Chapter 146: The Song Family’s Secret Technique — The Murder Reenactment

I suggested that Sun Bingxin should be the one to perform the murder reenactment technique, but Huang Xiaotao immediately objected.

"Letting Miss Sun help with the case was already pushing it. Now you want her to do something this dangerous? If Sun's dad finds out, he might not say anything to you—but he'll definitely tear me apart!"

Sun Bingxin shot back, "Stop bringing up my dad. I want to contribute to the task force. Besides, Songyang will protect me, right?"

"Contribute?" Huang Xiaotao raised an eyebrow. "So now you want to latch onto us?"

Sun pouted. "Songyang's a police consultant. Why can't I be a consultant too? I'm a legit forensic expert, you know."

Huang scoffed. "Cut it out. If it weren't for your dad, I'd have kicked you out ages ago."

The two of them stood with hands on hips, glaring at each other. I quickly tried to mediate. "Xiaotao, let Bingxin try this once. The dosage is small, and the four of us will protect her all the way. If anything goes wrong, I'll wake her up immediately."

Xiaotao frowned. "No other options?"

I shook my head. "If we want to catch Qu Tingting tonight, this is the only way."

With a sigh, Huang Xiaotao said, "Alright. But take it easy."

...

Sun Bingxin clapped excitedly. "Great! So what's next?"

I grabbed Qu Tingting's nurse uniform from the wall and handed it to her, along with the nurse's cap. Bingxin's figure wasn't as curvy as Huang Xiaotao's, but with her pure aura and the crisp white uniform, she looked like a delicate angel of mercy.

Bingxin twirled. "Do I look like a nurse?"

Wang Dali pretended to wipe a nosebleed. "Spot on. If you were a real nurse, I'd break my leg just to get admitted."

Bingxin laughed, "Thanks for the compliment!"

Huang Xiaotao sneered, "Princess Taiping and a nurse uniform really suit each other."

Bingxin was about to retort, but I cut in quickly. "Focus on the task!"

From my bag, I took out a wooden mask coated with the Dream-Inducing Powder and told Bingxin to put it on. After wearing it, she said, "I don't feel much… just a sweet fragrance..." Half a minute later, she fell silent and stood motionless like a puppet.

I spoke softly, "You are Qu Tingting. Remember, you are Qu Tingting."

After repeating it several times, Bingxin murmured in a dreamlike voice, "I'm Qu Tingting. I love Doctor Cheng, but he never looks at me properly. There are always so many beautiful women around him. I want to win his heart. I want to kill every woman who likes him!"

That last sentence came out through clenched teeth, chilling us all. Even Wang Yuanchao instinctively reached for his gun!

Like a sleepwalker, Bingxin began pacing the room and tidying things up—some of which didn't even exist. She was acting out a silent mime. She had completely stepped into Qu Tingting's shoes, reenacting her daytime actions.

Wang Dali stared in amazement. "Can she see us?"

"No," I said. "She's now Qu Tingting during the day."

"How can one person become another? This is too mystical. What's the principle behind this murder reenactment technique?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

The Song family's secret techniques have always been about pragmatism. Whatever can help solve cases, whether science or mysticism, has been explored and integrated over generations, culminating in the comprehensive "Chronicles of the Corpse Whisperer."

The murder reenactment technique originates from the ancient Chu Kingdom's Wu-Nuo rituals and is the most arcane method in the Song family's forensic arts. It's suited for perpetrators or victims with intense emotional swings, but the theory behind it is never clearly explained in any manuals.

After tidying up, Bingxin sat at the desk and began writing a letter identical in content and handwriting to the one we saw that morning. Halfway through, she suddenly tore the paper, balled it up, then reconsidered. She took a lighter from the drawer and burned the paper in the ashtray.

How did she know there was a lighter in that drawer? None of us understood. Compared to what happened next, this was a minor mystery.

Suddenly, Bingxin stood and walked out. Everyone instinctively stepped aside. She left the hospital, and I instructed Wang Yuanchao to get the car ready—just in case she needed a ride.

Wang Yuanchao followed slowly behind in the car. Bingxin skipped along the roadside like a carefree girl, stopping to pick a flower. The bloom had already been stripped off—likely taken by Qu Tingting earlier in the day. People skilled in pharmacology often have a bit of botany knowledge too.

Bingxin pinned the flower to her nurse uniform and continued walking. We trailed her closely. After about half a mile, she waved at the roadside. Wang Yuanchao pulled over and she got into the passenger seat.

"Driver, take me to Liuzhou Road."

I, Huang Xiaotao, and Wang Dali squeezed into the backseat. Bingxin hummed quietly all the way, dispelling my earlier impression: Qu Tingting was actually a bright, cheerful girl.

Suddenly, Bingxin said, "Why are you staring at my face like that?"

Her voice in the silent car startled us. She was talking to the 'driver.'

She went on, talking to herself: "I was born with this birthmark. Some say birthmarks are fatal wounds from a past life. Maybe I died horribly back then."

She giggled, then her tone turned heavy. "Maybe my parents thought I was ugly and left me at an orphanage gate. I've never known what they look like."

"But I don't feel sorry for myself! Here's a secret—I have someone I like. He's so handsome. Even if others mock me, he smiles at me. Just seeing him every day makes me happy."

Bingxin giggled again. Huang Xiaotao sighed, "Poor girl."

When we arrived, Bingxin paid and got out. The four of us followed.

She led us to an old, rundown apartment complex and descended into a basement. At a door, she stopped and pulled something from her pocket. Realizing this was Qu Tingting's temporary hideout, I borrowed two hairpins from Huang Xiaotao and carefully picked the lock for her.

Bingxin mimed using a key, then pushed the door open. A sharp chemical smell hit us immediately, nearly making us cough.

But the visual impact was even stronger.

Inside, a makeshift table was cluttered with experimental bottles and jars. The walls were plastered with photos and newspaper clippings—all secretly taken shots of Cheng Yahui. Most were side profiles or shots from behind; the clippings covered his awards and charity events.

A worn doctor's coat hung on the wall. Beneath it were several personal items clearly belonging to Cheng Yahui—ballpoint pens, tissues, plastic buttons, jars containing hair and nails.

Apart from a bed and a table, nothing else indicated a normal life here. This basement was filled with Cheng Yahui's presence. Qu Tingting lived surrounded by him, breathing him in. He was her everything—her whole world.

I thought, even the most obsessive fans could never go this far.