With the dawn of the following day, the darkness broke over the city sky, allowing a pale, grey light to filter through the grimy glass windows of the police station. Christopher returned, his mind gnawed by questions like burning embers. Fatigue cast dark shadows under his eyes, but his determination was stronger; he had come resolved to break the pride of Julian Mortimer in the interrogation room, and to wrench any thread or coordinate that could lead him to the lair of his brother Thomas and save the abducted girls from the bowels of the earth.
However, the moment his feet touched the corridor of the holding cells, he was greeted by a suffocating grimness and a suspicious heaviness that swept through the air like a cold current. Officers scattered into the corners of the hallway, whispering in anxious murmurs. As Chris stepped forward, the blood froze in his veins at the sight of the forensic pathologist covering a body with a white sheet.
Julian Mortimer had been found dead—stiffened over his iron bunk inside his solitary confinement cell!
The swift initial examination proved that death was caused by a deadly poison that had coursed through his veins and paralyzed his breath. Next to his limp hand, a small, crumpled piece of paper was discovered, written in his jagged handwriting as a final testament dripping with defeat: "I have brought shame upon my family's name, and death is my only way to atone."
Chris's eyes widened with roaring anger, and a fire ignited in his chest. He turned sharply toward the guards, who took a step back, and shouted at their faces in a booming voice that shook the walls of the narrow corridor: "How did this happen?! Tell me how a lethal poison penetrates a maximum-security cell right under your relaxed noses?!"
The guards replied in clear confusion, dread masking their features while their throats went dry: "We don't know, Mr. Chris... We swear we searched him piece by piece, stripping him of everything when he entered the gate. He was completely clean!"
In that highly tense moment, Chris felt a heavy, firm grip clasp his arm from behind. He turned to find the Chief of the station standing there, his features as stern as rock. The Chief did not utter a single word in the middle of the hallway; instead, he led him with continuous pressure and an imposing silence toward his closed wooden office at the end of the corridor.
As soon as the door was pushed open and secured with an iron lock that isolated them from the clamor outside, the Chief turned around. Deep resentment and distress were etched into the wrinkles of his forehead, and he spoke in a tone as sharp as a blade: "What brought you to this station today, Christopher? I issued you a clear and definitive order to stay at your house and work on your two cases from there only! Why do you insist on disobeying my orders and challenging my authority every single time?!"
Chris swallowed his rage, trying to maintain his usual icy composure and drawing calm features to hide the events of last night behind them. He fabricated a quick, calculated lie: "Detective Barney was the one who contacted me and informed me of the mine raid last night. Since Julian was the biggest catch and the primary party there, I decided it was my duty to interrogate him... I was confident in my intuition that I would extract a smoking gun linking him to the two cases I'm working on in the shadows."
The Chief leaned his body against the edge of his desk, folded his arms across his chest, and said in a biting, sarcastic tone: "Do not drag your intuition into this; Julian has absolutely nothing to do with your cases, and you do not possess a single shred of evidence to prove this delusional connection!"
Chris took a step forward, locking eyes with him in a fierce defiance: "On the contrary, the threads all tangle at one single point... The victims in my cases, and Julian now in his cell, they all departed this life in the exact same sinister manner: a sudden suicide by poison! Do you truly believe this is a mere coincidence?!"
The Chief exhaled in frustration, his patience entirely depleted. He slammed his hand onto the desk, shouting in a decisive tone that brooked no argument: "The case of Julian's suicide is now outside the boundaries of your jurisdiction. I will handle it myself, directly, from this very moment! And you know the reason deep down in your heart, Christopher... You are psychologically unfit, and you will never be impartial when it comes to interrogating members of the nobility and the wealthy, because of what that corrupt class forced you to endure when they murdered your brother twenty years ago and left you in ruins!"
At the mention of his brother, the last threads of patience and control snapped in Chris's mind. His coldness vanished entirely, and he lunged like a madman in the blink of an eye toward the Chief, locking his powerful fists onto the lapels of his official uniform, pulling him violently toward his face. His eyes burned with the malice of twenty years, and his jaws clenched in suppressed fury as he whispered through gritted teeth in a voice closer to the growl of a wounded beast: "This is my life! Do you hear me?! My private life, with every single wound in it... and neither you, nor any wretched soul in this world, has any business with what happened to my brother or how I settle my old scores!"
The Chief did not flinch, nor did he retreat before this raging storm. Instead, he maintained his chilling calmness, looking disdainfully down at Chris's hands wrinkling the fabric of his suit. Then, he spoke in a quiet, provocative tone: "Exactly as I expected, and exactly as you have just proven... You do not possess the slightest ability to control the beast of your anger the moment someone knocks on the door of your late brother's memory. For that exact reason, I repeat it to your ears for the last time: you have no business with this case, from near or far. Return to your home office, fix your eyes on the two cases in your hands, and if you are incapable of solving them... leave them, and look to what remains of your life, Christopher."
Chris's grip slowly loosened. He released the Chief's clothes as if backing away from a burning ember, taking a step backward while lifting his head and breathing heavily, as though the air had been drained from the room. He let out a hot exhale from between his lips, and his rage inverted into a frightening stillness—far more terrifying than his shouting. He spoke in a low, cold tone: "Fine..."
Chris turned and walked out of the office with heavy steps that echoed through the hallway. As he paced through the station corridors, lit by flickering gas lamps in the gloom of the hallways, his analytical mind and mental gears began to spin at a manic speed. He started replaying the tape of last night's events with microscopic precision: "How did Julian get ahold of this poison and use it to commit suicide? Impossible! We stripped and searched him in the heart of the mine with a precision that defies imagination, bound his hands securely, and he wasn't even carrying a scrap of paper. So where did this poison sprout from in his palm?!"
Chris stopped dead in the middle of the long corridor. He looked out of the corner of a sharp eye, filled with suspicion, toward the guards and officers walking to and fro around him in their official uniforms. His fist tightened until the knuckles of his fingers turned white, and he spoke to himself with dark, terrifying certainty: "The poison was not with him... it was delivered to him, hand to hand, right here... in the very heart of this station and inside that fortified cell. It seems there is a venomous serpent wearing a police uniform, a traitor living among us and breathing our air in this place."