The body had been waiting for them longer than the paperwork.
Detective Elias Krüger stood just outside the taped perimeter, badge clipped to his coat, watching uniformed officers pretend not to be bored. It was 6:42 a.m., which meant three things were guaranteed: bad coffee, incomplete reports, and at least one person about to lie very badly.
The man on the tracks was dressed too well for a Tuesday morning.
That was Elias's first note. Not a conclusion. A note.
Tailored coat. Clean cuffs. Shoes polished within the last twenty-four hours. If this was suicide, the man had dressed like he expected an audience.
Elias ducked under the tape.
"Careful," the forensic tech muttered.
"Blood's still wet."
"Lucky him," Elias said. "Means we're early."
The tech snorted despite himself. People laughed at crime scenes more than anywhere else. Not because it was funny—because the alternative was thinking too hard about the fact that this was a workplace hazard.
Elias crouched near the body but didn't touch it. That was important. Touching gave people the illusion of control.
The skull fracture was clean. Single impact. No defensive wounds on the arms. No torn fabric. No signs of a struggle.
If the man had jumped, his body would have told a messier story.
People underestimated gravity. Gravity never forgave.
"Any witnesses?" Elias asked.
"Plenty," the officer said. "All useless."
"Of course they are."
Elias stood and scanned the platform. Morning commuters formed clusters—people who had almost been late and were now emotionally invested in this delay being meaningful.
A woman cried loudly near the vending machines. Too loudly. Her sobs came in neat intervals, like she'd practiced breathing exercises.
A young man filmed with his phone, eyes bright, disappointed the body wasn't more dramatic.
An older man argued with an officer about train schedules, as if death was an administrative inconvenience.
Elias felt a familiar warmth in his chest.
Humanity, in all its predictable glory.
He turned back to the body.
"Time of death?" he asked.
"Between five and six," the tech replied. "No exact yet."
Elias nodded. Early enough to avoid crowds. Late enough to guarantee discovery.
Someone wanted the body found, but not interfered with.
He glanced at the track edge.
No drag marks.
Which meant one of two things:
1. The body was carried and placed carefully.
2. The body died exactly where it lay.
The second option was lazy. Criminals were rarely lazy. People were lazy—criminals were usually motivated.
Elias leaned closer, inhaled.
There it was.
A faint, clinical scent beneath the oil and metal. Disinfectant. Hospital-grade.
"Bag his hands carefully," Elias said. "Check under the nails, but also swab the wrists."
"For what?" the tech asked.
"Restraint marks that didn't last long enough to bruise," Elias replied. "And if you don't find any, I'm wrong. We'll live."
Being wrong didn't bother him. Being untested did.
A uniform approached with a tablet. "Sir, we've identified the deceased."
Elias took the tablet.
Name. Age. Occupation.
Management consultant.
He sighed.
"Of course he was."
The officer frowned. "Problem?"
"Statistically?" Elias said. "Yes. Morally? Also yes."
Consultants were rarely loved, but they were very good at being useful. That made them dangerous to the wrong people.
"Any criminal record?" Elias asked.
"Clean."
"Family?"
"Divorced. No kids."
Elias handed back the tablet. "Someone's going to call him 'a good man' on the news."
The officer blinked. "You knew him?"
"No," Elias said. "But I know funerals."
He turned toward the crying woman.
She noticed immediately. People always did when attention moved toward them. Her shoulders stiffened before her face reacted.
Elias stopped a meter away. Not too close. Close enough to be personal.
"You saw him fall," Elias said.
She nodded, eyes wet. "I—I was standing there and—"
"Which foot did he step forward with?" Elias asked.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
"I—I don't—"
"That's fine," Elias said kindly. "Then tell me which way he was facing."
Her breathing quickened. She looked at the tracks. Then the ceiling. Then Elias.
"I think—toward the tunnel."
Wrong answer.
Elias nodded anyway.
"Thank you," he said. "You can go sit down."
She didn't move.
That was the mistake.
Witnesses wanted to leave. Performers waited for applause.
An officer gently guided her away.
Elias didn't follow. He already had what he needed.
He turned back to the body, mind ticking—not racing. Racing was for amateurs.
This wasn't suicide. This wasn't random. This wasn't personal in the emotional sense.
This was procedural.
The man had been reduced to a variable in someone else's plan.
Elias straightened, suddenly aware of the cameras overhead. Not the obvious ones—the secondary angles.
Someone had thought about observation.
That amused him.
Most criminals feared being seen.
The smart ones curated it.
Elias felt a thin smile tug at his mouth. Not joy. Recognition.
"Well," he murmured, "someone's trying very hard to be clever."
He looked down at the dead consultant, who stared back with empty eyes.
"And statistically," Elias added, "that never ends well."
The train schedule board flickered back to life.
Service resumed.
Berlin moved on.
Someone, somewhere, had just confirmed that Elias Krüger was paying attention.
They wouldn't make the next mistake so cleanly.
And that, Elias thought, was where it would finally get interesting.