Good and Evil Chapter 52: The Case of the Octogenarian Who Killed His Son

Filial piety is the foremost of all virtues; those who commit evil perish before all others.

When Xue Sheng’s case entered the judicial process, Xu Lang came to the Public Security Bureau to inquire about the details. On that same day, a pair of elderly people in their eighties, leaning heavily on their canes and trembling, arrived at the bureau, claiming they had killed someone and were there to turn themselves in. The date was July 23rd, eight o’clock in the morning.

The officer who received them was Zhao Hua. At first, Zhao Hua was skeptical; after all, the two appeared so frail that a mere gust of wind might topple them—how could they possibly have committed murder? Nevertheless, Zhao Hua followed protocol and began questioning them.

After some inquiry, he learned that the old man was Cao Kangping, eighty-two years old, and the old woman was Xie Lianhan, seventy-five. Both were farmers from a rural village on the outskirts of S City. They had walked and asked for directions from four in the morning until they reached the Public Security Bureau to surrender. The victim they claimed to have killed was none other than their forty-two-year-old son, Cao Xingwang, whose body lay in the main hall of their home. The murderer, they said, was the boy’s own father, Cao Kangping.

Upon hearing this, Zhao Hua immediately reported to Ning Yanran. Ning Yanran, upon learning the facts, instructed Zhao Hua to lead a team to the scene, given the advanced age of the couple who had walked four hours to the bureau. They were allowed to rest at the bureau, and someone was sent to buy breakfast for them.

Xue Sheng’s case was already in the hands of the judiciary, so Xu Lang, with nothing pressing to do, accompanied Zhao Hua to the elderly couple’s home.

Zhao Hua and Xu Lang first drove to the home of the village chief of Cao Family Village, finding Cao Xiangwen, a local man in his forties who had served as village chief for over a decade.

Zhao Hua wasted no time on pleasantries and directly asked Cao Xiangwen to take them to Cao Kangping’s house.

Seeing Zhao Hua in uniform, Xu Lang in plain clothes, and several police cars parked outside, Cao Xiangwen was bewildered. When Zhao Hua requested to visit Cao Kangping’s house, Cao Xiangwen assumed it was because of Cao Kangping’s “bandit” son, Cao Xingwang, causing trouble once again. This hardly surprised him. Leading the way, he remarked, “Officers, you’re here to deal with the bandit, aren’t you?”

“Bandit?”

At the mention of the word, both Xu Lang and Zhao Hua were taken aback. Xu Lang pondered for a moment and asked, “Are there bandits in Cao Family Village?”

Cao Xiangwen saw their confusion and laughed, “Not real bandits. You’re going to my second uncle’s house, right? My second uncle has a single son, Cao Xingwang. The boy is always up to no good, breaking the law and disturbing the neighbors. We all call him ‘the bandit’ in private.”

Xu Lang stroked his chin and asked, “Cao Kangping is your second uncle?”

Cao Xiangwen nodded, “Yes, most people in Cao Family Village share the surname Cao. Though Cao Kangping isn’t my blood uncle, by village hierarchy, I call him second uncle.”

“Tell us more about Cao Xingwang,” Xu Lang prompted.

Cao Kangping’s home was at the westernmost edge of the village, while the entrance was on the east, so they had some distance to walk. As they headed there, Cao Xiangwen briefly recounted Cao Xingwang’s history.

Cao Xingwang, forty-two, was Cao Kangping’s only child, born when Cao Kangping was forty—a rare occurrence in the countryside. Naturally, the couple doted on him, giving him all the best food and things. Raised in such indulgence, Cao Xingwang was prone to mischief.

At eight, he threw firecrackers into the girls’ restroom during New Year’s, frightening several girls three or four years older than himself. Their cries drew villagers, who rescued them. The parents confronted the Cao family, but since it was New Year’s, no one wanted to escalate the matter. The girls were unharmed, so everyone eventually left. Cao Kangping, known for his honesty and good nature, apologized profusely, and the matter was dropped after a few scoldings.

If throwing firecrackers was childish mischief, as he grew older, Cao Xingwang’s actions turned malicious. He stole chickens, ducks, fish, and vegetables, climbed widows’ walls, knocked on doors at midnight—all before he reached fifteen. Because of his behavior, neighbors often came to Cao Kangping’s door to complain, and Cao Kangping could only apologize, hoping to preserve relations.

A child’s mischief is tolerable once or twice, but constant trouble wears patience thin. Many villagers forbade their children from playing with Cao Xingwang, which only led him to target classmates at school.

At school, he often blocked younger children and demanded protection fees. The others, afraid, complied. In those days, rural families were poor, and children brought homemade food and simple snacks to school; Cao Xingwang demanded these from the younger students.

When he entered junior high, families’ fortunes improved slightly and children boarding in town received small change for snacks. Cao Xingwang took advantage, extorting protection fees from dormitories on Sunday nights. If paid, all was well; if not, the children suffered beatings.

If extorting protection fees wasn’t bad enough, Cao Xingwang’s academic potential was wasted. He was clever—teachers only needed to explain things once for him to grasp them—but he preferred playing and mischief to studying.

Finding extortion dull, he began stealing bikes from teachers parked outside the school, selling them for pocket money. After being caught one night by the school’s discipline director, Cao Kangping was called in. The school considered expulsion, but after much pleading from Cao Kangping, visibly aged from years of farming, they relented, marking Cao Xingwang with a major demerit and allowing him to stay.

Yet this incident didn’t reform him; instead, he became worse. Unable to steal bikes, he targeted school equipment. Suspicion grew, but lacking concrete evidence, he skated through three years of junior high.

After graduation, unable to enter high school, not yet sixteen, and unwanted by employers, he returned to Cao Family Village. His return disrupted the peace, and despite elders’ attempts to guide him, he retaliated against those who tried, making everyone too afraid to intervene.

After half a year of troublemaking—squandering his parents’ savings on smoking, drinking, and gambling—he left for the city at age sixteen.

In town, he fell in with a gang of delinquents, loafing aimlessly. At first, he had some money, but it soon ran out. They turned to theft, targeting cash at train and bus stations. Their activities quickly attracted police attention, and before long, they were caught in the act and taken to the bureau.

As minors, with the oldest seventeen and the youngest fifteen, first-time offenders, the authorities gave them a stern lecture, contacted their families, and sent them home. Cao Kangping, weary from travel, brought his son back to the village.

Rather than reform, Cao Xingwang’s behavior worsened. He resumed stealing—meat today, grain tomorrow—and even defiled the grain he stole, urinating and defecating in it. One family, after harvesting and drying their grain, stored it in a barrel, only for Cao Xingwang to steal a sack and ruin the rest.

The next day, the family confronted Cao Kangping, with Cao Xingwang present. Unrepentant, he grabbed a sharp kitchen knife and pressed it to the man’s throat, demanding to know whose fault it was.

The villagers, unaccustomed to such violence, could only placate him and leave. That night, their house caught fire. Fortunately, traumatized by previous incidents, the family slept lightly and escaped. Though unhurt, their home was destroyed, and they soon left the village.

In truth, this family’s departure was fortunate. In the years that followed, Cao Xingwang became the terror of the village, escalating from theft to outright robbery, earning the nickname “bandit” among villagers.

At seventeen, he raped an eighteen-year-old girl returning from school. The girl ran home sobbing, inciting the entire village to rally with sticks and clubs to capture him. Cao Xingwang, loitering at the village entrance, fled at the sight of the mob.

He disappeared for three years, and no one knew what he did during that time.

As the group reached Cao Kangping’s home, Xu Lang was surprised by the sight. The old adobe house was small; the faded paper decorations on the doors hinted at years past. The gate’s hinges bore signs of repair, likely from previous force. A padlock hung at the center, locked.

Zhao Hua glanced at Xu Lang, who nodded. Zhao Hua found a wire nearby and used it to pick the lock.

Once inside, Zhao Hua stopped Cao Xiangwen from entering, donning gloves and shoe covers, handing sets to Xu Lang and Cao Xiangwen.

Xu Lang, properly outfitted, entered the dimly lit main hall. The thick scent of blood greeted him. On the earthen floor lay a man, face down, surrounded by a pool of dried blood. The floor was not cement but compacted earth.

Xu Lang approached, knelt, and felt the man’s neck. The body was cold, pulse long gone. Nearby lay two hammers—a small crowbar hammer with a bloodstain on one end, and a larger stone hammer, both stained with blood.

Examining the hammers and the back of the victim’s head, Xu Lang saw a deep depression, likely caused by a hammer blow. Confirmation would require the coroner’s report.

Not far from the body and hammers were two chairs, a small bench, and a wooden basin. The bench had toppled, the basin was upside down, and the soil around it was damp, suggesting it once held water. Nothing else stood out.

With the body present, Zhao Hua and his team sealed off the scene. Police entered to investigate, bringing in Cao Xiangwen.

After photographing and outlining the corpse, they turned it over. Zhao Hua pointed to the deceased’s face and asked, “Do you recognize him?”

Cao Xiangwen, startled upon seeing the body, feared it might be his uncle Cao Kangping or aunt Xie Lianhan. Instead, it was their son, Cao Xingwang.

“That... that’s Cao Xingwang,” Cao Xiangwen stammered, trembling as he pointed.

Xu Lang and Zhao Hua exchanged glances. If the victim truly was Cao Xingwang, then the elderly couple’s confession was accurate. Whether they had actually killed him would require further investigation.

After confirming the identity, the body was wrapped and carried out, sent to the bureau for autopsy by forensic scientist Ye Xuefei, while the scene was meticulously examined by fingerprint analysts. Xu Lang led the village chief outside.

Outside, Xu Lang pulled out a pack of cigarettes, handed one to Cao Xiangwen, lit one for himself, and both began smoking.

The police cars had drawn a crowd. Villagers gathered at Cao Kangping’s gate, pointing and gossiping.

“Did the bandit cause trouble again?”

“Definitely, or why else would the police be here?”

“These aren’t local officers—they’re from the city, aren’t they?”

“Yes, look, the village chief is right there smoking.”

“What are they carrying? It looks like a person.”

“It is. See the arm, the leg.”

“Did the bandit kill second uncle?”

“Very possible. Only the bandit could do such a thing.”

“What a sin.”

“Who isn’t saying so?”

“...”

Hearing the crowd’s discussions, Xu Lang glanced at them, exhaled a smoke ring, and looked at Cao Xiangwen.

At first, Cao Xiangwen was tense, a normal reaction to seeing a corpse. But when he confirmed it was not Cao Kangping or Xie Lianhan, but Cao Xingwang, he breathed a long sigh of relief. He showed no surprise or sympathy; instead, his face betrayed disgust, even contempt, and a sense of release. Xu Lang found this curious.

Based on Cao Xiangwen’s earlier account, although Cao Xingwang was a menace, his crimes were not capital offenses. Was there some hidden story behind his death? Xu Lang asked, “Where were you last night?”

Cao Xiangwen, cigarette in mouth, paused, then replied, “Watching TV at home. Why?”

“Who can vouch for you?” Xu Lang pressed.

Cao Xiangwen scratched his head, looking troubled, then said, “Er Gou can. Er Gou can prove I was at home.”

“Who’s Er Gou?” Xu Lang continued.

Cao Xiangwen scanned the crowd and pointed at a young man in his twenties. “That’s Er Gou.”

He called out, “Er Gou, come here.”

The young man, called Er Gou, looked up, saw Cao Xiangwen beckoning, and walked over.

“What do you want, chief?” Er Gou asked, displeased at being called by his nickname in front of outsiders.

Indeed, in the twenty-first century, being called a childhood nickname—especially one so crude—in public was embarrassing for a young man.

“You’re Er Gou?” Xu Lang sized up the youth.

He was thin, just over a hundred and twenty pounds, with dark skin, wearing a beige tank top, baggy shorts, and handmade cloth shoes. His muscular arms betrayed years of farm work. As Xu Lang questioned him, he unconsciously rubbed his calloused hands together.

Er Gou looked up at Xu Lang, curled his lip, and said, “My name is Xie Hongyi. Er Gou is my nickname. Who are you?”

He finished, glaring defiantly at Xu Lang.