Lost and Found in Prague Read Free

part of the city police force, had heard the shot rip through the quiet morning and claimed to have seen a quick flash from the roof of a building—he pointed across the square toward the Grand Hotel Praha.
    A tilt of the head from Damek sent Detective Kristof Sokol and the team off toward the hotel, the eager young rookie leading the way.
Charging,
Damek thought, with the barely tested enthusiasm of a novice.
    “There.” The Mestská policie Praha officer’s voice trembled, as did his still-extended arm, and Damek guessed he was new to the local force, an officer whose duties normally consisted of overseeing traffic and animal control, attending to the tourists. Damek himself was well seasoned, seven years now in homicide. Seven days as chief investigator.
    A cool wind whipped through the square, tumbling a paper cup along the cobbles, catching against the wheel of the forensics van. Tiny sparkling flakes, dust motes, danced in the glow of the streetlight. Damek pulled a kerchief out of his pocket to catch a sneeze. Too early in the season for pollen, but something had invaded the morning air. Once more he surveyed the scene, then folded the square into his jacket and knelt down on the hard, cold stone.
    The victim, a man with broad shoulders and thick legs, wore expensive, finely polished leather shoes, a heavy winter coat, soft black fur around the collar. Little more than a week into spring, mornings had yet to welcome the season. The last snowfall had come in early March.
    “I didn’t touch anything,” the Mestská officer assured him. His voice quivered with nerves and Damek knew the man hadn’t approached the body. The location and appearance of the entry wound, the lack of blood, indicated it wouldn’t have mattered; death had come quickly. Once more the investigator scanned the square, his eyes settling on the hotel where faces pressed against the windows.
    Branislov Cerný, “the old Commie,” as some of the younger officers called him, stooped to examine the metal door at the base of the clock tower. The photographer, other technicians, and officers scurried about, recording details, taking measurements. Damek could not see an exit wound, just the small hole in the dead man’s head. Gauging the distance to the hotel, the way the body had fallen, it was likely the fatal shot had originated from the roof, just as the young officer had said.
    Cerný approached, his left leg slowing him down in the cold. Something perhaps overlooked during his last physical as he neared retirement. The senior detective stood beside the chief investigator, staring down. Damek knew the expression that had settled on the man’s craggy face even before he glanced back. An expression that some would call no expression at all. They said Detective Cerný had been doing this too long—he was a holdover, one of the few, from the old days. He operated mostly on gut instinct. Passed over too many times for promotion. Now just biding his time. Over the years, Damek had come to know the man well, and he knew exactly what the old detective was thinking—this was not the work of an amateur. One bullet to the head. This was an execution, a professional.
    A small crowd gathered, standing at a distance, held back by the bright yellow crime scene tape. Curious, hushed voices. Others were cordoned off, being questioned now, anyone who might have seen or heard anything. Two of the officers were turning the body, face fully visible now, tongue protruding from a distorted mouth, a thin drool jelling on the gaping lower lip. A pair of pale blue eyes stared up at Damek, wide with astonishment. The man’s dark hair was peppered with silver.
    A cell phone rang. The uniformed officer meticulously bagging the victim’s belongings glanced at Damek, who nodded. The officer handed him the dead man’s phone. Nothing to identify the caller on the screen—the number officially blocked. Damek hit answer.
    A rough voice, quick and impatient. “I wish to