I couldn't really process it as something shocking—at least not immediately. But still, it was disturbing, and it clearly didn't line up with most known patterns. A man shooting himself in the head with almost no prior indication... naturally made you suspect there was more to the story.
I didn't even know how I ended up at the military attaché office amid all the chaos. But there I was, standing in front of the stone building. The local police had cordoned off the area and put up tape to keep civilians out of the garden. A few squad cars were parked around, and forensic personnel were going in and out of the building.
My eyes caught Muzaffer—he was off to the side with Fuat, giving a statement to someone who clearly didn't look local. I slowly approached. The man had light brown hair, looked vaguely Western, but his features were more Eastern Mediterranean. I quietly stepped up beside them. He finished talking to Muzaffer in our language, then turned to us.
"Gentlemen, hello. If I may, I'd like to introduce myself first," he said, shaking our hands one by one. Then he pulled a small notepad and a ballpoint pen from his pocket.
"Captain Hasan Mihal Martinci. military police. I assume you're familiar enough with protocol and procedure, so I'll get straight to the point. First off, gentlemen, the nature of the incident is strange. It appears to be a suicide, but the angle of the shot makes that unlikely. Or rather, it seems intentionally staged to raise the question: was it suicide or murder? The weapon was fitted with a suppressor, and the fire alarm was set off to muffle the noise. Also, the gun used was significantly different from Colonel Remzi's issued sidearm. His own weapon was found locked in his drawer when the forensic team arrived. The one used was a Jaeger, model '72. These types of firearms can easily be bought on the black market in Palawan and smuggled here. As you know, trade from Palawan tends to pass through Indochina first. So, access to such a weapon isn't far-fetched. But the question is: why use this, especially when he had his own? Still…"
He paused. "For now, let's not drown this dialogue in speculation... Let's begin from the top. The deceased is Colonel Remzi Astarcı, 44 years old,was married with 2 children. Did you know him?"
It was clear he already knew the answer, but he was sticking to the textbook. We nodded anyway.
"To what extent did you know him? Any events or close ties with him? Meetings, maybe?"
"Not really. We mostly just took orders," I replied to Hasan. "Documents would arrive, and we'd be told to deal with them. His political views were known to be... odd. But other than that, he mostly kept to himself."
"I've been working with him for just over a year," Fuat interjected. "He didn't really have enemies. He was sent here as a sort of soft exile, just to keep him out of sight."
"Any strange behavior? Signs of depression or anything like that?"
"Not particularly," Fuat said, wiping his glasses. "He was unusually stable, mentally. Apart from being a smug bastard, there wasn't much that stood out."
"Did he have any enemies?" the officer continued his line of questioning. "Maybe a rival, a debtor, or even someone obsessed with him?"
"You know how things are inside the military," Fuat replied. "As far as we know, he had no enemies or creditors. I don't know of anyone who was obsessed with him either. It was just home to office, office to home."
"I see..." the captain said, jotting something in his notebook. "So... nothing unusual lately? No strange intel or super-classified documents coming through the attaché's office? Because this could also be an assassination tied to espionage."
He probably already knew the answer to that too. Remzi was responsible for every document that came through that office. And despite his flaws, he was competent. If there had been something of that magnitude, he wouldn't have let himself get exposed so easily.
"As far as we know, no," Fuat continued, and we nodded in agreement. "Document flow and everything else was business as usual."
"So basically... there was no apparent reason for him to take his own life. At least from your perspective."
"Kinda..." Fuat muttered.
"What you've said aligns—perhaps too well—with the reports and the document trail."
"Reports..." Fuat repeated, adjusting his glasses. "Did you have access to them?"
"Well, technically I'm still new here, but all kinds of documents get submitted to the military police on a monthly basis."
"How long have you been here, Captain?" Muzaffer asked.
"About three months," he replied curtly. "Still not used to it," he added, letting a small crack show in his professionalism. It wasn't much, but it showed some character.
"Anyway, back to the matter at hand..." he said, scribbling in his notebook again—though I'm sure he wasn't writing anything; just killing time. "So, you don't know anyone who would've killed this man for personal reasons, nor is there anything pointing to suicide... which leaves us with," he muttered, "the assassination angle..."
"So let me ask this: do you know of anything, internal or external, that might've led to this? Any suspected infiltrators, or signs that he might've been involved in something shady? Maybe someone used him and then tied up the loose end?"
"No..." Fuat replied on our behalf. "No one on the inside is reckless enough to try something like this and risk blowing their cover. That includes the Gül Brothers."
Screw it, why'd he have to bring them up... Though, realistically, Hasan probably already knew. After all, it's clear why both Muzaffer and I were stationed here. Still, he'd ignore it for now, because he already had a sense of how close we were to the situation. But it was also clear that we might become suspects ourselves.
"Alright then, classic question: the incident happened at 6:30. Where were you at that time?"
"I was home, lying on my back staring at the ceiling," I said, lighting a cigarette. "Had some food afterwards." I turned to Martinci. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Go ahead. Just, uh... maybe a little farther away."
I did as he asked. Then Muzaffer answered.
"Records," he said bluntly.
"Records?"
"Yeah. There's that record shop nearby. The guy stocked nothing but doo-wop. Threw in some folk music too."
"Got it..." he said, flipping the page and scribbling some more. "You, Lieutenant, what were you doing?"
"Same thing... record shopping," Fuat answered.
"Same store?"
"Yes," he confirmed again.
"You were really shopping for doo-wop?" he asked, with a hint of mockery. I couldn't blame him—it's a funny genre. Always struck me as absurd to be a museum curator for a genre that should've vanished twenty years ago.
"Well..." Fuat tried to dodge the question. "I was going to look for swing, actually."
"Liar," Muzaffer cut in. He didn't add anything else.
"Alright then," said the captain, closing his notebook. "Thank you for your cooperation, gentlemen." He pocketed his notes. "And Lieutenant... maybe listen to less dinosaur music." That last line wasn't about age—'dinosaur' was a term we used in the academy for being slow. Had nothing to do with how old you were.
"Anyway, gentlemen... one last thing I need to inform you about." He took a deep breath. "Due to the incident, the attaché office will temporarily relocate. I wanted to let you know that you'll be stationed outside of Saigon for a while. Official notice will be coming soon."
"Outside Saigon?" my brother asked.
"There's a town about 120 kilometers northeast called Izaki. The army has arranged a building there. You'll be operating from that location."
"Why? Is this just a joke from the higher-ups?" Muzaffer asked.
"Well, if you ask me, yeah. But officially, it's about minimizing security risks. So, for now, your post will be there. An apartment has also been arranged for the three of you. Expect to be there for about three or four months. Also... I'll be joining you once I finish my investigations. But I'll have my own place."
"Crap, I just paid the deposit, man." Muzaffer groaned. Looked like the brass wanted to screw with us again.