Detective Shen Du with a Thousand Faces

Shen Du has a problem. He couldn't control his mouth. Walking into the crime scene, while others were investigating, he was talking about the size of the floor tiles, the power of the air conditioner, and the weaving density of the deceased's socks. The colleague collapsed, the captain twisted the thermos cup, and the forensic doctor wanted to drive him out. But what he said were all things that others could not see. Because he has held twenty-six professions. I have delivered food, repaired cars, moved houses, served dishes, and screwed valves in chemical plants. Each occupation left a set of data in his mind - the acoustic structure of the corridor, the color of rust corroded by ammonia, what sounds can be heard from the third floor on the fourth floor when the range hood is running. Colleagues call him Qianmian. He knew it - it wasn't a talent. When he was twelve years old, he was imprisoned in a basement measuring three meters six by two meters four. Seven days. Two bowls of porridge every day, with numbers engraved on the bottom of the bowls. On the seventh day, the kidnappers didn't come. He walked out on his own. Fifteen years later, a murder case in a secret room in a villa made him walk into a room of the same size again. The blue-gray rubber mat on the floor, the iron pipe in the corner, and a copper button engraved with the symbol of double snakes - the scene was exactly the same as the basement where he was imprisoned. This is no coincidence. Someone has been waiting for him for fifteen years. From the first victim - a professor who cut a door in his basement - to the seventeenth tagged sample, a continuous line spanning twenty years is closing. Every case is a road sign, and every scene is a message. The person who wrote these messages was inside the system, watching Shen Du step by step into the maze he designed. Shen Du didn't know what was at the end of the road.