After being hit by the hallucinatory fire scent, Zhou Yan changed completely. He no longer threw out the trash on a fixed Wednesday—his schedule was chaos: late Tuesday night, late Thursday night, even the early hours of Friday, no pattern at all. And he grew extremely vigilant: every time before opening the door, he would listen behind it for minutes, observe, make sure the hallway was empty, before daring to step out.
He no longer threw the trash in the hallway bin either. He would walk downstairs, to the most remote, abandoned trash bin in the community, drop the trash, and leave at once, as if disposing of something unspeakable.
Special trash. Only those two words echoed in my mind. Corpse-related. I had to find his pattern, had to get irrefutable evidence.
I no longer staked out at a fixed time; I kept watch all night, every night— in the hallway, downstairs, by the abandoned trash bin. I set a trap too: placing several highly absorbent sachets around the abandoned bin, ones that could lock in any odor, and smearing an invisible scented ointment on the ground—one that changed color when it came into contact with the smell of embalming fluid or rot, invisible to the naked eye, but detectable to my nose, to my eyes.
A week. An entire week. I did not leave the community, did not sleep a proper night's sleep. Finally, a pattern emerged. Every three days, at three in the morning sharp, he would step out on time—black clothes, black mask, carrying a black bag—walk to the abandoned trash bin, drop the trash, then pull a small bottle from his pocket and spray the neutralizing perfume into the bin to cover the odor. When he was done, he vanished quickly.
As soon as he left, I rushed over, picked up the sachets, and brought them to my nose. A powerful stench of embalming fluid and rotting flesh hit my mind like a sledgehammer. I looked at the ground—the invisible ointment had changed color, a dark red, like blood. Irrefutable evidence. He was throwing out corpse-related special trash.
I pulled out my phone at once and took photos—only the discolored ground, only his footprints, no face, no person, no trace, no flaws left. I called Old Chen again, told him to check on Zhou Yan once more, to find the real reason he was fired.
Half an hour later, Old Chen called back, his voice shaking.
"That case back then was a murder using hallucinogens. Zhou Yan used hallucinogens to torture a confession out of the killer without authorization, was reported, ruined his reputation, and was fired on the spot."
I held the phone, the pieces finally falling into place. Zhou Yan—forensic pathologist, expert in hallucinogens, expert in scents. Hating the powerful, fearing fire, hiding a corpse. All the clues wove together. I had all the leverage to hold him in check.