stool, seriously making tea like a little adult, which was quite convincing.
As Brother Yi gave Baoshu a commission for each cup of milk tea, though it wasn’t a large amount, it had become Ding Baoshu’s latest revenue stream. He recruited his classmates daily, promoting the variety and deliciousness of Yi Ji milk tea, drew promotional posters in his homework notebook, and even created milk tea illustrations during crafts and drawing classes, which he pasted on the posters.
Since he couldn’t afford photocopies, he made each poster by hand and then posted them on the school gate’s utility poles and on crowded walls…
Although the method was primitive, it was effective. When Jiayi arrived at the entrance of Yi Ji, she saw a line again at the milk tea channel.
On rainy days, everyone chose the steaming coconut oolong milk tea; those who had a rough day at work and wanted to cheer up opted for the sweet Storm Oreo milk tea; and those who wanted to be full from drinking milk tea ordered crazy add-ons like cream, red beans, crushed Oreos, coconut jelly, glutinous rice, mung beans, and mochi paste—practically making a meal out of it.
With every milk tea sold, Baoshu loudly announced the name of the drink.
“White peach oolong with milk and cream on top!”
“Osmanthus oolong with fresh milk!”
“Mango delight with extra mango!”
“Milk tea macchiato with light whipped cream!”
Jiayi entered Yi Ji’s hall, and hearing Ding Baoshu’s youthful voice somehow made her more hungry.
This kid was probably born for this job—too clever. This method of calling out orders really entices people to want a taste.
“Eleven, come on over, saved you a spot.” Sanfu raised his arm to wave, reaching toward the seat next to him as if Jiayi was a gust of wind; by waving in such a way, it seemed she would just float over with the flow of air.
Sitting between Sanfu and Fang Zhenyue, she realized that a table full of dishes had already been ordered. Her stomach immediately started growling; she had been hungry all along.
For a while, everyone was too busy enjoying their meal to talk about the case.
It wasn’t until everyone was full that someone appeared eager to start giving their task report.
“Security guard Liu Fuqiang is rather inconspicuous; few residents of Baishana community remember him. I’ll continue to ask around after lunch.”
“Sir Xu went back to seriously review books about coronary diseases and even called experts at the hospital for advice. The pathology of the autopsy can only reveal the cause of death, but it really can’t help prove the sequence of actions before death. After lunch, Gary and I will visit neighbors in Baishana.”
Everyone quietly communicated in low voices, reporting updates. While disappointed by their own lack of good news, they looked forward to hearing positive updates from others.
“I found some very old criminal records of Xi Ming. The information recorded is quite complete, but the photos are overexposed. After being stored in the archive for a long time, they also have serious issues like fading, and his appearance has changed somewhat over the decades. It’s basically difficult to prove through these records that Xi Ming is Liu Fuqiang.”
After all, Xi Ming doesn’t have distinctive features like ‘broken eyebrows,’ ‘special moles,’ or ‘large birthmarks.’ Ordinary facial photos taken in crowded areas like Mong Kok or Tsim Sha Tsui could resemble anyone.
“Now that Hong Kong doesn’t have facial recognition technology, confirming the identity of the deceased requires more corroborating evidence.”
“Liu Fuqiang’s house in Baishana was transferred from a Taiwanese owner, and we can no longer contact the previous Taiwanese homeowner.”
“Liu Fuqiang had hung a foot scraper next to his desk in the security booth. There are a lot of skin flakes on the ground under the scraper. It seems he has been grinding his fingerprints daily for decades, gradually wearing away the skin on his fingertips, developing calluses, and then grinding off the calluses, continuing until the skin was worn away…”
“He’s quite ruthless.”
Liu Jiaming listened and couldn’t help but frown. Some people, in their desperation to survive, will do anything.
They may not be good people, but they are indeed ruthless survivors.
Jiayi also faced a setback, not achieving success as she had hoped.
“Hasn’t any clinic called to say they had Liu Fuqiang as a patient?” Jiayi asked Liu Jiaming, who was investigating at the police station.
“For many people, whether a corrupt cop lives or dies doesn’t concern them. Why would they go out of their way to call and actively cooperate with the investigation?” Liu Jiaming shook his head in dismay.
In the days without Uncle Jiu’s complaints, everyone seemed to inherit his complaining gene, voicing their grievances incessantly.
After complaining, they sighed resentfully, lamenting that Uncle Jiu’s grievances were far from being redressed.
At this time, there were very few dining customers, and the queue for buying milk tea had also cleared. Ding Baoshu made a steaming sweet drink for each investigator, placing a cup in front of everyone.
Just then, hearing Jiayi mention that no clinics or hospitals had treated a patient named Liu Fuqiang, Baoshu blinked and suddenly asked, “Sister Jiayi, have you checked the underground clinics?”
“Underground clinics?” Jiayi raised an eyebrow.
Seeing Ding Baoshu full of rumors, Fang Zhenyue stretched out his arm to grab a chair from the next empty table and said to the young boy, “Sit.”
“Thank you, Sir Fang.” After sitting down, Ding Baoshu earnestly began to explain in response to Jiayi’s query:
“We can’t afford private hospitals, and it’s hard to get a slot in public hospitals; they are also expensive. So, we go to small clinics. But what if small clinics are also too expensive? There are still ways to handle that.”
Even the poor need medical treatment, and if they don’t have money, they find their own ways to cope.
“If we are sure it’s just a cold, we go to those unlicensed pharmacies to get some cold medicine. If we’re unsure what the ailment is, then we head to an underground clinic. These are unregistered, only known by local neighbors. They look just like regular homes. When someone is sick, they just knock on the door, and inside, an old man sitting by the table will check your pulse and treat you. I’ve even had an IV drip in an underground clinic near our home; the room was so small, everyone sat knee-to-knee waiting for their drip to finish, really tiring. Also, these clinics absolutely do not let the police know about them, afraid of being shut down,” Ding Baoshu explained seriously.
“In our area, there are underground clinics. Maybe the person Sister Jiayi mentioned went to one in their area?”
The Yi family, though poor, had never resorted to such underground clinics. From childhood, whenever anyone had minor ailments, Yi Jiadong would take his siblings to a legitimate clinic, not daring to take risks with health.
The detectives usually didn’t come into contact with such places, and even if they had encountered people from underground clinics before, it never overlapped with their own lifestyle and knowledge circle, and they hadn’t thought of it at first.
But as Ding Baoshu brought it up, everyone started to remember, indeed, such places did exist.
Armed with a new clue, Jiayi immediately went home to change into her oldest clothes, put on a mask and a hat, bought a pair of eyeglass frames at a street stall, and disguised herself oddly before hopping on a rickshaw back to Hung Hom Baishana.
In the neighborhood at this time, there were many people out for a post-dinner walk. Jiayi coughed as she observed these people, looking for lower-class citizens who might provide her with leads.
After wandering around for half an hour and sitting on the curb outside the back gate of Baishana community coughing, Jiayi finally learned from an elderly street cleaner about the only underground clinic nearby Baishana.
With the address in hand, she immediately rushed there.
This clinic is situated in an old house area in the back alleys of the Baishina community, nestled haphazardly in an unplanned old neighborhood. Without an elevator, the four-story building requires navigating around various clutter and old items on the stairs, pushing past the smells of rust and mold, until finally arriving at the basement clinic on the third floor.
A middle-aged woman, who neither wore a lab coat nor a face mask and looked just like an ordinary housewife, answered the door.
Jiayi was ushered in and casually seated on an old sofa riddled with holes and fraying fabric. During this time, she was one of only two patients.
After enduring a few minutes of uncomfortable springs digging into her on the sofa, the other patient finally purchased some inexpensive medicine and left, and it was Jiayi’s turn to be called into a small room for consultation.
The doctor was an old man with a grizzled beard, lacking formal medical credentials but possessing the demeanor of a physician. He seemed to have a father-daughter relationship with the middle-aged woman who greeted at the door, with their interactions showing a seamless cooperation and high efficiency.
Jiayi falsely claimed she couldn’t afford the consultation fee, didn’t offer her arm for the old doctor to take her pulse, and simply asked to buy some painkillers and cold medicine.
The old doctor didn’t insist, instead, he asked about her symptoms, recorded her name, date of birth, the date of the consultation, and the symptoms Jiayi provided, and then issued her a prescription.
Watching the old man tuck her fake medical record into a cardboard box, Jiayi felt a surge of hope.
After receiving the medicine without a production date and a handwritten prescription from the ‘Mongolian doctor’ who had no medical license as he prepared to return to his room, Jiayi stood by the counter and presented her police badge to the middle-aged woman who had received her.
The woman was startled, but seeing Jiayi alone, she even focused on the medicine and prescription in Jiayi’s hand as evidence, stepping around the counter with the intention to forcefully seize the evidence.
Jiayi stepped back, her back against the door, standing in a position advantageous for both attack and retreat. She briskly opened her coat, her face set cold, and pressed her right hand on her gun holster at her waist.
Her movement was like a fierce animal baring its fangs when encountering an enemy, instantly intimidating her opponent.
She didn’t draw her gun; her left hand rested on the desk, and her entire demeanor exuded confidence. However, the middle-aged woman was now fully aware that Jiayi could draw her gun and shoot at any moment.
Even if you are incredibly strong, capable of taking on ten at once, in the face of a firearm, you can only surrender.
The middle-aged woman halted, glanced back at the ‘Mongolian doctor’ emerging from the small room, and began to hesitate whether to cry and beg for mercy.
Jiayi spoke timely at the stall:
“I’m not here to raid your clinic, I just need to check someone’s medical records, and I’ll leave once I get them.”
The middle-aged woman watched Jiayi warily, and after a few seconds of standoff, she finally asked, “Which medical records, madam?”
Jiayi smiled, trying to make her body language appear relaxed and carefree, and spoke with practiced ease, “I need all the medical records of Liu Fuqiang from Baishana Community Security.”
She had expected the old man to need to search to find out if Liu Fuqiang existed, but he replied without hesitation:
“Madam, you are too late. Liu Fuqiang’s medical records were taken by his wife yesterday.”
Jiayi frowned and tapped the counter lightly in annoyance.
“Madam, we only provide medical care for the poor, and we haven’t had any issues. My father is very conscientious; everyone calls him ‘Old Miracle Doctor’. Please leave us a way out,” the middle-aged woman pleaded helplessly, standing by the counter.
Jiayi shifted her feet slightly toward the door, then her eyes roamed and suddenly squinted.
Since this underground clinic kept medical records, there must be a reason for it. What if a patient died from a wrong prescription or a drug overdose, and relatives came demanding accountability? Operating without a license was already a passive situation; without medical records as evidence, wouldn’t it be easy for someone to falsely accuse them?
It was clear that Liu Fuqiang was already dead, and the biggest issue now was tracing the cause of his death.
Wasn’t the clinic afraid of the deceased’s family causing trouble? They just handed over the medical records when his wife asked? What if the widow turned around and accused the ‘Old Miracle Doctor’ of prescribing the wrong medication, causing death? That would put the ‘Old Miracle Doctor’ in a very vulnerable position.
People who operate in gray areas tend to have a strong sense of self-preservation.
Jiayi didn’t believe the ‘Old Miracle Doctor’ had handed over the medical records. She turned her gaze between the ‘Old Miracle Doctor’ and the middle-aged woman, recalling the words Director Fang had said to her before she left:
“When it’s time to spend money, just spend it. The police department will reimburse the expenses for maintaining informants and other investigative costs.”