Wufu, as he had wished, saw several case files related to the Flower-Picking Thief case, flipping through them page by page, his expression focused and solemn.
Not far away, Wen Congrui was sipping tea, but his eyes never left Wufu’s face as he perused the case files.
"My lord, is it really appropriate to let her go through the files ?" Steward Chen from the Yamen whispered to Wen Congrui.
Wen Congrui took a sip of tea and said, "It’s fine, if anything major comes up, I will take responsibility."
Steward Chen opened his mouth but in the end, all his reservations were reduced to one word, "Yes." He glanced at the youngster, continuously muttering to himself in his heart, extending his skepticism to the person sitting before him.
Wen Congrui’s face revealed no emotion. He understood Steward Chen’s concerns very well, but in his heart, he felt that the person before him was not the evil Flower-Picking Thief.
It wasn’t that Wufu’s antics and nonchalant remarks were enough to convince him, but rather intuition—and he always trusted his intuition.
This case was at an impasse, and it was no solution; unresolved, it lingered like a foul insect stuck in the throat.
Day and night he’d pored over this case, chasing down even the faintest hint of suspicion to the end, but the damned Flower-Picking Thief was like an eel that had slipped through his grasp.
Therefore, Wen Congrui himself was getting impatient.
And might the person before him bring a different kind of surprise?
After finishing all the files, Wufu closed them and said to Wen Congrui, "My lord, I have finished reading."
Wen Congrui stood up and asked, "What has the Squirrel Warrior discerned?"
Upon hearing the words "Squirrel Warrior," Wufu couldn’t help but laugh; it was too amusing.
"I will study it carefully and then apprehend him. Please rest assured, my lord, he won’t get away," Wufu said with a smile, bowing in thanks before leaving.
Wen Congrui frowned. "How can this official get in touch with the warrior?"
"Once I have the man, I will notify you," Wufu waved and dismissed himself.
Upon exiting the Yamen, she glanced at the sky, blue as tourmaline, and exhaled a long, turbid breath.
After a few steps, she paused briefly, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly, then dashed off quickly, winding and twisting, shaking off any tail that might be following.
With her stomach growling, Wufu found a teahouse, ordered a pot of tea, two baskets of buns, and some paper and ink from the server, and transcribed the case records she had just seen in the Yamen, particularly the coroner’s account.
The victims mentioned in the case files seemed to have nothing in common, some didn’t even know each other, and their statuses were diverse as well.
But could there really be nothing they had in common? Wufu didn’t believe so.
If the crimes were all committed by the same perpetrator, there had to be a common thread in the methods used.
And by finding that thread, it would be possible to unravel the layers, revealing the truth beneath.
She wrote down the coroner’s account.
Firstly, the pervert’s methods were brutal, severing the female symbols from the victims without a trace, the records showing the cuts were clean, and the private areas also stitched, just as neatly.
To have such precise incisions, one must have practiced extensively. The same goes for stitching—skill comes with practice. What kind of person would do such a thing?
In modern times, perhaps medical staff or forensic experts.
But in this era, who would be capable?
Wufu rapidly noted several possibilities: doctors, butchers, coroners...
She took a bun and bit into it, writing furiously with her right hand holding a charcoal pencil. By the time the bun was gone, she had filled two sheets of paper with symbols and terminology incomprehensible to the common folk of that day.
Wufu, however, pursed her lips in satisfaction.