Rain falling from the gray sky was turning the barren ground into mud. He closed the door of his car and took his first step into it. The fabric cap on his head and the black overcoat on his back only barely protected him from the rain. He took out his old-fashioned pipe, inhaled once, then began scanning the surroundings. A few people in white coats, splattered with mud, were pacing around a car that had slammed into a garbage container and toppled it over.
He walked forward as his black boots sank into the mud. His tall frame stood out even more among the slanted lines of rain. He exhaled pipe smoke into the air. Just then, a blonde woman who had stepped out from the driver's side walked toward him.
"Detective."
The man took another drag from his pipe and looked at her. "Agent Sierra. What's the situation?" His voice was flat and calm, blending with the hiss of the rain. The young woman adjusted the collar of her leather jacket as she spoke. "Female, around thirty-four. Strangulation. No signs of struggle."
"ID?"
"None yet, sir." With Sierra's answer, he slipped his pipe into his pocket and put on the plastic gloves he had taken out. With a few swift steps he moved toward the driver's door. The victim's face entered his line of sight. Her head had fallen to the side, resting against the steering wheel. Her bloodshot eyes looked as though they had bulged from the pressure of oxygen deprivation. With almost therapeutic delicacy, he exposed the woman's neck. On both sides, he saw the distinctly symmetrical fingerprints.
He drew in a deep breath, pulled out a small flashlight, and shone it into the car. His face tensed. "Heavy." He sniffed carefully and didn't speak for a while. He pulled back, removed his gloves, and took his pipe into his hand again.
"No signs of struggle. That suggests the chemical inside the car was some kind of sedative."
He glanced toward the side of the corpse. Sierra was listening to him. He leaned inside and looked at the rearview mirror. After checking both the left and right side mirrors as well, he let out a hiss of air.
"The mirrors aren't set to the woman's height. She wasn't the one driving. That means she came here with someone she knew. The man knocked her out, then finished the job."
Sierra approached and examined the mirrors as well. "Someone pretty tall. The mirrors are set too high. Definitely a man."
Playing lightly with the pipe between his teeth, he turned around. "Search the area thoroughly. Her wallet should be somewhere around here. Come to my office when the forensics report is out." Just as he was about to walk away, he paused and turned. "Where's Logan?"
Sierra looked at him while adjusting the gloves she had put back on. "He was heading to the Chief."
Shade walked toward the toppled garbage container. He looked inside and sniffed. He scanned the area. On the ground, a broken branch with leaves still clinging to it caught his attention. He bent down and lifted a leaf. Beneath it, half an unwashed footprint remained despite the rain.
"The rain ruined everything else, but this survived." Looking at the width of the print, he confirmed his earlier thought. He straightened up, turning toward Sierra. "Height around six-three, shoe size twelve or thirteen. Try to find another print."
After standing there a while longer, he walked back to his car. As he turned the key and pressed the gas, he drove off, leaving a deep track in the mud behind him.
---
In his office, Shade rummaged through the piles of files stacked on his desk, letting out a deep sigh of frustration. The investigation into the body found that morning was still ongoing. He scratched his head and glanced at another report.
Just then the door opened. A tall, black-haired woman stepped in. Seeing Shade's state, a slight smile curled on her lips. "Shade, you know staring at those papers won't make the work finish, right?"
"Your support warms my heart, Harvenn. Truly."
The woman gracefully placed her hand on her hip. "Happy to help, then." She took a wallet from the inside pocket of her jacket and placed it on Shade's desk. "The victim's wallet. As you guessed, it was found nearby. No fingerprints on it."
The young detective grumbled as he took the wallet. "Why does my team bring evidence to you first instead of me?"
"Maybe they like me more," Harvenn said as she left, leaving behind a faint trace of perfume.
Shade frowned after her, then pulled his glasses from the drawer. He examined the wallet carefully: a few credit cards and a stained, bloody photograph. He pulled the photo closer. The victim posed with a small child and a tall man.
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. He focused on the tall man. After a few seconds he set the wallet down and reached for his phone. When the line opened, an energetic voice burst through.
"Hey Boss! What's up?"
Shade took a long drag from the pipe he'd pinched between his lips. "Logan, bring the others and come to my office."
"You got it, Boss!"
Shade stared into the photo again as he sipped the smoke. Soon, there was a knock, and three people entered: Agent Sierra, Logan—the one he had spoken to on the phone—and a South American man with a blank, steel-cold expression.
He held the photo out to them. "Run a facial scan through the database. And check the missing exports from the last month. The man's height matches the mirror adjustments."
As he spoke, he noticed a small print on the lower right corner of the photo. "Logan, Chane. You two go to this shop and show them the photo. See if the owner remembers anything. Sierra, the digital work is yours."
Logan and Chane stood up. Chane, in his jeans and neatly ironed shirt, looked like the embodiment of discipline. Not a flicker of expression crossed his face. Logan was the opposite: messy brown hair, mischievous eyes, and a relaxed outfit betrayed his nature. What a strange duo they were.
They left the office. Sierra was about to leave as well when Shade stopped her. "Thank you for bringing the information to me first, Miss Sierra." Though there was a faint hint of sarcasm in his tone, the young agent knew he wasn't serious. With an expressionless face she said,
"You're welcome, sir," and left.
Shade leaned back in his swivel chair. He pressed the button beside him to turn off the lights and stretched his legs onto the desk, ready to doze off. He looked utterly relaxed.
After a short silence, his own voice echoed through the room: "The killer was either in the car with the woman, or he knew the exact duration of the chemical's effect. Doesn't look like an amateur job."
Thoughtfully, he rolled the pipe in his palms and lifted it. Feeling the empty space in his mouth, he let out a weary sigh. He set the pipe on the desk and turned the light back on. He had just begun to fill it with tobacco when the door knocked and Sierra stepped inside. "Sir, Mr. Perolt—the man who made the report—is here. Will you conduct the interrogation?"
Shade nodded, pushing the tobacco box aside. "Let's go."
Following Sierra, he walked through the dim hallways of the Bureau of Special Criminal Cases.
Sierra quickened her pace to keep up with his long strides. "Another late night," she said with a faint smile. "No wonder they call us the Shadow Bureau."
Shade didn't respond. He knew he himself had contributed to the name sticking. Every case he solved—especially those "cold files" the other teams had given up on—had strengthened the unit's reputation and name. People chose to call this mysterious team, who worked in the dark and brought light, by that title.
After a few minutes, they stopped at a door in an even dimmer corridor with sound-proofed walls.
Shade pushed the door open and stepped inside. His movements were calm and confident. Sierra followed a step behind, closing the door and leaning against the wall as she opened the file in her hands. She took her place like a silent shadow.
At the table in the center of the room sat an old man with dried mud stains on the sleeve of his coat. He flinched as Shade entered and clasped his hands on the table. His gaze seemed frozen on a single point.
Shade didn't sit. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the table, watching the man from above. He hadn't taken off his coat; it still carried the smell of wet soil and rain.
"Mr. Perolt," he began, his voice filling the room with an artificial warmth. "Sorry to take up your time. We need your help."
The old man merely nodded and cleared his throat. "Of course, of course… Anything I can do."
Shade spent a moment cleaning his pipe, speaking without looking at him, as if his attention were on the pipe. "Rather brave of you. Going to such a deserted place that late. Did you have business out there?"
Perolt seemed slightly relieved by Shade not looking at him. "No, I mean… yes. A shortcut. I was going to buy flowers for my wife from the nursery outside the city. The road passes through there."
"Flowers," Shade murmured. For a moment he seemed to hold his breath, the pipe hanging from his mouth. "How romantic."
Then he suddenly lifted his head and looked straight into the man's eyes. "So why did you stop there? Just curiosity? Or did you see something?"
Sierra slid a sheet of paper from the file to Shade. Shade glanced at it from the corner of his eye, pretending not to read it. His full attention was still on Perolt.
Under Shade's gaze, Perolt seemed to melt. Twisting his fingers together, he began to speak: "The car… it hit the garbage container. The sound was terrible. I saw it through my windows, I hit the brakes. Then… then the container tipped over, trash scattered everywhere."
Shade listened without moving. "I see. And then? Did you see anyone inside the car? Did you try to help?"
"No! I mean… yes, maybe for a moment. I think I saw someone in the driver's seat. Their head was down. But… I panicked. I was scared. Out in that deserted place, who knows what had happened. I drove away immediately." The man's voice shook, the words tangling together.
A thin, unreadable smile appeared on Shade's lips. "I understand. So due to your cowardice, you took away a woman's last chance at help. And then your conscience drove you to call us. How… human."
The old man shrank under the sharpness of Shade's words. "I… I just…"
Shade straightened from the table and took a step forward. Now he was looking directly at him. "Then Mr. Perolt, if you were so terrified, how did you manage to note the license plate? Or at least the color? Your witness statement contains those details quite clearly."
Sierra coughed softly, eyes still on the file. Shade registered her subtle warning but ignored it. All his attention was on the old man, who had begun to sweat.
Perolt's eyes widened. Shade's question struck him like a blow. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound emerged.
"I… that is… is that what I wrote?" he stammered. His hands trembled. "Everything happened so fast… maybe I remembered wrong. I only know it was a dark-colored car, I'm sure I didn't look at the plate, I'm sure!"
Shade watched this panic indifferently. He slid his pipe into his pocket, now gazing at the man with a more disturbing clarity.
"Interesting," he said, his tone soft but cutting. "So in that moment of fear and chaos, your mind managed to register a detail we haven't shared with anyone. Very interesting."
Sierra shot Shade a meaningful look. Both of them knew: the statement had said nothing about a license plate. This was Shade's clean, deliberate lie.
The old man's face turned ghost-white. He seemed to find himself suddenly in the defendant's seat. "Please," he whispered, "I only told you what I saw. I don't know anything else."
Shade watched him a moment longer, then shrugged, as if he had lost interest.
"Very well, Mr. Perolt. We understand. Thank you for your time. If anything else comes to mind, contact us."
Realizing the interrogation was over, the old man stood up quickly and clumsily, avoiding Shade's gaze as he hurried to the door. When the door closed, Shade turned to Sierra.
"Fear turns memory into a curious plaything," he said. "It either erases unnecessary details… or invents ones that never existed. Follow him. If he's hiding something, this will expose it."
As Shade moved toward the exit, he stopped beside the young woman. "Find me when the report is out. Me first."
Without waiting for an answer, he walked out.
When he entered his office, he slowly sat down in his chair and leaned back. In his mind, the old man's look of fear—wrongfully accused—kept replaying.
"Does fear hide the truth, or do the truths themselves frighten us?"