Inspector Montoliu. The case of the double unknown.

A policeman on the verge of retirement. A series of corpses piling up, testing his skills in what should be his last case. The appearance of an unknown twin. The discovery of true origins. More and more corpses, along with paid vacations in Melilla. And, as a dessert, reuniting with loved ones and the end of loneliness. Can one ask for more in a detective novel?

**FRAGMENT OF THE WORK**

1. Montoliu

Cases piled up on Inspector Montoliu's desk. There was no dust, but... only sadness. So many crimes fell into oblivion that the papers and dossiers became useless forms, like leaves swept by the winter wind.

Montoliu knew it but could do nothing; he had his limits. He was just a human, and too human, as the philosopher who smiled mockingly in his imagination would say.

But, although he was one of his favorite thinkers, Nietzsche couldn’t help him. After witnessing so much human misery, the ideas of the father of the "Superman" seemed prophetic to him, without sharing, by any means, his optimism. However, he couldn’t waste more time on philosophies. There was a case that couldn’t wait any longer.

He himself was his own case.

After so many years chasing criminals, he now realized that time was running fast, becoming a prey he never managed to catch, always slipping through his hands, his fingers, skillfully... Always one step ahead of himself, turning into a deep obsession that didn’t let him live.

Aging, retiring, becoming obsolete for the rest of society, that same society to which he had dedicated the best years of his life. Wasn’t this a cruel, tragic, unbearable fate? Was this what his admired Friedrich Nietzsche had promised when he preached the famous theory of the Eternal Return? Now, this idea seemed more absurd than ever, a folly created by the atrophied mind of a sickly genius.

If that weren’t enough, he also had to endure the annoying youngsters who questioned his methods. What did they know about human nature? He did know, about man and his miseries. Not in vain had he been a protagonist for 32 years in the profession. Many times, cruelty imposed itself on those who had been victims of their ingenuity.

Montoliu firmly believed that humanity had no future. This statement, which often provoked smiles from his colleagues, was not based only on his daily experience but also on the simple reading of the past. The few history books he had read showed him how most individuals who had stood out in the past had not done so for their goodness but for their capacity to do harm. It was horror that provoked admiration and nourished the morbid character that human nature feeds on. And yet, paradoxically, he had decided to dedicate himself selflessly to his work, considering that his grain of sand could, at least, delay the tragic end that awaited us.

But that was a morning of silences. The police station was strangely quiet, and he could sit back in the armchair of his office, slowly turning the pages of the latest report that troubled him, about the violent death of a teenager on the outskirts of the city, while the fragrant vapor of a coffee rose voluptuously and penetrated his nostrils, causing a pleasant sensation of comfort and well-being. It was surprising that among those walls dirtied by time, witnesses to so much cruelty and misfortune, there still remained a glimmer of hope embodied in the presence of a simple coffee.

Suddenly, the phone rang.

It was an old-fashioned device, today we would call it "vintage," with the dial for numbers dirty and worn. Montoliu picked up to hear the voice of Chief Commissioner Bermúdez, as sour and harsh as usual:

—Montoliu, how’s the teenagers’ case going?

—Well... we still don’t know the details of the death. We’re waiting for the forensic report. But why do you speak in plural?

—Two more bodies have appeared. Same "modus operandi." Decapitated. I see you haven’t heard yet...

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, one of those that seems never-ending. It was also an eloquent, symptomatic silence, full of meaning. Montoliu didn’t know how to respond to that blunt, almost solemn statement that questioned his professional competence.

Bermúdez was one of those new-generation policemen, young and arrogant, graduated "cum laude." He always dressed impeccably, with a notable height that was only marred by a certain hunched movement he made unconsciously whenever he approached someone, especially if that someone was a socially important figure.

The fact was that there were now three corpses. Decapitated... Montoliu racked his memory. He didn’t recall a similar case. Decapitation was not part of the city’s particular criminal history. True, in other places and times, it had been practiced extensively. In revolutionary France, they had their fill of cutting heads. While lost in these thoughts, he heard Bermúdez’s imperious voice again:

—Go to the morgue and talk to Cavestany, the chief forensic. We’ve already taken the bodies there. Try to tie up loose ends. I want the complete report tomorrow at seven in the morning.

—And you don’t want anything else?

—What do you mean?

—Nothing, never mind.

The morgue building was as sinister as the name that identified it. It was a basement located in a building annexed to the "Santa Maria" General Hospital of the city. To access it, one had to wear an identifying badge activated by an infrared ray detector. Once inside, you could immediately smell a characteristic odor of "Zotal" disinfectant, which filled your nostrils and didn’t leave you until many hours later. And silence. A deathly silence that chilled your blood and thoughts.

The "tenants" of this unique facility were located in refrigerated chambers, awaiting their final destiny. There were quite a few, distributed in different rooms delimited by straight, cold corridors. All the light in the place was artificial, produced by typical white fluorescent lights that occasionally flickered or went out. Suddenly, a young man appeared, about 28 or 30 years old.

—Good morning, I’m Jofre, an intern at the General Hospital temporarily assigned to the morgue. I suppose you must be Inspector Montoliu.

—Indeed. Isn’t Cavestany here?

—No, Dr. Cavestany has passed to a better life.

—What do you mean, he’s dead?

—Well, we could say he’s dead professionally. That is, he’s retired.

—Oh, they hadn’t told me. Very well, and now you’re in charge of the autopsies?

—No. As I told you, I’m just the intern. A definitive replacement for Dr. Cavestany hasn’t been assigned yet.

—And who will perform the autopsies from now on?

—Provisionally, they’ve been assigned to Dr. Lloveres.

—I don’t know him. But I suppose he must be a competent professional.

—Absolutely, he was my professor at the faculty. He’s a forensics ace.

—Let’s hope so. And he hasn’t come yet?

—Yes, but he’s already left, after performing the autopsies on the three teenagers you’re inquiring about, I suppose.

—So quickly?

—Yes. Dr. Lloveres is a man who gets straight to the point. He left the report on your desk. You can take it now.

On a table next to the room they were in, there was indeed a yellow notebook with the autopsy report. Montoliu glanced over it. It was brief and concise. It concluded that death had occurred due to asphyxiation, and that decapitation was postmortem. So, was it an initiation rite with a failed outcome for the victims? It’s known that among criminal gangs, there’s an admission liturgy consisting of passing various tests. The last and most difficult one involves fighting to the death against other aspirants to join the gang, a fight that must be done without any weapons. If this was the case, these three unfortunates were the fatal result of this dramatic personnel selection system. Only one question remained to be solved. Why was one of the bodies dressed in a police uniform?