Sectia — 8 Politie

“What happened, Ghiță?” Munteanu asked, his voice calm.

Tonight, the silence was broken by a frantic, high-pitched wail from the holding cell.

He picked up the phone to call his captain, then stopped. Secuiu had friends. Powerful friends. The captain might be one of them. One wrong call and this report would vanish. Munteanu would be transferred to a rural outpost in the Delta, and the dead man with the soft hands would be cremated as an “unidentified vagrant.” sectia 8 politie

He walked to Cell 3. Inside, a skinny, twitchy man known as “Ghiță” was pressed against the far wall, his eyes wide. Lying on the concrete bench was a mountain of a man, face-down, arms splayed.

“I have a body,” he said, his voice low. “Cell 3. Apparent homicide. The arresting officer is Secuiu.” “What happened, Ghiță

He looked back at the stopped clock. 3:17 AM. The hour of truth.

The clock on the wall of had stopped at 3:17 AM. No one had bothered to fix it for three years. It was a symbolic time, the hour when the city's noise faded into a dull hum and only the desperate, the drunk, and the dangerous were still awake. Secuiu had friends

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.