He held it in his hands for a few seconds, as if the weight of the paper itself could tell him something. Then he sat down at one of the tables at the back of the police station, far from the noise, far from the curious glances of the officers. He looked at the file carefully, as if searching for an invisible clue, a connection others had failed to see.

  Victim:

  Name: John Hagen

  Age: 52

  Occupation: Real estate businessman

  Dead in his own office.

  The body was found on the top floor of the building. According to the photographs, the scene was disturbingly orderly. The desk was clean. There were no forced doors, no obvious signs of violence. In the images, the man lay on the floor without clear marks of struggle or resistance that could explain the murder.

  Estimated time of death: between nine and ten o’clock at night.

  The body was discovered by the secretary, who stated she found him already lifeless upon arriving at the office.

  Volkov continued reading. His gaze moved slowly, but nothing escaped his attention. One photograph after another revealed the crime scene: the perfectly organized desk, a glass of wine half-finished, papers aligned with almost obsessive precision.

  Too perfect.

  —There were no signs of robbery —one of the officers explained—. Nothing was missing. Nothing was out of place.

  —That doesn’t mean anything —Volkov replied calmly—. It means whoever did it knew exactly what they were looking for… or they weren’t looking for anything at all.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The officer frowned.

  —We also questioned those closest to him —he added—. The business partner, the wife, the mistress, and the secretary.

  Volkov raised an eyebrow slightly.

  —Too many lives crossing around a single death —he said quietly.

  The officer sighed, as if that part of the report made him uncomfortable.

  —The partner, Richard Koller, had recent financial conflicts with the victim. They argued days before the murder. The wife, Helena Havel, knew about the infidelity. And the mistress… —he paused briefly— Mila Novak, worked at another company in the same industry.

  Volkov slowly closed the folder and asked:

  —Then why was the case closed?

  Silence followed immediately.

  —There was no conclusive evidence —another officer finally replied—. No clear fingerprints. No direct witnesses. Everyone had partial alibis. Nothing that would hold up in court.

  Volkov looked at him coldly, his expression serious.

  —Cases aren’t closed because there’s no evidence —he said—. They’re closed because no one knows where to look.

  For a few seconds, no one spoke. The officers exchanged tense, cautious glances. One clenched his jaw; another looked down at the floor, as if the file weighed more than they were willing to admit. What lingered in the air was not doubt, but discomfort. They knew the case had been closed too quickly, and Volkov’s presence exposed it.

  The silence grew thick, almost unbearable, until one of the officers cleared his throat, unable to hold Volkov’s gaze for long.

  —I’ll take charge of this case —Volkov said firmly.

  —Even though it’s archived? —one of them asked.

  Volkov lifted his head. His gray eyes remained fixed, unreadable.

  —Especially because it’s archived.

  He took the folder and closed it carefully.

  —I want to see the office. I want to speak with the secretary. And then the others. In that order.

  He headed toward the door but stopped for a moment before leaving.

  —One more thing —he added—. Evidence always exists. Just tell me which one no one wanted to face.

  He left the room behind, along with the silence and a file that, after days of sleeping, had just been awakened.

  And the city, without knowing it, was about to reveal its first secret.