Two police cars, one after the other, drove into Tianhe Home.
All the resettlement complexes in Nanjiang were pretty much the same: large, with dozens or even hundreds of units.
The property management was practically nonexistent. Usually, an old man would be stationed at the gate, which had turned into a social hub for the neighborhood's elderly residents.
There were security cameras, but they lacked routine maintenance. They were useless on a normal day, and when you actually needed them, one was always broken, if not another.
So when Zhao Shouchuan pointed at the security camera by the building entrance and said it had been broken for a long time, Shen Xin wasn't the least bit surprised.
It was a 24-story high-rise with a two-elevator, two-apartment-per-floor layout.
Wang Lei lived in 302, a smaller 72-square-meter unit situated in the middle, with two bedrooms, two living areas, and one bathroom.
The door was now shut tight, sealed with evidence tape.
