“The guys from the night patrol. I don’t know. The big one, the one with the scar.”
He picked up the phone to call his captain, then stopped. Secuiu had friends. Powerful friends. The captain might be one of them. One wrong call and this report would vanish. Munteanu would be transferred to a rural outpost in the Delta, and the dead man with the soft hands would be cremated as an “unidentified vagrant.”
He walked to Cell 3. Inside, a skinny, twitchy man known as “Ghiță” was pressed against the far wall, his eyes wide. Lying on the concrete bench was a mountain of a man, face-down, arms splayed. sectia 8 politie
“What happened, Ghiță?” Munteanu asked, his voice calm.
Tonight, the silence was broken by a frantic, high-pitched wail from the holding cell. “The guys from the night patrol
He made a different call. Not to the captain. To the parchet – the prosecutor’s office. To a woman named Procuror Ionescu, who hated Secuiu with a quiet, burning passion. She answered on the second ring.
This wasn’t a drunk who’d had too much. This was a body dump. Secuiu had friends
A long pause. Then: “Touch nothing. Seal the cell. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And Munteanu… keep your gun on your lap.”