"No, what's up?"

"Oh, I see that look in your eyes," Filatov teased Alexey, "she's a beauty… They say she was the star in her last district."

The waitress approached. The friends placed their orders.

"Is she really that smart?" Alexey asked.

"Seems like she's got some talent. By the way, she's buying drinks today."

"I won’t go… What's her name?"

"Raisa Zakharna," Filatov joked.

"Get out of here with your jokes!"

"Shvedova Larisa," Filatov replied.

"Alright. Let's go. I'll give you a ride back."

"You're driving? That's great!"

The area greeted Alexey with little friendliness. The emergency workers had done their job well, the fire was out, but the stench of burning peat was overwhelming. Finding a stick, Alexey grabbed it and headed toward the swamp where two bodies had been found. The swamp seemed mostly dried up, but occasionally his feet would sink in. He used the stick to find a path and made his way deeper between the trees. A clearing appeared, and he stepped into it. His pants were, of course, dirty, with burrs stuck to them. About a hundred steps ahead stood a small house. Either a forester’s cabin or something similar, but clearly, a local forestry employee had once lived here. As he got closer, Alexey looked around. The house was completely dilapidated, the plaster crumbling, the walls overgrown with grass, and the windows shattered for some reason. The paint on the window frames was peeling, and there was an empty doghouse where a dog probably used to live. He decided to go inside. Glass jars were on the windowsill, some broken, but all covered in a thick layer of dust. Everything was clean and tidy, giving the impression that a new owner was expected to move in. The fridge in the corner was empty. A bed covered with a blanket, wooden stools. The heat was unbearable. Alexey found a relatively clean spot and laid his jacket down. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. From here, the place where the two bodies had been found was clearly visible. He walked over to the window, wiped the dust off the table, and placed the expert report there.

"…shots from a hunting rifle from a distance of one hundred meters… both were killed…"

– "One was killed at a distance of one meter… Bullets of a certain caliber," he read aloud.

– "Hmm," he thought. "That means there were at least three people there, maybe four. One of them killed another, and the others were finished off by shots from a hundred meters."

– "Nonsense!"

Closing the file, he decided to inspect the house from the outside. Grabbing a long stick, he started parting the bushes that had grown thick around the house. Apart from a few tin cans and an empty vodka bottle, he found nothing. He picked up the bottle from the ground, glanced at the year printed on the label, and recalled how, back in those days, the word "vodka" was decoded as "Here He Is, Kind Andropov." Such a nickname had been earned by the general secretary for lowering the price of the popular drink. He stuffed the bottle into the bag he had brought with him. As he was about to head back inside the house to grab his jacket and the file, his gaze fell on a chunk of plaster, nearly falling off the wall. Picking it out with his finger, he found a bullet lodged in the wall. Tapping the wall with the stick he had found earlier, he discovered several more bullets embedded within. It was clear that the shattered windows were the result of gunfire, not because someone had broken in. After all, there was nothing worth stealing inside, and if it had been vagrants or hooligans, the house would be a mess.