The conference room door swung open at two. Carl stepped in, greeted by the familiar blend of stale coffee and paperwork that seemed to permeate every major case briefing.

The scene before him was grimly familiar. Howard had commandeered one end of the table, his glasses sliding down his nose as he pored over the autopsy report. The CSI team, led by Pike, had transformed the rest of the table into a mosaic of crime scene photos - each one a frozen moment from last night's horror show. The usual markers were there: blood spatter, personal effects, body positions. All tagged and numbered with the kind of precision that would make an accountant proud.

Brown and Smith had just returned from their morning rounds, their hushed conversation punctuated by the occasional rustle of witness statements. At the front of the room, Lawrence was in his element, marker squeaking against whiteboards as he mapped out connections that only he could see. The department's stenographers had claimed their usual perch by the window, while Jones, their family liaison officer, was speaking softly into her phone, exhaustion evident in every word. Kim sat in his corner, methodically sorting through the morning's findings.

The wall clock ticked away, each second a reminder of time slipping through their fingers. The room had seen its share of difficult cases, but something about this one felt different. Heavier.

The murmur of voices died as Superintendent Alexander walked in, his presence filling the room.

"Right," he said, settling into his chair. "Let's get started."

Howard adjusted his glasses and flipped open the report. "Both victims had astronomical BAC levels. Daisy was at point-three-two, Dasco at point-two-eight.Both individuals tested positive for amphetamines, with levels insufficient to be fatal but enough to impair judgment."

He spread out several autopsy photos. "Cause of death in both cases was exsanguination from neck wounds. Clean cuts, consistent depth of four-point-eight centimeters, practically identical on both victims." He traced a line across one of the photos. "Based on the wound characteristics, we're looking at a single-edged blade, minimum twelve centimeters long. There's some subtle serration marking on the wound edges - could be from a specialized hunting knife. Time of death estimate puts it between one and two AM."

Pike took over, unfolding a heavily annotated document. "The infrastructure situation at Nightdew Gardens is more complicated than we thought." He grimaced. "There's been an ongoing issue with faulty streetlights and unreliable CCTV equipment in that zone. Maintenance logs show seven outstanding repair requests. Most recent one was filed three weeks ago."

Brown leafed through a thick dossier. "Our victims' social circles had significant overlap. They met through the university drama society last September. Daisy was active - dance classes, drama club, Modern Arts Association, Photography Club. Dasko wrote for the campus paper, ran the lit club."

He flipped another page. "Financials show Daisy getting 3000 monthly from home. Dasco worked part-time at the library - about eight hundred a month, plus fifteen hundred from his mother. They split a twelve-hundred-a-month apartment."

Smith leaned forward. "There's been a shift in their spending patterns over the past month." He tapped a bank statement. "Suddenly they're regulars at Le Petit Café - three, four times a week. And Daisy made an unusual cash withdrawal last week - 5000."

Pike cleared his throat. "Something else. We found a notebook in Daisy's bag filled with what looks like code - symbols and numbers we can't make sense of."

Kim raised his hand. "There's more. A cat was found mutilated in the alley behind the bar." The room went still. Howard quickly added, "The cat's neck was snapped - no drugs in its system." Kim continued, "The CCTV in that area was completely dark that night. And the beat cop assigned to that zone called in sick - no replacement was sent."

A heavy silence fell over the room. All eyes turned to Carl, waiting for him to make sense of the darkness they were wading through.

Carl pushed away from his chair and walked to the whiteboard.

"I stopped by Le Petit Café this afternoon," he said, writing the name in block letters. "The bartender, Devin, confirmed our victims were there. Security footage shows them arriving at eight-thirty. Started with gin and tonics, then moved on to four rounds of lemon vodka."

He sketched out a quick timeline. "We had several other players in the mix that night. There was Rabinsay Jin Steve - claims he's an antiques dealer out of Leeds. Henry Clark - ex-military doctor who lectures at Lansnart Medical. A construction worker named Thomas, and some salary man called Shimura who says he works at one of the local firms." Carl paused, tapping the marker against the board. "Something off about how Devin reacted when I mentioned Thomas. Also had three younger guys in there - two Duville students and a mechanic."

He drew a series of connecting lines. "Convenience store camera picked up our three young friends leaving at eleven-thirty. Thomas shows up at the store at one-ten, buys beer and condoms. Clark's wife vouches for him being home on Winchester Street by eleven-fifty-two - says he didn't go out again. Our antiques dealer claims he left after midnight. Checked into Moonlight Hotel at twelve-fifty-two, no movement after that."

Lawrence stepped up to the second whiteboard, sketching a rough map. "Nightdew Gardens- our crime scene - is about a mile and change from Le Petit Café. Ten, fifteen-minute walk." He marked key locations in red. "Bodies were posed under the lamppost, arranged to look... intimate. Their expressions suggest they were killed at the moment of..." He cleared his throat. "Well, you get the picture."

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The room fell silent again. Lawrence continued, "Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Hit the carotid with surgical precision."

Superintendent Alexander drummed his fingers on the table. "Priorities?"

"First," Brown said, "we need to ID those three young men. The Duville students especially - might have known our victims."

"Second," Smith added, "Clark and our antiques dealer need a closer look. One's got medical training, the other's supposedly from Daisy's hometown. Both worth digging into."

"That sick leave timing is suspicious as hell," Pike chimed in. "Tech team's working on why we lost camera coverage."

"We need to trace that 5000 withdrawal," Lawrence said, pointing to the timeline. "She pulled it out Tuesday, week before the murder. Left campus between two and four that afternoon."

"And the others need checking too,"Carl said.

"I'm set to interview the salary man. Kim, can you run down contact details and addresses for Shimura and Thomas?"

Carl glanced at Alexander, who nodded. "After that, we should talk to the local homeless population. Both the park and the bar area usually have regulars."

"On it," Kim said, pen moving across his notepad.

"Alright, people." Alexander surveyed the room. "It's three-twenty. Brown, Smith - track down those three kids, but keep it low-key. Pike, coordinate with local precincts for additional manpower to expand the search radius. I'll assign extra bodies to monitor our bar patrons from that night. Carl, stay on the remaining witnesses. Jones, keep working the families - they might have something new for us when they arrive tomorrow. Howard, I need that autopsy report and tech analysis fast-tracked."

The dismissal sent chairs scraping across the floor. Carl lingered at the whiteboard, finger tracing the intersecting timelines. Somewhere in this maze of times and places and faces, there was a thread waiting to be pulled.

The receptionist at the architectural firm blinked when Carl flashed his badge. "Shimura Yu?" She frowned slightly. "Oh, from Archives... One moment, please." She picked up her phone, cycling through several extensions before finding the right one.

Down in Archives, Shimura was filing documents when word came down that police were asking for him. His hand froze mid-motion, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.

He emerged from his basement domain with a slight stoop - an occupational hazard of document work. Curious eyes followed him down the hallway. The usually invisible "Archives Shimura" was suddenly police business. He could hear the whispers trailing behind him, spurring his feet to move faster.

In the lobby, he found Carl waiting. Adjusting his glasses nervously, he managed a soft, "Hello."

Carl led them to a corner café. Shimura chose a seat near the back, fingers drumming quietly on the table.

A waiter appeared with menus. "Latte," Carl said, then looked to Shimura.

"No... no, thank you," Shimura murmured. The waiter nodded and disappeared.

"I need to ask you a few questions," Carl said.

"Of course," Shimura replied, head down, fingers still tapping their quiet rhythm on the tabletop.

"You were at Le Petit Café last night?"

Shimura's posture stiffened slightly. "Yes... I go sometimes."

"How long were you there?"

"Arrived around... nine," he hesitated, eyes darting nervously, "left about one-thirty, I think."

"Notice any students from Duville College ? Young couple?"

The tapping stopped. Shimura paused, then answered, "I... I'm not sure. I usually keep to myself in the corner."

"Mind telling me what this is about?" Shimura suddenly looked up, lips bloodless.

Carl studied him, noting the pallor of his lips. "There was a murder last night," he said evenly.

Shimura's tremor was enough to make the coffee cups rattle. He fumbled for his handkerchief, dabbing at his forehead while struggling to steady his voice. "M-murder?"

"Yes. Near Le Petit Café. The couple was killed." Carl watched as the corner of Shimura's handkerchief grew damp.

"You spent quite a while at the bar. Tell me what you saw."

"I... I really don't remember much," Shimura's voice barely carried across the table. "I was just drinking..."

"For four hours?" Carl pressed. "What were you doing all that time?"

"Just... just drinking," Shimura's fingers resumed their nervous dance on the tabletop.

"What were you drinking?"

"W-whiskey. Just kept ordering whiskey."

"How many?"

"Four, maybe five... I'm not certain."

"How often did the server check on you?"

"Twice, I think."

Carl pulled out paper and pen, sliding them across. "Show me where you were sitting."

Shimura's shaking hand sketched a rough layout.

"This spot," Carl tapped the mark, "gives you a clear view of the back entrance, doesn't it?"

Another dab at his forehead. "Y-yes."

"Besides the couple, anyone catch your eye? Anyone unusual?"

"No... no one particular."

"Did Devin, the bartender, interact with the couple?"

"I... I'm not sure. Maybe."

"Front door or back when you left at one-thirty?"

"F-front door."

"Did you see them leave?"

"Wasn't paying attention."

"How many people were still there when you left?"

Shimura seemed to struggle with the memory, but Carl caught the evasion in his eyes. "Can't remember clearly," he stammered.

The pressure was clearly getting to him. Each question felt like another weight on his shoulders. Carl could see him yearning for the safety of his archive room, that quiet corner where no one ever noticed him.

His voice rose slightly before dropping again. "There might have been... a man in a trench coat. Some young men."

"Three young men? A man in a floral shirt? A construction worker? A well-dressed gentleman?" Carl pressed.

"I... I suppose so." Shimura's attempt at recollection seemed forced.

Carl's gaze sharpened momentarily, making Shimura flinch, before deliberately softening his expression.

"Heavy drinkers often have trouble remembering," Carl said mildly, though mentally he was flagging every one of Shimura's reactions as suspicious. The man might as well have been wearing a sign saying 'I'm involved.'

"Was the couple arguing?" Carl switched tacks abruptly.

Shimura's pupils contracted. "I... didn't notice." But his fingers were white-knuckled on the tablecloth.

"Other witnesses mentioned a disagreement," Carl said, keeping his eyes on Shimura's face.

Shimura was sweating through his shirt now. He knew he was being tested but couldn't tell how much Carl actually knew. Every question felt like a trap. He wanted nothing more than to flee this tiny café table, escape this relentless officer's gaze.

A phone rang.

Shimura's relief was palpable. "Excuse me, may I...?" He looked at Carl pleadingly.

Carl nodded. Shimura grabbed for the phone like a lifeline. "Yes... yes, sir... sorry... right away..."

He ended the call with barely concealed desperation. "Officer, I... I really must go. My supervisor says there's urgent work..."

"One last thing," Carl said, quiet but firm. "Any idea what they might have been arguing about?"

"I... I don't know." His voice pitched up before dropping again. "I really don't know."

Carl studied him. He knew Shimura was close to breaking, but pushing harder now would be counterproductive. Sometimes you had to let the small fish go to catch the bigger one later.

"Alright, Mr. Shimura, we'll leave it here for today." Carl tore off a piece of paper, wrote his number, and placed it in front of Shimura. "My contact details. I apologize for taking up your time, but if you remember anything - no matter how small - please call me." His look clearly said: If you're involved, you can't hide forever.

Shimura grabbed the paper with trembling fingers and practically fled the café, his steps unsteady.

Watching Shimura's retreating form, Carl allowed himself a small smile and pulled out his phone. "Kim? Put whatever you're doing on hold. Remember our office worker, Shimura Yu? I need your help. Meet me at his residence."