A Fine Red Rain Read online

  When next he opened his eyes, Sasha would get up quietly, check on the baby, brush his teeth in the tiny bathroom that had no bath and a shower that infrequently worked, shave, dress, and grab a slice of bread and a drink of cool tea from the bottle in the small refrigerator. Then he would walk to the metro and head for the bookstall, where he would pretend to be a student wanting to buy a foreign videotape machine. His reports, which up to now had had little of substance in them, were not only being reviewed by Khabolov, the assistant procurator, but—because of the economic implications of the case, Sasha Tkach was sure—were also being examined by someone in the KGB. No one had told him this, but because the black market was involved it was obvious, and Khabolov’s special interest in the case had made it clear that there was an urgency involved that was encountered only when pressure was being put on the assistant procurator.

  Sasha felt Maya get back into the bed, cover herself with the thin sheet, and move close to him. The baby was quiet. Somewhere far away through the open window a drunken voice laughed once and then was silent. Sasha reached over and put his arm around his wife. She moved his hand to her belly and for a moment there was a soft silence. But only for a moment. The door to Lydia’s small bedroom shot open and Sasha’s mother’s voice squealed out in exasperation.

  “Can’t the two of you hear the baby crying?” With that, of course, Pulcharia woke up again and began to cry.

  “Details, routine, vigilance,” the Gray Wolfhound announced, holding up one finger of his slender hand to emphasize each word.

  Two men sitting at the table in the meeting room at the Petrovka Station looked up at Colonel Snitkonoy and nodded in agreement. The third man, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, was barely aware of the words at all. He was aware of the standing colonel, the tall, slender man with the distinguished gray temples whose brown uniform was perfectly pressed, whose three ribbons of honor, neatly aligned on his chest, were just right in both color and number. The colonel was impressive. And that, indeed, was his primary function: to impress visitors and underlings; to stride, hands clasped behind his back like a czarist general deep in thought about an impending battle. So successful was the Gray Wolfhound at his role that it was rumored that a Bulgarian journalist had returned to Sofia and written a novel with Snitkonoy as the very evident model for his heroic policeman hero.

  “Your thoughts, Comrades,” Snitkonoy said waving his hand before again clasping it behind his back. He was the only one standing, poised in front of a blackboard on which he had occasionally been known to make lists and to write words that he wanted those with whom he met to remember.

  Two of the men at the table looked at each other to determine which of them might have a thought. They ignored Rostnikov, who doodled on the pad in front of him.

  One of the men at the table was the Gray Wolfhound’s assistant, Pankov, a near-dwarf of a man with thinning hair who was widely believed to hold his job because he made such a perfect contrast to the colonel. Pankov was a perspirer, always uncertain. His clothes were perpetually rumpled, his few strands of hair unwilling to lie in peace against his scalp. When he stood, Pankov came up to the Wolfhound’s chest. In appreciation of Pankov’s flattering inadequacy, the colonel never failed to treat his assistant with patronizing respect.

  Opposite Pankov sat the uniformed Major Grigorovich, a solid, ambitious block of a man in his early forties who saw himself as the eventual heir to the Wolfhound and took pride in his ability to keep Snitkonoy from feeling threatened while making clear to his colleagues that he, Major Andrei Grigorovich, was no fool. On his second day with the Wolfhound, Rostnikov had commented to his wife, Sarah, that Grigorovich looked a bit like a slightly overweight version of the British actor Albert Finney. Occasionally during these briefing sessions, Rostnikov would draw little caricatures of Grigorovich, Pankov, Snitkonoy, or one of the others who sometimes joined them to give reports.

  It was believed among all who attended the sessions that the Washtub, Rostnikov, was taking detailed notes on everything everyone said. Rostnikov’s reputation as a criminal investigator added an air of intimidation to the morning meetings, and much speculation existed over why he had been assigned to basic criminal investigation. Pankov, who shared his views with everyone who would listen, was convinced that Rostnikov was there to evaluate the Gray Wolfhound. Pankov knew that if the Wolfhound fell, so would he. Therefore, Pankov was ever alert to undermine suggestions Rostnikov might make, while at the same time trying to keep Rostnikov from knowing what he was doing because Rostnikov might well later hurt those who had given him trouble. This difficult position resulted in Pankov’s seldom speaking at the meetings for fear of offending anyone. Grigorovich was convinced that Rostnikov was being considered to replace the Wolfhound, or at least to be tested against Grigorovich to determine which man should, either soon or in the distant future, move up a notch.

  Snitkonoy, on the other hand, simply assumed that Rostnikov had been assigned to him so that he, Rostnikov, could learn the nuances of leadership that he lacked so he could return to the Procurator’s Office at some point in the future with a new sense of purpose and the inspiration provided by his association with Snitkonoy.

  And that was the situation that prevailed in the room when the three men at the table were asked for their thoughts. It was evident to all of them that their real thoughts were the last things they would give in this room. It was also evident to Rostnikov that none of them had really been paying attention to the Wolfhound.

  “We must continue to tighten up on our efficiency,” Pankov said, taking the easy, abstract route and pounding his small fist into his palm for emphasis.

  “Yes,” said the Gray Wolfhound with tolerance but no enthusiasm. “Major?”

  “We must have an adequate termination of a greater percentage of our cases, our responsibilities,” said Grigorovich, looking at Rostnikov, who continued to frown at the pad of paper on which he was doodling.

  “Paperwork, evidence, must be more complete, investigations better documented, before we turn each case over to the Procurator’s Office for prosecution or further investigation,” Grigorovich went on.

  “Yes,” Pankov agreed.

  “Comrade Inspector,” the Wolfhound said, snapping the pointing finger of his right hand at Rostnikov. “Your views? You have had time to gather your thoughts. Perhaps your delay this morning was due to your diligence in preparing for this meeting?”

  “This morning,” said Rostnikov slowly, his eyes coming up from the poor copy of Gogol’s statue he was working on, “a man leaped to his death from the new Gogol statue.”

  The silence was long as they waited for Rostnikov to continue. Outside and below them, in the police-dog compound, a German shepherd began to bark and then suddenly went quiet. When it became evident that Rostnikov had no thoughts of continuing, Snitkonoy prodded as he stepped back and tilted his head.

  “And the point of this, Comrade Inspector?”

  Grigorovich and Pankov turned their eyes to Rostnikov, who sighed, shrugged, and looked up.

  “I wondered what would so frighten a man that he would do a thing like that,” Rostnikov mused. “Leap headfirst to the pavement. Crush his skull like an overripe tomato.”

  “Was there some evidence of intimidation, some suggestion of murder?” Pankov asked, wondering if this were some kind of test by Rostnikov.

  “It’s not important,” Rostnikov said, pushing the pad away. “Might I suggest that we proceed to the case list and make the assignments?”

  The Wolfhound was puzzled, but the Wolfhound was better than a professional actor. His eyes fixed knowingly, sympathetically, on Rostnikov, as if he knew exactly what was on the inspector’s mind. Then he turned his eyes to the neat black vinyl folder in front of him. The colonel opened the file, now anxious to go through the routine and get the brooding Rostnikov out of the room. He had hoped for a concluding half hour or more of philosophical musing and teaching, but Rostnikov had poisoned the atmosphere.
/>   Snitkonoy flipped open the folder and scanned the list of new cases for the morning. All had already been assigned to the investigators who took the initial calls, except for three that had been appropriated by the KGB. Those cases had thick black lines through them, lines so thick and so black that one could make out no trace of a single letter designating the case. The Wolfhound’s gray eyes scanned the list and then he grinned—a private, knowing grin—as he passed out copies of the new case list to the three men in the room.

  “Comrades, do you see anything of special concern on this list? Any cases you would like transferred to other investigators? Concentrated upon?”

  It was the routine morning speech, but the list was not routine for Rostnikov, who had expected simply to be assigned to an additional case or two without great consequence or meaning. And then his eye caught the description of Case Number 16. He let his head come up lazily, hiding his reaction. A show of enthusiasm or real interest might doom his chances. The very fact that he wanted the case might be reason enough for the Wolfhound to demonstrate his power and assign it to someone else.

  “Number five,” Grigorovich said. “The increased activity of assaults on old people near the war memorial suggests …”

  It went on like that for twenty minutes. Rostnikov made a point about reexamination of the evidence from a family murder the week before. He supported Grigorovich’s interest in the assault case and, though he thought it was idiotic, nodded in agreement when Pankov suggested a consolidation of four cases, all of which dealt with reports of illegal sales of vodka. There was clearly no relationship among the cases other than the recent interest in alcoholism that Gorbachev had been pushing for the past year. It was fashionable to denounce alcoholism.

  Now that Grigorovich and Pankov each owed him something, Rostnikov made his move.

  “Number thirty-four,” he said. “The report of several assaults in parks. It may be a pattern. Other than that, nothing seems to need further attention, though there are a few cases that might be worth a minor review of initial investigation. Numbers”—he scanned the list casually—“three, twelve, sixteen, and twenty-four.”

  The other three men scanned the list and nodded, not seeing anything worth checking in any of the cases, but not wanting it to seem as if they had missed something.

  “Fine,” sighed the Wolfhound, closing his vinyl file, placing it on the table, and slapping his palm against it. “If you have time, Comrade Inspector, you can review initial investigations on those cases. Number thirty-four, the assaults, I think should be supervised by Sergei Pankov.”

  Pankov smiled in triumph, and Rostnikov and Grigorovich nodded in agreement.

  “Good,” said the Wolfhound. “I have a report to give at the People’s Court in Podolski this afternoon. Since we got started a bit late”—and with this he paused for less than a breath to let his eyes fall on Rostnikov before he continued—“there will be no time for progress reports on continuing investigations. We will, therefore, meet tomorrow morning at six for progress reports. Inspector Rostnikov, this note is for you.”

  The Wolfhound produced an envelope from behind his back and handed it to Rostnikov. Without waiting for comment, the Wolfhound turned and strode out of the room, his shiny black boots clapping against the tile floor.

  Grigorovich and Pankov placed their various papers into folders, tucked the folders under their arms, and uttered a clipped “Good morning, Comrades” as they exited.

  Alone, Rostnikov looked up at the single window for the first time since he had entered the room. His leg had grown stiff, his clothes were still wet, and he knew it was still raining. The envelope the colonel had handed him was grayish-white, unmarked. Nothing was written on it. Rostnikov slit the top flap with his fingernail. The note was brief, typed. He looked out at the rain, sighed, and stood up. He would have to take the metro, but he should still make it by the time indicated in the letter.

  Before he left the building, he went to the central desk and said that he wanted a copy of the report on Case Number 16 for that morning.

  “Case Number?” the short-haired woman behind the desk asked, looking at the stack of files in front of her.

  “Oleg Pesknoko, the circus performer who died this morning,” Rostnikov said.

  “Ah,” said the woman triumphantly, locating the file and handing it to Rostnikov. “The accident.”

  “Yes,” Rostnikov said, tucking the file under his arm. “The accident.”

  The man who had killed eight prostitutes in the past six years had no idea on that Monday morning that Investigator Emil Karpo of the Procurator’s Office was looking for him. Yuri Pon really didn’t worry about the police at all, because he was well aware of the official status of the investigation of his activities. He was aware of the progress, or lack of it, because he worked in the central records department of the Office of the Procurator General of Moscow.

  Pon had not even checked the files for the possibility of any recent activity. No one really cared about the prostitutes. There were too many other priorities: murders, maimings, crimes against the state. Since prostitutes did not officially exist any longer, the file referred to the victims as “women of questionable character.” Pon referred to them, and only to himself and his diary, as the snakes.

  Since he was a boy, Pon, who was nearing his forty-first birthday, had seen these women and had sensed, knew, what they were. He had seen them, been fascinated by the prostitutes who hung around the railway stations and the others who sat in hotel lobbies or restaurants on Gorky Street. He had seen them, dreamed of them, even wanted them, though he was repulsed by the idea. There was no possibility that Yuri Pon would actually go to bed with a prostitute.

  As he sat at his desk, stamping the folders in front of him with an official seal, he shook his head to confirm his determination. He would never go with a prostitute. It would be like … like wrapping a snake around your most private parts, the way he had wrapped a cloth in the tub when he was a child. But it would be more smooth and scaly. Yuri Pon shuddered. The shudder ran through his puttylike body. Nausea made him lift his eyes and peer through his glasses toward the washroom. But the feeling passed and he sat back, furiously stamping, stamping, stamping.

  And why had this come on? He had been drinking the night before. That was true. But that wasn’t unusual. Had he been drinking the night before it had happened the other times? He didn’t remember. Perhaps he had, but there had also been many nights when he had consumed far more vodka, felt far more the pull and repulsion of the prostitutes, especially the one at the restaurant on Gorky.

  “Comrade Pon,” a voice broke in.

  Pon shook and almost dropped the seal in his hand.

  “Pon,” the woman repeated.

  “Yes,” Pon answered, adjusting his glasses and looking up at Ludmilla Kropetskanoya, the assistant files supervisor, who always wore black and looked like a light pole.

  “File these.” She handed him a half dozen files and strode away from his desk toward the stairs. “And try to hurry with this busywork and get back to the computer.”

  Pon watched her leave, feeling nothing but a vague dizziness from the drinking of the night before. As he rose he continued to wonder why he was thinking about the prostitutes once more. Was he going to start having those nights again? The nights when the feeling wouldn’t go away? Night after night after night, feeling his body in the darkness, responding to the memories of those women, responding but never satisfied. The killings had given him relief, great relief. But the feeling had always come back.

  Pon tucked the sheets of new information and reports under his left arm and pushed the odd pieces of paper back into the files as he walked slowly to the rows of drawers behind him. He paused at the white plastic table, stacked the files, and began to sort them by case number.

  It had been almost a full year since he had last needed to find a prostitute. Though he was too cautious to be certain, still he hoped that it might mean that the feeling was
gone for good. He liked his job, liked the two-room apartment he shared with Nikolai. He enjoyed filing. It took little thought and gave him a feeling of accomplishment and plenty of time to think. These were his files—neat, not a report sticking up, not a file frayed—and soon, within months perhaps, he and the others would have everything fully transferred to the computers. Though he had a limited supply of new file—

  It was with this thought that Pon froze and stared at the file in his hand. Number 1265-0987. It was the only file number in the whole system he had memorized, because he felt it was his, the file detailing all of his dispositions of prostitutes. He had kept it even more orderly than the rest. He wanted it to remain untouched, perfect, safe.

  And now, almost a year after anyone had looked at it, someone had come, probably during the overnight shift, and pulled the file. Yuri had mixed feelings. Fear and excitement made his hands tremble, and he had a shiver of something almost mystical. He had thought little about that file, about those feelings, about what he had had to do, for months. But this morning he had come in sensing, feeling, the echo of it all again. The reason was clear.

  He had somehow known that someone was thinking about him. It was uncanny and frustrating, for there was no one he could tell about this.

  Nikolai had once said that when he had the pains in his side he had awakened during the night and had seen a huge, clear letter C embossed on his skin at the point of the greatest pain. The C had been formed by a pebbly ridge of flesh. “I was sure, I knew, that in spite of the impossibility,” Nikolai had said, leaning forward as if he were telling a great secret, “my body was informing me that I had cancer. Only it was stranger than that. I did not have cancer, only dyspepsia. I had told myself”—and with this Nikolai pointed a dark finger at his head—“that I had cancer. My mind had been strong enough to generate a change in my skin. Amazing.”