Episode 3

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I come at my work in shirtsleeves and without a tie, with tousled hair and huge eyebags. I flop onto my desk chair and hide (badly) a yawn.

"So, Casanova" my colleague Tyler sniggers. "With which bomb did you spend the night?"

With captain Stark and his investigation team, I think, a tad bitter.

"It's not what you think" I shake my head. "That wasn't so pleasant..."

"Come off it! Tell me all the details: blond or brown?"

"Yesterday night, when I went to bed, I stumbled across a corpse."

Resounding silence. Two other colleagues lift up their heads from their computer screen, surprised ; and I bet half of the open space is all ears/pricks up the ears.

Tyger bursts out laughing.

"Yeah! Of course!"

"You don't believe me? I've just come out of the police station, they released me an hour ago."

I wave my fingers full of ink to prove I'm not fooling around (they took my fingerprints last night). The cops were stressed out and rather pissed off because of my ignorance. Indeed, when they arrived, I took good care at not answering their questions. Like "Who is that man? Do you know him? How did he sneak inside your place without you noticing him? How come he got shot just right above your head and you didn't had a single clue?"

"You actually spent the night in jail?"

Now I'm sure of it, the whole office is attentive. I sigh.

"Yes. Yesterday night I was drinking a beer in my kitchen when I heard a noise on the first floor –a sort of loud thud. I wasn't suspicious at first, I thought it might be a picture frame which had fallen, or something else, so I went upstairs. It was at that moment I saw a guy lying –or rather collapsing– on my floor. I saw a big pool of blood near his head and I told myself: "he must surely be dead". But I took his pulse to be sure, and then I called the police."

Tyler seems taken aback, hanging onto my every words. Apparently my little tale is impressive –I must confess I rehearsed it so neatly.

"And... And who was he?"

I shrug, embarrassed. Nobody pretends to be working anymore, everyone is listening openly to our conversation.

"A tramp, a homeless guy probably."

I'd never have thought I could lie so easily before last night. The cops were harder to dupe, but my colleague seems to buy everything!

(I don't precise them that my intruder was wearing a hood, black clothes, gloves... and a handgun.)

(A tramp rarely wanders with that kind of accessories.)

"How... Well, how did he die?"

"A heart attack, maybe."

Yeah, that was possible, just a second before he took that bullet in the head! Who knows? And nobody will check about that.

My colleagues return to their occupations, whispering between themselves excitedly, Tyler turns his head. I switch my computer on and get in my logon, but I cannot get myself into it. I keep staring at the screen, my gaze blank, exhausted.

Because of Fernanda ­–or it doesn't matter what her real name is– I had a sleepless night and a lot of troubles. The police suspects me clearly for having killed this bloke in my house and for having played dumb. I am wound up. They are not stupid, they noticed that the intruder was shady: he had a gun with him, he didn't let any trace of a housebreaking and he had clearly not the profile of a hobo.

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