POLICE CHIEF ZIYA: A DEVOTEE OF ANKARA

It was November…

For two days, snow had been falling without pause, covering the city in a heavy silence. The streets had lost their usual hum; Ankara seemed withdrawn into itself, wrapped in a blanket of white.

Long before the first harsh winds of autumn had arrived, Ziya had already taken precautions to protect the roses in his garden. He had carefully wrapped every branch in plastic covers, tending to them one by one so that the frost would not damage them. It was one of the habits he had maintained unchanged for many years.

No matter how severe the cold became, Ziya’s roses had to endure.

As he did every morning, he woke up early.

While the house was still asleep, he walked with slow, measured steps toward that familiar corner of the wall. There hung his father’s black-and-white photograph…

For years it had remained in the same place, gazing at him with the same expression.

Ziya stood silently for a few moments.

Then, in that inner voice that no one else could hear, he began speaking about Ankara.

The sounds coming from the kitchen slowly broke the silence.

The house had awakened.

Saturday mornings had a comfort all their own. No one was in a hurry, and time seemed to move a little more slowly. The breakfast table had already been set. Steam rising from the teapot blended with the mist on the window, forming a delicate boundary between the snow outside and the warmth inside.

Everyone took their place at the table.

As always, breakfast began quietly… then gradually filled with laughter. The conversations around the table spread through the house like a comforting warmth.

At one point, Kezban’s eyes fell upon the newspaper her uncle Ziya was reading. The popular music group she admired so much would be stopping in Ankara during their tour, which had begun in Istanbul. They were scheduled to perform at a bar on Sakarya Street.

And they would be there that very evening.

Turning to her uncle, she said,

“Uncle, if you’re free, let’s go. It would be a nice change for the children too. Everyone loves them.”

The children had already become excited and had begun gently persuading their uncle to agree.

Ziya turned from the page he had been reading to the page containing the advertisements Kezban was pointing at. Then he glanced at the excitement around the table. He loved his nieces and nephews dearly and did not want to disappoint them.

“All right,” he said simply.

At once, cheers of “Hooray, Uncle!” rose around the table. The children jumped up happily and threw their arms around their uncle’s neck.

After breakfast that day, everyone went about their usual activities. At one point, the children went out into the garden and had fun building a snowman. Ziya spent his time at home. Everyone found something around the house to keep busy with.

For the past two days, the electricity had been going out around 7:00 p.m. and returning at about 8:40 p.m. They did not want to leave everything until after dark.

At the suggestion of Kezban and the children, they decided to walk to Sakarya Street before the concert, have döner at the famous döner restaurant on the corner, and then head to the performance.

Everything was covered in snow. Thinking of both Ziya and the children, Ziya’s sister was not enthusiastic about the idea of walking at first. But after the others insisted, they all agreed to walk to Sakarya Street together.

In the afternoon, they prepared their coats, scarves, hats, gloves, and bags. They put on their boots.

Laughing and chatting, the whole family stepped out through the garden gate, closed it behind them, and set off on their way.

They made their way to Sakarya Street, slipping, laughing, and occasionally stumbling as they walked and slid through the snow.

As every resident of Ankara knew, their favorite walking route began on Cinnah Avenue, passed through Kuğulu Park, continued in front of Akün Cinema, and stretched gently downhill toward Kızılay and from there all the way to Ulus.

The only thing that saddened Ziya during this walk was seeing what had become of Uybadin Mansion after its demolition. The site had been turned into a place occupied by bicycle repair shops. It was said that the Emek Foundation would eventually build a structure worthy of the neighborhood… but for those who remembered the mansion as it once was, it was impossible not to feel a sense of loss.

Moreover, the city itself was changing rapidly in demographic terms. In the past, the streets had been filled with men in suits and ties and elegantly dressed ladies. Now, the overall appearance of the city had changed considerably.

At his age, however, Ziya had reached a certain acceptance. If the new building would contribute to the development of the city, he was not opposed to the old one being replaced.

Even so, he was not someone who expressed such thoughts openly. By nature, he never interfered with the opinions of his family, never tried to change anyone, and never judged people.

When his sister complained,

“Why did they have to demolish such a beautiful mansion?”

Ziya gently took her arm and replied in a calm voice,

“Perhaps whatever is built in its place will move the city one step further forward, Naciye.”

Naciye may not have fully understood the deeper meaning behind his words, but she responded with a small nod that showed she agreed with her brother.

A short while later, they crossed to the opposite sidewalk, the side where the Soysal Apartments stood. After walking a little farther, they turned left onto Sakarya Street.

They bought döner and ayran from the famous döner restaurant on the corner and ate standing on the first floor. Despite the cold weather, they felt warmed from within.

Afterward, they walked one street farther and entered the street where the concert would take place.

The excitement of the concert could be felt everywhere.

Sakarya Street, the area in front of the döner restaurant, and the surrounding eateries were extraordinarily crowded.

The street where the bar was located was nearly overflowing with people.

Right on time, the doors of the bar opened. Like everyone else, Ziya and his family went inside. They were lucky enough to find seats at a table directly behind the front row.

The place was packed.

Around six o’clock, colorful spotlights began flashing across the stage. Five young women stepped into the lights. They were dressed in shimmering blue stage costumes.

They began performing a mixture of the day’s most popular songs along with their own compositions. Judging by the variety of songs they performed, they clearly had a very broad repertoire.

ust as the group was about to begin a new song at exactly 7:00 p.m., the lights suddenly went out, and a collective gasp rose from the audience.

Even Lale, the band’s lead singer, appeared surprised. The stage had been plunged into darkness.

“My voice is strong enough to sing without a microphone,” she said. “Just give me a minute or two, and I’ll be ready.”

True to her word, a minute or two later she began singing the song without a microphone.

Yet her voice sounded slightly higher than it had through the microphone.

The audience, however, was so impressed by Lale’s gesture and so caught up in the excitement that no one seemed to notice the difference except Ziya.

There was something else that caught his attention as well.

Despite the darkness, there seemed to be far more movement on the stage than necessary. At the time, he assumed it was simply part of the singer’s preparations. Even so, he noticed one shadow move toward the back of the stage while another appeared beside the lead singer.

Around 8:40 p.m., the electricity finally returned.

During the outage, the group had taken a thirty-minute break. The moment the lights came back on, a sense of relief spread through the crowd.

A few minutes later, the band returned to the stage.

As they once again performed a medley of the day’s most popular songs, Ziya’s attention shifted toward someone entering through the front door.

It was Çetin from the Homicide Division.

Several uniformed police officers were with him.

The owner of the bar immediately approached the officers, and they exchanged a few words. By then, the band’s performance had ended, and they had left the stage to a round of applause.

At first, Ziya was unable to make his way over to Çetin because the place was packed with people.

Just as everyone was getting to their feet and preparing to leave, the owner of the bar stepped onto the stage and picked up the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “a terrible murder has been committed at the Balin Hotel, located behind the Kızılay Building. Despite the darkness, hotel security managed to follow the suspect, and it has been determined that the individual entered this bar. Please remain seated. Officers from the Homicide Division will be conducting identity checks.”

The fear that suddenly appeared on the faces of the crowd was a stark contrast to the excitement they had been sharing only moments earlier.

After entering the bar, Çetin and his colleagues made a brief announcement and explained the situation to everyone present.

At that moment, Çetin noticed Chief Inspector Ziya and walked over to greet him with a brief nod.

Afterward, the team quickly began checking everyone’s identification.

Once the identity checks had been completed, Çetin returned to the table where Ziya and his family were seated.

Without raising his voice too much, he explained that only a few minutes earlier, a murder had been committed on the seventh floor of the Balin Hotel, located behind the Kızılay Building and next to the National Lottery Building.

The hotel staff had caught sight of the suspect just as the person was leaving the building.

Because the individual was slender and remarkably agile, the officers who pursued the suspect had quickly lost track of them.

However, the falling snow had provided an important advantage. By following the footprints left behind in the snow-covered streets, the police had determined that the suspect had come as far as this bar.

Ziya listened quietly to everything he was told.

He merely replied,

“I understand…”

and said nothing more.

By then, the Bosphorus Melody group had also left the stage.

After completing the identity checks, the police went backstage and questioned the members of the group one by one. Everyone’s identification was verified, and brief statements were taken.

Once the procedures were completed, Çetin informed the owner of the bar that they would return the following day and that, for tonight, they would limit themselves to establishing the identities of those present.

Afterward, everyone stepped outside.

That night, Ankara’s Sakarya Street looked completely different beneath the snow.

Moonlight and the yellow glow of the streetlamps stretched across the snow-covered sidewalks, flickering softly against the stone walls of the now-quiet street.

Apart from the distant sound of the wind, almost nothing could be heard.

Çetin crossed the street and headed toward the police vehicle parked in front of the Kızılay Building. Ziya and his family crossed with him.

After a brief conversation, and at Çetin’s suggestion — which Ziya accepted — they all got into the vehicle together.

When the engine started, the headlights stretched through the falling snow in long beams of light.

In the silence of the Ankara night, the police car slowly pulled away, heading toward Ziya’s home to drop off him and his family.

The following morning, Ziya woke up early once again.

As he always did, he stood before the photograph of his father hanging on the wall in the living room. After looking at it silently for a few moments, he began talking to himself. It was one of the habits he had maintained for many years.

Meanwhile, the rest of the household was preparing breakfast around the table near the stove. The sound of tea boiling on top of the stove blended with the warmth filling the house.

A short while later, everyone gathered around the table.

The only topic of conversation during the cheerful breakfast was the previous night.

The songs performed by the Bosphorus Melody group, their stage presence, the crowd that had packed the bar, and the murder that had taken place in the middle of the evening were all discussed with great excitement.

The members of the family almost competed with one another to tell their version of what had happened.

For the first time, Ziya did not remain completely silent during one of these enthusiastic discussions. From time to time, he made brief comments and listened carefully to what was being said.

Shortly after breakfast, Ziya walked over to the window.

Looking outside, he saw Çetin waiting by the garden gate.

He got dressed and stepped outside.

The snow in Ankara was still knee-deep. However, the family had gotten up early that morning and cleared a path from the garden gate to the house, piling the snow along the sides. Thanks to their effort, Ziya was able to walk comfortably to the gate.

He met Çetin there.

After a brief greeting, Çetin explained that they were going back to the Balin Hotel to speak with the hotel staff once again.

He then asked if Ziya would accompany them.

They set off in Çetin’s car.

They drove down Cinnah Avenue. After passing the Akay Junction, they continued toward Kızılay Square.

Ankara was still covered in snow.

Even so, the streets were already crowded from the early hours of the morning. Some people hurried to catch buses, while others walked briskly to work with their hands tucked into their pockets.

The sound of footsteps crunching through the snow and the rumble of vehicle engines blended into the city’s morning rush.

As Ziya gazed over Ankara from the heights of Cinnah, he drifted into thought for a moment.

Without letting Çetin notice, he quietly murmured to himself,

“Ankara, Ankara, beautiful Ankara…

Every unfortunate soul longs to see you…”

At that very moment, he realized something.

He had finally understood why he loved Ankara, why he considered himself a devotee of the city.

But the affection he felt was not an ordinary love for a city.

Ankara had grown and changed alongside him. And now, it was beginning to reap the rewards of that long growth, just as he was in his own life.

Perhaps that was why he felt so close to Ankara.

He sensed an invisible similarity between himself and the city. Part of the warmth filling his heart came from that connection.

Yet, true to his nature, he revealed none of these thoughts to Çetin.

Çetin remained silent as well. He seemed content simply to watch Ankara through the window.

When they reached Kızılay Square, they stopped at a traffic light.

Vehicles moved slowly between the snow-covered streets, waiting for the light to turn green.

As soon as it did, they turned left, passed in front of the Kızılay Building, and entered Gazi Mustafa Kemal Pasha Boulevard.

A short distance beyond the National Lottery Building, they turned right onto İzmir Street.

A few minutes later, the police vehicle came to a stop in front of the main entrance of the Balin Hotel.

Çetin and Ziya stepped out of the car together.

The interior of the vehicle had been warm, while outside the cold was sharp and biting. Both men instinctively pulled their overcoats closed.

Ziya reached into his pocket and took out the pocket watch he had inherited from his father.

It showed exactly 10:10.

Together, they walked toward the hotel’s main entrance.

With a respectful gesture, Çetin stepped aside and allowed Ziya to enter first. After Ziya passed through the door, he followed him inside.

At the reception desk on the right stood a clean-faced, neatly shaved, and well-dressed hotel employee waiting for them.

Several officers from the police station were already there.

In addition, the teams that had been guarding the hotel since the previous night had not yet left the building.

After introducing themselves, they all went up to Room 712 on the seventh floor.

Passing the officers standing guard in the corridor, they entered the room where the murder had taken place.

The room had a beautiful view from the seventh floor, overlooking Kızılay Square and the rear side of the Kızılay Building.

From the window, they could see Kızılay Garden covered in snow. Across from it stood Güvenpark, its pool filled with snow. Farther ahead stretched Sakarya Street, and beyond that, the construction site of the Emek Business Center, which had only recently begun.

On the opposite side, the glass-enclosed section of Cevat Restaurant beneath the Soysal Apartments could be seen.

People continued their daily routines despite the snow, some walking through the streets and others driving their vehicles.

Yet, in sharp contrast to the view outside, the atmosphere inside the room was heavy.

The victim had been a contractor.

He had come to Ankara from another city on business related to the General Directorate of Land Registry and Cadastre.

The body had already been taken to the morgue.

The position where the man had been found was marked with chalk. It was clear that he had been lying on his back with his arms and legs spread apart. The statements of those who had discovered the body confirmed this.

However, something else caught the attention of both Ziya and Çetin.

Despite the fact that a murder had been committed, the room was almost completely undisturbed.

On the other hand, the door had clearly been forced open.

The security chain had been ripped away from its fittings, and the door had been broken by a powerful kick. The impact had been so strong that even the chain’s mounting hardware had been torn out of the door.

There was another strange detail.

The victim had died from a broken neck.

Yet, for some reason, after killing him, the murderer had stabbed him in the heart.

It was an unusual circumstance.

After examining the crime scene and gathering the necessary information, Çetin gave instructions to his officers. He then walked over to Ziya.

Ziya was standing beside the damaged door, studying the broken frame and the torn chain lock before turning his attention back to the room.

If someone had truly forced their way inside in such a violent manner, there should have been signs of a struggle — or at the very least, some disorder.

Yet inside, it looked as though almost nothing had been moved.

This immediately aroused the suspicions of both men.

Çetin asked the hotel staff for the witness statements and reports related to the incident.

As they reviewed the documents, they noticed that most of the statements had been taken from hotel employees. However, the guests staying in the rooms on either side of the victim’s room had not yet been interviewed.

At that point, Ziya asked whether the neighboring rooms were occupied.

The hotel employee explained that one of the rooms was vacant while the other was occupied.

After exchanging a brief glance, Ziya and Çetin decided to speak first with the guest staying in Room 711.

At the moment, they had neither a solid piece of evidence nor any fingerprints to work with.

Leaving the murder room behind, they walked to the door of Room 711 next door.

Çetin knocked several times.

For a few moments, there was no response.

Then a sleepy male voice came from inside.

“Who is it?”

Çetin answered calmly.

“Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

A short while later, the door opened.

Both Çetin and Ziya were briefly surprised by the sight of the man standing there.

His eyes were still half closed. He was wearing pajamas and looked as though he might fall asleep even while standing.

Apologizing for the disturbance, Çetin explained that they wanted to ask a few questions about the murder that had taken place in the neighboring room the previous night.

Rubbing his face, the man explained that he was a businessman from out of town.

He said that he was aware of Ankara’s frequent power outages and had therefore become accustomed to going to bed early.

The previous evening, just a few minutes before the electricity had gone out, he had taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed.

The man explained that just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard a knock on a door somewhere in the corridor.

A moment later, he heard a woman and a man exchange a few brief words.

Immediately afterward, he heard a loud noise — something like a door being struck, slammed, or broken open.

However, because of the sleeping pill he had taken, he had not paid much attention to it and had fallen asleep shortly afterward.

Thanking him for his time, Çetin chose not to disturb the man any further.

He and Ziya then left the room together.

After leaving Room 711, they headed back toward Room 712.

Just as they were about to enter, Ziya stopped beside the door.

As he carefully examined the damaged entrance, his eyes caught a dark mark just below the doorknob.

At first glance, it was clearly the imprint of a shoe left by a powerful kick.

But there was something unusual about it.

The overall shape of the shoe print appeared large, yet the section that had actually applied force to the door was noticeably narrower and smaller than the rest of the imprint.

It looked as though someone with small feet had deliberately been wearing oversized shoes.

For several seconds, Ziya studied the mark without saying a word.

Then he slightly turned his head and called to Çetin.

When Çetin came over, Ziya pointed toward the door.

“Take a close look at this,” he said.

Çetin first examined the broken chain lock and then the shoe print.

Without taking his eyes off the mark, Ziya continued:

“The shoe is large… but the part applying the pressure isn’t nearly that big. It’s almost as if the actual foot were much smaller.”

Çetin frowned slightly.

Now he was beginning to notice the oddity as well.

As silence settled over the corridor once again, both men continued staring at the damaged door for a few moments.

After completing their examination of the hotel, Ziya and Çetin went downstairs together.

They got into the police vehicle waiting outside the Balin Hotel and drove along İzmir Street before joining Atatürk Boulevard.

From there, they headed toward the police station in Necatibey.

When they arrived at the police station, they went straight to Çetin’s office.

After the bitter cold outside, the warmth of the room felt welcome to both men. Taking a few sips from the hot tea that had been placed on the desk, they began reviewing the murder file once again.

After leaving the Balin Hotel, they had not returned to the bar.

At that point, they believed there was little more they could accomplish there. The bar was closed during the daytime anyway. Besides, they assumed that the suspect had probably blended into the crowd the previous night and left long ago.

Even so, they agreed that they would return if it became necessary.

As Çetin flipped through the pages of the file, he began reviewing the information they had gathered, speaking his thoughts aloud.

Most of the talking was done by Çetin.

After all, he was the officer officially in charge of the investigation.

Ziya preferred to remain in the background.

As a man respected by Çetin and regarded as something of a legend because of his years of experience, he simply tried to help when needed. He was particularly good at noticing details that others might overlook and would occasionally guide Çetin with a few brief observations.

The only sounds in the room were the rustling of file pages and the wind howling outside.

Just then, the telephone rang.

Çetin picked up the receiver.

The caller was the manager of the Bosphorus Melodies.

The night before, the police had instructed both the group and everyone who had been present in the bar not to leave the city until the murder had been solved.

However, the group had concerts scheduled in other cities as well.

That was why the manager was calling — to ask for permission to travel.

Çetin thought for a moment.

By now, they no longer believed there was much chance that the group was directly connected to the crime. As far as they knew, the musicians had simply performed their concert that evening and then returned to their hotel like anyone else.

For that reason, Çetin told the manager that they would be allowed to leave the city unless a new order was issued by the prosecutor’s office or the court.

However, he specifically added that they would still like to have a brief face-to-face meeting with the group.

After hanging up, they finished their tea and continued talking for a while.

Gradually, their discussion drifted away from the case and toward everyday matters.

They spoke about how well the snowfall suited Ankara and how winters in the past had been much harsher.

A little later, they left the station together.

As Çetin raised the collar of his coat against the cold, he said,

“Chief, I know you don’t like getting too deeply involved in cases like this. If you’d like, I can drop you off at home.”

Under normal circumstances, Ziya would have preferred to go home.

But the strange scene he had witnessed during the concert the night before still lingered in the back of his mind. The feeling of unease had not left him.

So after a brief silence, he replied,

“No… I’ll come with you.”

Çetin appeared slightly surprised by the answer, though he did not show it.

He knew that Ziya generally avoided placing himself at the center of investigations. And if Ziya wanted to come along, it usually meant that he had noticed — or sensed — something important. Just as importantly, Çetin knew that Ziya would not mention it until he was certain.

Together, they climbed into the police vehicle and set off for the Ankara Grand Hotel, where the Bosphorus Melodies were staying.

Throughout the drive, snow-covered Ankara once again passed before their eyes.

The trees of Güvenpark buried in white, the blanket of snow covering Kızılay Square, the quiet stillness of Akay Junction, and the sidewalks glistening beneath the streetlights gave the city an entirely different appearance.

The vehicle came to a stop in front of the Ankara Grand Hotel near the Parliament building.

When they entered, they saw that the members of the Bosphorus Melodies had already completed their checkout procedures and were sitting in the lobby.

The group members and their manager were quietly waiting for them near the hotel’s dining hall.

As Ziya and Çetin entered, everyone in the lounge turned toward them for a moment.

After introducing both himself and Ziya to the group, Çetin took a seat in one of the empty armchairs.

Although the members of the Bosphorus Melodies were trying to appear calm, the tension surrounding them was still noticeable.

Çetin began speaking with each member of the group individually.

He explained that the investigation was still in the evidence-gathering stage and that no formal court proceedings had begun. He told them that they were free to leave the city if they wished.

However, he also took note of the addresses where they would be staying and their telephone numbers so that the police could contact them if necessary.

Throughout these conversations, Çetin focused mainly on official details.

But Ziya’s attention had been drawn elsewhere.

The voice of the group’s lead singer, Lale, sounded remarkably similar to that of Necla, the woman responsible for managing things behind the scenes.

It was not only their voices.

Even the way they pronounced certain words was almost identical.

While Çetin was speaking with the young women, he failed to notice this detail.

But Ziya’s mind had already returned to the previous evening.

When the electricity had gone out during the concert, there had been a brief burst of activity on the stage.

Then, when the song resumed, he had sensed a very slight change in the voice.

At the time, he had not been able to make sense of it.

Now, hearing the similarity between Necla’s voice and Lale’s, his suspicions began to grow.

It was as though something had happened on the stage during the concert — something no one had noticed.

Still, Ziya said nothing to Çetin.

What he had was nothing more than a feeling.

And he did not believe in speaking before he was certain.

After leaving the Ankara Grand Hotel, Çetin dropped Ziya off at home.

For the next two days, life continued as usual.

During those two days, they met with Çetin several times.

They talked about the case. They talked about Ankara. They talked about the old love they both felt for the city. At length, they discussed how beautiful and lovable Ankara looked beneath its blanket of snow.

While Çetin spent those two days focused on the case and its details, Ziya lived more quietly.

He stayed at home, worked in the garden, and occasionally met with Nazmi to talk about everyday matters.

At the end of those two days, Ziya once again woke up early the following morning.

He got dressed, slipped the pocket watch he had inherited from his father into his pocket, and stepped out of his room.

The moment he opened the door, the warmth of the stove burning brightly in the living room washed over him. A peaceful feeling spread through him at once.

As always, he first went over to his father’s photograph.

Standing there, as though someone were truly listening to him, he began talking about Ankara.

He spoke about the things that had happened in the city recently, about how Ankara had grown, how crowded its streets had become, and how new neighborhoods were now being built even in places that had once been picnic grounds on the outskirts of the city.

He spoke of Ankara’s unique beauty — its snow, its mud, and even its rain.

A while later, he joined the family at the breakfast table.

He had just picked up the newspaper when his niece Kezban said excitedly,

“Uncle, did you hear?”

Adjusting his glasses, Ziya asked,

“Hear what?”

Kezban continued enthusiastically.

“The Bosphorus Melodies performed a concert in Eskişehir last night. And it was a huge success!”

Ziya smiled slightly.

“Is that so, Kezban?”

Because she was such a devoted fan of the group, Kezban kept talking, excitedly describing the concert hall and the size of the crowd.

Ziya took a sip of tea and began reading the newspaper.

As he slowly turned the pages, a small article printed in the lower corner of one of the middle pages caught his attention.

A murder had been committed in a hotel in Eskişehir.

Silently, Ziya read the article to the end.

Then he carefully placed the newspaper on the table and turned to Kezban.

“Exactly where was the Bosphorus Melodies concert held?” he asked.

Without hesitation, Kezban told him the name of the venue.

Without revealing anything, Ziya stored the information away in the back of his mind.

Then he returned to the conversation and continued eating breakfast.

Soon, laughter once again filled the table.

As breakfast was drawing to a close, Ziya’s eyes drifted toward the window.

In truth, he had already had a feeling.

As though they had arranged it beforehand.

So he was not surprised at all.

Çetin was waiting outside in a police vehicle.

In fact, he had already entered through the garden gate and was slowly making his way toward the front door.

Before Çetin even had the chance to knock, Ziya opened the door.

Neither of them said a word.

They simply exchanged brief smiles.

Because Ziya had already known that Çetin would come.

Çetin leaned his head slightly inside and politely asked after the family.

Everyone invited him in.

But Çetin smiled apologetically and explained that he had far too much work to do. He added that perhaps another time he could visit with his wife.

In response, the family invited both Çetin and his wife to dinner one evening.

Çetin happily accepted the invitation.

A short while later, he and Ziya left the house together.

They passed through the garden gate and climbed into the police vehicle.

As the car began making its way down Cinnah Avenue, Ziya once again murmured quietly to himself, as he often did:

“Ankara, Ankara, beautiful Ankara…

Every unfortunate soul longs to see you…”

He knew as surely as he knew his own name that as long as he lived in Ankara, he would repeat those words every time he looked down upon the city from above.

For whenever he saw Ankara from a bird’s-eye view, the love he felt for it only grew stronger.

This time, most of the roads had been cleared.

The snow had been pushed to the sides, and Ankara was gradually returning to its normal rhythm. Traffic had come back to life, and people were returning to their daily routines.

As the vehicle made its way toward Akay Junction, Çetin finally broke the silence.

“Chief…”

“I didn’t think it was connected at first. But someone was killed in Eskişehir as well, where the group performed. It happened in a hotel. The door was broken open, but the room wasn’t disturbed. It’s almost identical to what happened in Ankara.”

Ziya continued listening without saying a word.

Çetin went on.

“And when we dug a little deeper, we discovered something else. Similar murders occurred not only in Eskişehir, but also in other cities where the group had previously performed. That’s why we’ve called them back to Ankara. We also found a few additional pieces of evidence, but I’d rather discuss those with you at the station.”

Without taking his eyes off the road ahead, Ziya replied,

“I was expecting that.”

“There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you as well.”

For a brief moment, Çetin looked at him.

The familiar quiet seriousness was still there in Ziya’s eyes.

He asked no further questions.

Because by now he knew Ziya well enough to understand that he never liked speaking before he was certain. If he was saying something like this, it meant that pieces of the puzzle were already beginning to come together in his mind.

From that point on, neither of them spoke much until they arrived at the police station in Necatibey.

Instead, they watched the snow slowly melting beneath the sunlight, the people walking along the sidewalks, and the traffic moving steadily through the city streets.

When they arrived at the station, they went directly to Çetin’s office.

As usual, Çetin reached for the telephone and ordered two teas.

A short while later, with steaming glasses of tea in front of them, they reopened the case file and resumed their discussion.

One by one, they reviewed the investigation reports, crime scene documents, photographs, and witness statements contained in the file.

They also examined the reports concerning the Bosphorus Melodies’ addresses in Istanbul, as well as the documents prepared on several individuals who had attracted attention during the identity checks at the bar.

After a long review, the file was finally closed for the moment.

A brief silence settled over the room.

Çetin set his tea glass down on the desk and turned toward Ziya.

“Chief… On the way here, you mentioned that there were a few things you wanted to discuss with me as well. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear them.”

Ziya slowly finished the last sip of tea in his glass.

Then he placed the glass onto its saucer and set it on the small table beside him.

After a brief silence, he began to speak.

“When the power went out during the concert, there was a brief burst of activity on the stage. It wasn’t something most people would have noticed unless they were paying very close attention.”

Çetin listened carefully.

Ziya continued.

“Then, when the song started again, I sensed a slight change in the voice. I don’t know whether anyone else noticed it. Most likely, no one did. The atmosphere was so lively that people probably wouldn’t have detected such a small difference. But it sounded different to me.”

Çetin nodded thoughtfully.

“You’re right, Chief.”

“Actually, I noticed it too. But with everything else going on, I didn’t pay much attention to it. Necla’s voice and Lale’s voice sounded remarkably similar. At the time, it didn’t seem important. But now that you’ve mentioned these things, some pieces are beginning to fall into place for me as well.”

For a moment, he glanced down at the photographs spread across the case file.

“We’ll need to speak with the group again when they return to Ankara. I’m glad you brought this to my attention.”

Silence settled over the room once more.

From outside, they could hear footsteps echoing through the corridors of the police station.

The Bosphorus Melodies returned to Ankara a day or two later.

During that time, the investigation had continued, but no definite conclusion had yet been reached. The police were still gathering evidence.

On the day the group returned, Çetin stopped by Ziya’s house once again and picked him up.

Together, they drove to the Ankara Grand Hotel, where the group was staying.

This time, they were greeted at the entrance by the group’s manager.

After a brief exchange of greetings, he escorted them upstairs to the floor where the musicians were staying.

The members of the group occupied separate rooms.

Ziya and Çetin decided to speak first with Lale, the group’s lead singer.

When they knocked on the door and entered, Lale greeted them with remarkable calmness.

They moved to the small table in the center of the room and sat facing one another.

Çetin explained the murder in Ankara, then the incidents in Eskişehir and the other cities. He pointed out that the killings had all occurred on nights when the group had performed and asked whether she knew anything about them.

With a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, the woman appeared completely at ease.

She answered the questions calmly, never rushing, always remaining in control.

At first glance, she seemed entirely innocent.

But there was something else that did not escape Ziya’s attention.

More than innocence, there was a certain confidence in her manner — the kind often displayed by people who considered themselves smarter than everyone around them.

Throughout the conversation, Ziya carefully observed her eyes, her tone of voice, and her movements.

Yet he said nothing.

After a while, they thanked her and prepared to leave the room.

Just then, Ziya’s eyes fell upon a suitcase resting beside a small table.

On top of it stood an unframed photograph.

The picture looked recent.

It showed three people standing on a winners’ podium after a sporting competition.

All of them were dressed in karate uniforms.

And the person standing on the highest step of the podium was none other than Lale.

For several seconds, Ziya stared silently at the photograph.

At that moment, a few more pieces began falling into place in his mind.

Kicks powerful enough to break doors…

Agility…

Controlled movements…

Calmness…

Everything was beginning to make sense.

After leaving Lale’s room, the manager led the way down the corridor toward the room of the group’s bass guitarist.

As they walked, the sound of a woman singing drifted out from the room immediately next to Lale’s.

At that very moment, Ziya stopped.

He froze where he stood.

After taking a few more steps, Çetin and the manager realized that Ziya was no longer behind them. Both turned around and looked back at him.

Çetin raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Is something wrong, Chief?” he asked.

Ziya did not answer.

Instead, he slowly raised his index finger.

A few seconds of silence filled the corridor.

Then he pointed toward the room from which the singing voice was coming.

The expression on his face had changed completely.

In a quiet but unmistakably certain voice, he said:

“The voice I heard after the power went out…”

He paused briefly.

“It was this voice.”

Then he pointed toward the room immediately next to Lale’s.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Çetin walked to the door.

He knocked several times.

A brief silence settled over the corridor.

A few seconds later, the door opened.

Standing in the doorway was Necla, the woman responsible for managing things behind the scenes during the performances.

She had opened the door abruptly.

The moment she saw the police officers standing before her, she was genuinely startled.

More importantly, she was unable to hide it.

In a calm voice, Çetin explained that they would like to speak with her as well.

Then he and Ziya stepped inside.

They sat down at the small table in the room and began talking.

At first, Necla seemed determined to compose herself.

She appeared to answer every question properly and without hesitation.

But as the conversation continued, her demeanor slowly began to change.

It was as though she had started to feel that the truth was closing in around her.

Her answers became increasingly careful, increasingly measured.

She kept shifting the cigarette from one hand to the other and occasionally moistened her lips without realizing it.

Before long, small beads of perspiration began forming on her forehead.

Çetin noticed.

Ziya, meanwhile, spent the entire conversation watching her eyes.

Then, after a while, Necla suddenly rose to her feet.

She asked to be excused, explaining that she needed to attend to backstage matters and that there were preparations she had to make.

Neither Çetin nor Ziya pressed her any further.

By now, both men were beginning to understand certain things.

They knew that someone in her state of mind would not tell the truth under pressure. And without solid evidence, there was little they could do.

So they left Necla’s room calmly.

Yet even without saying anything, she had already revealed far more than she realized.

Ziya and Çetin felt as though they had learned many of the things they needed to know.

Even so, they visited the rooms of the other group members and conducted a few brief interviews before leaving the hotel.

Over the following hours, they once again reviewed the files and reports arriving from the other cities.

By now, they both shared the same conclusion.

The suspect was almost certainly within the group.

There might even be more than one person involved.

But their strongest suspect was now Lale, the group’s lead singer.

There was only one thing neither of them fully understood yet:

Exactly where Necla fit into all of this.

After leaving Necla’s room, Çetin and Ziya had begun organizing their thoughts and clarifying their suspicions.

They were now far more confident that their instincts had been correct.

However, the evidence they possessed was still not enough.

For that reason, they decided to wait a little longer before making their move.

Approximately two or three days later, news arrived that the group would once again be performing at a bar over the weekend.

But this concert would be different from the others.

Because this time, it was the police who were prepared.

Çetin secretly met with the owner of the bar where the concert would take place, and together they made a number of arrangements.

For months, Ankara’s electricity had been going out at almost the same time every evening and then returning a short while later.

The police now understood that someone within the group — or perhaps the group itself — had been using these outages to their advantage.

When the day of the concert arrived, Ziya’s niece Kezban once again wanted to attend.

As a devoted fan of the Bosphorus Melodies, she was excited about seeing the group perform again.

But Ziya knew that this concert would be different from all the others.

Not wanting to put his family at risk, he contacted his old friend Nazmi that morning and invited him and his family over for dinner that evening.

When Kezban learned that they would have guests, she agreed to stay home instead of going to the concert.

After all, Nazmi was one of Ziya’s closest friends, and Kezban was very fond of him and his family as well.

When evening came, Ziya left the house with Nazmi by his side.

While the women stayed at home, the two men set off for the bar where the concert was to be held, just as planned.

They boarded a bus heading toward Kızılay and began their journey.

When the bus reached the beginning of Cinnah Avenue, it stopped to pick up and drop off passengers before slowly starting its descent down the hill.

Ziya and Nazmi were seated in the front row.

The city looked especially beautiful from above in the evening light.

The lights of Ankara were gradually coming alive beneath the darkening sky, while the streets stretched into the distance like thin golden lines.

Without even realizing it, Ziya once again began murmuring the familiar refrain to himself.

“Ankara, Ankara…”

But this time he must have spoken a little louder than usual, because Nazmi turned and looked at him.

Then, without saying a word, he began quietly singing along.

When the bus driver heard the two elderly men in the front seats repeating the same refrain over and over, he smiled to himself.

A little later, while sitting behind the wheel, he too joined them in a low voice.

“Ankara, Ankara…”

A few passengers turned to look at them, but no one said a word.

It was as though, for that brief moment, everyone on the bus was traveling through the same memory of the same city.

And so it continued until they reached Kızılay and got off at a stop near the entrance to Sakarya Street.

Darkness was beginning to settle over the city.

With the sun gone, Ankara’s famous dry cold had made itself felt, and a chill had spread through the streets.

Both men thanked the understanding driver who had joined in with their song and stepped off the bus.

The moment their feet touched the pavement, they were greeted by the sharp, dry cold of Ankara.

They immediately buttoned their overcoats and headed toward Sakarya Street.

At the kiosk near the entrance to the avenue, they bought cigarettes.

Then they continued walking at a leisurely pace.

What caught Ziya’s attention was the number of plainclothes police officers positioned at key points around Sakarya Street and Kızılay Square.

They appeared to be blending naturally into the crowd, but anyone paying close attention would notice that their eyes kept drifting toward the same locations.

Just as they were about to turn into the side street where the bar was located, Çetin and Ziya decided to stop at the döner restaurant on the corner.

Before going inside, they ordered döner sandwiches and ayran.

Carrying their food upstairs, they took a seat at a table by the window.

But the moment they sat down, they did not begin eating.

The streetlights illuminating Sakarya Street as evening settled over the city drew both men into distant thoughts without their even realizing it.

The sound of footsteps passing along the street, the murmur spilling out from the shops, the occasional burst of laughter…

They all seemed like the familiar, unchanging sounds of a city they had known for years.

For a moment, they found themselves thinking that traces of their own footsteps remained on every street and every paving stone in the city.

They remembered their childhoods, their youth, their hurried journeys through life, the things they had lost, the things they had found, their moments of happiness, and their moments of sorrow.

Both men let out a deep sigh at exactly the same time.

Then they looked at one another.

As if realizing they had been thinking the same thoughts, they exchanged faint smiles.

After finishing their meal, they spent a while longer watching the crowd below.

Sakarya Street seemed to have become a place that lived at every hour of the day.

People flowed endlessly through it, and the movement of the street never seemed to stop.

Just then, they saw the Bosphorus Melodies walking past with their manager and a sizable entourage, heading toward the street where the bar was located.

The moment the young fans spotted the group, they surrounded them.

Some asked for autographs.

Others called out to them.

Many reached out excitedly in hopes of getting closer.

As the group moved toward the bar, the crowd around them continued to grow.

Ziya took out the pocket watch he had inherited from his father and checked the time.

There was not long left before the concert would begin.

Silently, the two men stood up.

Leaving the döner restaurant behind, they headed toward the street where the bar was located.

Çetin was waiting for them at the entrance.

The three men entered together and took their seats at a table that had been reserved for them.

The place was crowded and noisy.

All three ordered something to drink.

Glasses on the tables were constantly being replaced, while waiters struggled to weave their way through the packed crowd.

Cigarette smoke drifted slowly toward the ceiling, and the colorful spotlights scattered through the haze, giving the bar a dim, misty atmosphere.

A short while later, the Bosphorus Melodies took the stage.

The atmosphere inside the bar changed instantly.

The younger fans seated near the front jumped to their feet and began applauding enthusiastically. People pounded on the tables, whistles echoed through the room, and the music pouring from the stage quickly filled every corner of the bar.

As always, Lale stood at the very center of the stage.

Her shimmering blue stage costume sparkled beneath the lights, and with every song she performed, the crowd’s excitement seemed to grow.

But Ziya was not paying attention to the people enjoying themselves.

His eyes constantly moved between the right side of the stage and the dark area leading to the backstage section.

Without drawing attention to himself, Çetin was also watching the room.

From time to time, he discreetly checked the locations of the plainclothes officers scattered throughout the bar.

Although the officers were doing their best to behave like ordinary customers, the alert expressions on their faces were difficult to hide.

As the performance continued, the bar grew even more crowded.

Conversations blended together, laughter echoed through the room, and the music brought a sense of energy to every table.

Then the moment they had been waiting for finally arrived.

Glancing briefly at the clock on the wall, Ziya saw the hands pointing exactly to seven o’clock.

At that precise moment, Ankara’s electricity failed once again, just as it always did.

The entire bar was plunged into darkness.

A few startled screams could be heard.

Then came the sound of glasses striking tables and a brief wave of confused murmuring.

In the darkness, only the sound of people’s breathing, the scraping of chairs, and the wind outside could be heard.

And then it happened.

The brief movement that had haunted Ziya’s thoughts for days appeared once again.

A shadow moved across the stage.

As though one person had taken another’s place, a faint silhouette shifted through the darkness.

By now, Ziya’s eyes had adjusted to the lack of light.

This time, he was certain.

Then the song began again.

But the voice…

It had changed once more.

The difference was very slight. So slight that anyone not paying close attention would never have noticed it.

Yet it was different.

Slowly, Ziya turned toward Çetin.

Both men had understood the same thing.

But this time, the police were ready.

The generators that had been secretly installed beforehand were activated at once.

A muffled engine noise rose from the rear of the bar.

Then, one by one, the lights hanging from the ceiling flickered back to life.

Within seconds, the entire room was illuminated again.

Yet those few seconds of darkness had been enough to change the expression on every face.

Only moments earlier, the bar had been filled with laughter.

Now an uneasy silence had settled over the room.

Everyone was staring at the stage.

And in that instant, the truth was revealed.

The person standing behind the microphone was not Lale.

It was Necla.

For a moment, time itself seemed to stand still.

Necla clearly had not expected the lights to return so quickly.

She was unable to hide the shock on her face.

Even the way she held the microphone had changed.

The confident expression she had worn only moments earlier vanished, and her voice trembled as she tried to continue singing.

But Necla was not the only one frozen in place.

The other members of the group were equally stunned.

The young woman behind the drums had stopped playing altogether, remaining motionless with her drumsticks still in her hands.

The bassist looked first at Necla and then toward the backstage area.

The confusion on her face was becoming more obvious by the second.

The keyboard player had pulled her hands away from the keys and was staring out into the room, unable to understand what was happening.

Several people seated near the front turned toward one another.

Whispers began spreading through the crowd.

“Was that woman standing there a moment ago?”

“Where did Lale go?”

At that very moment, Çetin shoved his chair back sharply.

As he rose to his feet, his voice cut through the noise of the entire bar.

“Nobody move! Police!”

The plainclothes officers scattered throughout the bar stood up at the same time.

For a brief moment, panic swept through the room as the men who had appeared to be ordinary customers suddenly pulled out their police identification.

Some people instinctively stepped back.

Others simply stared around, trying to understand what was happening.

Necla, meanwhile, remained frozen in place for several seconds.

Her eyes drifted involuntarily toward the rear of the stage.

As though she were still searching for a way out.

But at that moment, Ziya saw the expression on her face clearly.

It was not fear.

It was something else.

It was the realization of a person who had always believed herself smarter than everyone else finally discovering that she had been wrong.

The calm confidence that had always defined her was gone.

In its place was the silent anger of a plan that had fallen apart.

At the same moment, the police teams outside moved into action.

The plainclothes officers positioned behind the bar immediately headed for the rear exit.

Two officers who had been posing as customers quickly secured the alley behind the building.

Then the door burst open.

The person who emerged was Lale.

She was wearing a long, dark hooded coat.

With her head lowered, she moved quickly down the street, trying to put distance between herself and the bar.

At first glance, she might have looked like an ordinary woman.

But there was something unmistakable in the harshness of her stride and the urgency of her movements.

One of the officers shouted:

“Stop! Police!”

Lale did not even glance back.

Instead, she accelerated.

The alley behind Sakarya Street was wet.

The snow that had fallen over the past several days had mostly melted, leaving the sidewalks covered with muddy water. The yellow glow of the streetlights reflected off the puddles, giving the night a hazy appearance.

Just as one of the officers caught up to her and reached for her arm, Lale suddenly spun around and delivered a powerful kick.

Had the officer not stepped back at the last instant, the blow would have struck him squarely in the chest.

But that single movement was enough to connect all the pieces Ziya had been assembling in his mind for days.

Legs powerful enough to break down doors…

Lightning-fast turns…

Perfect balance and control…

All of it pointed to the same person.

As Lale tried to flee again, one of the oversized shoes she was wearing flew off and landed several feet away.

What remained on the ground was no ordinary shoe.

It was a crude outer shoe, designed to fit over a smaller one and make the wearer’s foot appear much larger than it really was.

At that moment, Çetin stepped into the alley.

First, he looked down at the shoe lying on the ground.

Then he turned his eyes toward Lale.

Finally, he slowly looked at Ziya.

Neither of them had any doubts anymore.

Two officers had restrained Lale, yet she still did not look defeated.

Her hood had slipped halfway off her head, and strands of hair clung to her face.

She was breathing heavily.

But the expression on her face looked less like fear than anger.

It was as though she was not furious because her plan had failed…

She was furious because someone had been able to figure it out.

Çetin and the other officers quickly escorted Lale and Necla to the police vehicles waiting outside the bar.

Meanwhile, a small crowd had begun gathering at the entrance to Sakarya Street.

People who had heard the shouting from inside the bar were now staring curiously toward the scene, trying to catch a glimpse of the women being led away by the police.

Beneath the yellow glow of the streetlights, the two women who had been singing on stage only moments earlier were now walking between police officers.

Necla kept her head lowered.

Lale, however, continued casting hard glances at the people around her.

The anger had not left her face.

Çetin was issuing short, precise instructions.

“Put them in separate vehicles.”

“Don’t let anyone get near them.”

“And make sure nothing reaches the press.”

The officers escorted the women into separate police cars.

As Lale was being placed inside one of the vehicles, she paused for a brief moment and lifted her head.

Her eyes drifted toward Ziya.

It was as though she still refused to believe that this elderly man had been the one to unravel everything.

Ziya said nothing.

He simply looked back at her.

Then he buttoned up his overcoat and slowly breathed in the cold Ankara night air.

A short while later, the engines of the police vehicles started.

The headlights stretched across the wet pavement of Sakarya Street in long beams of light as the vehicles pulled away one after another.

Soon, the convoy disappeared into the night on its way to the police station in Necatibey.

The interrogations continued throughout the night.

The corridors of the police station in Necatibey had grown quiet.

Outside, Ankara’s bitter cold had returned, and from time to time the wind rattled against the windows.

Inside, the heavy smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the steam rising from countless cups of hot tea.

Lale and Necla were being held in separate rooms.

Çetin reviewed the statements one by one, spreading files from the other cities across his desk while officers prepared reports to the constant sound of typewriters.

But the most striking thing was that during the first several hours, neither woman said very much at all.

Lale, in particular, remained remarkably composed.

It was as though she still believed the game was not entirely over.

She answered questions briefly, occasionally smiling with a hint of contempt and sometimes studying the officers across from her with careful attention.

Necla, on the other hand, tried to appear calm, but she was growing increasingly uneasy.

She constantly asked for cigarettes, kept her hands tightly clasped beneath the table, and, despite her efforts to hide it, frequently moistened her lips.

As the hours passed, the pieces of the investigation slowly began fitting together.

The Bosphorus Melodies were, in fact, a real music group.

The other members had no direct involvement in the murders.

They were simply young musicians who traveled from city to city performing concerts.

But Lale, the group’s lead singer, and Necla had spent years building an entirely different operation behind the scenes.

Lale and Necla had been friends since their high school days.

What had begun as small-scale frauds and scams had gradually evolved into something much darker.

Lale’s background in athletics and her years of karate training had eventually become the centerpiece of the entire scheme.

Kicks powerful enough to break down doors…

Fast, controlled movements…

The ability to disappear without leaving a trace…

All of these qualities made Lale far more dangerous than an ordinary criminal.

Eventually, they had begun accepting money to carry out murders.

Their targets were usually businessmen, contractors, merchants, and wealthy individuals traveling from other cities.

In many cases, even the exact nature of the victims’ disputes with others was never fully known.

Once a target had been selected, concert arrangements would be made in the city where that person was staying.

The power outages in Ankara had given them a significant advantage.

In fact, they had been using similar methods in other cities as well.

At some of the bars and small venues where they performed, brief power failures were arranged in advance, or electrical systems were deliberately tampered with.

The confusion people experienced during those few minutes of darkness was all they needed.

When the lights went out, a brief disturbance would occur on stage.

During that moment of confusion, Necla would use the darkness to take Lale’s place.

Meanwhile, Lale would slip away from the bar wearing dark clothing she had prepared beforehand, along with oversized outer shoes designed to make her feet appear much larger than they really were.

Sometimes she posed as a hotel employee.

At other times, she approached her target as what appeared to be an ordinary woman traveling alone.

As soon as the door was opened even slightly, she would break the chain lock with her powerful kicks and force her way inside.

Once inside, she was careful not to leave the room in disarray.

She specifically wanted to avoid creating the appearance of either a professional burglary or an attack committed in a fit of rage.

Most of their victims were killed by having their necks broken.

Afterward, to mislead investigators, Lale would stab one of the victim’s vital organs with a knife.

At first, both women tried to deny everything.

For a long time, the hard expression on Lale’s face never changed.

But the evidence arriving from other cities, hotel records, witness statements, and the recovered shoe gradually began turning the case against them.

Eventually, late in the night, Necla was the first to break.

After sitting silently for a long time, she raised her head and looked across the table at Ziya.

The expression on her face resembled exhausted anger more than fear.

It was as though she still could not accept that the operation she had believed to be flawless for years had been uncovered by an aging police chief.

After a while, she began to speak.

As Necla talked, Lale’s silence grew heavier.

Then, shortly before dawn, when there was nothing left for them to deny, both women confessed to their crimes.

The case quickly became headline news.

For days, the same story appeared on the front pages of Ankara’s newspapers.

“Murders Behind the Stage Lights…”

“The Dark Side of the Singing Women…”

“Death Traveling from City to City…”

For days, people discussed the case in Sakarya Street, in Kızılay, in coffeehouses, and at bus stops throughout the city.

Kezban, however, could not believe what she was hearing.

The thought of the group she admired being associated with such crimes deeply shook her.

For days, she barely ate.

She spent long periods alone in her room and did not feel like speaking to anyone.

To her, the group had never been just a collection of songs.

They represented the excitement of her youth, the music she loved, and many cherished memories.

Now, all of those memories seemed somehow stained.

Whenever Ziya saw his niece in that state, he did not try to lecture her or offer lengthy advice.

He knew that some disappointments had to settle within a person on their own.

As the interrogations continued and files from the other cities were combined, it became clear that Lale and Necla had not acted entirely alone.

Several people who had supplied them with information on potential targets, arranged financial transfers, and established connections were soon arrested as well.

Among those taken into custody were intermediaries connected to businessmen in various cities, individuals involved in fraudulent event organizations, and several men whose names had surfaced in a network of suspicious relationships.

The police had come to understand that the murders had been carried out through a professional network operating for money.

However, most of the details of the investigation were kept from the public.

The newspapers focused mainly on the murders committed by Lale and Necla, and public attention remained fixed on the two women.

A few weeks later, newspaper reports announced that Lale and Necla had been sentenced to death for the murders they had committed.

Several individuals connected to the crimes received lengthy prison sentences as well.

Time passed.

Little by little, winter began to loosen its grip on Ankara.

Most of the snow had melted, and the dirty piles of snow that remained had been pushed to the edges of the streets.

One morning, Ziya woke up early once again.

When he opened the door, the warmth of the stove burning brightly in the living room washed over him.

As always, he first checked his pocket watch.

Then he slipped it back into his pocket and slowly walked toward the corner where his father’s photograph hung.

He stood there silently for a while.

Then, as he did every morning, he began talking about Ankara.

He spoke about the parts of the city that were changing.

He mentioned the construction of the Emek Business Center rising on the site where Uybadin Mansion had once stood, and how new apartment buildings were appearing all across the city.

He said that he believed even the Soysal Apartments and the Kızılay Building would one day lose their familiar appearance.

On the one hand, the city continued to grow.

On the other, the old Ankara was slowly becoming something different.

Yet inside Ziya, the Ankara of his childhood and youth still lived on.

A little later, he joined the family at the breakfast table.

Kezban was there that day as well.

The sadness that had once lingered on her face had largely faded.

She still drifted into thought from time to time, but she was no longer as withdrawn as before.

The sound of tea boiling on the stove blended with the warmth filling the house.

Together, the family enjoyed a peaceful breakfast.

That evening, Çetin and his wife came to visit.

Throughout the night, they drank tea and talked — sometimes about the murders, sometimes about Ankara, and sometimes about old memories.

And by then, both Ziya and his younger colleague knew that they had become a good team.

Because some people come to know one another not only by working on the same case…

but also by walking through the same city.

THE END