Munteanu stood up slowly. He looked at Ghiță. “Who brought him in?”
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
Munteanu sighed, the sound scraping his dry throat. He grabbed his flashlight and heavy keyring. The station was understaffed—as usual. His partner, a fresh-faced recruit named Popescu, was out chasing a ghost report of a stolen tractor from the agricultural cooperative. Munteanu stood up slowly
“The guys from the night patrol. I don’t know. The big one, the one with the scar.” Inside, a skinny, twitchy man known as “Ghiță”
A long pause. Then: “Touch nothing. Seal the cell. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And Munteanu… keep your gun on your lap.”
“Domnule polițist! Domnule polițist! There’s a man in here! He’s not breathing!”
The clock on the wall of had stopped at 3:17 AM. No one had bothered to fix it for three years. It was a symbolic time, the hour when the city's noise faded into a dull hum and only the desperate, the drunk, and the dangerous were still awake.