The price of silence
People believe that investigative journalists are adrenaline junkies. After twenty years in the business, Constantin knew that was just cheap romanticism for the public. Real journalists didn't look for danger; they simply had an almost physical, organic intolerance to lies. A blatant lie left a metallic taste in Constantin's mouth, as if he were chewing on rusty coins. And lately, that taste had become permanent.His office on the outskirts of the town of Valano was located on the second floor of an interwar building with peeling plaster. There, the smell of damp mold mixed with that of stale coffee and pipe tobacco, even though Constantin had given up smoking years ago. He sat in his worn leather armchair, staring fixedly at a streak of orange light projected onto the wall, which was covered in newspaper clippings, by the sunset. On the table, dismantled into tiny pieces, lay a Russian silver pocket watch. He liked cleaning them. Mechanical gears were the only things in his life that never lied: if one little wheel was crooked, the whole system stopped. People, on the other hand, functioned perfectly even with a completely deformed soul.When there was a knock at the door, Constantin did not flinch. It knocked three times, short, hesitant. The kind of knock from someone who had changed their mind ten times on the stairs before touching the wood of the door."Come in, Helen. It's open," he said, without raising his eyes from the tiny spring he was holding with his tweezers.The woman who stepped into the room looked like a charcoal sketch of the person Constantin had known years ago. Helen wore a long black coat that seemed to swallow her up. She clutched her purse to her chest like an archeological shield. Her eyes were wide, frozen in an expression of chronic exhaustion, and the skin beneath them had taken on a violet-gray hue. She wasn't crying. She was past that stage. Now she was in that phase of pure, lucid despair that drives you to knock on doors you would have otherwise avoided.Without a word, she approached the desk and dropped a thin, blue plastic folder. She collapsed into the wooden chair opposite Constantin, letting out a long sigh that smelled of mint and physical exertion.Constantin set the tweezers down. He looked at the folder. The white label read in block letters: Smaranov. Case 402/A."The press is full of you, Helen," Constantin said. His voice was low, devoid of dramatic inflections. The time for compassion had not yet come; compassion clouded logic. "The whole province is talking about what happened Thursday night. Why are you here? The Smaranov police have a reputation for being... efficient when it comes to their own."Helen let out a short laugh, a dry sound, like a branch snapping underfoot."Efficient? They closed the case, Constantin. In a day and a half. For them, everything is a simple first-grade math equation. One plus one equals two. Daro bought a knife, Daro stabbed Criss, Daro is a monster. Done. The file goes to the Prosecutor's Office Monday morning."Constantin reached out and opened the folder. The first pages were photocopies of the preliminary finding reports. Low-quality, black-and-white photographs. On the asphalt, a dark, massive silhouette. Criss. A deputy police inspector, a man Constantin had met only once, at a wedding, and who had left him with the impression of a block of granite: rigid, silent, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and carrying a self-assurance that bordered on arrogance."Daro," Constantin uttered the boy's name, setting the photos aside. "A second-year law student here in Valano. No prior record. His professors say he is withdrawn, almost timid. The neighbors in Smaranov say otherwise, though. The report mentions that the boy got off the 18:20 train, walked to the Novaci neighborhood, hid behind the dumpster, and waited for his father to come home from the station. When Criss got out of the car, Daro attacked him. Four knife wounds. Thoracic area. Clear premeditation, proven by a receipt found in Daro's backpack: a hunting knife with an 18-centimeter blade, bought in Valano six days ago."Constantin paused and looked directly at Helen."That's the official story. And it's a damn good story, Helen. It has everything it needs: a young killer, a weapon bought in advance, witnesses who saw the boy with the knife in his hand. Why wouldn't it be true?"Helen bit her lower lip until the skin turned white. She looked out the window at the rooftops of Valano, then turned back to the journalist. A spark of rebellion appeared in her eyes, mixed with a deep, old guilt."Because I was there, Constantin. I heard the noise from below. I ran downstairs, just in my robe and slippers. When I opened the building door, Criss was already down on his stomach. Daro was standing over him. It was drizzling, and the light from the streetlamp on the corner made him look... giant. But when he saw me, Constantin... he didn't rush at me. He didn't run. He let the knife drop from his hand. He looked at me and said, 'Mom, he wanted to kill me. He had his gun in his hand.'"Constantin raised an eyebrow. He leaned over the folder, looking for the section detailing the items found at the scene."The forensics report says that Deputy Inspector Criss's service weapon was found in his waist holster, with the safety on. No shots were fired. There are no signs it was ever drawn.""Because Borza's boys cleaned up the scene before the prosecutor even got there!" Helen burst out, standing up. Her voice vibrated with uncontrolled rage. "Borza got there in ten minutes. He personally lifted Daro off the asphalt. He took Criss's gun! Constantin, I know my son. Daro is not an assassin. He's a child who defended himself. Something happened between them in the last two weeks. Something that I... that I chose not to see."The woman stopped, breathing heavily. She braced both hands against the edge of the desk, looking at him pleadingly."Criss was not the man everyone thought he was. At home... at home he was like a heavy shadow. He controlled everything. The phones, the money, my schedule. When Daro left for college in Valano, it was like he escaped from a prison. And two weeks ago, Criss visited him in Valano. He stayed for two days. When he came back, he was transformed. He stopped sleeping. He would clean his gun every night, in the kitchen, with the lights off. I asked him what happened, and he slapped me. The first slap of our entire life, Constantin. That's when I understood that Daro had discovered something. Something serious."Constantin remained silent. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the blue folder. His brain analyzed the information, but unlike the version in Helen's mind, he could see the cracks.'If it's a police frame-up, it's too clumsy,' he thought. 'Or maybe that's exactly why it works.'"Helen," he said finally, standing up and taking his coat off the back of the chair. "You came to me because you know I have nothing to lose. But you need to understand one thing: I am not looking to save your son. I am looking for the truth. And if the truth is that Daro is a cold-blooded killer who made up the self-defense story, I am going to write exactly that in the article. Are you ready for that?"Helen looked at him for a long moment, with a dignity born of pure suffering."I am ready for anything, Constantin. Just get me out of Smaranov. That town is suffocating me. I feel like everyone is watching me through their curtains, waiting for me to fall."Constantin checked his pocket watch—the one he hadn't taken apart. It was nearly seven in the evening."We're leaving for Smaranov. But we're not going to your house. We're going to the crime scene. I want to see that asphalt before the rain and the cars wash everything away. And I want to see why a law student buys a knife with his credit card, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs like an amateur, if this whole thing was a planned execution."A heavy night was falling over Valano as Constantin's car cleared the first winding turns leading toward Smaranov—a ghost town, hidden among abandoned mining hills, where the laws were still written with old ink and enforced with a fist on the table. The investigation was just beginning, and Constantin could already taste the first hint of metal in his mouth. The trail seemed too simple. And that was what worried him the most.
