Politie: Sectia 8

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

Munteanu walked back to the main office. The logbook was open. He ran his finger down the list of arrests for the night. There it was: “John Doe, public intoxication, 02:15 AM. Arresting officer: Secuiu, V.” No other details. No ID. No witnesses. sectia 8 politie

“The guys from the night patrol. I don’t know. The big one, the one with the scar.” The skin was cold

But something was wrong. Munteanu leaned closer. The dead man’s hands were unusually soft, the nails manicured. His shoes were expensive leather, not the usual scuffed boots of a local drunk. And his face, when Munteanu gently turned it, was bruised in a very specific pattern—not from a fistfight, but from a precise, crushing blow to the temple. Munteanu walked back to the main office

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