how to win a case (and the detective) - preface
working on something new, hopefully niche. don't have a fixed schedule for writing, will try to update as much as i can. this preface is a trial run to set the plot and atmosphere of the story i have in mind.
fog settled still and low in kaplanova, prague. you couldn't tell which side of the road cars were coming from. all that you knew was a vroom.
street lamps shone through the dense grey like yellow blurs and everything was cold and moist to touch.
former inspector, now detective heinrich lunge, up and at it from his minimalist apartment because apparently why have things when you can have functions. clutter and cognitive efficiency weren't best friends in his mind. he drove in the same, pale biscuit coloured car he had since his 20s. it ran perfectly—of course it did. he had the poor thing on a strict schedule; timely oiling, engine checks, tire pressure and balance checked, dents repaired, seats cleaned. he'd keep a spreadsheet taped to the back of the seat, a tick every week.
naturally, detective lunge arrived at the vlatva police department, not as prestigious as the name—a dingy, weathered building that smelled like damp wood, bricks, and old papers eaten through by worms. he came before everyone else, steeped his coffee for precisely 13 minutes in the french press, no less no more.
his desk was an extension of his personality. aligned, clean, files stacked neatly, keyboard at a proximity to the monitor that slowly whirred to life, a set of fountain pens and ball point pens lay next to each other like coffins, placed perfectly so his right hand could reach out for one at any time.
detective lunge sat on his swivel chair, took of his glasses, let a mist of lens cleaner fog them and wiped them methodically with a microfiber napkin, almost regulatory before his day started.
the moment detective lunge adjusted his glasses back onto the crooked bridge of his nose, he switched to the efficient, smart, and pattern-recognition brainiac that he was.
he knew what to expect next—in fact, he thrived on it. second one to come in was brenda. always brenda. stout, black beauty with that knowing gait and a joyful smile. secretary to the captain of the department, apparently knew anyone and their mothers' business and always had money mysteriously appear from pockets of whatever she was wearing.
next in line was the captain, who had to be there early. he'd rather be with his wife and five kids at home, snoozing in bed. he never greeted anyone, just skipped the formalities and sat in his cabin.
carla, the ballistics and forensics expert of the department, who fluttered in and out rotationally to whichever branch she was called to. she was also the only official with a chemistry background, so her skills would come in handy in mobility. a little clumsy, shy, but never lenient, never lazy.
the last of the bunch were emil and petr, the notorious twins, who had recently made junior inspectors (together, for some reason), whose sole purpose was to catch the most criminals, solve the most cases, drink the most coffee, win the most bets, run the most miles, train the hardest—you get it.). a rather droll pair. they stumbled in, possibly having raced from the parking across the street, with loud 'whoos' and 'phews' and high fives. detective lunge let out a solitary breath knowing he'd have to deal with these clowns for the cases on most days. they weren't very bright, but they were agile and crafty. he could make use of that.
his first case of the day was a series of stalkings in the area—someone repeatedly stalking foreigners arriving to prague, and often sending them advertisements that lured them into secluded areas, where inevitable robberies would leave the tourists scared, distraught, and lost, unable to communicate their fears to the locals let alone any objective information about the stalker.
all they had for evidence were the advertisement flyers.
the twins sat down in the briefing room, arranging all the flyers on the table. same sets of eyes but on a brand new day equaled a fresh gaze in their minds.
detective lunge entered the briefing room and the twins swore the temperature dropped by a few degrees. adjusting the button of his blazer, lunge stood at the head of the table, overlooking the flyers. "let's begin." his voice was always... unnerving. eerie even. deep, masculine, with a falling tone. emil and petr had theories over theories that would put survivalists to shame. the advertisements led nowhere in particular. the best lead they had was the common locality on the addresses. but one visit to the horrid alleys told them literally anyone could have been the stalker and the longer they stayed there, the more they'd be the next ones to be robbed.
lunge wasn't a big fan of failed expeditions, but he knew that sometimes investigations could be fruitless, stretched, and in worst cases, null and void.
his sent the report to the captain, and had the flyers filed back into evidence.
he clocked out routinely at the end of the shift, driving his ancient relic back to hostivař, quaint little town contrary to the postcard city that prague was, where he lived in his one bedroom-kitchen house. he came in to an empty house. no one to welcome him back. his wife had left after the divorce, leaving with his daughter, and had rebuilt a life somewhere in spain. they were the livelier ones anyway. he tried to talk to his daughter from time to time but with her new marriage and child, it wasn't always consistent.
he hung his coat on the hook. lined his shoes with the others. keys went on another holder.
lunge didn't do 'friends'. so he did the next best thing; a simple warm meal. meat lightly seasoned, potatoes boiled and salted, peas raw, but fresh, water first, a short glass of cognac after.
he sat at his table, chair for one, and ate his dinner. no phone, not even conversation. just the sound of chewing and the clink of the fork and knife against the plate.
all the noise there could be was inside his head; advertisement flyers, the colour schemes, the common locality, the discounts and flashy services, luxury offered like alms.
he kept thinking about the case as he washed his dish, utensils, and placed them on a drying rack. he did his laundry next, with the same precision he was devoted to. sorted the whites from the coloured, linen from cotton.
his living room was bare. one would feel nothing but a sludge of pity for him. no television, just a fireplace that had been put out recently. he plucked a book from his shelves, perhaps the only colour in his neutral house. the shelves were labelled too: behavioural studies, psychology, criminology, some older academic journals from his rookie days at the training academy.
lunge never needed to annotate. he remembered everything he read. so he sat with his cognac, his book in hand and read line by line, sip after sip.
here's what hurt a little; there were no photos on the wall, no signs of personal life, no traces of anyone visiting him. his existence felt like it was built on function and never familiarity. he'd settled for the solitary life, convinced that it was finality for him.
after half an hour, he closed all the lights in the house, and went to bed, lying down on the mattress like a mummy, hands folded over his abdomen, eyes staring into the ceiling in the dark. he made an internal recall of the day's events, filed them in his mental cabinet, and then fell sleep.
the next morning, lunge arrived ahead of time and went over the evidence log once again.
his inbox notified him of the assignment and arrival of another forensic expert to assist him on the case, so he prepared and rehearsed a small briefing suitable for whatever paunchy middle aged man came his way.
how quickly will this person process information? will they require repetition? will they react emotionally? logically? apathetically?
the department doors open and in walked a distant reincarnation of everything vivienne westwood stood for.
black tailored trousers. red corset. structured black blazer. hair twisted up with a stick like she stabbed it into submission. a constellation of ear piercings. nose ring catching the light. collarbone tattoo peeking like it wants to be noticed. cherry red kitten heels—yes, the fashion-first-comfort-last kind. matching lipstick. and a handbag that looks like it contained just about everything in the world.
lunge gave one controlled blink.
"hiii", came a sweet coo. that was it. no dramatic flair, just warmth. like they were meeting in a cafe over a croissant an not the police department over cases.
detective lunge could read people exceptionally well, but his skills failed him a little when he analysed for any deceptive confidence. there was no visible edge nor forced competence in her mannerisms.
"i'm y/n."
partitions from: @uzmacchiato
