At one point, perhaps because of the heat or maybe because he was fed up, Detective Colonel Rigel Beta detached himself from what he was doing and he wondered what Marie, his former girlfriend, would think of that place.

Maybe she likes it, he thought; after all, she tolerated hot weather better than him. He loved darkness and rain; she, the sun, and the wind. For him, the South Tropical Canyon was nothing more than a heap of overgrown crags and humid jungles; a place he would never have come of his own free will.

And as sweat trickled down his cheeks, making his brown skin glisten, he frowned at the merciless noonday sun. Neither his cap nor his dark glasses were opponents for such a brightness.

Wearing a heavy dark green uniform didn’t help make his experience more tolerable either. What tailoring genius had thought that it would be fine for Criminal Division’s officers to wear a sophisticated jumpsuit with suspenders, plus carrying a belt with pouches full of small tools that seemed to weigh more than a pile of rocks?

Rigel had been serving in the army from the age of sixteen, though, and had been in the field for around twenty-something; he had long ago learned to handle the rough edges of his craft. A little sun and humidity would not get under his skin.

So, waiting against all hope for the arrival of a magical stream of wind, he put his hands on his hips and looked through the crime scene: First, he observed the mouth of a cave, from where his officers came and went, picking up samples of dried blood and footprints from the ground, taking photographs and carrying away the bodies of the students inside black bags. Then, he observed a long line of irregular marks on the ground, marked with flags: footprints coming from the cave, crossing through the encampment—that had not yet been dismantled—and entering the forest. All covered by a laser fence.

One of his men came up and handed him a pamphlet.

“We found it among the belongings of one of the students,” he informed.

The pamphlet said:

If you want the University of Archeology to say “ENOUGH!” to the tyrannical regulations of the Markabian Imperial Army, help us gather signatures!

We want a fascist-free University, and we want it NOW!

“You say this year we won’t win the popularity contest among the people either?” Rigel said and had to force a smile to announce he was japing.

“I remember when I was that age,” the officer commented and sighed, looking at the pamphlet. “We were all idealists.”

“Yes, but—” Rigel pointed at the medal they both wore on their chest: a crimson coat of arms with the image of a white horse in profile, standing on its hind legs, and with wings spread at its sides portrayed as if they were laurel wreaths. “As my ex put it, we all like to daydream, but the momma Army here is the one who has the money to pay for our life insurance.”

The officer nodded and left to continue his work.

Rigel reread the pamphlet and put it in his pocket. The message didn’t have value as evidence, it only certified that the murdered had been a group of students full of aspirations and eager to change the world; something that, by that time, his entire crew already knew.

“So many aspirations to end like this,” he muttered.

There he saw one of his comrades come out of the woods.

Bill Serrano was an overweight man who endured the scourge of the sun with the help of black lenses; beyond that, he seemed to be having a thirty times worse experience than Rigel.

Bill’s head was a red ball popping out from the overall collar like a cherry lollipop sticking out from its wrapper. No. More than a cherry lollipop, that morning, Bill’s head looked like a sausage about to burst on the grill. The potbelly man was panting, and Rigel thought that at any moment he would suffer a heart attack.

“We found the missing student a hundred yards into the woods,” Bill said, pointing to the footprints on the ground; “we just had to follow the path.”

Rigel Beta just nodded.

“You have to see it, Detective, it’s terrible!” Serrano said. He took off his dark glasses, wiped the sweat that was fogging them against his jumpsuit, and put them back on. He was feeling distressed by the situation, or was it the heat? “There are signs of fighting: fallen leaves, broken branches… Lots of blood,” he added. “Of course, no fingerprints, no fallen hair that doesn’t belong to the victim, nothing, just like the other corpses. We found footprints beyond the body, going deep into the Canyon, but the grass muffled them and we lost the trail near that hill.” He pointed to a ridge looming far out of the trees.

Rigel was silent. As expected, following the pattern of deaths, the assassin had made his way in a straight line and continued to advance. But where could he have gone? Beyond there were only forests and mountains.

Bill ran his hand over his head; he got anxious when he didn’t get an answer. He veered into the cave as paramedics removed the last of the bodies found inside.

“Poor kids… Who could have been capable of such atrocity?” continued. Boy, did he need to talk!

“Better wonder why,” Beta said, fulfilling the man’s craving for conversation. “There is no civilization for miles around; no one lives in those hills”—with the chin pointed at the area where Bill said the footsteps faded. “And, from what we can see, no one looted the tents, and no one has taken anything. Not even the generator set.”

“Yeeahhh… That’s true,” Bill agreed, dragging the last “-ah” from “Yeah” as if the idea was taking root in his head. “It’s as if those who killed them have come to this place just for that. Maybe it was payback against the archaeological institution or the students. Who would have an interest in massacring poor students like this?”

Rigel nodded again. Actually, what he had been thinking was that the motive for the murder wouldn’t necessarily have to be tied to the victims.

“Could the Rowdy Ones have done it?” Serrano continued. It was obvious that he would keep throwing away thousands of theories until he gets to one that sounded plausible.

Rigel looked at him with some intolerance. What he heard was nonsense.

Serrano perceived the change of mood in his colonel, shrugged, and defended his point.

“The University responds to the Empire, and the Rowdy Ones oppose the Empire,” he said as if that explained everything.

Rigel ditched the theory by remaining silent.

“Freedom fighters, some call them,” Serrano insisted. “Ha! Troublemakers, I’d say. Did you see the pamphlet? Maybe the students were in cahoots with those spineless sons of—”

“Bill, the Rowdy Ones is a paramilitary group. Why on earth would they slaughter students in such a fashion in a place like this? Didn’t you see how those kids’ bodies look like?”

Serrano sweated even more than before. “I know, they’re barely recognizable as people, but—”

“And if they were in cahoots, why kill them?” Rigel pointed out. “The Rowdy Ones would have stolen the tents and the equipment instead. Your idea has no rhyme nor reason.”

“Well, yeah. If you see it from that perspective…”

“Colonel, come quick!” Some men shouted at him from the cave. Rigel and Bill went to see what was going on.

Officer Chris Snow received them at the entrance. Snow was Serrano’s antithesis: A thin guy with bony features and a chin covered with a white beard who was now wearing one of the antiseptic helmets used when working in a closed place; something similar to a welding helmet, albeit transparent and with a smaller design.

Snow gave Rigel and Serrano a helmet for each one and asked them to follow him inside the cave. The humidity was almost palpable in there, but it wasn’t as hot as outside, so they were very grateful for that.

Along the way, Rigel took off his cap and sunglasses, put them in one of his uniform pockets, put on the helmet easily, and activated the automatic oxygenation system by rubbing the controls it had incorporated into the neck part. Bill Serrano struggled with his glasses and with the helmet for a while before he got ready.

Illuminated by light rods scattered through the wide tunnel, they walked carefully of not to trip over the treacherous, rocky ground. Here and there were human silhouettes marked with white chalk on the floor and even on the walls. Also, long dark stains scattered all around like bursts of paint: dried blood.

Snow looked excited.

“There’s a hole in the wall a student must have been working on, right?” he said. “Well, we found a hollow spot behind it. We used the electric sonar and the X-ray machine to see if there was a side grotto to the cave and…” He stopped and showed them a hole in the wall at the level of their legs. “Well, see it for yourselves.”

Bill crouched down to see what they had found. He threw a groan because of his poor physical condition, but managed to shove his head down the hole.

“Oh, goodness!” he whispered.

Colonel Rigel Beta knelt beside him, and behind the helmet’s plastic cover, his little eyes opened wide. He pulled a flashlight out of his belt pouches and delved into the orifice with the light.

Maybe what he was watching now wasn’t the key to solving the case, but one thing was for sure: Chris Snow’s astonishment was well justified.

Buried behind the cave, a little lower than the ground level and among clouds of dust, there was an underground wall built with architectonic meticulously, all covered with tiles. Yes, dirty old greenish tiles.

Digging deeper into the fog, Rigel’s flashlight revealed it wasn’t just a wall but a hallway.

Running alongside the cave, there was a corridor in perfect condition, although obscured by oblivion, with the walls covered with green tiles and a floor made of black-and-white tiles. A hidden construction inside the crag; a freaking space constructed by the hand of men.

The air currents escaping from there sounded like the moans of a lost soul.

“It’s a corridor, alright,” Snow said. “Our equipment says this is one of many, though.”

“I don’t understand,” Bill Serrano shook his head. “Are you saying there’s an entire building inside this crag?”

Snow nodded. “Have you heard of the trapped child case?”

“Yeah, Gamma district handled the case,” Serrano said. “What about it?”

“According to our sonar, the rift in the cave where the bones were found is connected to one of these hallways.”

“Holy crap!”

Rigel contemplated the possibilities that the statement held.

“Has someone gone in yet?” he asked.

“Nobody yet,” responded the officer.

“Is it safe?”

“It won’t collapse if that’s what you’re worried about. The equipment says the structure is solid,” Snow said. “Nor are there toxins in the environment that the helmet purifying cannot—”

Before the officer could finish his sentence, colonel Beta went through the opening and got into the corridor.