Sectia 8: Politie

Munteanu stood up slowly. He looked at Ghiță. “Who brought him in?”

Munteanu shone the light on the prone figure. The man’s back was still. No rhythmic rise and fall. He clicked the heavy lock and stepped inside. He knelt, ignoring the smell of cheap wine and sweat, and pressed two fingers to the man’s thick neck. sectia 8 politie

“Domnule polițist! Domnule polițist! There’s a man in here! He’s not breathing!” Munteanu stood up slowly

Agentul principal Andrei Munteanu didn't need a clock. He could feel the weight of the hour in his bones. He was on his third coffee, a thick, bitter sludge from a machine that had been old when he joined the force a decade ago. The station smelled of bleach, old cigarette smoke, and the faint, sour tang of fear. The man’s back was still

The skin was cold. No pulse. The man was dead.

He made a different call. Not to the captain. To the parchet – the prosecutor’s office. To a woman named Procuror Ionescu, who hated Secuiu with a quiet, burning passion. She answered on the second ring.

“I don’t know! They brought him in an hour ago, drunk. He started snoring, then… nothing. He stopped!”