The Mastermind

1

The friends didn't stay too long: Cord went to work in the morning and, in order not to arouse suspicion, he tried to be cheerful.

The vegetable storage facility operated from 11:00 to 19:00. The worker would come at, say, fifteen to eleven, then go around his property and notice that the door to one unit was ajar. Naturally, he would open it and see what he had not planned to see.

Then he would call the police. The investigators of the First Industrial District, where the storage facility is located, would undoubtedly recognize their oversized colleague from the Central Police Department. They would then call his boss—and let the action begin.

***

At 12:30, a phone rang in Chief's office. At 12:31, he had to lean on the table to keep from falling. At 12:35, he called Cord and Crane by phone. At 12:40, he was forced to tell them the terrible news:

"Cord. Crane. Guys, hold on." Chief took in more air in his chest. "Force was murdered."

Usually, they would go to the scene of murder without flashing lights: there is no reason to rush. But this time, Chief allowed Cord not only to turn them on but also to go as fast as possible. As a result, they arrived at the crime scene almost simultaneously with the forensic team.

"He's in the thirty-seventh unit," Forensics said instead of a greeting. "I haven't been there yet, but the guys have already started to work. Chief, can I speak to you for a minute?"

Crane almost ran into the vegetable storage facility. Then a heartbreaking scream was heard. Seeing the bloody corpse of his step-brother, the guy who had been so eager to seem like an adult was now completely broken. He thrashed about in hysterics, pounded his fist against the dirty wall, tears flowing from his eyes, and insane screams erupted from his mouth. The poor guy had to be dragged away from the entrance to the unit and taken out into the fresh air.

Cord hadn't expected such a reaction. However, he could not predict his own either. Although he knew what to expect upon seeing the body, he froze right in the entrance. It was only now that he really fully realized the truth: this was the end. Force was no more. In the armchair, there was someone made of wax, cold and lifeless, but not Force. No! Not his best friend.

"How are you, Cord?" Chief asked, approaching cautiously. It was evident that he was also shocked, but unlike his employees, he was in control.

"I… don't know," Cord muttered. "It's not right. All this."

"I'm sorry, Cord, and I know this is not by the rules, but can you work today?"

"Will you… May I," Cord looked at Chief, "investigate my friend's death?"

"You shouldn't because this is a personal matter for you, but… I can hardly stop you."

"Thank you."

Well, the time had come to wrap up this damn story.

2

While the forensic team was investigating the crime scene, Cord interviewed the employee who had found the body. He said nothing interesting or dangerous, but noted that the lock had been seriously smashed open.

"And the front door?" asked Cord, recording the conversation on a voice recorder.

"Nope, it was okay."

One of the forensic experts reported they had finished, so Cord dismissed the vegetable storage facility worker and entered the unit. The forensic team, as usual, did a superb job and tagged all the evidence they found. The ones they were supposed to see, that is.

It was time to get started.

Cord walked up to the body of his former partner, examined the hole in his forehead, the ripped open back of his head, and his bound wrists.

"As of course, you understand, the cause of death is unambiguous," said Forensics, who was standing behind the armchair. "The murder weapon has been found, but it is still buried," he pointed to a pile of sprouting old potatoes.

Cord just glanced at the potatoes and continued to study Force's body.

"It seems his nose has been pushed to the side," the investigator muttered. "Knocked out of place by a blow?"

"I doubt it," Forensics shook his head. "In any case, not in advance."

"Why?"

"Even if we can imagine that there is someone so strong that he could drag Force here, there would be traces of that dragging on the floor. Look." Forensics walked around the chair and pointed to a small black strip under Force's feet. "Here is a mark from a shoe."

"Hmm…" Cord pretended he was deep in thought. "Did you just say something about the murder weapon?"

"Yes, it's in the potato heap. Rather, its handle. It's a gun."

"Well." Cord went to the pile of vegetables. "They could have brought him here at gunpoint, possibly tortured, and then shot. However, that is still only speculation."

A marking flag was stuck into one potato, and under it, at a depth of five centimeters, the handle of a pistol gleamed. Actually, yesterday, Cord had wanted to place it beautifully on the very top of the pile. Still, the gun did not want to stay there, so Cord buried it in a pile of potatoes, but so that it was easy to be seen and found.

Well, everything worked out as it should: Forensics had not spoiled the surprise.

"Have you photographed everything?" Cord asked.

"Of course," Forensics nodded.

Cord pushed the potatoes aside, and with two fingers, tried to pull the weapon out. It turned out to be easy. And now, the amazing part was getting near.

Cord turned the pistol over in his hands and was quite naturally surprised. A black handle with a coat of arms and a silver barrel with a personalized engraving…

"I need to get Chief." Cord handed the pistol to Forensics, who gasped as soon as he saw the weapon.

The boss was talking with the head of the investigation team from the First Industrial Department at the entrance to the vegetable storage facility.

"Chief! Can I talk to you for a minute?" Cord called out.

He nodded and went to his subordinate. They walked to the cell in silence.

"You better close the door because there's a bomb in here," Cord warned.

"Such things are not funny, Cord," answered Chief in a serious tone.

Cord shook his head.

"I am speaking metaphorically. Look."

Forensics silently handed Chief his own award pistol.

At first, Chief did not seem to even understand what was so special about it. But then the realization came. His eyes opened wide, and his mustache started moving in time with the opening and closing of his now fish-like mouth.

"H-how?"

"Chief, I will only ask one question. Is this the same award pistol you kept at the summer house and which we did not find there?"

The boss nodded slowly.

"Then, as it turns out," sighed Cord. "The killer of your son and Force is the same person. And it looks like he planned the murder of Force at least five months ago."

3

After finishing at the vegetable storage facility and turning the body over to Forensics, the investigators went to Force's apartment. Crane joined them. His hysteria had passed, and according to him, he was highly motivated to do the best. He had Force's work camera, which he nervously checked periodically to make sure it was loaded with film.

On the staircase, the same situation was repeated that had occurred at Flaminga's building: the forensic team was working in the victim's apartment, and a neighbor was pontificating across the hall. The only difference was that instead of a hard laborer there was a dapper-looking representative of the "creative intelligentsia": in highly varnished shoes (at home!), perfectly creased trousers, a perfectly ironed blue shirt and a silk scarf, with his gray hair combed to the right, the tips of his thin mustache curled up, and a goatee trimmed neatly.

"I am, as you must know, the most famous poet in the city," he said as he proudly raised his head. "And as recently as yesterday evening, I witnessed a possible crime!"

Cord stopped. If he could learn what variations were planned on how to handle the case, it would win him more time than he had expected.

The police officer who was talking to the old man turned to Cord.

"The man says he is a witness. Will you question him yourself?"

"No, I have no doubts about your professionalism," Cord shook his head, "but I will attend anyway, if you," he turned to the old man, "don't mind."

The poet straightened his back and nodded gravely.

"Crane, let's go learn how to interrogate witnesses."

The young guy looked at Cord in surprise.

"What do you mean? Can I?"

"You came to hang out? Do some work."

They went to the poet's apartment. The clean, comfortable abode of a man Cord would never have thought would be creative. For some reason, he believed such people lived surrounded by chaos, their appearance unkempt, and themselves more like patients in a madhouse rather than average citizens. Although it was possible that the old man was engaged in some sort of important and valuable business, for example, perhaps he was an engineer or a doctor and wrote rhymes out of boredom.

The police officer started his work. After obtaining the old man's consent to the audio recording of the conversation and asking several personal questions under the format of "age, marital status, and profession", he stated:

"Now, please describe everything that you saw."

Cord didn't like to talk to witnesses because there was no serious work involved. The only requirement was that you listen to a stream of consciousness, ask several clarifying questions, and inform them that if anything happened, the person might be summoned for additional interrogation or questioning, which would then be carried out by the investigator on the case.

Therefore, it was impossible to find really useful witnesses during fire days. Many knew that if they went to testify, it would take a long time, and you could lose an entire day. And what did you get as gratitude? "Thank you for fulfilling your responsibility as a citizen" with, of course, no monetary compensation. Well, who wants to waste time because of some murder?

Social responsibility? "Why am I the only one responsible for everything?" People thought that the police themselves could somehow catch all the criminals. Their job was like that, and an ordinary person did not need to get involved in that jungle.

However, this did not apply to pensioners, especially lonely ones. They were ready to testify to anything, as long as you had a polite conversation with them. Understandably, the value of their information was often zero.

But not this time.

"The fact is," began the old man, "that I go to bed early, at eight in the evening, but I also get up at dawn because, as you know, sunrise is the most productive time for creative people. That is when I come up with my best lines. However, that evening when the clock showed a quarter past ten, I woke up and was suddenly overwhelmed by inspiration…"

Yeah, the old man's alarm went off.

"I, hmm… splashed cold water on my face to chase away the remnants of sleep, and went to the window and I was looking at the black sky, at the stars, at the growing moon, and beautiful lines were born in my head by themselves:

A raven was sitting on a branch of spruce.

He looked right at me

Through the eyes of black pools,

My soul longingly looking.

The raven said to me silently:

'What are you thinking, Elder?

Are you so zealous of your fate

Once restrained by the night?'"

The poet paused, hoping for applause or at least approving nods, but he was met with only indifferent, purely professional looks. A little disappointed, he continued:

"Then I looked down and saw my neighbor coming out of the building. Intoxicated! His legs were limp, and he was leaning on the shoulder of a tall man, apparently a drinking companion, who could also barely move his legs. By the way, did you know my neighbor was on a binge? All week he sat at home sipping and getting drunk, and once I ran into him on the stairs! He was going out with packages of empty bottles. Can you imagine? After all, a once decent person… Then they left my field of vision, the neighbor and the tall man, and I heard an unusual sound—the roar of the engine, but not an automobile engine that of a motorcycle. It seems to me that my neighbor could have left on it, along with that brute… Drunk…"

Cord heard everything he wanted to hear. This meant that the plan would follow the second branch, not so safe but also workable.

The poet continued to rant, and Cord quietly addressed Crane:

"That is what the preliminary interrogation of a witness looks like. Are you going to listen to the end, or will you come with me?"

"I'm with you," Crane whispered back.

"Wait a minute, can I interrupt you," said Cord to the officer and turned to the poet. "I already see that your testimony will play a decisive role in the capture of the criminal, so I will let you know in advance: we may still invite you for additional questioning at the department to clarify the details. Thank you for your cooperation with the investigation."

The poet nodded with a smile. Having politely said goodbye to the old man, Cord and Crane went to Force's apartment.

***

Going inside, Cord wondered how much he should shorten his stay here. After a quick glance at forensics marks, he realized everything was going according to plan: they found nothing beyond what he had planned that they discover.

One of the forensic experts walked up to him.

"Be careful here. There is blood on the floor."

Cord looked down at his feet. On the floor, at some distance from each other, there were several small stains of blood leaked from Force's broken nose.

"Hmm. Apparently, Force's nose was broken right here. As I understand it, everything is all right with the lock on the door?"

Today Cord found a key in Force's pocket, which he himself had put there yesterday.

The forensic expert nodded.

"So it appears that Force opened the door for someone. Someone he knew…" Cord muttered thoughtfully. "Are there any signs of a struggle?"

"Completely absent."

"Wait, what does that mean?" asked Crane. "My step-brother knew the killer?"

"Not absolutely," Cord shook his head. "There are people for whom doors are opened without fear. Postmen, couriers, police, housing and communal services… Pink Flaminga was killed in the same way."

"I remember. But do you think Force was killed by a courier too?"

"I don't know yet."

"Cord," Chief's stern voice was heard from the hall. "Can you explain what this is?"

For a moment, Cord was worried: had he taken all the materials about himself? But no, Chief was clutching a stack of pages from the magazine table. For some reason, it seemed to Cord that the pile of reference books on the desk had shrunk a little since yesterday.

"Those are materials on the murder of Pink Flaminga," he replied calmly.

"I see that. Explain how they got here."

"I brought them. I needed to analyze this information with someone."

"That is, our employees are not enough?"

"No. Force was the best."

"And he was fired," Chief raised his voice. "So, you had no right to provide him with the case materials!"

"Of course." Cord turned his gaze to the table and "noticed" two cups—one half-empty, one from which Cord drank yesterday. "And… were these cups here?"

"Do not change the topic of conversation!" ordered Chief.

Cord looked his boss in the eye.

"If these cups were here, it means that Force did not have time to remove them, which he does right away. Yesterday I came to visit him, like every Monday and Thursday since his termination. But, when I left, Force did not wash the cups, nor did he put the table in order. Why? Because at that moment, within just a few minutes after my departure, a killer came for Force. And, Chief, I have to confess something to you." Cord sighed heavily. "The killer is me."

4

Chief's reaction was hard to describe. He was in a state of something between shock and bewilderment from the sudden and absurd confession of his best investigator. And he was completely unsettled when he asked, "What are you talking about?" Cord balked and said that he would tell him everything but not here. Only in the Department and on the record. His conscience would not allow him to keep quiet, but he wanted everything to be done officially.

Once again, Cord found himself in the interrogation room on the wrong side of the table.

Chief sat down opposite him; Crane stood to his left. The guy was as serious and focused as possible, but Cord expected something different: Force's step-brother would remember all the past grievances and become enraged. But no. It seems that the guy was gradually becoming a professional.

"May I, Chief?" he asked, taking out the tape recorder.

Chief nodded. Crane inserted a cassette, pressed the record button, and said the necessary introduction.

And now, the exam.

Chief began the interrogation:

"Cord, you called yourself the killer. Why?"

Cord hesitated a little.

"Before answering that question, we need to clarify a few things. Force figured out who the real Villain was and the entire scheme of his actions, but I did not believe him."

"And who is he?"

"She. The journalist Pink Flaminga."

"But she was also killed," Crane objected.

"Right. Because Flaminga did not kill with her own hands, but only planned murders. Others killed in her place."

So the first stage had begun. Putting the blame on the dead is a very effective solution. The key thing is to present it convincingly.

"Chief, if you study the materials for which you reprimanded me, you will see that they are not really about finding Flaminga's killer but rather about motives. You're both familiar with her past, aren't you?"

"Yes," acknowledged both Chief and Crane.

"So, we will not dwell on that. Two details are important, and that Force gave me the night Flaminga was killed. First, she was in the crowd of spectators when we were investigating the murder of Piala. She recognized me, and a plan ripened in her head. Second, Force broke up with her because of this confession. He told me… hmm, I don't remember the exact wording, but it went something like 'Flaminga wanted to put you into deep shit.' What this meant, I did not immediately understand, but then I decided to re-read her articles. What I previously perceived as harmless writings now took on a completely different form: Flaminga had carefully tried to damage me with her texts."

Chief and Crane exchanged glances. Both were well aware of the content of the texts that Cord spoke about. A good lie needs a foundation that does not cause doubts about its veracity, in any case, at first sight.

"Then we enter the realm of guesswork, which Force and I, unfortunately, did not have time to work out thoroughly."

"How convenient," Crane commented.

"Right, but listen. I was one of the main heroes of the murders. Someone wearing a mask with my face first visited a bar where he 'hired' a drunkard to carry out an assassination attempt on the real me. Then he arranged the elimination of the failed executioner, again, substituting me in the place of the killer. I believe two different people were hiding under the masks. There is a clue that the trucker was recruited by Flaminga herself. If you listen carefully to the audio recording of my conversation with the drunkard, you will hear: 'His voice broke, and he went all falsetto. Like a woman.' I can't vouch for the exact wording, but we can check it later. Flaminga tried to modulate a male voice, but at the start, she made a mistake, and the drunkard remembered this."

Cord took a breath and gave Chief and Crane time to comprehend what he had said.

"But Flaminga wasn't the killer at the hospital. It was probably your son."

"Why?"

"Isn't it weird that Flaminga ended up in the park at the time of our investigation? What if she was there the night of the murder? Albeit by accident, in the summer, many walk until late at night. What if she witnessed something that allowed her to manipulate your son for her own purposes?"

"My son would never have been led to such a provocation," Chief shook his head.

"And yet something made him do it," said Cord. "It is unlikely that the remnants of the material from which the mask was made could simply end up in your summer house like that."

Chief nodded reluctantly.

"Go on."

"I'm not sure if the next victim, that is, the owner of the Blue Eyes brothel, was killed on orders by Flaminga. That murder has no context connected to me, but it points directly to Familiar. After all, Madam was the only one out of all who pointed to him during the lineup. Therefore, it is possible that this crime was started by your son. Familiar, realizing that he was mired in the murders, decided to get rid of one more problem and, at the same time, of the mask: I suppose he believed he was putting an end to a series of deaths. This infuriated Flaminga, for which she gave a subtle hint about the killer in her October article. Hmm... She wrote we caught the Villain but then released him, and he executed Madam because she knew the truth. Crane, can you bring all the clippings we have? I am tired of remembering them all, and it will be clearer to you what I am talking about."

"Good idea, Cord," Chief approved, clicking the shutdown button. "Crane, be so kind and go get them."

Crane was absent for about fifteen minutes, and all this time, there was silence in the interrogation room. Chief was reflecting and thought that what the investigator had said looked really plausible.

When Crane returned, Chief flipped over the cassette and started recording again. Crane laid out all of Flaminga's articles on the table. Cord took one of them, quickly scanned the text, and found and pointed to the right place:

"Right here. I almost guessed the wording."

"'What if… What if the Villain had been caught during the first murder? Caught, but released for some reason? And Madam found out about this and, deciding to restore justice, crossed the path of the killer?'" read Chief for the record. "Yet, Cord, I still don't understand why you called yourself the murderer."

Cord was embarrassed.

"Well, I feel guilty about Force's death because I could have guessed the Villain's identity earlier. But please let me continue the story."

It's funny because that is exactly what it was—a story, fiction—although it did seem convincing.

"I don't know what the relationship was between Familiar and Flaminga. But I think after the murder of Madam, she began to watch her, sorry for this, Chief, her puppet. And when Familiar decided to shoot me, Flaminga acted decisively because if he had found the courage to kill the investigator, it would only be a matter of time for him to get rid of the journalist. So Flaminga hired a professional assassin."

"But where did she get the money?" asked Crane. "I am not very aware of the details, but it seems to me that the services of professional killers are not cheap."

"She probably had money. Do you remember that in her apartment, we found an empty bottle of expensive imported cognac and a diploma of a laureate for the 'Journalist of the Year' award? That is the annual award of the publishing house in which she worked. Besides cognac and a framed diploma, she was rewarded for the victory with a very round sum. In short, she had money, at least for a one-time order."

"We'll need to check her bank accounts," said Chief. "Crane, remind me to prepare the papers when we finish here."

"Good idea," Cord nodded. "Well, the assassin, who was watching your son, realized that time was running out. After all, if he had delayed anything, Familiar would have been accused of attempted murder and taken into custody and could easily turn on everyone. The assassin must have contacted Flaminga and received instructions on how to proceed."

"Wait, let me guess," Crane interrupted. "Are you implying that he killed my step-brother?"

"And Flaminga herself. However, there is one thing…" Cord rubbed his forehead. "Why did the killer take your award pistol from the summer house and then leave it at the scene of Force's murder? It connects both crimes, but what's the point?"

"Maybe the pistol was a trophy for him?" Crane suggested.

"Then why give it back?" answered Cord.

Crane shrugged and said for the record:

"I don't know."

"I had a thought that the assassin just wanted to get rid of a weapon that stood out too much and could give him away some time later, but then it was not clear why he took it in the first place… Although, maybe he was just not very smart. It doesn't matter. I'll continue. The assassin covered his tracks, got paid for the job, and the story ended. That is, until the moment when Flaminga, as she told me, was forced to 'resurrect' the Villain. Let me remind you: when we questioned their editor-in-chief, she said that the articles about him had significantly increased the magazine's sales, and management demanded a return to last year's figures. That was not just part of Flaminga's plan, as neither was the assassin. I think the professional assassin was well-versed in Flaming's methods. First she works with one, then when he ceases to be needed, she hints at him in her articles, and if that does not help, she eliminates him with the help of a hired killer. I think the chain of logic had to be something like that. So the assassin, in order not to become the next victim of Flaminga, decided to remove her."

Cord caught his breath.

"It was here that I screwed up when I did not understand why it was necessary to frame Force. He simply needed to be isolated from the police. After all, the killer knew Force met with Flaminga and could, in theory, know something that he was not supposed to know. Therefore, the murderer planted the compromising greeting card in the bouquet, waited until Force was fired, and then finished him off. Although everything was almost ruined for him: after all, on the evening of the murder, Force was with me. Considering the unwashed cups and my friend's craving for perfect cleanliness, it turns out that I missed the killer by literally a few minutes, if not seconds. I wouldn't be surprised if he had not been waiting on the floor above so that he would know when I left."

"Do you know what I was thinking, Cord?" Crane suddenly grinned. "You talk smoothly; I can not argue with that. But your story seems to be hiding a lie… Because there was no hired killer. You killed Force because you knew he had solved your previous murder." He turned to Chief. "The murder of your son, Chief."

Chief shook his head.

"Crane, if you don't remember, on the day of my son's death, Cord was in a state of distress, and after that, his alibi was confirmed."

"No, Chief," Crane shook his head, "that was a false alibi. Cord is smart, he could do that."

Cord chuckled and held out his hands on the table.

"Okay! Chief, Crane. Here is my sincere confession. Is the cassette still recording? Then I will tell the truth: Crane got me. I hasten to confess to two sins: the first, I really killed Familiar and Force, the second, I am a clinical idiot. After all, I came to the shooter's position and found a bottle from which he was drinking. I immediately realized: 'This is Familiar's!' Then I made the most reasonable decision: to kill an armed man barehanded. Yes, I didn't wait for the investigation to put Familiar in jail according to the law because I am a superhero fighting crime! But oh, the horror! My best friend uncovered me, and he did not turn me over to face justice right away but hid it for almost six months because that is so characteristic of Force! I, of course, could not stand this and came to kill him, but did not take advantage of our friendship and, for example, did not add sleeping pills to his coffee and then kill him in some secret way, for example, with an air embolism. Do you know what it is, Crane? Twenty, well, in Force's case, maybe forty bubbles of air into the carotid or femoral artery—and hello, heart attack! Then you remove the traces of your stay, and that's it! Everyone will think that my friend just got drunk and died. But no! I'm a dumbass, remember? Therefore, I dragged a two-hundred-kilogram carcass to hell to shoot him with a pistol stolen from Familiar's summer house. This was probably so that you, that is, we, in short, the investigators, connect both crimes and put me away for a longer time! That's all. I confessed, cuff me."

This scene had to be seen: a smiling Cord, a taken aback Crane standing with his mouth open, and Chief, who had closed his eyes and was leaning back in his chair.

Finally, the boss slowly opened his eyes and said:

"Crane, I understand you want to find your brother's killer, but sometimes it's better to keep quiet. Your idea is absurd, and Cord clearly showed that to you. But maybe you still have questions for him?"

"N-no," Crane answered embarrassedly.

"Then be so kind as to get the hell out of here."

"Yes, sir." Crane saluted and left the interrogation room.

Chief turned off the recording and sighed wearily.

"Clownery, sonny, was optional."

"Sorry," Cord chuckled. "I could not resist. Crane got angry so suddenly, I just wanted to put him in his place."

"While you were carrying out your presentation, I was struck by a thought. If the killer eliminated Force so that he wouldn't reveal him, you could be next."

"I know," Cord nodded. "If Force had enough material to identify the killer, it's only a matter of time before I do it too. The game has entered the final stage. The killer needs to plan my death, and I need to find him before he tries to kill me. So, Chief, if you're not removing me from the investigation, we should get back to work."