HEADING toward the clinical building in the Sayyida Zeinab neighborhood, grand mosques rose on every side, their oriental architecture stretching across the skyline. The view was almost calming—far too peaceful for the grim work waiting inside the morgue.
Before we stepped out of the car, Adel turned toward me.
"Are you afraid of dead bodies?"
"Not that I'm aware of," I replied.
"Good."
We stepped out, and I followed him inside.
Near the entrance, he greeted a man who looked as though he had been waiting for us.
"This is my assistant," Adel said briefly. "Charles."
Charles was French, though his English was clear and his manner suggested he was already familiar with Egyptian culture. He was neat and precise in appearance—not the charismatic type like Adel, but more the quiet, scholarly kind.
The type who probably preferred books to conversations.
The two of them exchanged a few words in French.
I'm proud to say I didn't understand a single thing… except the familiar phrase.
"Bonne soirée."
We were led to the morgue. Charles handed Adel a file while we waited for permission to review the body. The file contained photographs taken before anyone touched the scene—before our arrival.
Crimson blood had splattered across the hard concrete floor. The suit was messy, glinting with glass shards. The body was coated with saliva, vomit, and sweat—muscles tense, bruises covering most of the skin.
Remarkably, there were no glass cuts.
Further confirmation that the window had been sugar glass.
Adel spoke to Charles in French again. Charles nodded with a brief "oui" before stepping out to make several phone calls in English.
Curiosity got the better of me.
"So, what were you saying?" I asked.
He hummed, a smug expression forming on his lips.
"If you plan to tag along, I think you should take French classes," he said. "French is the language of law."
"Funny," I replied, sarcasm slipping into my voice, "how you claim the law belongs to the French when it was taken from the Romans, who took it from the Greeks… who took it from Egypt, detective."
He grinned.
"Impressive, rascal."
"I appreciate the compliment. Now—what were you saying?"
"I requested the elevator logs," he replied, scanning the file again. "And the exact time of the fall."
A doctor entered the room. Her white lab coat was slightly smeared with blood and traces of organ fluid, yet her posture remained calm and professional. Blonde streaks ran through her neatly tied hair.
She handed us gloves, masks, head covers, and protective boots to prevent contamination of any invisible evidence.
Then she walked to the morgue refrigerator and pulled open a metal drawer.
Inside lay a body covered with a white cloth.
She stepped aside.
Mr. Kamel's body looked frozen in a moment of grief and shock—not very different from the photographs Adel had shown me earlier. His mouth hung slightly open, as if the terror of his final seconds had never fully left him.
His muscles were tense. The skin around his nail folds was scratched and damaged, and bruises spread across his body.
His skull was fractured.
Adel studied the body silently before speaking.
"It is not suicide."
His voice was calm—but certain.
"This confirms what I suspected. He was likely watching something extremely distressing before he died. The stress caused him to damage the skin around his nails. Mr. Kamel was known for maintaining his appearance—he wouldn't normally harm his hands like this."
Adel straightened.
"I need the company's stock information," he added. "And the names of the last people who visited his office."
"Let's go," he muttered as he headed out.
I followed.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To interrogate." He paused, then added with a small shrug, "It's a bit like psychological warfare."
He walked ahead in silence for a moment. His light brown hair caught the moonlight, framing his face as he turned briefly toward me before stepping outside.
"So, rookie," he continued, "when you interrogate someone for the first time, write down every single word. People love repeating lies until they stop sounding like lies—and start sounding like facts."
I nodded along. Somehow, he had already appointed himself my supervisor in a field that wasn't even mine.
The walk back to the car felt tense for reasons I couldn't fully explain.
The thought that Adel might be the killer felt impulsive—built on nothing solid. I wasn't even a detective.
So why did I keep suspecting him?
Still, the question slipped out.
"So… who are you going to interrogate?"
His dark green eyes remained fixed on the bustling neighborhood outside the window. Laughter echoed through the streets. Orange lights glowed above the citizens and small stores, giving the night a warmth that only made his quiet charisma more striking.
He answered without looking at me.
"A few senior employees. Department managers. Some relatives. And the bodyguards."
He emphasized the last word slightly.
He seemed deep in thought—focused, calculating.
Which only made the question return to my mind.
How could he be the killer?
Or…
was that exactly what he wanted me to think?