28 June, 9:30 AM, “The Czernograd Gazette” newsroom
When they finally arrived via email, the statements, one from the police, the other one from the Palace, did not add anything substantial to what he already knew and drafted in anticipation. Igor admired the coordinated effort on the part of the respective publicity departments, less so their actual finished product.
The police one was brief:
“The Czernograd Police Department, Central District, is now in position to confirm that a body recovered by the police in the morning of 26 June from under the King Nicholas Bridge has been identified as that of MATHIAS MACIAR of Czernograd.
“The cause of death was established as a rapture of the heart muscle resulting from an impalement through the chest.
The usual cop-speak for staking.
“While the investigation surrounding the circumstances of Mr Maciar’s death is still ongoing, there are no indications of any other parties involved, and at this point in time the Czernograd Police Department does not consider there to be any suspicious circumstances...”
And the usual cop-speak for an accident or a suicide. Except that since no one tended to fall on a sharpened stake by accident, so you got the story – the official story, anyway – by way of elimination.
The statement from Prince Piotr’office was equally brief and equally scant on details:
“It is with great sadness that I have learned today of the untimely death of Mr Mathias Maciar. Mr Maciar has been one of my private secretaries for a period of ten years and in that time has served the House of Herenkow with utmost loyalty and professionalism. He will be much missed as a valuable and long-standing member of my household.
“The funeral services for Mr Maciar will be conducted...”
And so on.
Igor tidied up the news story and forwarded it to the IT people to prepare it for the newspaper’s website. Due to his diligent work “The Gazette” might not have broken the story, but it would be the first with a coverage more comprehensive than just a few quotes from the statements.
He also placed the call with his boss, Lis, to clear it, and clear it immediately. Normally, Igor wouldn’t have to, but this had the makings of a big story. Or at least a very touchy one. With the dead undead officially identified it was also as good as gone out of the metro section and into the hands of the political heavy guns on the floor above. But not just yet.
Neither of the official statements explicitly mentioned the non-human nature of the deceased, though the stake was a giveaway; humans generally didn’t impale themselves. The police release also studiously avoided any mention of the word “suicide”, though again that seemed to be the implication. The one from Prince Piotr made it sound as if Maciar had died before his time from an unexpected heart attack. That the heart attack was induced by a wooden stake, firmly affixed to the ground to ensure smooth and flawless journey, was another juicy detail bound to generate some questions from the concerned – make that titillated – public. An apparent suicide, one dead blood sucker, and the royal connection. It wouldn’t take much time before people started asking “why?”
Why indeed?
“Are you asking me about any official theories or my personal opinion?” said Gawneda, “Because at this stage I can’t help with either.”
It took Igor an hour before he finally managed to track down the friendly junior Detective. She was out, somewhere in the northern suburbs, looking at what appeared to be a murder-suicide, and wasn’t in the mood for long chats.
“Surely, someone’s asking themselves this question at the moment,” said Igor, doing his best to sound concerned rather than the usual pushy, lest Gawenda should decide that looking at two fresh corpses was more edifying than talking to a journalist.
“Surely, someone is,” she said, “but as you know, I’m not on the case, so I don’t know. I imagine people above my pay grade have spoken to Maciar’s co-workers and anyone he’s been close to. You realise how delicate the whole thing is.”
“Yeah, having a cup of tea with the Prince and asking His Royal Highness whether the long hours and the pressures of the job drove his private secretary to drive something sharp through his chest. You want a biscuit with that?”
“Very funny,” Gawenda wasn’t laughing. She never did. “And-“ the tone of her voice suddenly hardened “-for God’s sake, how many time do I have to ask for that report? I need it on my desk by this afternoon at the latest.”
“OK OK, you’ll have your report,” Igor laughed. “What the fuck was that about?”
“Sorry,” she lowered her voice again, “my boss was just passing by.”
“Wouldn’t want your boss to know you’re talking to a scummy little journalist, eh?”
“It’s not your job on the line, asshole,” she said. “We’re not talking here about two drunks coming to blows outside some stinking dive in the Surovy. Anyway, I’ve got to run...”
“Before you do,” Igor got in quickly, “A small favour.”
“Another one? None of the favours you ask are small, by the way.”
“I need an address,” Igor said.
“I recommend White Pages. I really need to-“
“Maciar’s address. It’s unlisted.”
She exhaled audibly. “You’re incorrigible.”
That's a big word for a cop, he thought.
“C’mon, Gawenda, it’s not a state secret, is it?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said and hang up without saying a good-bye. Again.
While he was talking to Gawenda, someone left a message on his phone. He played it back. It was from Goldstyn and it consisted of only three words: “Svoboda, you prick.”
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
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