A Whisper to the Living (Inspector Rostnikov Mysteries) Page 5

  Rostnikov paused at the first table, where a thin, bespectacled old man stroked his white beard as he considered his next move. His opponent was an impatient bulky man in his fifties whose left leg bounced rapidly as his fingers tapped on the plank of the bench on which he sat.

  Rostnikov had been picked up in front of Petrovka by a black ZiL belonging to the MVD, the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Seated in the back was a man with military-cut steel gray hair and eyes to match.

  Aloyosha Tarasov had held out his hand to shake once Rostnikov maneuvered in next to him in the backseat.

  “Porfiry Petrovich, how fares the appendage?” said the Major, glancing at the extended left leg.

  “The leg and I are not yet friends, but we are making headway.”

  Rostnikov had known Major Aloyosha Tarasov through decades of change in the MVD. Departments had been eliminated. Others had sprung up as the tides of political opinion changed. It was difficult to determine sometimes which department had responsibility for specific tasks. What was certain was that Tarasov had been assigned the task of finding the Maniac. It was also certain that Tarasov had not succeeded. They drove in silence for a minute or so looking out the window.

  “You are welcome to the case,” said Tarasov. “My superiors, including the Deputy Director, were more annoyed that the murders took so much of their time and budget. Murder has been relegated to a very low level in the MVD. The military branches of our organization take most of our resources and present the best opportunities for high-profile success.”

  “Or failure?” said Rostnikov.

  “Or failure,” Tarasov agreed. “You have all of our files, with the exception of those that demonstrate the fallibility of many of the staff I was given for the search.”

  Pause in the conversation and then Tarasov sighed.

  “You have questions for me,” he said. “First I have one for you. Why do you want me to go to the park with you?”

  “You have been to the sites where the bodies were found. You have seen the bodies. You have done the investigation. The files show the facts. I would like your impressions.”

  “For all the good they will do you,” Tarasov said.

  “What did you feel when you looked down at the bodies?” asked Rostnikov.

  “What did I feel? As if I would get little sleep that night. Let me see. Neatness. They were all laid out on their backs, hands at their sides, faces forward. Their wounds could not be seen, though some had blood on their faces from the attack. Indifference. They were not the objects of hatred. The killer didn’t care about them as people. It was all very efficient. Those were impressions. They are not in the report. Our killer is intelligent. You were in the park this morning again.”

  “Yes.”

  Though responsibility for the serial killer had been passed onto Rostnikov, Tarasov would continue to monitor progress or failure from a distance. Rostnikov had assumed at least one of Tarasov’s people would be lurking in the wind.

  “He will not attack you.”

  Rostnikov shrugged.

  “We had people posing as homeless or pensioners for weeks. He never struck. He seems to know when we placed a decoy in the park. Add to that the fact that no one of reasonable interest ever appeared more than once in the hundreds of photographs we took with a telephoto lens. The Maniac struck quickly each time at various places both inside the park and on the walks around it. He will not strike at you.”

  “He might come and talk to me,” Rostnikov said.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Curiosity, a desire to talk to someone about what he has done and why he has done it.”

  “He never spoke to any of my undercover men.”

  “Would you have?”

  “No,” said Tarasov. “Good luck.”

  Except for having murdered his wife, Aloyosha Tarasov was a law-abiding Russian. He took no bribes, played no favorites, kept the secrets of his superiors, and always did what he was told. He was considered a highly competent investigator, and rightly so. He wanted nothing more than to survive, do the work he loved, and be respected. His wife had never understood that. She had wanted to get out of Russia, with or without her husband. Were she to leave, his career would be in jeopardy.

  Olga had never been the object of his love. He needed a wife for appearances and a reputation for normalcy. One morning eleven years ago, he had stopped at home after having been at a crime scene nearby. He had found Olga standing in the living room with a suitcase in her hand. She told him that she had arranged passage to Poland and was leaving immediately. He had calmly struck her with his fist and thrown her out of the window of their eighth-floor apartment on Kolinsky Street. A passing pedestrian was slightly injured by the falling body.

  Olga had cooperated in death as she never had in life. She had left a good-bye note that could easily be interpreted as a confession of suicide. Tarasov had unpacked her bag, called in the demise of Olga, and sat down to wait for the arrival of an investigator who was dutifully uncomfortable in the presence of an MVD major.

  Aloyosha Tarasov did not have pangs of guilt, did not experience bad dreams, and spent almost no time remembering his dead wife or his deed.

  Years later Rostnikov had read the supposed suicide note and concluded that it was just what it had been, a statement of her decision to leave. Though it had all taken place years earlier, Rostnikov had asked Emil Karpo to dig into the evidence. He had found airline bookings and discovered that Olga Tarasov had a ticket to Warsaw on Aeroflot the day of her death. He pursued the matter no further. Not yet, perhaps never.

  Rostnikov liked his MVD counterpart. They weren’t quite friends, but they were a bit more than acquaintances. From time to time they had lunch together or met to keep each other informed. Rostnikov knew that if the opportunity presented itself, he would have no trouble launching a full investigation into the death of Olga Tarasov.

  “Anyplace particular in the park?” asked Tarasov.

  “Where they play chess.”

  Tarasov leaned forward to tell the uniformed driver where to take them and then turned back to Rostnikov.

  “We checked all the chess-playing regulars. They are mostly old men, and the younger ones all have alibis for at least three or four of the murders.”

  Rostnikov nodded and said nothing.

  “None of them remember seeing anything or anyone suspicious.”

  Rostnikov nodded again.

  They were silent for most of the rest of the drive.

  And now they stood side by side next to a table on the end.

  The playing was quick. The small-timers were not necessary.

  A skinny, shivering old man at their side glanced at them and whispered, “The sun is going down. Games have to be finished. A game unfinished is a game that gnaws at the heart and mind. Better to lose than to leave a game unfinished. You understand?”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Yes, but there are unfinished games that cannot be abandoned with the setting of the sun.”

  “You are the police,” the man said.

  “Yes,” said Tarasov.

  “I have seen you here before.”

  “Yes,” said Tarasov.

  “You asked me about suspicious strangers and I told you I had seen nothing.”

  “Yes,” Tarasov said once more.

  “Even if they finish now,” the man said, “I don’t think I’ll play.”

  “Avoid the unfinished game,” said Rostnikov.

  “Yes.”

  The old man smiled, showing uneven brown Russian teeth.

  The policemen walked away, leaving the thin man alone in front of the coveted table and game.

  “They would not notice if our killer came up behind one of them, caved in his skull as he sat considering his next move, and dragged the body away,” said Tarasov.

  “They would notice a new player who sat down.”

  “Yes,” said Tarasov. “But they would not notice a missing player. One of your victims m
ay well have played here a few times. They seem to show no curiosity about regulars who do not show up one day and never appear again.”

  “Maybe I’ll have Emil Karpo play tomorrow,” said Rostnikov.

  “He plays chess?”

  “He is quite good, but he shows no enthusiasm for the game.”

  “And do you?” asked Tarasov.

  “Not for the game of chess,” said Rostnikov, taking in the area while still looking at Tarasov.

  Aleksandr Chenko, string shopping bag in hand, hurried down the path about fifty yards from the chess tables. The bag was heavy with milk, bread, vegetables, and cans of sardines and a large box of kasha. His prize purchase that day at the Volga Grocery had been a bunch of large nearly perfect radishes. He had brought the radishes out and placed them in the bin, spreading them to give their best effect. To ensure that this bunch would still be available, he had placed it gently in a corner of the bin and covered it with ice. He would clean them and admire them before slicing a few of the larger ones and putting them on a sandwich with the sardines.

  He did not look directly toward the chess tables, nor at the two who were obviously policemen. Yet he saw them. One had been here several times before. The one with the bad left leg had only begun to come over the past week. At odd hours he would sit on a bench and read a book.

  There was something intriguing about the man with the bad leg who was built somewhat like a large brick. It would be interesting to get close and see what he was reading, perhaps even to talk to him. At some point Aleksandr knew he might be caught, but it was essential that this not happen before he had reached his mark. If he chose to go on killing, every victim after that would be a bonus.

  At that moment he decided that the policeman with the bad leg would be the one with whom Aleksandr made the record. That would happen soon. Then he would celebrate. Tonight, after eating his sandwich of radishes and sardines, he would call both The Moscow News and The Moscow Times and give them an accurate count of the dead. Since the police were not letting people know, he would tell them. It was essential that people around the world knew.

  Just before turning to the left at the point where the path divided, Aleksandr allowed himself one quick glance at his next victim.

  The policeman with the bad leg was looking back at him.

  4

  The Scientist in the Cellar

  “This is foolish,” Elena Timofeyeva said, peering through the window of the bistro on Kalinin Street.

  Elena looked at Sasha for support. He intended to give it, but a look from Iris Templeton tempted his resolve. He had not been with a woman for almost five months and here was a pretty, smart, famous woman regarding him with obvious intent.

  “It is not a good idea,” he said in compromise.

  Iris Templeton smiled at Sasha and said, “Perhaps not, but I’ve made my career by doing foolish things that others were afraid to do. You are police officers. There must be many times when you tread when there might be danger.”

  The meaning of her words was not lost on either Elena or Sasha.

  “Besides, you will be right behind me.”

  “But—” Elena began.

  “But,” Iris Templeton continued, “your orders are not to give me advice, but to provide me with protection. Is that him?”

  Iris nodded at a lone man who sat drinking from a coffee cup at a small, round table against the far wall of the crowded bistro.

  “Yes,” said Elena.

  The man they were looking at was well built, fair skinned, with prematurely white hair. He could not have been more than forty years old. He wore a blue button-down shirt and on his chair was draped a leather jacket so fine that it shined with the reflection of the overhead lights.

  “I’m going in. Stay here,” said Iris, examining her reflection in the window.

  “We are not under your orders,” said Elena. “We decide where we must be to protect you.”

  “It would be better if we were friends,” said Iris. “Sasha and I are going to be friends.”

  Sasha resisted the urge to brush back the unruly lock of hair that dangled down his forehead.

  Iris Templeton entered the bistro. When the door opened, the two police officers could hear the sound of music from a CD player inside. As the door closed, they heard the somewhat familiar sound of some popular singer shouting loudly. Neither Elena nor Sasha recognized the performer. Both knew that Zelach could immediately identify the song, the performer, and his complete discography.

  “It is not a good idea,” Elena said with mocking sarcasm as the door closed. “If something happens to her, we will be held responsible.”

  Sasha did not respond.

  He watched Iris Templeton move to the table of Daniel Volkovich, who half-stood in greeting. He was smiling as he took Iris Templeton’s hand and held it for a few seconds longer than Sasha thought necessary.

  Iris Templeton sat across from the pimp. She was in profile. White light danced on her face. It was a cameo that attracted Sasha, who well knew the danger of responding to what he was feeling. Yet he could not control it.

  “Let’s go in,” said Elena, pulling the collar of her jacket around her neck. “I’m cold.”

  Sasha felt neither hot nor cold. He felt bewildered.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The two entered the bistro. There were two empty tables, only one of which had a clear view of where Iris and Daniel sat talking. A fat man with a red face had to move in tightly to allow Sasha to sit. The fat man looked annoyed. He was about to speak, but something in the near baby face of the man who had forced him to move warned him that it would not be a good idea.

  The police officers were too far away and the music too loud to let them hear what was happening at the table where the reporter and the pimp were sitting. What Sasha could see was that the two of them were getting along very nicely, with smiles, words, and nods of agreement.

  Elena wanted to say, You are jealous, Sasha Tkach. How many times must you be misled by your sex? This woman plans to use you.

  “Jealousy and love are sisters,” Sasha said as if reading her mind.

  Elena knew the proverb. It did not impress her. She had experienced jealousy with Iosef, but it had been under her control and did not deter her from the wedding. Was it really only two days away?

  Daniel Volkovich leaned across the table and rested his hand over that of Iris Templeton.

  The familiar demon within Sasha banged at his chest and in his brain. It took a great effort to control it, to keep from walking over to the table and sitting next to Iris. He had only known the woman for hours, but there were factors that made her difficult to resist. Perhaps the most important factor was that she was definitely interested in him. Next, she was pretty. Next, she was smart. He was not looking for love or even for sex, but when it presented itself so openly he knew resistance was impossible.

  Elena saw no waiter moving from table to table, nor did she see anyone behind the bar who might be a waiter.

  “You want a drink?” Elena asked, rising.

  “Beer. American or German,” he said, his eyes fixed on the couple at the table against the wall.

  He willed Iris to pull her hand from under that of the charming seducer. She did not move it.

  Elena had no need to tell Sasha to keep a close watch on Iris. She moved through the random harvest of crowded tables to the bar determined not to drink anything that might blur her senses or add unneeded calories. Iosef said that he liked her the way she was. She was sure he would like her even more if there were less of her.

  Ten minutes later Daniel Volkovich took a cell phone from a pocket of his leather jacket and punched in a number. He did it all with one hand so he would not have to relinquish Iris’s hand. Daniel spoke briefly and put the cell phone back in his pocket.

  During the phone conversation, Volkovich had glanced at Sasha and nodded. Sasha averted his eyes.

  Both Sasha’s beer and Elena’s coffee were long finished whe
n there was a noise at the table of the fat man behind them. The fat man shouted. A chair was pushed into Elena, who stood facing the disruptive table. The fat man stood on unsteady feet and toppled against Sasha, who struggled not to be blown from his chair.

  Sasha pushed the man away.

  “Not your business,” the fat man said, his large red nose inches from Sasha’s face.

  Sasha threw an elbow into the man’s face. The fat man tumbled backward into his already-overturned table. A pair of men, one with a bald head and large, bushy mustache, came to calm things down and usher the fat man and his party out the front door.

  It was only after some sense of order had been restored that Sasha looked toward the table in the corner. Elena did the same.

  Iris Templeton and Daniel Volkovich were gone.

  “This is what it comes to,” Paulinin said, changing his gloves.

  On the two tables deep below Petrovka lay the bodies of Lena Medivkin and Fedot Babinski.

  “Comely in life, serene in death,” Paulinin said, scalpel in hand as he looked down at the naked bodies that lay side by side on their backs only a few feet from each other.

  Paulinin had the urge to help them reach out and clasp each other’s hands. They made an interesting couple. She was young, dark, and when the blood was cleansed quite beautiful except for the bruises on her face and the crushed right cheekbone. He was a man of no more than forty-five. His was a muscular body with no chest hair. There were a few scars, one on his stomach, another on his forehead. His face was roughly handsome, with a much-broken nose that made him more interesting than he might otherwise have been. The blood had also been cleansed from his face, but the man’s fists and knuckles were quite bloody. He must, Paulinin tentatively concluded, have fought back and done some damage to whoever had beaten him to death. Paulinin did not clean the knuckles. The blood of the killer might still be on them.

  “Do you have secrets, my pair of lovers? Secrets that you will share with me as we talk?”