1
Indeed, Cord would have loved to have stayed for breakfast if he hadn't had one thing to finish. Although he was slightly unwell (because of yesterday's diving), he was not going to waste another day sitting idle. So waking up at six in the morning and drinking coffee, he contacted Forensics.
A call to his home was unsuccessful. When he called him at work, the call was answered on the third ring.
"Hello, this is Cord. Why are you at work this early?"
"Still at work," said the tired voice. "Are you calling about business?"
"About the case. What are modern corpse bags made of?"
"I'll ask, the pathologist. There are different kinds. For example, in medicine, polyethylene is mainly used. In forensics, they have now switched to polypropylene spunbond."
"That is, you could not have had polyethylene?"
"What do you mean?"
"You used to use plastic bags before, didn't you?"
"Well, yes."
"Could any have survived somewhere in your department? At least a few?"
"I'll even tell you the exact number: I have sixteen of them."
"Fifteen."
"No, there are definitely sixteen of them, I remember."
"I'll be there in half an hour."
Cord hung up the phone before Forensics could answer.
***
The forensic laboratory was a five-minute walk from the Central Police Department, literally on the next block. Cord got there by taxi and, having passed through security, entered the Forensics office. He was excitedly pacing around the room.
"Impossible!" The old man seemed to have suffered a blow. "Impossible!"
"I guessed, right?" Instead of a greeting, Cord pulled the folded fragment of the pathological body bag, which he had cut off in the pond, out of his pocket. "This it?"
The old man jumped up, approached the investigator, and almost snatched the evidence from his hand.
"Yes! Yes! Where did you get it?!"
"Calm down and sit down. At your age, it is dangerous to get overexcited."
"You are here for me, is that it?!" Forensics was indignant, but he still sat down. He sighed, and in a calm tone, continued, "Where did you get it?"
"In the pond where the body was sunk. I just cut off a piece. So your bag mysteriously disappeared?"
"Yes…" Forensics seemed to have returned to normal. "But I'm not involved in this."
"Where did you keep it?"
"Here, in a cabinet, along with the rest. They have been written off for five years now, but I did not throw them away. You never know, they might come in handy…"
"Well, one of them came in handy," Cord chuckled. "Who has access to this office?"
"Just me."
"You said on the phone that you were here all night last night. What were you doing?"
"I was working. I am often asked for help from other precincts. Despite my age, I am still the best medical examiner in this city." A faint smile appeared on the old man's face, which, however, faded after a moment. "Do you suspect that I'm responsible for killing that girl?"
"No, not you. And not for murder. Try to remember: were you here the night of the murder?"
"Mmm… It's doubtful, but perhaps I stayed late."
"Can we check?"
"Of course, the entry should have been saved in the visitor log."
***
"Well, the twelfth of July…" muttered Cord, flipping through the log of visits.
"There is mostly laboratory staff here," added Forensics.
"So, and this one?" Cord pointed to a familiar name. "Did Chief come to see you in the evening?"
"Yes, he sometimes comes after work. We drink tea and talk about politics, the old days… You know, the usual old man's stuff."
"You left here at eleven. Together."
"Yes, that how it was."
"Could Chief have come back after you left, under some pretext? For example, supposing he said he had forgotten his wallet?"
"I can't rule that out."
"But he would have had to check in with the night watchman?"
"Yes, but the attendant might not have taken notice. It's Chief, after all."
"Okay, let's say… Could he have known where the bags were?"
"I don't know. But it would be easy to find them: I don't hide them."
"So, if we assume Familiar came to his father with a request for help, Chief could have easily gotten a corpse bag to hide a body."
"Even if you are right, Cord, there is one thing…"
***
This thing was cleverly called "a violation of the procedural order of crime scene inspection", in human terms, "screw you, there can be no independent search for evidence." That is, Cord could not just drag out the bag, the shoes, and the leather jacket and say: "Look what I found!" By doing so, he would have invalidated the evidentiary value of these items, even if they had fingerprints, traces of blood, and even the autographs of Chief and Familiar. Why? Because the evidence was obtained improperly: without forensic team and tons of pieces of paper, starting with the head of the department's written permission to conduct an inspection of the pond and ending with the signing of an inspection form by a group of divers.
Of course, as far as Chief was concerned, everything was crystal clear: he was in no way eager to allow such an investigation. And the funny thing was that he violated nothing by not starting an inspection of the pond because first, the victim died because of a head injury and not drowning, and second, she was simply a prostitute, and nobody canceled the BDP.
No, theoretically Cord could take a chance and use the evidence provided by Fiddler to force Chief to order an inspection of the pond, to interrogate Forensics about the missing bag, and to question the duty officer about the night of the twelfth of July about the visit by Chief to the laboratory. However, there was a sickening possibility that Fiddler would mysteriously disappear before the trial and then be found in a well or a sewer. Oh, yes, he was homeless. His death wouldn't look suspicious. After all, the homeless, according to statistics, are dying like flies.
The witness protection program? Ha! And double "Ha!" considering that he would testify against the head of the Central Police Department and his son.
Even so, if everything went smoothly, would justice prevail?
Familiar is a neurotic, his lawyer would say, trying for a lesser charge of murder in a state of passion, which meant that the maximum he would get would be three years, but being realistic, he would be acquitted, or given six months of correctional labor as a symbolic sentence.
What about Chief? Nothing. Yes, he appears to be an accomplice: he helped to hide evidence… for his son. Who clearly did not plan to commit the murder. How would he be punished, would he be fined? Perhaps they would force him to resign? That was doubtful. Good heads of departments can't be found on trees. Therefore, most likely, nothing would even happen to Chief.
Cord would surely be fired. Not that it would be a disaster, but he didn't want to lose his job because of some business that would end in nothing.
In addition, there was the unknown driver who crashed into Cord's car and later was killed as if by Cord.
It was time to take up the case of the hospital massacre.
2
The cabinet, aquarium, and a hedgehog were in place. To the right of the door, Crane was still sitting and looking through the papers.
"Good morning," Cord chuckled.
The intern, still with cotton wool in his nose, looked up from the papers and stared at the newcomer.
"Yeah, hi."
"Is it still bleeding?" Cord pointed to the fleece.
"A little."
"Why do you provoke fights if you are a hemophiliac?"
Crane smiled.
"It was worth it. By the way, Force left materials on the case of the hospital massacre on your desk."
"Yes, he told me. Have you already studied the materials of both cases?"
"What do you mean?"
"The case of the hospital massacre and the case of the murder in the park."
"Uh… No, Force didn't let me."
"Now, I'll take a look and then give the materials to you, look through them. You can take the case of the prostitute yourself."
"Really?" Crane looked taken aback with surprise.
"There must be some benefit from you."
Sitting at his desk, Cord began to carefully examine the documents.
The killer acted… strangely. He ran like crazy around the hospital, as if in a panic, like a novice criminal who had been grabbed by the ass. He confused the carotid artery with the jugular vein and did not provide himself with cover—in general, acted like a dunce. But on the other hand, the knife he threw aptly (and even into a moving target) and did not leave prints on it; the traces in the pool of blood that had spread in the ward had been smeared (maybe not on purpose); the window had been knocked out so that there were no large fragments left in the frame, so as not to accidentally leave particles of clothing on them. Damn, and then the killer jumped from the third floor and escaped, despite the dogs!
It certainly couldn't have been Familiar.
And there was a high probability that the killer was not a novice, but quite the opposite, a super professional.
Okay, I'll think about that later. What about the victims?
There were two of them: a doctor on duty and a former truck driver. Cord skimmed the doctor's biography: this is probably a collateral victim, so it does not really matter who he was.
But the unemployed trucker was of interest. Six months before the accident, he had a classic everyday drama: he learned about his wife's betrayal. Instead of immediately divorcing her, he tried to save the marriage: took shorter routes to avoid being away from home too long, drove his wife to restaurants, and took her on vacation abroad. He was fifty-two, she was forty-eight; their marriage had lasted twenty-five years, and despite the betrayal, he loved his wife.
But he realized nothing had changed, and the lover never left his wife's life, so he began to drown his grief in drink—to be exact, in vodka. And one day, having well mustered up the courage, he confronted his wife about everything. She kicked him out of the apartment, the joint purchase of which was another whole epic. The man moved into his tractor. Fortunately, he was no stranger to spending the night in it.
According to the widow (they did not have time to file a divorce), this happened nine days before the accident.
Cord had an idea of a possible motive for the trucker. But there was one point he did not find in the case file.
***
In contrast to his usual routine, Force was now sitting, leaning his head on his own fist, and staring thoughtfully at the door.
"Hello, hello, anyone at home?" Cord snapped his fingers in front of his eyes. Force perked up.
"You could have been more polite," he complained. "Maybe I'm here, thinking about the nature of being."
"No need to think about such garbage. You need to think either about cases or about women. Otherwise, what's the point?"
Force smiled.
"Are you on business, or did you come to chat?"
"About the case. By the way, I added Crane to it. Let him help."
"Well, if you think it's a good idea, why not?" Force shrugged.
"I studied all the materials and did not find one detail. Where was the driver coming from?"
"Uh-uh… He was in a coma, we couldn't ask him—"
"He had a zero point twenty-eight percent blood alcohol level."
"Well, yes, but—"
"In such a state, a person can barely walk, and even less effectively steer a car. I ignored it then, but it seems that he could have only driven straight and not far away. In short, get ready. We're going for a ride."
3
"Now where?"
They had already visited four drinking establishments near the crash site, and Force was annoyed. He was tired of walking, so now, sitting behind the wheel again, he was relieved.
Cord landed in the seat next to him and unfolded a tourist map he had bought from a nearby print kiosk.
"To the next intersection, then a hundred meters to the right."
"How many more?"
"Five."
"Well!" Force swallowed a curse.
"And that's just the bars. We might have to check the liquor stores!" Cord chuckled ominously.
***
The bar was so full of smoke that even Cord grimaced, and Force started coughing altogether.
"Come on… Hurry…" he said, choking, and hurried to take a seat closer to the exit.
Brushing away the smoke, Cord walked over to the counter. With a bored look, the bartender was listening to the drunken story of another lost soul and turned his gaze to the new visitor with relief.
"Good afternoon." Cord presented his police ID. "We're here on business."
The bartender frowned.
"And what do you want?" he asked cautiously.
"Information. Have you seen this person?" Cord pulled a slightly crumpled black-and-white photograph from his pocket and laid it on the bar.
The bartender grimaced, pulled the photo towards him with two fingers, and then pushed it away with a similar gesture.
"There are many people hanging around here."
"That is not an answer."
"I can't help you," he muttered and turned away.
"Hey, listen, maybe I can," rasped a voice near Cord. "Show me the picture."
Cord looked to the left. A man of indeterminate age, shaggy, unshaven, with a red nose, reached out to Cord with his free hand and snapped his fingers.
"Come on," he demanded.
Cord showed him the snapshot.
"Yeah. Yeah." The guy looked closely. "Yes, that is Mr. Missed! How could you not recognize him? So what about him?"
"He's dead."
"Damn it… Will you pour me one?" he looked at Cord with hope.
"A bottle of whiskey, please."
"Whiskey?" the man was speechless from surprise.
"And then you and I will go over there," Cord pointed over his shoulder to where Force sat, impatiently drumming his fingers on the table.
"Ah, well, this is… This is… a dream come true then!" seeing his reward, at last, the man stood and unsteadily, but joyfully, walked towards Force.
"You should be more careful with him," the bartender said to Cord in an unexpectedly quiet voice. "He's still a lush. He'll tell you fairy tales."
"Well, even fairy tales are better than nothing," said Cord, holding out the money.
"Don't get me wrong," the bartender muttered apologetically. "I just pour drinks and listen to their nonsense. I don't remember each and every one of them."
"I repeat, no problem."
The bartender nodded gratefully and put the bottle on the table. Nice whiskey, expensive, but the information is even more valuable.
***
The guy's lusting eyes were fixed on how Cord was opening the bottle and poured the liquid into a shot glass.
"So?" Cord sat down opposite him and turned on the recorder.
"What?"
"You said you know the person in the photo."
"Uh, yeah. Yes. Well then, to the photo!" The man emptied the glass in one gulp and put it in front of Cord. He poured again. "You guys seem to be from the police, but you guys know the right approach. And so I will, in short, tell you everything I know right now. That guy in the picture is Mr. Missed. He is a regular here. Well, sort of… He was. I haven't seen him for a long time."
"For a long time? That means what? Since when?" said Force, writing something down in his notebook.
"Well, it has probably been… a month, maybe somewhere about that… No, even one and a half months… Or even—"
"I see," interrupted Cord, "let's continue."
He knocked down another glass, but when Cord was about to pour him a third, he covered it with his hand.
"Hold on," he said. "Enough for now. Eh… In short… What was I talking about? Oh yeah! Mr. Missed. That is, as it was… Well… He was called different things, but that's what I called him. Because when he got drunk, he couldn't pour the vodka into the glass and always missed, ha-ha!"
"Was he a regular here?"
"I was saying… Well… Oh, shoot… Yeah, he drank here, in short, usually alone. Well, sometimes I sat with him, but this is, well, you see, it's a normal thing, something like that. But what's interesting… When he was here for the last time, that is, I don't know, about a month and a half ago, as I said, he came alone, but that time someone joined him. He was, uh-uh…" The man narrowed his eyes and looked at Cord. "Yes, he looked just like you, really, the same face." He removed his hand from the glass.
Cord poured.
"Thank you, thank you!" another valiant gulp.
"He looked like me?" Cord pressed him impatiently.
"Yes, and here, I might add, exactly! Maybe you were, I don't know… Although his voice was different. I remember when he began to speak, his voice broke, and he went all falsetto, so sonorous. Well, like a woman. Yeah, that what it was like, yeah…"
Cord and Force exchanged glances.
"Thanks for the information." Cord put the bottle in front of the drunkard and turned off the recorder.
The man smiled contentedly.
"Glad to have helped." Then he poured himself a new glass. "Well, here's to all!"
4
A curious situation indeed.
From the outside, the case look like this: I organize an accident—persuade a drunk trucker to ram my car to "kill myself"; learning that after the accident trucker survived and is coming out of a coma, therefore he will be able to identify me, I kill him.
The reality is: Someone pretends to be me during the hiring and murder of a trucker, thus securing for themselves testimonies from bar dwellers and hospital workers—testimonies from two different and unrelated places; therefore, someone seeks to frame me as a murderer. Right?
But what's the point of a doppelgänger killing the driver? Wouldn't he have been better off waiting for him to come out of his coma and identifying me?
No. That would be the logic of a not-too-bright doppelgänger. While it would be beneficial for the pretender not to eliminate the driver, I (if I had actually organized the assassination attempt on myself) quite reasonably would want to stop the driver.
Wow.
So what? It turns out the murderer, as if "reincarnated" inside me, and for greater realism, tries to carry out crimes using my logic and not his own?
Let's suppose that's right, but then why didn't the killer go all the way? Why didn't he plant evidence in my apartment? He didn't want to frame me? Or was the killer in a quantum superposition? He wanted and didn't want at the same time?
Nothing is clear.