Selected Detective
LORD AND MISTRESS GRATZ II

As it left the chaotic Labyrinth in the old city, passed under its walls and returned to the outside world, the meeting in the synagogue seemed to recede in Khalifa's mind like an early morning mist that erased the warm rays of the sun. Once he reached the metro station, he already had to wrestle to remember the details of the synagogue's interior and the appearance of the men he met there; and when he returned to Al-Maadi walked slowly along the tree-lined road on his left and right, towards the Gratz husband-wife apartment block, he said, he was purely beginning to wonder if all these things were not merely dreams or elaborated daydreams, only translucent sapphire-blue eyes and curious seven-branched lights, who remained alive in his memory with the remnants of clarity. In fact, all of that was thrown deep into his consciousness when, on the corner of the street, he saw police cars and ambulances gathered in front of Gratz's apartment building.

Of course there were dozens of other residents on the block, but he immediately knew, instinctively Detective, that it was Piet Jansen's friend who was the focus for this crowd. He broke through that crowd.

“What's up?” he asked as he approached the police and revealed his identity to the uniformed guards there.

“Firing,” replied the man. “Two people died.”

“Oh Lord! When?”

“A few hours ago, maybe more. I don't know for sure. I just arrived here.” Condemning himself for not anticipating such a thing, Khalifa infiltrated through the bottom of the police tape and, with a wooden horus statue still in his grasp, entered the police station, he rushed into the building and went up to the third floor.

Flat Gratz was full of officials in their daily outfits.The photographer, forensic officer in a white suit and air rubber gloves were filled with the sound of soft, disjointed talk that was always present in this kind of atmosphere, some are curious, some nervous. He asked who the police officer in charge of the investigation was, and was led down the street to the door about halfway through the room which had been blurred by the dead camera. He urged in, and after the second doubt “It's my fault,” thought, “I caused this,” he went inside.

The man was in the bedroom with a large bed in the corner of the room, the wall behind him exposed to patches of thick blood. The bed itself was covered in something that was originally thought to be Khalifa a piece of cloth, but a moment later he noticed it as a large red flag with the swastika logo imprinted in the middle. The flag is also splattered with blood and something similar to pieces of flesh or skin. The surface was depressed and tangled, as if there had been someone lying on it. There still felt a faint smell of smokeless bullets in the acidic, corrosive and other unfamiliar smells, he said, like burnt walnuts. The black bag was lying on the side of the bed, smooth, shining, like a giant insect.

“Who are you?” A fat, bearded man, the detective who led the investigation when viewed from his way, was watching him from across the room. Khalifa approached and, again revealing his identity, explained why he was there. “What happened?”

The man grumbled as he reached into a bar of mars chocolate from his pocket and opened the wrapper.

“Sort of suicide, judging by the circumstances. A man shot him in the head,” he wiggled a black bag with the tip of his shoe “A woman gulped half a bottle of prussic acid. The neighbors heard the sound of an eruption, and called us. No third party, as far as we can say.”

He bit the chocolate bar, apparently undisturbed by the blood on the wall and the bedding cloth.

“Never seen an incident like this,” he said with a mouth full of chocolate. “Both lay on the bed, holding hands, a place like slaughter, the man in military uniform, the woman in bridal clothes, for God's sake. Weird.” He put the rest of his chocolate bar into his mouth, and switched, signaling with gestures to the photographer, that he wanted more pictures of the flag being stained with blood. Khalifa pulled out a cigarette, received a disapproving look from one of the forensic officers crawling on the floor, and put the cigarette back in her pocket.

“It's a kind of curse,” he thinks to himself. “This whole case. Whatever I do, wherever I am, there is nothing but death, death, and horror. I hate this. Hate all this.”

“Where is the female body?” he asked a moment later.

it was only a second before the significance of those words jolted Khalifa.

“I guess...” A sharp sting felt on his spine.

“I was told that both were dead.”

“What? No, no, this old woman is still alive, although it's unlikely. Twenty more minutes she'll end up like her husband.” He jerked the black bag again with his foot.

“Untung. Or unlucky, depending on which direction you see it from. She was wearing a bridal outfit.The strangest thing I've ever had..” He had no chance of finishing his sentence, as Khalifa had rushed out of the room.

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