Soon, Wang Dali came panting, clutching a bright red umbrella. "Yangzi, is this the one?" he asked, handing it over.
"Exactly," I replied, turning to Qin the forensic expert. "Could you lend me two pairs of rubber gloves, please?"
Qin sat on a small stool, cigarette dangling from his lips. He flicked his chin toward the toolbox. "Whatever you need's in there. Help yourself."
I put on a pair of gloves and tossed the other to Wang Dali.
He stared at me in disbelief. "Yangzi, what exactly are we doing here?"
"To avoid leaving fingerprints on the corpse."
"Wait… You want me to help carry the body?"
"If you won't, who else? No complaints, just do it."
He grimaced. "Fine, but lunch is on you today."
...
A group of police officers watched from nearby. Wang Dali fell silent. I instructed him to lift the corpse's upper body. Then I took a pair of scissors from the toolbox and carefully cut open the victim's sweatshirt.
Qin shot me a glare but said nothing. The victim's tongue lolled grotesquely out of his mouth; removing the sweatshirt over his head risked tearing it further.
After exposing the shirt underneath, I began unbuttoning it. The horror on the dead man's face was enough to make Wang Dali shut his eyes tightly.
He glanced nervously, then closed them again. "Damn, Yangzi, aren't you scared?"
"What's there to fear? Is a corpse any different from a table?" I smiled faintly.
"He's... well, dead."
Years ago, my grandfather took me to graveyards to hone my bone-reading skills. We'd sometimes stay the entire night. To me, a corpse was no different from any object to be studied.
Since many people were watching, I told Wang Dali, "Lift him up."
He strained, hoisting the lifeless body.
I slowly opened the red umbrella. Immediately, a pungent herbal scent wafted out.
The female officer nearby covered her nose and grimaced. "Where'd you get this thing? Smells like a pharmacy exploded."
I smiled apologetically.
This umbrella was inspired by an ancient technique recorded in the Washing Away of Wrongs. It uses vermilion coatings infused with herbal compounds. The ancients understood that ultraviolet light could reveal hidden wounds; after Song Ci's refinements during the Song dynasty, these "inspection umbrellas" could detect subtle injuries invisible to the naked eye.
I rotated the umbrella slowly under the sunlight, the red light casting intricate shadows over the corpse's chest. To the untrained eye, it was just red—but to me, it was like a rainbow composed of many shades, each revealing layers beneath the skin.
Wang Dali was tiring from holding the corpse and urged me, "Yangzi, hurry up. The sun isn't strong today—I don't need you shading me."
"I'm doing it right now."
"What? You're using an umbrella to examine a corpse? Seriously?"
"This isn't just any umbrella. I spent almost all my living expenses on the herbs used to coat it. I wouldn't trade this for a girlfriend."
"Yeah, well, it takes more than money to pull that off," Wang Dali said, his eyes wandering back to the cold, beautiful policewoman.
Qin scoffed. "Where did you learn this ridiculous folk method? You think you can detect wounds with a parasol? Why not just light some incense and summon the dead to talk?"
I ignored him. Let him talk nonsense; soon enough, I'd prove him wrong.
As the umbrella made its third rotation, a faint, almost invisible palm print appeared on the victim's shoulder.
Everyone froze. Qin's mouth dropped open; the cigarette ash fell unnoticed.
"This… this can't be!" Qin exclaimed, standing abruptly.
"Dali, flip the corpse over!" I ordered.
Wang Dali brightened, hefting the body and turning it carefully.
I continued rotating the umbrella. On the victim's back, three successive handprints emerged, clearer than the ones on the shoulder. They were small, delicate—likely left by a woman.
"Stop!" the female officer snapped her fingers. "Xiao Wang, get a camera, quickly!"
A policeman handed her a digital camera. She instructed me to keep the umbrella steady as she photographed each handprint in detail.
Afterward, I told Wang Dali to lay the body down gently.
Huang Xiaotao examined the photos on the camera, puzzled. "These prints… the patterns don't look like palm lines."
"Because they aren't," I explained. "They're fabric textures—these marks are Yang Yin traces. At the moment of death, the body's vital energy, or 'Yang Qi,' surges explosively from every pore. If something obstructs the skin, it leaves behind these energy imprints. Without special techniques, they'd never appear."
"Yang Qi?" Huang looked surprised.
"It sounds mystical, but it's grounded in science. The Washing Away of Wrongs documents this. The body's last breath leaves physical traces on the skin—an ancient forensic art."
"Impressive," Huang nodded thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on the umbrella's blood-red silk. When her eyes met mine, there was no mockery—only the sharp focus of a hound catching a scent.
Qin, growing red with frustration, blurted, "You're playing tricks! I've been a forensic pathologist for decades and never heard of such a thing. Where did you learn this nonsense?"
"Tricks? Then prove it's not true," I retorted, folding the umbrella calmly.
"Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?" Qin's face flushed purple, trembling with rage.
"I don't know who you are, but I know you're wrong. Calling murder a suicide lets killers walk free and leaves families broken."
"You..." Qin reached to snatch the umbrella. I twisted away, and he grasped at thin air.
"Remember your promise—if I prove this, you'll hand the case to me and resign."
"You don't know what you're doing. That was a joke!" Qin stammered, glancing around for support.
"It's not a joke," I said coolly. "If I failed, you'd have arrested me already."
Qin was speechless. Huang said firmly, "Qin, you can't go back on your word. Everyone heard your promise. If you want him to investigate, then keep it."
Qin hesitated, then snarled, "Fine. I quit. If he solves it, I'm out of the police."
He ripped off his white coat and stormed away.
I smirked. Old man, face still intact?
A slender, pale hand reached out before me. I looked up—Huang Xiaotao.
"I'm Huang Xiaotao. You are?"
"Song Yang."
She smiled warmly. "I'll be counting on you for this case."
"Happy to help."
Suddenly, from beyond the police tape, a girl's desperate voice pierced through: "It's a ghost! My boyfriend was killed by a ghost!"
We three exchanged startled glances.