Some watched with cold indifference, while others huddled together, whispering.
The car didn't stop.
Zhou Hui turned his head and saw the crowd following them.
When they reached the crime scene, he was dragged out of the car. The piercing sunlight made his vision go black. Dazed, he turned his head and saw them again—the villagers, gathered outside the police tape.
Every one of them was pointing and murmuring.
He was led to the primary crime scene like a zombie.
Identification. Photographs.
Then it was the old well. The same routine: identification, photographs.
As Zhou Hui was being pulled to his feet, he suddenly heard a mournful wail from behind the wall of Yang Maocai's house to the northeast.
Before he could give it another thought, he was dragged away again.
Next was the septic tank to the east.
After pumping the tank and braving the foul stench, they actually found it—the rock that had sunk to the bottom.
