The glass of the little shop barely revealed the faded sign "Anı Yakala Fotoğrafçılık" through years of dust. Inside, among old flashes, dusty camera boxes and yellowed portraits lining the walls, the place seemed frozen fifteen years behind its time. The air carried a mingled scent of old paper and chemical fixative.
When the bell rang and Logan and Chane stepped inside, they briefly disturbed that stagnant atmosphere. The slightly hunched, bespectacled man behind the counter looked up. His face held the calm, practiced expression of someone used to greeting customers.
"How can I help you?" His voice was rough and husky.
Chane took his ID from his inner pocket and slid it across the counter. His movements were economical and formal. "Detective Chane, Bureau of Special Criminal Cases. This is my colleague Logan. We need to ask you about something."
Logan glanced around with a half-smile. "Lovely place. The value of the old ought to be appreciated."
The man glanced at the ID, then over his glasses at the two detectives. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Miroslav. Go ahead, tell me what you need. I'll help as much as I can." He spoke with the calm of a seasoned professor.
Chane pushed the bloody photo, placed inside a folder, across the counter. "Do you recognize this photo? Could it have been taken in your shop?"
Miroslav leaned closer to the picture. He angled it to catch the light and touched the edge with his fingertip, studying it for several seconds. His expression did not change.
"We shoot thousands of photos. I can't remember every face. But…" He tilted his head slightly. "The background… that curtain. Yes, I think it was taken in our studio. That's a backdrop we used years ago."
Logan leaned on the counter. "Do you remember this family, especially the tall man?" His tone was playful, a contrast to Chane's seriousness.
Miroslav studied the man in the photo more carefully. For a moment he seemed to think, then shook his head lightly. "No. Sorry. They look like a happy family, but the names and faces don't ring a bell. Too many people come through here."
Chane, a little unsettled by the inability to read the man's expression, pressed on. "No clue at all? Maybe the shoot date, any record…"
"Records…" Miroslav murmured, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Old ledgers… getting to them would take some time. They're in storage, under the dust." His words had the tone of someone who wanted to help but couldn't.
The Q&A continued in that vein for a while—Miroslav's calm, soft answers against the detectives' different questioning styles.
Finally Chane left a card on the counter. "Thank you for your time. If anything comes to mind, call us."
Miroslav took the card and nodded politely. "Of course. If I remember anything, I'll call."
As Logan and Chane left, the bell chimed again. Miroslav's steady, composed face remained in place until the door shut. Somewhere beneath the counter, his hand slowly closed into a fist.
When Logan and Chane returned to the office, night had fallen. On the quieter floor of the Bureau of Special Criminal Cases, a single room had its light on. They entered to find a group gathered around a file in tense silence.
Shade sat on the edge of the table, quietly cleaning his pipe. Sierra stood before him holding the forensic report. Behind her, Harvenn—Chane's twin in expressionless features—watched with folded arms.
"Welcome," Shade said without looking up. "Don't miss the party. Miss Sierra, start. Short and to the point, please."
Sierra began, glancing at the report. The precision in her voice drew everyone's attention. "The deceased is Elena Varga. Thirty-four years old. Official cause of death: mechanical asphyxia—strangulation. The marks on the neck are bilateral and symmetrical, as you suspected."
"But," she emphasized, scanning the papers more closely, "there's an inconsistency in the time of death. Body temperature and other indicators suggest death occurred at least eight hours before the time we found her at the scene."
A ripple of surprise moved through the room.
"So the car was brought there later?" Logan jumped in. "Why?"
"Patience, Mr. Logan," Shade intervened, the faint clinks of him packing his pipe punctuating his words. "Continue, Sierra."
Sierra turned the page; a slight shock passed over her face. "Also… the toxicology report found high levels of a neurotoxin called Tiyokurat in her blood."
"Tiyokurat?" Harvenn muttered for the first time, stepping forward. "That's an industrial pesticide. Not outright banned but regulated. Used in agricultural chemicals and certain chemical processes. Not something you'd commonly find."
"Precisely," Sierra confirmed. "And here's the strangest part: the toxin concentration isn't lethal. It's at a sedative, paralytic level. In other words, the woman had already been rendered unconscious and partially paralyzed before the asphyxia."
Shade inhaled from his pipe and let the smoke roll out like a cloud in the dim light. "So here's our scenario," he began, assembling the pieces in his mind. "The killer poisoned Elena Varga with Tiyokurat, enough to sedate and paralyze her. Then kept her somewhere else—perhaps where the actual murder was committed. Hours later, at a chosen time, he moved her to that remote field, placed her in the car, and watched her take her last breath."
"Why such a complicated plan?" Chane asked, grave. "Why not shoot and run? Or use a lethal dose?"
"That's the key question," Shade said, pacing. "This isn't a heat-of-the-moment crime. It's a message. An execution. He wanted to watch her die. He wanted control. He knew the toxin's dosage and effect duration. This is the work of someone used to chemicals—maybe a chemist, a doctor, or someone who handles such substances."
Logan looked at Shade. "The photographer… Miroslav. His shop smelled of old chemicals. Fixatives, developing baths…"
"Clues can come from anywhere," Harvenn added thoughtfully. "Tiyokurat turns up around agricultural areas, chemical plants, or private labs. Not directly tied to photographic chemicals, but not impossible either."
Shade stared out the window at the city lights. "Two parallel tracks. One: where did Elena spend the last six hours of her life? Security cameras, phone pings, last seen locations. Two: trace the Tiyokurat. Who sells it, who uses it, who has access?" He turned suddenly to the team. "Sierra, you and Harvenn look into production labs and the chemical supply chain. Push through official channels."
"Logan, Chane—reconstruct Elena Varga's life. Trace every minute of the last week. Her work, friends, family… especially the man and child in that photo. Where are they?"
"And I," he tapped the pipe on the desk, "will pay Miroslav another visit. This time I'll bring those ledgers with me."
He walked toward the door, leaving a silence heavy with new tension. The report raised more questions than answers. Each question cut a deeper path into the shadows.
Under the blue glow of the technical research room, two women represented different worlds. Sierra combed official databases for records while Harvenn sat at the other end with her laptop—elegant but determined.
"The ministry's list came back," Sierra said, eyes on her screen. "There are a few firms where the toxin could be purchased. We'll need formal requests—won't be quick."
"Time," Harvenn murmured, voice sharpening in the cold air, "is not our luxury." Her eyes scanned Sierra's list. "File the official requests. But red tape can't slow us down."
Sierra dialed the first number as Harvenn ran a rapid search on her machine. With every administrative obstacle Sierra hit, Harvenn's face showed a small, satisfied edge.
"Interesting," Harvenn said quietly as Sierra finished a call. "One of the firms on the list went bankrupt last year. Its assets were sold, warehouses cleared out."
Sierra frowned. "Records could be messy. Some of the toxin might've been written off."
"Or intentionally scrubbed," Harvenn added, tapping the table. "While official channels knock on that firm's door, you and I will trace the workers who cleared its warehouses. People talk—institutions don't."
Sierra hesitated at the informality of Harvenn's approach. "Harvenn, those off-the-books interviews…"
"It's my responsibility," Harvenn cut in. She straightened and looked at Sierra with a gaze as piercing as Shade's. "Shade solves cases; I clear the way. Sometimes that means walking in the shadow of rules. Send me the former employee lists. Not the executives—look for the laborers, the security guards. They saw the walls' backsides."
She rose and left. Sierra felt trapped between two authorities: the rules and the results. She took a deep breath and set to work.
—
In an abandoned industrial district café, Harvenn sat at a corner table, her laptop open. Dressed, as always, with elegant professionalism—her weapon. Kyle Dern arrived and Harvenn delayed closing her computer by a few seconds by design, a small game to hold power.
"Mr. Dern," she said without looking up. "Right on time. Good start."
Kyle sank into the chair. "About the payment you mentioned…"
"Information before payment," Harvenn cut across. Her tone was sharp—no Shade-style mind games; she relied on documents and records. Her eyes scanned the file on the table. "We know that during KempaTek's liquidation, Tiyokurat went off the books. You know that. Tell me what you didn't."
Kyle began to sweat. "I was just a security guard, ma'am. I didn't touch the records."
Harvenn finally lifted her head. Her eyes were ice. "I reviewed the night-shift logs, Mr. Dern. Fourteen times the cameras were recorded as 'technical failure.' Coincidence or extra income?"
Kyle turned ashen. Harvenn didn't need tricks—she had records.
"The van…" he stammered. "It came twice. It was for top management's private client."
"The plate?" Harvenn asked, wasting no time.
"No plates. But a blue stripe on the rear door. And the man waiting by the van… very tall. Unsettlingly calm."
Harvenn jotted notes. "Could you identify him?"
Kyle shook his head violently. "No! Maybe… But don't involve me. I have a family."
Harvenn stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Dern." She left a small envelope on the table. "Remember—forgetting this will be in your best interest. We never met."
As she exited the café, she pulled out her phone and called Sierra. "New lead," she said, professional and distant. "A van with no plates and a blue stripe. A very tall, calm man. Scan all traffic cameras."
Harvenn's methods differed from Shade's—less psychological, more threat and records-based. Yet both pushed toward the same truth.
Back at Capture the Moment Photography—
The bell rang sharper this time as Shade entered. Miroslav was showing an album to a customer. Seeing Shade, he kept his face unchanged and said, "One minute, please."
Shade didn't wait. He strode to the counter and set his badge squarely atop the album. "Bureau of Special Criminal Cases. Shade."
Miroslav looked at the ID, then politely ushered the customer away. "Detective. How can I help?" His voice carried the calm, roughened professionalism of someone seasoned by years.
Shade produced his pipe and tapped it lightly on the counter. "Those ledgers. I'm curious. Just shoot logs, or do they show other things?"
"What do you mean?" Miroslav began calmly, cleaning his glasses.
"Maybe… delivery records. Chemical deliveries." Shade kept his eyes fixed on Miroslav.
Miroslav smiled faintly. "This is a photography shop, Detective."
"Yes," Shade shifted, changing tack. "Where were you on the seventeenth of last month? Around eight in the evening."
Miroslav wasn't prepared for the question. "I think… I was closing up the shop."
"Interesting," Shade said, producing a small notebook. "Because that evening you were seen near the KempaTek warehouse on the other side of town."
For the first time, the composed look on Miroslav's face cracked. "You're mistaken."
"Am I?" Shade snapped the notebook shut. "Then those ledgers will be on this counter in half an hour. Agreed?"
Miroslav didn't move for a beat, then slowly nodded. "Impossible. The warehouse's a mess. At the earliest… two days."
Shade slipped his pipe back into his pocket. "Seems you need a little help." He reached for his phone. Miroslav breathed with difficulty. "Okay. Half an hour."
Detective—Shade murmured—"I suppose you tried to stall because you didn't want to deal with the hassle, right?"
The hunched man grumbled, "I was going home."
Shade watched him, then slowly started down a back door toward the shop's rear.