"And to tell you the truth, your enthusiasm is more than a little out of place," the fat man reproached.
"Why is that?" his slender friend asked surprisingly.
"A girl died, for God's sake."
"And now we have work."
They walked through the park along an alley bordered by flower beds filled with blooming begonias. The first was tactical investigator Force, dressed immaculately in burgundy trousers and a vest over a white shirt; the second was practical investigator Cord, wearing a gray T-shirt and slightly worn jeans. Force had a neatly trimmed beard and dark curly hair, while Cord was sporting an I-just-woke-up-leave-me-alone type hairstyle. Force had a camera hanging from a strap around his neck and a clipboard with blank sheets of paper on it under his arm, and Cord was carrying a small black leather briefcase.
"When did we last have an interesting case? In March?" continued Cord. "Now it's mid-July. People have completely forgotten how to kill each other."
For him, the day had begun well. Not because of the corpse, but simply as a matter of principle. Despite getting up early (his father's old chronometer showed 7:15 now), he had slept well and had woken in a decent mood.
His friend and colleague, as usual, had fallen into silent meditation. He did not really like to go on initial examinations of crime scenes because of his build: it was not easy for him to move around. One meter ninety and almost two hundred kilos—Cord sometimes called him "the Lord of Narrow Corridors", but Force did not take offense: he saw himself through the lens of healthy irony.
"The onlookers have arrived," Cord grumbled. "Probably dog lovers but at least not journalists."
"I bet they'll show up by eight o'clock."
"Which is why we need to work quickly. Did you load the camera?"
"Of course." Force nodded, but for the sake of appearances, he checked it anyway.
In the small case that Cord carried, there were five more spare films, several types of magnifiers, a package of latex gloves, a scraper, and many other instruments and tools which were, more often than not, not necessary. Their team of forensic experts was so professional that they always single-handedly found every object or material related to any case. Cord, as a practical investigator, only needed to interpret the clues correctly and draw logical conclusions, while Force, as a tactical investigator, required to document the progress of the crime scene examination and resolve many other formal issues.
***
Forensic experts in white uniforms scurried about the crime scene. Coming closer, the investigators saw what all the fuss was about. A slender barefoot girl in fishnet stockings, a black leather miniskirt, and a tight lilac-colored top was lying on the asphalt right under a streetlight. Her legs were neatly lined up side by side, arms laid along the sides of her body, and eyes had been closed, in contrast to mouth. Red hair, probably well-groomed in life, now hung in tangles. Her pretty face was not even spoiled by a broken nose and a bruise on forehead. Under head, a dark puddle of dried blood could be seen, and running perpendicularly to body was a trail of pale red droplets.
"And here's the babe!" Cord exclaimed, pulling a fresh pair of latex medical gloves from his pocket. He always carried them with him, so he didn't have to search around in his case.
"No vulgarity here! First of all, she's a victim," Force interrupted him.
"Well, as they say, a dead woman is still a woman for two hours."
"Half an hour."
"Did you check?" Cord chuckled.
"Oh, come on!"
"Formally, you are both right," a bored old voice to the right of the investigators was heard. "It's just that Cord, apparently, prefers 'colder' women."
"Screw you!" Cord exclaimed without malice and turned.
They were approached by their lead forensic expert, who was also the head of the forensic laboratory. A "forever-haggard" old man of seventy, with bags under his eyes and a dreary look, Cord called it the "Basset Hound look".
All three simply nodded to each other, as shaking hands at a crime scene was considered bad manners. Cord put the case down on the asphalt and squatted down beside the girl's body.
"And what do we have here?"
"A girl, about eighteen to twenty years old," Forensics estimated, "killed by a blow to the back of the head."
"The weapon?"
"Not found. Presumably a rock."
"Like those from the flower beds?" Cord pointed to where they had just come from.
"Yes."
"Hmm..." Cord gently pulled the girl's chin down. There was liquid in her mouth. "Have you taken a sample for analysis?"
"Naturally."
Cord raised her eyelids and looked into both eyes. Blue.
"Approximate time of death?"
"I would say four or five hours ago."
"That is, about two in the morning?" Cord muttered thoughtfully. "As far as I know, on summer nights half of the lights in the park are turned off?"
"That's right," said Force, "and in winter they are only on along the main path."
"Was this streetlight turned off?"
Forensics nodded.
"There is something else that seems important here. Pay attention to her hair."
Cord lifted one curl, grunted, and rubbed it between his fingers.
"Sand," he summed up. "The girl was drowned?"
"Her body was. But there is no sign of maceration, meaning that she was not in the water for very long."
Cord frowned.
"That is, the girl was killed here, put into the water somewhere, and returned?"
"Not somewhere, but in a pond nearby." Forensics grinned.
"That's kind of nonsensical." Cord shook his head.
"As is the position of the corpse. The girl clearly fell face forward, and judging by the fact that she did not try to fight back, at that moment she was already dead from the blow to the back of the head. Nevertheless, we found her in such an artificial pose."
"Hmm. Curious."
"Cord, come here," Force called his friend.
He stood a little further back from the body and looked at the asphalt.
"Look." He pointed with a pencil at skid marks left by a bicycle.
"We noticed this track," Forensics said, "but they look pretty old. It is unlikely that the killer was following the girl on a bicycle."
"We should check them anyway," said Force, "at least tell us the brand of the bike, if it's possible to determine. By the way, have you identified the girl?"
Forensics shook his head.
"She had no documents on her."
"There were no reports of missing people yesterday," Force added.
"Check through the brothels," Cord ordered. "I have a feeling this girl is a prostitute."
"Why did you come to that conclusion?" Force asked.
"She's dressed provocatively. Stockings, a leather skirt, nipples almost sticking out from under her shirt... Maybe, of course, she's not a working girl, and her dress style is that of 'modern youth'. It'd be better to check. Start with nearby brothels."
"Your intuition again," Force chuckled.
"Oh, come on... I would think it's quite a reasonable assumption."
One reason other investigators disliked Cord was his famous intuition. He seemed to pull information out of nowhere, but later his guesses were usually confirmed.
"So. Okay." Cord turned to Forensics. "Anything else interesting?"
"Take a walk to the pond." The old man waved his left hand towards the side. "Presumably, the body of the girl was submerged there. The dogs led the dog handler right over there."
"Good. Well, Force, let's do it?"
"Maybe I should take some picture here instead?" he asked in a complaining tone.
"We'll come back. Come on, I need you over there."
Force sighed and stalked after his friend.
***
On the pebbly beach by the pond, two forensic experts and a dog handler with a dog were busy at work. After talking briefly with them, Cord returned to his friend, who stood a little further off from the water's edge. Force was watching a family of ducks—a mother and five ducklings crossing the pond.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
"They found drops of blood on the stones. Apparently, someone pulled the body out of the pond and returned it to the alley."
"A repentant criminal?" suggested Force.
"If so, he clearly did not completely repent. Easier to honestly just confess, and that would be the end of it."
"Then why would he do it?"
"I have no idea. To be thorough, I think we should send divers to comb the pond."
Force shook his head.
"I doubt that Chief would give us permission. The body has already been found."
"Well, yes. And there is your cyclist. Although I don't think it's a first-priority looking for him."
"Yeah, while we check every cyclist..." Force sighed.
"But it seems to me that if my version about her being a prostitute is correct, the case will be solved faster than we think."
"Do you think she could have been killed by an angry client?"
"Yeah, easily. He paid for an hour, wanted one and a half. The whore demanded money, the client wanted it for free, and in the end, no one agreed on anything. Then the client, believing that he was always right, decided to take revenge on the 'damned harlot'."
"Too simple."
"If I remember, you were a brainy nerd in the statistics class."
"I'm not a nerd!"
"You mean you don't know about the average time for murder investigations?"
"But supposing that you are wrong?" Force did not give up.
"Then we will have to look for a cyclist whom we are unlikely to find, and to solve a bureaucratic puzzle over a pond."
"That's true," Force sighed.
"Okay, let's go back. It's time to get to work."
***
The investigators stayed at the crime scene for about two more hours: they studied the found evidence and questioned the person who found the corpse. Force took photographs of the body from the required angles; Cord measured the distance of the body and the bloodstains in relation to the streetlight next to which the body was lying.
With every hour of work that passed, the audience grew larger and larger: news of murders in the city center spreads quickly. Cord, as usual, was ignoring the onlookers and was entirely concentrating on the work at hand. He, therefore, did not notice two pairs of eyes that were closely watching him and Force: interested brown eyes from the crowd and anxious gray ones from a bench on a parallel alley.
***
At half past nine, as they approached the Central Police Department, Cord asked to be dropped off at the main gate. There were two reasons for this: first, Force was a perfectionist, and therefore spent too much time parking, making sure he was in the exact center of the parking space; second, at the entrance to the building stood an old acquaintance of Cord's.
The acquaintance waved at him and from the breast pocket of his shirt pulled out a pack of Patricians—the elite foreign cigarettes with the famous gilded lettering on the filter. One such pack cost, on average, four to five times the price of a pack of the best local cigarettes, and therefore very few people smoked them regularly.
"Want one?" offered Familiar.
Cord did not refuse and lit the cigarette with pleasure.
"I would offer you mine, but I know your answer in advance."
Familiar chuckled. Anyone who had anything to do with Cord knew what kind of crap he smoked. Cord said he felt a strange masochistic pleasure from what he smoked, but he still never refused good tobacco.
For example, like that offered by Familiar.
They had known each other... for how long now? Ten or eleven years? Cord was still studying at the Police Academy when they had first met. Familiar remembered their meeting well. It had taken place at one of his parties. That evening, he had held a drunken arm-wrestling competition, and a guy he didn't know, all wiry and shaggy looking, began taking down all of his friends from the gym, one by one. Familiar became interested in him, and they began to communicate with each other, although they had still not really become friends. Their interests were just too different: the wiry guy was more interested in the work of an investigator, for which he was studying, while Familiar simply wanted to live it up.
"What fate has brought you here?" Cord asked, glancing casually at his acquaintance.
It had already become a habit with him. Even if there was no point in an interrogation, Cord liked to observe the changes in a person. For example, right now it would seem that there was nothing unusual here. Familiar was the same as before—a tall, slightly unshaven, handsome, muscular blond. But there were nuances: the hair was now combed evenly, but not styled, as was usual, and therefore strands of hair stuck out here and there. His eyes were red and, almost invisible under them, there were dark rings. Perhaps he hadn't had enough sleep either from drinking or a hangover, or both? His face was flushed—from alcohol, or maybe an overabundance of emotions? Then there was the barely perceptibly trembling of his hands, perhaps, meaning that he wanted to calm down.
"Did you quarrel with your father again, or what?"
"You're good," Familiar chuckled.
His father was Chief—Cord's immediate superior and the head of the Central Police Department.
"Stormy night?"
"Yeah. Dad freaked out that I went to visit the whores. Again he was talking about responsibility and all that."
"If a person puts on a condom when visiting whores, one cannot ask for any more responsibility from him."
"You tell him that," Familiar laughed.
"Cooling down?" Force was heading towards them. Today, he handled the parking lot bit surprisingly quickly.
"Work is not a wolf, it will not run away into the forest," answered Cord and took a last drag on the cigarette. "And if it runs away, then to hell with it."
"If only daddy heard that..." Familiar smiled meaningfully.
"He would say: Sonny, do not shirk responsibilities!" Cord said dismissingly.
"He calls you 'sonny'?" Familiar was surprised.
"Sometimes." Cord flicked the cigarette butt into the urn. "Made it!" He was delighted. "Okay anyway, I have to go; otherwise, Force will start his hurdy-gurdy again."
"We've got a case here." Force muttered resentfully. "So I have every right!"
***
Cord's office was fairly ascetically furnished. On the opposite wall from the door sat an un-upholstered wooden chair and a table on which there was a black telephone with a round dial, a small pile of papers, and a pencil sharpened with a knife. To the left of the table, by the window, on a cheap-looking end table, there was a ten-liter aquarium with a rubber hedgehog inside. What it was doing in there was a mystery that troubled the minds of many, but the answer was always extremely laconic: he was lying there. And to the question "Why?" the owner replied unequivocally: "Because."
So, he needed to draw up a report for Force, and then he would be free for the day. Rather, as long as they did not uncover the victim's identity, he had nothing to do here. The brothels opened at nine in the evening, which meant that no one would contact him before eight. He could, of course, spend the entire day on paperwork, but why? There would be enough time for fussing with papers after the active phase of the investigation had passed. Now he needed to focus on analyzing information. And as they say, "What if suddenly there's a war, and I'm tired?" It is better to take advantage of the opportunity (official, by the way!) and push it a little. Besides, today there is a chance of spending the night talking with prostitutes, so Cord should be cheerful, not tortured.
But he still had to draw up a report.
***
He finished it in time for lunch. Although no data from Forensics or forensic team had yet been received (that would come in later in the afternoon), completing the work took longer than Cord had expected. He described in detail his first impressions and put forward several versions of what he believed had happened. These were practically useless at this point, but they might come in handy later.
Locking his office door, Cord went to see Force. His office could be considered downright exemplary. Against the wall to the right of the entrance, there were two cabinets filled with current affairs material and applied professional literature. Next to the window were two armchairs and a table, which was always kept in perfect order: on the right, in hand's reach, there was usually a diary in which Force not only carefully planned his days but also recorded incoming thoughts and ideas; above that was a stack of un-reviewed material; in the lower left corner—ready documents; and in the center stood a typewriter on which the tactical investigator was now writing an investigative report. On the end table to the right of Force's armchair was a beautiful china service, from which he and his best friend drank tea during breaks.
Cord slammed the report on the table. Force skimmed through it and sighed.
"Well, why don't you, like any normal employee, want to use a typewriter?"
"Considering the flights of my thoughts, it would take up too much paper, and yes, I write much faster by hand."
"So then, I have to decipher your scribbles and type them up!" complained Force.
"You're a scribbler, not me." Cord smiled. "Want to go for lunch?"
"No. Maybe in about twenty minutes. I need to finish." Force nodded at the typewriter.
"Okay."
"Are you done? Already?"
"Yeah. Until some information comes in, I have nothing to do."
"You could help me," Force said reproachingly.
"Hmm, what to choose? Get some rest before a possible night's work or help Force with his writing?"
"Be gone already!" his friend smiled.
"That's right, Comrade Tactician!" and valiantly saluting, Cord left the office.