Bailonz Street 13

At that moment, other officers inspecting the scene recognized us.

“Mr. Moore! Glad you’re here!”

Normally, iam Moore would have responded, but today he was unusually quiet. As he stood motionless, I reluctantly took charge, examining the crime scene. It felt as if our roles had reversed, like I was the detective and he the assistant. With that thought, I began surveying the blood-splattered classroom.

Blood had even sprayed up to the ceiling. Burnt matchsticks were scattered everywhere. Had they tried to light the darkness? I couldn’t tell.

Bloodstains began at the wall. Droplets trailed down, spreading like the prongs of a crown. I guessed that the blood had first been shed there and then moved towards the center. The amount of blood increased exponentially.

My eyes followed the blood trail. Based on the blood spatter analysis Liam had taught me, there should have been more stains where I was standing. But there were none. This meant… the blood had been blocked and then burst forth again. The culprit must have been drenched in blood too. The blood spatter was everywhere except for where it had been obstructed.

There was only one way such bloodstains could be created: an attack from the front.

There were no windows. Only one entrance. When the dead man was found, something had been blocking the door, making it difficult to open. The accompanying officer said it was a drawer, which had been pushed to the corner.

“Looks like he barricaded himself in,” I said to the person next to me.

“Indeed. Unless he intended to make a last stand here.”

Yes, he had blocked the entrance. The scene pieced itself together in my mind. He must have fled to this secluded spot, knowing the layout well from his time at the school, deliberately choosing a sealed room to keep others out.

I approached the body to inspect it closely. The man lay in the center of the room, his muscles twisted in rigor mortis, his face frozen in a look of terror. It seemed death had left him with nothing but fear.

As I quietly bent over the body, one of the accompanying officers glanced at me. I wondered silently, what did you see that left you like this?

The man’s lifeless eyes stared into space, reflecting my image in their glassy depths. I lingered, looking into his face for a while. The surrounding officers gave me uneasy looks, perhaps finding it unsettling that I seemed so accustomed to murder. I turned away with a sigh.

I pitied the dead and despised the one who had done this. No one had the right to take another’s life.

Ignoring the sinking feeling, I made the sign of the cross, though I was an atheist. In London, following local customs was a way to show respect.

Liam Moore, who had been observing from a distance, finally approached. He silently closed the man’s eyes, though rigor mortis made it difficult. The man looked more peaceful with his eyes closed, and for that, I was grateful.

‘Why had Liam stayed away?’

His reaction was unusual. Liam typically roamed crime scenes like they were his living room, shrugging off reprimands and complaining about Scotland Yard’s strictness to me.

But today, he was silently focused on the victim, his gray eyes filled with gloom. His shoulders rose and fell slowly. The veins in his hands stood out as he pressed them into the floor, seemingly ready to dig into the wooden planks.

We had become close enough to understand each other’s subtle signals, and I could tell that Liam was… angry. I didn’t know why, but he was furious.

“Liam?”

“Later.”

He whispered in a restrained voice, so softly that I wouldn’t have heard if I weren’t close. His expression and tone revealed no emotion.

Liam muttered that he had seen enough, and said he would look around the area before leading me outside. His face remained hard, like a frozen winter window.

The dry grass crunched beneath our feet. He matched my pace, indicating he hadn’t lost his temper entirely.

“It’s a murder.”

After a long silence, he spoke from a distance away from the scene.

“I figured as much. There must have been someone else there.”

But how could anyone enter a sealed room?

My mind recalled a similar scenario.

“What if they were already there, waiting?”

My experience on the train had taught me to think differently. What if someone had been there from the start, like the host of a predetermined space? Using a ‘semi-dungeon’?

Liam’s expression showed he didn’t know whether to laugh or frown at my speculation. His concern about knowing too much was written all over his face, so I frowned and nudged his side.

“Don’t overthink it.”

“I know. Just worried.”

“That’s called overprotectiveness.”

Liam’s expression softened a bit. He rubbed his left hand with his right, thinking deeply, before speaking.

“We need to check the victim’s dormitory.”

＊ ＊ ＊

The dormitory was a single room. It had a desk, a bed, and a bookshelf.

To have a single room, he must have been a good student. And he was an assistant too. Was he planning to pursue a PhD? He seemed like a diligent student.

There were open books and a messy bed. He must have had a busy day. With a slightly sad feeling, I touched the window frame where the faint sunlight came through. It felt like I was glimpsing the victim’s life, like fragments of someone else’s memories being laid out before me. I wasn’t sure if I should be seeing them. The small, dusty room made me uneasy.

“I knew him.”

Liam’s voice, cold and businesslike, startled me. I couldn’t turn to face him. His voice was so devoid of emotion that it seemed almost clinical.

‘But can anyone speak so dispassionately about someone they knew?’

I couldn’t imagine how it felt to see someone you knew become a victim. Liam seemed calm, but I didn’t believe it.

He continued.

“He often came to the social club.”

“…That’s why you were so shocked.”

So that’s why. Liam Moore approached the desk, muttering to himself. I turned naturally to focus on the items.

Books, books, books, a bag, crumpled paper. A flower in a vase sat in a sunny spot. Everything seemed ordinary and quiet, as if the room’s owner might return at any moment. The now-ownerless room evoked an indescribable feeling.

“Let’s go.”

After a while, Liam Moore spoke softly.

He dropped me off at 13 Bailonz Street, saying he had somewhere to go. He didn’t return for several hours.

As I waited for Liam, dark clouds gathered outside, and a cold winter rain began to fall. It felt ominous and eerie. Though it often rained in England, experiencing my first winter rain here gave me that impression.

It felt like a sign or a premonition.

When he finally returned around 9 PM, Liam’s face was hard and tired, his expression sharp. But his face softened when he saw me waiting in the living room. He approached with a gentle smile.

His effort not to transfer his bad mood to me was evident. It wasn’t a healthy attitude. Bottling up emotions was always harsh on oneself.

Liam loosened his tie and spoke.

“Did you eat?”

His tone was light. He often switched to that tone, though I didn’t know why. Was it to appear cheerful? Or perhaps to indulge himself around me? I put down the book I was reading and replied.

“No. I was waiting for you. Didn’t expect you’d be this late.”

“Sorry. My fault.”

Why apologize right away? I chose to starve myself. Liam’s exaggeratedly gentle demeanor made me reconsider teasing him. I gestured, and he bent down. Our eyes met.

“It’s fine. It’s no big deal. Let’s eat together tomorrow. You didn’t eat properly today. You skipped breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“…I ate, sort of.”

“A piece of bread doesn’t count as a meal, Little Moore.”

“Sorry, Professor.”

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