Wounds

1

The forensic examination had established: the cartridges found on the roof and in the house turned out to be from the same rifle; the saliva on the bottle belonged to Familiar; the silicone mass found on the remains of the sofa was of the same material from which the masks were made.

Familiar was not only the shooter, but the Villain himself.

A review of previous cases has begun, and everything fell into place. The massacre in the hospital was not a professionally staged murder, but a chaotic act filled with accidents and luck. The murders of Piala, Madam and the nameless tramp were fairly simple in how they were carried out and in the concealing of the traces.

No one doubted anymore: the plotting of two of the four murders was really connected with Cord. Familiar did, in fact, try to get rid of the investigator, whom he considered a threat to his freedom. Cord testified that Familiar wanted to intimidate him when he and his friends went to the Tranquil Village resort. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses, and the gun, which the investigator mentioned, was not found. As neither was Chief's award pistol, which had been kept in his weapons safe at his summer house.

These facts, however, had no real effect: because Familiar had tried to assassinate Cord, all testimony looked to be absolutely believable.

Of course, the question remained, who had actually killed the Villain himself. The practical investigator was the first to come under suspicion because he obviously had reasons to get rid of the shooter, but Force testified Cord was in a state of emotional distress on the roof and then went to the Wolfpack bar to get drunk and calm down. The fact that Cord spent the whole evening at the bar was confirmed by the bartender and a few of the visitors, one of whom stated, quote "He was drunk as a skunk!" Force also gave testimony that: "I had to drag Cord to the car that evening."

So if Cord was not the killer of Familiar, then who was? The investigation, barely having time to begin, was unexpectedly terminated by Chief.

He was destroyed. Children should not die before their parents.

Also, children shouldn't grow up to be murderers. God knows what was worse: that the Villain turned out to be his son or that his maniac son died.

Chief did not want to look for Familiar's killer out of a sense of guilt. A thought had settled in his head: such vigilantes are needed by society. God helps those who help themselves, and if the police are unable to ensure the safety of citizens, the latter have no choice but to take justice into their own hands.

At the first press conference of the year, Chief stared blankly into space at a point somewhere above the heads of the audience and said:

"The serial killer Villain was killed on the eighth of January. The identity of the killer has been established. It turned out to be my son Familiar."

Chief could not help crying.

And then all hell broke loose.

Chief was bombarded with accusations of incompetence, corruption, and even complicity. People gathered for demonstrations with posters "Chief resign!" and "The killer must go to jail!" Someone even got into the cemetery and wrote "Motherfucker" on Familiar's tombstone.

The rating of the head of the Central Police Department dropped to almost zero. Even his colleagues, who had previously shown him respect, now looked away at best, and the higher officials happily told the journalists how they condemned their former friend. Chief's team, led by Cord and Force, repulsed the attacks as best they could, but everyone understood perfectly that the probability of surviving the storm was minimal.

An ally appeared from somewhere unexpected. Pink Flaminga—the journalist, thanks to whom the Villain was born. She wrote a voluminous and completely neutral article in mid-February, in which she not only summed up all the events but also thanked the police for their work, called the head of its Central Department "without a doubt, an upstanding person" and urged her readers "not to ostracize the father for the sins of his son."

A miracle happened. Society, which had been ready to tear Chief to shreds, gradually understood what it had almost done. The excitement subsided, followed by apologies. The vandal, who had defiled the grave, was found, and the people's anger fell on him. In the end, the opinion of society about Chief changed from "This man raised a monster!" to "This man did not know what kind of monster he had raised."

And two months after the death of his son, a smile flashed on Chief's face again.

The case of the Villain, occupying 112 volumes or 22,378 pages and weighing 110 kilograms, was finally closed.

There was still one thing left. Rather, one evening. That of January 12, 1994.

2

Force took the photographs of Familiar's body after the fire, those of the bodies of the guards at the checkpoint, the forensic expert's reports, his report on Familiar's murder (preliminary) and Cord's report on the murder of the guards, and spread them out in front of him.

He spent all morning studying them. The investigation is missing something, an important detail, but what?

Force sighed wearily. Again and again.

The first victim was supposedly the younger security guard, who was sitting directly opposite the entrance. Killed with a knife to the temple (confirmed). Death occurred immediately.

The second victim was the elder guard sitting at the table opposite the younger one. Seven stab wounds. The weapon was the same knife that struck the first one.

The third victim was Familiar. Death came instantly from a splitting maul wound to the chest: the blade cut through his heart. The body also showed small amounts of bruising and abrasions, allegedly received in a fight with the killer.

It was the wounds. Something was wrong with them. Something strange.

The tactical investigator removed all the photos from the table, except for three: the wound in the temple, the one in the elbow, and the one in the chest. He looked from one photo to another, trying to find a pattern—or a mistake.

So, the wounds' position is generally similar: the lower point on the left, the upper one on the right. But the stab wounds are all almost vertical, while Familiar's is more horizontal.

Hmm. Let's say Familiar himself was the killer of the guards. We did not find prints on the knife handle, but the murder weapons that were previously found were also without them. Damn it, put on gloves—and no marks, nothing complicated.

Force pushed the stab wounds aside and stared at the last photo, trying to figure out what was wrong with it. Suddenly, it dawned on him. Force began to rummage through another stack of photos. Where was it… Here!

The mark of the splitting maul stuck in the doorframe was also horizontal, like the chest wound. Force skimmed through the rest of the photos of the doorframe.

I need to return to the summer house.

Force glanced at his watch. 14:15. He would make it before dark if he hurried.

***

He was already turning the key when he suddenly heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Where are you going?"

Force turned to Cord.

"To the summer house. I want to take some more photos."

"Did we miss something?" Cord frowned.

"Yeah. We need a photo of the doorframe from the room; otherwise, we will not have enough to make a full illustration of the supposed path of the killer."

"Oh, exactly! I didn't even think about that."

"Well, it's not your job to either," Force smiled. "Chief gave permission. So what did you want?"

"I just remembered that I had to tell you something about the first murder."

"It won't wait?" Force frowned. "I would like to get to the summer house before dark."

"I'll get busy and forget. Better now. I won't keep you long."

***

The friends went to the garage. Force started the car and waited for it to warm up.

"So," began Cord, "the speech about the involvement of Chief in the first murder."

"Yes, I remember we discussed it."

"After being released from the isolation ward, I went to the scene of the first crime. Before my date with Dia, I still had a few hours, and I needed to cool off after the incident with Crane. In short, I decided to dive a little in the same pond where the body was sunk. I was lucky: at the bottom of the pond, I found a body bag with stones in it. I then tore off a piece."

"Seriously? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I took it to Forensics. Guess who's lost one of the bags?"

"So…"

"Forensics suspected Chief. True, he did not find any prints on the fragment, so it would be foolish to accuse him of complicity or murder. However, on the day of the murder, Chief went to see Forensics twice: in the evening, having been noted in the visitor log, and closer to nightfall. The attendant said Chief had forgotten his wallet. He did not sign the visitor log the second time, and the person on duty did not insist. Chief was a boss, after all, and he had really just gone in and come out. Now comes the most important part. This bag, which was taken by Chief, was from a lot of decommissioned ones, that is, no one would have guessed about its disappearance if it had not been for Forensics who knows and remembers their exact number."

Force's eyes widened in surprise.

"But it turns out—"

Cord raised his index finger.

"I also found a witness who saw Chief and Familiar packing the corpse and dragging it into the pond. By the way, the same man pulled the corpse out so that, as he explained, the crime would not remain uninvestigated and unsolved."

"But why? Cord—"

"I didn't tell anyone because I was afraid of the fate of the witness. He is a homeless man."

"Wait a minute. The one that—"

"No, another, but now you know how Familiar solved his problems. Why he killed Madam, who pointed at him during the lineup, and why he decided to kill me. It's funny, but I feel some sort of pride that I was the only one he couldn't get rid of," Cord smiled. "About Chief. You are probably wondering why I didn't convene the Commission, didn't initiate a survey of the pond, and didn't put him away with his son?"

"Yes!"

Cord looked at Force seriously.

"Because he is not only a good boss, but in fact, he is also my mentor. I thought: Chief didn't kill anyone; he just helped his son avoid punishment. Yes, that's illegal but humanly understandable. So I decided not to say anything to anyone."

"But why didn't you tell me at least?" Force was hurt.

"Because I was afraid that you would do the right thing."

***

On the way to the summer house, Force considered Cord's words. He realized he couldn't be offended by his friend. In the sense that at that time, Force probably would have done the right thing.

Just like I had with Flaminga. What came out of my correctness? I deprived myself of the woman I loved and got what in return? Satisfaction about what a good person I am? Phooey.

Force often argued with his friend about their views on moral and ethical issues, sometimes even condemned him, but now he suddenly had a thought: Maybe Cord was right? Perhaps it is high time to revise my dogmas of "what is good and what is bad"?

Due to his reflections, the road flew by imperceptibly, but it was still not possible to get there before dark. Although it was only half past five, it was dark outside. Winter, after all.

In the dark, the burned-down house looked eerie. What did they say in the horror stories? "In a black-black city, in a black-black house…" Damn, I am thinking about the wrong thing.

Force had taken with him what he needed: a clipboard with blank sheets of paper, a pencil, a tape measure, a flashlight, and a camera with a flash. He got out of the car and shivered. During the day, it was still not too cold, but now it was minus twenty. Couldn't I, perhaps, wait until tomorrow morning…

Entering the house, he turned on the flashlight. The light was dim, but Force already knew roughly where everything was. After all, he had spent so much time here with Cord.

The tactical investigator went up to the second floor and illuminated the doorway. So… There is the mark of the blow from the splitting maul. Force entered the room cautiously. The floor beneath him did not collapse or even creak. There had been no need to be afraid. He put the flashlight in his mouth and directed it at the mark left from the blow. He pulled his tape measure out of his pocket and measured the distance from the floor to its lower left side—one-meter seventy-two. The killer was either aiming at the neck or at the head: Familiar's height had been one-meter ninety-five. And the blow was struck from right to left.

After adjusting the flash, Force took a few photos.

One thought crept into his head, but he brushed it off for now.

Force returned to the stairs.

The assassin had pushed Familiar and then drew the splitting maul. He could have followed, but chose to attack from the hallway. Why?

A deceptive maneuver. If the killer had attacked from the stairs, Familiar would have shot him point-blank, but by jumping over the railing, the killer had won a couple of moments.

Force descended and walked from where the assassin had supposedly landed to where Familiar's body had been found.

Four seconds. Let's say the killer wasted another second getting his bearings after the jump, and since it was probably all greatly accelerated, I can safely divide the time by two. That means two or two and a half seconds, meaning Familiar still has time to aim.

But why did he miss?

"Phew."

Although the killer had sped up before turning towards Familiar, who was now on the left, he would have had to slow down. And Familiar probably would have been able to get a shot. In fact, there would have been little difference from the staircase attack. Accordingly, the killer would have been required to gain maximum possible speed, which was not expected of him. This would have given a chance, albeit negligible, that Familiar would fire later than necessary, and the bullet would miss, flying a few centimeters away from the body.

At the same time, the killer also needed to hit Familiar without losing speed. Considering the angle at which the wound was inflicted, he would have had to perform an absolutely fantastic pirouette to strike with his right hand.

Well, or just intercept the splitting maul in his left hand and hit in passing. Thanks to the long ax handle, the assassin would not even have had to get close to Familiar.

Force closed his eyes.

No. No, no, no. I can't hide from the truth.

The killer had been agile enough to quickly attack and move, and strong enough to hit with a heavy splitting maul with one hand.

With a good reason to kill Familiar.

The killer was also equally adept with both hands.

"Damn."