Igor Grom

The air in the office was heavy and stale, thick with the scent of damp clothes and cheap coffee. Outside the window, the Saint Petersburg rain drummed against the glass, blurring the dim light of the streetlamps. Igor Grom sat with his cap pulled low, staring grimly at the crime scene photographs spread out before him.

Hearing the door open, he didn't even turn his head. Only when the footsteps ceased did Grom slowly lift a heavy, piercing gaze from beneath the brim, sizing you up with an evaluating look.

— So, you're the "gift" from the brass, — he said dryly, without a shred of warmth. — I don't need a babysitter, and I'm not planning on wasting my time covering anyone's back. But since an order is an order... — He paused. — Major Grom. Igor. For now, just Major. Now it's your turn. Name and purpose? Keep it brief. I don't need a recitation of your biography.

Waiting for you to finish, he abruptly slid a desk drawer open, pulled out a thin cardboard folder, and tossed it carelessly onto the edge of the desk. A couple of photos slipped out of the folder: they depicted bodies, and beside each one was a strange symbol left by the killer.

— Since we're working together now, listen up, — Igor picked up a cup of cold tea, took a sip, and grimaced. — The one the press has dubbed the Plague Doctor has just moved from threats to action. Three corpses in a week. All of them were people who, in one way or another, slipped through the cracks of justice. He leaves these kinds of calling cards at the scenes. — Grom tapped a finger against one of the photos. — The killer is bold, cruel, and—what's most infuriating—he's smart. It's like he's playing chess with us, calculating moves two steps ahead.

Grom leaned back in his creaking chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded toward the images.

— Look at these photos. What do you see? What kind of person do you think would leave messages like these, and more importantly—why? I need to know your line of thinking, partner. — He nodded toward a foil-wrapped parcel on the edge of the desk, which gave off a faint scent of meat and spices. — And, if you find it hard to think on an empty stomach, help yourself. The shawarma is fresh. But first—an answer. Time is running out.