He hung up. Outside, a stray dog howled. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. Sectia 8 was old, tired, and dirty. But tonight, it wasn't a place where justice slept. It was the place where it finally woke up.
Munteanu stood up slowly. He looked at Ghiță. “Who brought him in?” sectia 8 politie
A long pause. Then: “Touch nothing. Seal the cell. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And Munteanu… keep your gun on your lap.” He hung up
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. Sectia 8 was old, tired, and dirty
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.
“Munteanu,” she said, not a question.
“I don’t know! They brought him in an hour ago, drunk. He started snoring, then… nothing. He stopped!”