Chapter 76: The Silent Statement

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Nine o’clock sharp in the morning, Conference Room Seven at City Bureau.

The curtains were tightly drawn, the only illumination coming from a handful of cold white lights overhead. The air was thick with the mingled scent of paper and disinfectant.

On either side of the long table sat representatives from the Disciplinary Committee, the Legal Department, and the Technical Division, their expressions grave and tense, as if preparing for battle.

Director Wang sat at the head, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on Song Zhao. He paused briefly, then spoke: “Today we are re-examining the legality of evidence in Case 2021-Toxin-047, focusing on the sample sealing process.”

As his words fell, the conference room lapsed into a brief, suffocating silence.

Xiao Lin sat at the recording desk, head bowed, resembling a machine programmed for routine.

His left hand gripped a pen while his right hand unconsciously tapped the tabletop—seven taps, a pause, then three. He blinked three quick times, the motion so subtle it nearly escaped notice.

But Song Zhao saw it.

It was not a nervous tic, but a signal. The lamp code had begun.

Without betraying any emotion, Song Zhao pushed forward three documents: the original cold chain record for the frozen toxin sample, a USB drive marked with an anti-counterfeit seal, and a yellowed copy of a resignation letter—the one Xiao Liu submitted three years ago but was suppressed, now stamped “Pending Discussion” in red. It had become the only “credential” he could legally present.

“I request to submit new evidence in my personal capacity.” Song Zhao’s voice was steady, yet it cut through the frozen air like a blade.

The opposing lawyer sneered. “Suspended personnel have no authority to present evidence. Procedurally, you’re already out.”

“Procedure?” Song Zhao raised his eyes. “Then explain this—who authorized the unauthorized transfer of the original sample from Cold Storage B-7 on the seventh day after the incident? And who revoked Xiao Liu’s system access while he was unconscious, yet failed to retrieve his physical access card?”

The lawyer’s face changed slightly.

At 10:18, the evidence verification phase began.

The lawyer stood, his tone aggressive: “This so-called ‘original sample’ lacks a verifiable source, cannot be proven uncontaminated, and is unqualified for re-examination. Officer Song, can you confirm whether your sample was notarized by a third party? Is there full surveillance of the extraction process?”

Song Zhao did not reply. Instead, he gently pressed the remote.

The projection screen came alive, playing a black-and-white video: the camera’s angle skewed, showing a gloved hand retrieving a sealed bag from a wall cavity in an underground cold storage.

The time stamp in the lower right corner was clear—June 13, 2024, at 3:17 a.m.

“This was recorded by a hidden camera I set up the night before the old building’s demolition,” Song Zhao’s voice was low. “The cavity maintained a constant temperature of -28°C, the bag sealed with dual lead seals and fluorescent markings. Thermal imaging shows no temperature fluctuation in the past three years.” He displayed another image. “DNA samples remain stable for over five years in such conditions. As for your ‘contamination’ argument, it would require the seal to be broken, exposure to air, and introduction of foreign DNA—at what point did that occur in a monitored cavity?”

The lawyer frowned, preparing to rebut.

But Song Zhao suddenly looked up, meeting his gaze. “If you’re truly concerned about a ‘source unknown,’ then explain this—why was the old access card for B-7 used to open the cold cabinet at 2 a.m. last month, three years after the incident? The cardholder’s identity wasn’t registered, and the access logs were wiped. But the power system’s current fluctuations are archived deep in the Forensics server. Shall I retrieve them?”

A sudden hush fell over the room.

Some buried their heads in documents, others exchanged glances.

Director Wang tapped the table lightly, his eyes complex as he looked at Song Zhao.

At 11:03, the tension reached its peak.

The lawyer abruptly pulled out a file from his briefcase, his tone resolute: “We have new evidence. Former technician Xiao Liu signed a ‘Witness Statement’ this morning, admitting to unauthorized actions and hiding the sample, breaking the chain of evidence, and voluntarily accepting legal responsibility.”

The paper was pushed to the center.

Song Zhao took it slowly, his fingertips brushing the slightly raised ink at the signature.

In that instant, golden lines quietly surfaced deep within his pupils.

The Eye of Truth—activated.

His vision twisted abruptly—

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A dim room. Xiao Liu was pinned to the desk by two men in black, his wrists firmly restrained.

A pen was forced into his hand, guiding it across the paper.

His lips trembled, tears slid from the corners of his eyes, and a muffled whimper escaped his throat.

The document’s title was glaring: “Explanation Regarding Unauthorized Sample Concealment in Case 2021-Toxin-047.”

The vision lasted only eighteen seconds, then vanished.

A stabbing headache struck; Song Zhao closed his eyes, cold sweat beading at his temple.

Yet his lips curled into a cold smile.

“What you made him sign wasn’t a statement,” he placed the document gently back on the table, his voice as icy as winter, “it was a confession. And he never even read the content.”

The room erupted in outrage.

The lawyer shot to his feet: “That’s slander!”

“I speak only facts.” Song Zhao stared at him. “Xiao Liu has an old injury in his right hand; his third stroke in a signature always rises upward. But this signature—all turns are rigid and flat, like they were traced. More importantly…” He pointed to the signing time. “Signed at 7:42 this morning? But Xiao Liu only attends psychological evaluations at 9 a.m. every Monday. He hasn’t appeared in the rehab center’s system today. You didn’t even confirm his whereabouts before presenting a ‘voluntary’ signed document?”

The conference room fell silent as death.

Director Wang was silent for a long while, then finally spoke. “This statement… will not be accepted at this time.”

Just then, Su Wan quietly sent a message: [Cheng Yuan reviewed the hearing procedure documents this morning and added a ‘contingency plan’ attachment. IP address traces back to the Deputy Mayor’s office intranet.]

Song Zhao’s eyes sharpened.

The real killer move was yet to come.

He slowly took out a second USB drive from his pocket, black, unmarked.

His fingertips lingered on its edge, as if affirming some conviction.

Outside, sunlight briefly pierced the clouds, casting a thin, razor-sharp streak across the table.

Time quietly edged toward 11:59.

At 12:41, the conference room’s atmosphere seemed frozen solid.

Song Zhao rose slowly, deliberate yet resolute.

He inserted the black USB drive into the main console, his finger hovering for a moment over the Enter key, weighing the burden—not just of evidence, but of thirteen years beneath a police badge that had never bowed.

The screen lit up.

A high-definition surveillance video began: at the end of a gray-blue corridor, the cold storage door opened slowly, Xiao Liu appearing in frame.

Clad in a lab coat, his right hand trembling, he solemnly slipped a sealed bag into a wall cavity, swift and cautious.

The timestamp was clear—23:47:12.

“This is…” Dong Lan’s voice was a whisper, eyes locked on the screen.

“This is the real record from the night of June 8, 2021, before the toxin sample was transferred,” Song Zhao’s voice wasn’t loud but cut through every ear. “Pay attention to the time after—23:48:03, concealment complete. He left, shut the main cold cabinet light, but the emergency lamp in the corner remained on, illuminating a drop of iodine solution on his sleeve.”

He pulled up a magnified frame, freezing the reflective drop on Xiao Liu’s sleeve as he turned.

“And the time you accuse him of ‘unauthorized concealment’ is the next morning at nine. By then he was already checked in at the psychology department, monitored throughout, with nurse signatures. How could a patient in a coma appear in two places at once?”

The lawyer’s face was ashen, lips moved but no words came.

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Director Wang’s breathing grew heavier.

He stared at the screen, replaying the trajectory of the falling iodine drop—tiny and silent, yet like a needle piercing the layers of woven lies.

“This is not a violation,” Song Zhao’s voice dropped, sharper still, “it’s self-preservation. Xiao Liu discovered the sample was about to be replaced, so he used the most primitive means to preserve the evidence. He knew that if he reported it, someone inside the system would destroy the records in advance. So he chose silence, chose to bear the blame, just to wait for someone who could understand his silence.”

As he finished, his gaze drifted to the recording desk.

Xiao Lin still bowed his head, pen frozen on the page, as if nailed there by some invisible force.

But Song Zhao saw—his left hand tapped the table at an extremely slow pace: three taps, pause, seven taps.

The reverse of before.

A reply, and a warning.

Su Wan’s message vibrated again: [Original backup of B-7 cold cabinet access logs recovered from the municipal archive’s Republic-era census mirror. Last associated IP access—Lin Haoyu’s private server.]

Song Zhao’s pupils contracted. The trail was finally complete.

He looked at no one else, simply pressed the remote to switch off the projector.

The room fell briefly into darkness, only the USB’s indicator light pulsing red—a heart refusing to extinguish.

At 13:05, the hearing adjourned.

People filed out, footsteps echoing down the corridor, fading into distance.

Director Wang remained alone, replaying the segment of the falling iodine drop again and again.

He zoomed in on the drop’s descent, as if searching for a long-lost faith.

Outside, Xiao Lin closed his notebook, fingers lingering on the back cover.

On the final page, dense sketches of interwoven police badges and lotus flowers—an evolved emblem of the Jiang City Police Academy, and the “Cold Case Night Watcher” mark once shared among the technical squad.

At the end of the corridor, Song Zhao stood against the glass curtain wall, his shadow stretched long by the sunset.

He gazed at his own and Xiao Lin’s overlapping reflections, then spoke softly, as if to himself, or perhaps to the silent system:

“What you record isn’t a transcript… it’s lamp code.”

The wind swept through the hall, rustling the unsorted documents on the conference table, pages fluttering, whispering like countless souls: We remember.

He turned to leave, footsteps steady, pausing slightly at the corner.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, no calls, no messages.

Only a single automatic reminder:

[Local backup complete.
Original data encrypted and uploaded to offline server.
Trigger condition: If no manual override within 48 hours, automatic disclosure to Disciplinary Committee intranet and three major central media email addresses.]

He, too, would never stop again.