The Memory Manipulator

At 3:20 p.m., as the old clock in the town library struck, Shen Jing was counting the thickness of the dust on the third shelf of the fourteenth row of books. She remembered that this was the third time this week that sunlight had cut through the east window at a 47-degreeangle, casting a patch of light on the spine of the book "Compilation of Local Chronicles(1998-2002)." She blinked seventeen times, calculating the speed at which the patch of light moved—about 2.3 centimeters per hour,0.1 centimeters slower than yesterday, probably due to changes in humidity. Just then, the first scream pierced the afternoon silence. It wasn't a scream, but a short, sharp whistling sound forced out as if someone had grabbed your throat. It came from the direction of Chenxi Square. Shen Jing's fingers hovered over the spine of the book, as if paused. She started recording almost simultaneously: 15:20:03, the female screamed, the estimated distance from the source was 47 meters, lasting 1.2 seconds, and frequency analysis showed extreme terror . This was a protocol automatically running her brain, like an overly faithful tape recorder. Immediately following, a second and a third sound. A low growl from a man, and an object falls to the ground. Chaotic footsteps move from the center of the square westward toward the bluestone path. At 15:20:47, someone wearing hard-soled shoes (most likely male)runs at a rapid pace, with a stride length of about 75 centimeters, and an estimated weight of 70–75 kilograms. Shen Jing didn't move. She simply closed her eyes, letting her hearing take over. A faint echocamy came from the ventilation ducts, the sound of the fountain- it stopped . The first interruption lasted 43 seconds. Then it resumed. Then the second interruption , also 43seconds. The interval5 minutes and 17 seconds. This combination of numbers was strange,not like the random numbers of a mechanical malfunction. When she reopened her eyes, the clock showed 3:26. Six minutes. A time long enough for a lot to happen, yet not enough to change anything. At 3:32, as Lin Mo's car drove over the sign at the town entrance that read "Welcome Home,Anning Ancient Town," he had just finished folding a paper crane with asymmetrical wings. In the passenger seat, the young police officer, Xiao Li, was repeating into the walkie-talkie:".Received, three witnesses, highly consistent testimonies, suspect apprehended..." "Same height?" Lin Mo stuffed the paper crane into his coat pocket, the pocket watch thatwas always three minutes slow swaying gently against his shirt. "How tall?" Xiao Li flipped through the preliminary statement: "Uh... everyone said the murderer was about 1.75 meters tall, wearing a dark blue jacket, holding a knife in his right hand, running from the direction of the square sculpture, knocking over the second potted plant on the east side, and then fleeing west. The time, actions, clothing... are almost identical." "Almost?" Lin Mo looked out the car window at the green tiles and white walls flashing by.The ancient town was so neat and tidy it looked like a stage set. "What's lacking?" "One said they were black sneakers, another said they were dark gray, and I didn't pay attention to the third pair of shoes." Xiao Li scratched his head. "The rest… are exactly the same." Lin Mo didn't speak. It was too clean. A clean crime scene, clean testimonies, a clean suspect identification—Mayor Zhou Guofu lay dead beside a sculpture in the square he had invested in, a knife from his kitchen stuck in his chest; three strangers to each other gave standard answers as if directed by the same director; and that "answer," the mayor's political rival Zhao Bin, was reportedly speaking at an industry summit in a neighboring city at that very moment. As the car turned into the square, police tape had already been put up. The crowd maintained a peculiar order; no one pushed too far to the front, and no one whispered to each other. They simply watched quietly, as if they were watching a long-rehearsed open-air play. Lin Mo got out of the car, the weight of his pocket watch dropping slightly. He first looked at the ground-the bluestone path, damp with rain from yesterday, the moss in the cracks still wet, but there were no obvious mud splatters on the path from the sculpture to the second potted plant . Someone running and knocking over a flowerpot would have picked up something with their shoes. "Team Leader Lin." The old forensic doctor at the scene walked over and lowered his voice,"Something's strange." "explain." "The knife was inserted perfectly straight, penetrating vertically into the fourth in tercostalspace and piercing the heart directly. The depth... it's like it was measured with a ruler." The forensic doctor gestured. "Usually, in these kinds of emotionally driven, impulsive murders,the angle of the strike is somewhat off, there's hesitation. This one is too precise." "A professional doctor or a butcher?" "Either very calm, or…" the forensic doctor didn't finish his sentence. Lin Mo walked towards the three witnesses. They were placed separately on a bench by the square, separated by police officers. There was an elderly man who looked like a retired teacher (Chen Jianguo), a female cashier in a supermarket uniform (Li Wen), and a truckdriver in overalls (Zhang Hao). All three wore perfectly timed expressions of shock—pulse constriction, slightly rapid breathing, and unconsciously clenched fingers. Textbook—perfect stress responses. He approached the old man first. "Teacher Chen," Lin Mo squatted down, his gaze level with the other person, "could you tell me again, when you saw that person run, did they step with their left foot or their right footfirst?" The old man paused, a barely perceptible flicker of panic crossing his wrinkled eyes:"Right...right foot, I think. No, it's the left foot? I...I can't remember, it was too fast.." "It's alright," Lin Mo smiled. "When you knocked over the flowerpot, did you hear a 'bang' or a 'crack'-the sound of the flowerpot shattering?" "Yes... crash." The old man was more certain this time. "The flowerpot didn't break, it just tipped over." Lin Mo nodded, walked over to the female cashier Li Wen, and asked the same question. "His right foot." She said without hesitation, "He limped a little when he ran, and his right shoulder was lower. The flowerpot made a 'crack' sound; I heard the sound of ceramic cracking." The third one, driver Zhang Hao: "Left foot. The flowerpot rolled twice, didn't break, and then fell over. The sound was muffled." Lin Mo straightened up. The setting sun was casting long shadows across the square from the west. He looked at the sculpture-an abstract stainless steel bird, its surface polished so smooth it reflected a person's image. At this moment, the sculpture's shadow southwest. But based on the sun's position and the time of the incident, the shadow should have pointed northeast. He took out his phone and checked yesterday's weather forecast. Sure enough, the three tallampposts on the east side of the square had been under repair last night, and their lighting direction had been temporarily changed. "Teacher Chen," Lin Mo walked back to the old man's side, his voice very soft, "you just saidthat the murderer ran from the direction of the sculpture, is that right?" "right." "Was the sculpture's shadow cast on his face or his back at that moment?" The old man opened his mouth, his gaze involuntarily drifting to the glowing metal bird. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Back...back, I mean, the face? Wait, I..." "It's alright." Lin Mo patted his shoulder, feeling a slight tremor in his palm. "You should rest for a bit." He stepped out of the center of the scene and pulled the folded paper crane from his pocket. Its wings wobbled, as if it were about to crash. Little Li leaned closer: "Captain Lin,what did you find out?" "Three people," Lin Mo said, "who saw three slightly different scenes. That's normal." "What's abnormal," Lin Mo said, unraveling the paper crane and smoothing out the creases,"is that they all believe they saw the exact same scene . And they are absolutely convinced of it." Xiao Li didn't understand. Lin Mo didn't explain. He looked up at the row of neat two-story buildings on the west side of the square. Behind one of the windows, the dark curtains moved slightly, then quickly returned to stillness. Several potted plants sat on the windowsill, one of which had leaves that shimmered with an unnatural, overly uniform green in the setting sun. The pocket watch ticked softly in his pocket, three minutes behind the world. He remembered the young man who smiled at him in the interrogation room seven years ago, just like him, with all the evidence pointing perfectly to him. Too perfect. "I request access to the surveillance footage of all shops and intersections around the square for the past 72 hours," Lin Mo said. "Especially the row of buildings on the west side. Also,check all the video recordings of Zhao Bin attending the meeting in the neighboring city,down to the minute." "Yes." Xiao Li turned around to make the arrangements. Lin Mo took one last look at the sculpture's shadow. It was pointing southeast now, but it should have been pointing northeast at the time of the incident. This discrepancy was likethe three witnesses' descriptions of the flowerpot's sound-one said "clang," one said"crack," and one said "muffled thud." In a real situation, there are no standard answers. As he turned to leave, the chain of his pocket watch gently caught on a button of his coat.He bent down to unbutton it, and the watch cover popped open for a moment. On the dial,the hour and minute hands were frozen at 3:17-the time of the incident. At that moment, the clock tower in the square showed: 3:47. His watch was thirty minutes slow this time .