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“You wondered what sort of cases we handle,” says Virgilsson as he opens the door. “The answer is: anything that no one else wants.” Asker gasps. Almost every surface in Sandgren’s office is strewn with files and papers, with the exception of his office chair and a shabby, old leather sofa that appears to have recently been slept on. The air is stale and reeks of dust and paper and, more faintly, of sweat, alcohol, and despair. Virgilsson smiles. “Welcome to the Department of Orphaned Cases and Lost Souls!”
Every statement must bear up to questioning. Only once you have asked “why?” three times will you be starting to get near the truth.
