“Another murder at the Golden Temple?” Detective Zhang sighed, examining the body of Master Liu sprawled across the kitchen floor. “That makes three this month.”

In the corner, Old Wang continued methodically washing dishes, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around him. For forty years he had served as the temple’s dishwasher, his weathered hands never pausing in their endless cycle of soap and rinse.

“The poison was in the evening rice.” Medical examiner Dr. Lin pointed to the half-eaten bowl. “Fast-acting. Death would have been nearly instant.”

Detective Zhang’s eyes narrowed. “Only the senior monks eat in the private dining hall. Someone here knows more than they’re letting on.”

“Such tragedy brings shame to our sacred temple,” lamented Abbot Chen, his usually stern face creased with worry. “First Brother Ma, then Sister Yu, now Master Liu…”

“All three victims were part of the temple’s leadership council,” Zhang noted. “Tell me about the council’s recent activities.”

The Abbot shifted uncomfortably. “Normal temple business. Nothing unusual.”

“Unusual?” Old Wang’s raspy voice startled them. His hands never stopped scrubbing as he spoke. “Like the midnight meetings? The mysterious scrolls? The arguments about the ancient treasure?”

Zhang turned sharply. “What treasure?”

“legends speak of an invaluable artifact hidden within these walls centuries ago,” Wang continued, methodically drying a bowl. “The council has been… divided on what to do since its recent discovery.”

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?” the Abbot demanded.

Wang’s weathered face creased in a slight smile. “No one asks the dishwasher what he sees. Or what he hears. Or what he knows about the martial arts techniques detailed in those scrolls.”

In one fluid motion that belied his apparent age, Wang’s hand shot out, fingertips striking the Abbot’s pressure points. The religious leader crumpled.

“Paralyzed, not dead,” Wang explained calmly. “Like the others. They’ll recover in a few days, once the temple’s ownership has quietly transferred to its rightful heir - me.”

“You’re…” Zhang gasped.

“The last surviving member of the original temple family, yes. I’ve spent forty years working my way back in, watching, waiting. These new leaders would have sold our heritage to the highest bidder.” Wang’s voice hardened. “I couldn’t allow that.”

“But why maintain your cover even now?” Zhang asked, subtly shifting into a defensive stance.

Wang laughed softly, returning to his dishes. “Who would suspect the simple dishwasher? Besides…” His hands moved in their familiar pattern. “Someone still needs to keep this place clean.”

Detective Zhang later remarked that it was the first case he’d solved where the perpetrator refused to leave his post even after confessing. The dishes, after all, wouldn’t wash themselves.