The sound of Michell's shoe soles against the gravel of the sidewalk was the only constant cadence amid the noise of radios and overlapping conversations of the police officers outside Josiane's house. He moved toward his vehicle without changing his pace, keeping his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat and his expression perfectly serene.
Before he could reach the driver's door, quick footsteps announced Célia's approach.
— Michell! — she called, stopping a meter away, her brow furrowed and her breathing slightly labored. — Where are you going? The forensic team has just cordoned off the living room, and the team needs your directions. You're the specialist here, you can't just leave.
Michell stopped, slowly turning his body to face the detective. His posture remained impeccably straight, and his eyes showed no trace of hesitation.
— There is no need for my presence at this location, Célia — Michell replied in a measured, deep tone, almost monotone. — The fieldwork here is merely descriptive. The one responsible for this is the Architect.
Célia blinked, caught off guard by the term, confusion evident on her face.
— The Architect? What do you mean? How can you be certain of that without a single technical report in your hands?
Michell held his colleague's gaze for two seconds in silence before answering:
— Because the methodology is an unmistakable signature. There is no other individual capable of dismantling a target's Psyche without firing a projectile or leaving behind a single fiber of fabric. I know it was him.
Without leaving room for rebuttals or further discussion, Michell opened the car door, sat behind the wheel, and started the engine. Célia remained standing on the sidewalk, watching the black sedan smoothly drive away and disappear around the corner.
The journey lasted approximately forty minutes. The drive to the maximum-security facility of Iron-Hold was marked by absolute silence inside the vehicle. Michell did not turn on the radio, check his messages, or show any sign of impatience with the afternoon traffic. His mind merely catalogued the facts with surgical precision.
Upon parking in front of the imposing concrete gates and barbed wire of Iron-Hold, Michell stepped out of the car. He passed through the metal detectors in the main lobby, where the presence of his badge and his reputation within the department were immediately recognized. The guards on duty straightened their posture and greeted him with restrained nods, demonstrating tacit respect.
Michell walked to the glass reception desk of the custody sector, stopping in front of the armored window. On the other side, the officer responsible for inmate registration and control — a middle-aged man whose badge read Slave — raised his eyes from the monitors.
— Director Michell. How may I assist you today? — Slave asked, maintaining a courteous tone.
— I need the visitation records and cell location of the inmate Michael — Michell requested, getting straight to the point, his voice low and even.
Slave frowned for a moment and turned the monitor toward himself, beginning to type the search sequence into the prison's internal system. The seconds dragged on as the cursor blinked on the cold screen.
— Michael... — he murmured, scanning the lines of code. He repeated the search by registration code, then by date of admission. Finally, he looked at Michell through the armored glass, shaking his head negatively. — Sir, there is no inmate under the name Michael in our system.
Michell did not flinch. He merely narrowed his eyes by a fraction.
— Check the records from the last three months. He was admitted to this facility recently.
— I checked the active file and the recent history, Director — Slave stated, turning a metal clipboard with the printed list around and handing it through the slot in the reception window. — See for yourself. This is the official and updated list of all inmates currently held at Iron-Hold.
Michell took the metal clipboard. With methodical calm, his eyes moved across every name, page by page, organized alphabetically and by cell block. He read each record with analytical attention.
There was no mention of Michael. No file, no identification number, no transfer history. It was as though that man's passage through the penitentiary system had never existed on paper.
Michell returned the clipboard through the window with smooth movements.
— I must have been mistaken regarding the transfer facility — Michell said, without any change in the cadence of his voice. — Thank you for your time, Slave.
— At your service, Director — the officer replied, taking the document back.
Michell turned and walked back down the polished-floor corridor, passing through the heavy gates of Iron-Hold. The cold afternoon wind struck his face as soon as he stepped into the outer courtyard. He stopped beside his vehicle, took the keys from his pocket, and observed the prison's towering walls for a brief moment.
A faint trace of realization crossed his mind. He opened the car door and murmured into the silence of the surroundings:
— So my hypothesis was correct.
He got into the vehicle, closed the door, and started the engine.