“Just for failing to catch those kids?” asked Boris incredulously.
“An investigation,” Tkach corrected as the two girls ignored Boris and ordered ice creams from Sasha.
Boris was pleased. He hoped the muggers stayed away and this policeman remained working with him for weeks. He imagined expanding, hiring relatives, getting a bigger cart, becoming a capitalist. Stranger things had happened, happened to his own brother-in-law Oskar, and Oskar, that big, lumbering oaf, deserved beets growing out of his ears, not financial success. Boris began to dream of a dacha in the country, a week in Yalta. The week had started badly but it could well turn out to be quite profitable.
SIX
THERE WAS NO DAWN IN Tumsk, not in the winter. The sky went from black to dark gray and the moon faded a bit. Rostnikov had managed to wake up a little after six. It was not difficult. He seldom slept through any night. He would normally awaken three, four or five times each night to a stiffening of his leg and rolled over to check the time by switching on the lamp near his and Sarah’s bed. She never awakened to the light. He would then go back to sleep.
And so, in spite of the morning darkness, Rostnikov had awakened just before six, had checked his watch and decided to get up and read the reports. He used the white pad he had brought with him to make a list.
Assuming no one had come in from the outside, an assumption for which he had no evidence, he had a limited list of suspects. He would assign the least likely to Karpo and take the troublesome and the possible himself.
He had already decided how to handle Sokolov. He had considered simply ordering him to accompany Karpo and tell him the truth, that he did not conduct initial investigation interviews well with someone observing. It tended to interfere with making personal contact with the person being interviewed. He would also keep notes and turn them over to Sokolov for discussion. Sokolov might not like it but he would have difficulty overcoming the order without exposing himself. For the present he would simply leave early and claim that he had been unable to wake him.
Rostnikov dressed, wrote a note for Sokolov and left his room, closing his door quietly. On the wooden table at the foot of the stairs he found a warm kettle of tea and a plate with three smoked fish. He sat down with a grunt, poured himself tea and reached for a fish. Behind him he sensed rather than heard movement.
“Good morning, Emil,” he said softly without turning around.
“Good morning, Inspector,” replied Karpo.
“Fish?”
“I’ve eaten,” said Karpo, moving around the table to face Rostnikov who carefully peeled his fish and tasted it.
“Good,” said Rostnikov.
Karpo placed a small pile of handwritten notes in front of Rostnikov who glanced down at them and continued eating and drinking.
“I interviewed the sailors on the night shift at the weather station,” Karpo said. “Those are my notes.”
Rostnikov removed a small bone from his mouth and looked at Karpo who seemed, as he had last night, to be struggling with something.
“What are your thoughts, feeling about the sailors?”
“The interview material is all …” Karpo began.
“Intuition,” Rostnikov said, turning the fish over, savoring its smell and touch.
Karpo sat silently for about thirty seconds while Rostnikov ate, and finally said, “I think they are innocent of any participation in or knowledge of the murder of Commissar Rutkin. “And I believe that when I question the day shift, I will likely conclude the same about them. The weather station is well equipped, autonomous, and the sailors do not interact socially with the residents of Tumsk. When they are given two days off, they go to Igarka.”
“And so, following your questioning of the day sailors, we can tentatively eliminate half the residents of Tumsk from our suspect list,” said Rostnikov.
“Perhaps we can give them somewhat lower priority,” suggested Karpo.
“Let us do so,” said Rostnikov.
“And Comrade Sokolov?”
“He was snoring this morning as I passed his door. I knocked lightly but failed to rouse him and so I’ve written this note.”
Rostnikov rubbed the tips of his fingers together and removed the note from his pocket placing it against the kettle. Sokolov’s name was printed clearly on the folded sheet.
“I believe,” Karpo said slowly, “we should proceed with caution.”
“Always a good idea,” agreed Rostnikov, putting aside the neat bones of the fish. “Now, you can talk to your sailors and I will have morning tea with the residents of Tumsk. Wait. Add the janitor at the People’s Hall to your list, Mirasnikov.”
“Yes, Inspector,” said Karpo.
A few minutes later, after checking the location of the various houses on a crude map Famfanoff had made for him, Rostnikov bundled up from head to foot, wrapped the scarf Sarah had made for him around his neck and stepped into the town square of Tumsk. The cold greeted him with a slap and a frigid hug as he moved to his right. There had been no additional snow during the night but the wind had filled in the footprints.
He trudged past the pointing statue, glanced at the window of the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity and moved slowly in the morning darkness. A mechanical rattle and then a motor catching broke the silence and Rostnikov paused, looking at the weather station on the slope across the square. A yellow vehicle with a snow plow mounted low in front rolled slowly, noisily around the building and began to move toward Rostnikov.
Behind the wheel a young sailor in his dark uniform and tight-fitting hat nodded at the policeman and began to clear the main section of Tumsk. A few lights went on in the houses on the hillside toward which Rostnikov was headed. The morning naval plow was probably the alarm clock of the village. Rostnikov tried to remember what time Rutkin was supposed to have died and he made a mental note—it was too cold to take his hands out of his pockets and write—to check it.
With the rattling of the plow behind him, Rostnikov made his way up the gentle slope to the first house beyond the weather station. A light was on inside. He knocked on the heavy wooden door and a voice called almost immediately, “One moment.”
And then the door opened and Rostnikov found himself facing a burly man with a head of long, curly white hair and a smile of remarkably even white teeth that did not look false. The man wore a short fur jacket, thick pants and fur mukluks that came up just below his knees.
“Inspector Rostnikov?” the man asked stepping back to let him in.
“Dimitri Galich?” Rostnikov counter-questioned as he stepped into the house.
“Let me take your coat, get you a cup of tea,” Galich said, helping Rostnikov remove his coat.
Outside, the plow roared in the twi-morning as Rostnikov looked around the room. The walls were dark wood. Colorful rugs hung on the walls and the combination living-dining-work room was furnished in solid, dark wooden furniture. Wooden cabinets lined the walls except for one floor-to-ceiling bookcase. A broad worktable covered with odd-looking pieces of metal and glass stood at the rear of the room near a floor-to-ceiling window beyond which stood two similar houses; beyond stood the forest.
“I’ll get the tea,” Galich said putting Rostnikov’s jacket, hat, scarf and gloves on a nearby heavy chair. “Look around if you like.”
Galich disappeared to the right behind a stairway and Rostnikov wandered toward the worktable. As he approached he could see that the various items upon it included a ceramic pot filled with unfamiliar coins, a rusted and very ancient rifle, several cracked pots and something that looked like a door hinge. He was reaching for the door hinge when he heard the deep voice of Galich behind him.
“That was on two pieces of wood I found less than a week ago near the river,” he said handing Rostnikov a steaming mug.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Galich picking it up with his free hand, turning it over. “But I’ll figure it out. The books,” he said nodding at the nearby
shelf, “will help me. Usually I spend the winter working on the pieces I find in the summer. It is rare that I’ll actually pick up an artifact in the winter but the new hydroelectric plant north on the Yensei has shifted the river bed slightly. All up and down the river for over a thousand miles hydroelectric plants are going up. There are over twenty-five of them now. Here, look at this piece.”
Galich took a quick sip of hot liquid and reached for the rusted rifle. He picked it up in one large hand and handed it to Rostnikov. It was surprisingly heavy.
“Probably sixteenth century, maybe a bit earlier,” said Galich taking the rifle back. “Could have belonged to one of Ermak’s cossack’s, maybe Ermak himself. It could be. This area is a treasure of history. I’ve found pieces that date back to Khan. But most of what I find date back to the late 1500s. There was an ostrog, a cossack fort, not more than four hundred feet from here, overlooking the river.”
“Fascinating,” said Rostnikov.
“The cabinets are filled with pieces,” Galich said with pride. “I’m cataloging, organizing. In three, possibly four years I’ll have a major museum exhibit ready with a series of monographs covering the history of the upper Yensei.”
“The tea is very good,” said Rostnikov moving to one of the straight-backed chairs.
“Indian, imported. My one vice,” said Galich amiably, sitting opposite Rostnikov on an almost identical chair. “To what do I owe the honor of being first on your list this morning?”
“How did you know you were first?”
Galich laughed and shook his head.
“Visitors are major events in Tumsk,” he explained. “I’m sure that everyone in the village was up early looking out the window, waiting for you or the one who doesn’t blink.”
“I started with you because Famfanoff said he was staying here,” Rostnikov said. “Is he up? I need some information from him.”
“He sleeps deeply,” said Galich looking up toward the ceiling. “We can rouse him later. Perhaps I could help you.”
“I also started with you because I am looking for weight-lifting equipment I can use, a few weights will be fine.”
“No difficulty,” said Galich beaming. “I have a small but adequate supply of weights left by a naval officer a few years ago. I can show them to you later.”
“I would be very grateful,” said Rostnikov, finishing his tea.
“More tea?” asked Galich, jumping up to reach for the policeman’s empty cup.
“No, thank you. Questions.”
Galich nodded.
“You are a priest?”
“I was a priest, Russian Orthodox Church,” said Galich. “Surely your records contain this information.”
“I like to listen,” said Rostnikov, sitting back and folding his hands in his lap. “Why did you leave the church?”
Galich shrugged. “Crisis of faith. No, actually there was no crisis of faith. It was a question of too much passion. I simply accepted one morning when I was about to go to the church that I had never had any real faith, that I had endured the church because my family had always been leaders in the church back in Suzdal. The oddity is that had it not been for the Revolution, the Party, I would have left the church as a young man. I said things, did things even then that did not fit the image of the contemplative priest. I persisted, entered the priesthood because I didn’t want to be considered a coward. Ironic, isn’t it? I convinced myself that I believed but I knew that I could not reject the church because my family, the congregants, would think I was afraid of the Party.”
“But you did quit,” Rostnikov said.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I became sixty years old and stopped worrying about what others thought. Sometimes I think I waited too long. I have much work to do here and probably not enough time to get it done. But I’m babbling. I think you’ll find many of us in Tumsk will babble. We are not accustomed to outsiders and we sometimes grow tired of each other’s company. You want to talk about the Samsonov child?”
“About Commissar Rutkin,” corrected Rostnikov. “He spoke to you.”
“Several times. Would you like some pickled vegetables while we talk?”
“No, thank you. What did he ask you?”
“Commissar Rutkin? He asked where I was the day the Samsonov child died. What I did. What I saw. What I thought.”
“And you told him …?”
“I told him,” said Galich, “that I spent most of the day at the river. I have a very passable twelfth-century Mongol cup I found that day. It’s in the cabinet behind you. I saw no one from town. And what did I think? I thought the child’s death was an accident. I cannot imagine anyone would harm her. Why would they?”
“Because of her father, perhaps,” said Rostnikov.
“Inspector, what monster would kill a child to punish the father?” Galich shook his head. “And for what? This is a town of exiles. A dissident is nothing new here. I am a voluntary exile. So is General Krasnikov. Most of us here, except for the sailors, are out of favor with the Party.”
“Yet the child is dead and monsters do exist,” said Rostnikov.
“Of a sort,” agreed Galich with a sad shrug. “I am well aware of our history. Perhaps that is why I am trying to retrieve some of the more distant and possibly more colorful parts worth remembering. Am I talking treason?”
“Reason,” said Rostnikov. “And the day Commissar Rutkin died? You were?”
“Famfanoff said it was early that morning. I was in here, certainly not up yet. It must have happened before the sailors plowed the square or else everyone would have seen the body. I don’t even know who discovered Commissar Rutkin’s corpse.”
“It was Samsonov,” said Rostnikov. “There was to be a hearing at the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity on the child’s death. Samsonov wanted to get there early.”
“I think, if you want my opinion,” said Galich, “Samsonov is making all this fuss not only out of grief but of guilt. He was forced to bring his wife and child here because of his politics. And this is not a place for a child. The girl was here for a year with no other children. She didn’t even go to the school in Agapitovo. She spent a lot of time here with me and my collection,” he said looking around the room. “I knew about the hearing, of course, but I … what can one say? I can’t say I liked your Commissar Rutkin, but I didn’t dislike him, either. Rutkin was … self-interested. The child’s death did not seem to touch him.”
“And no one came into conflict with him, argued with him,” Rostnikov tried.
Galich hesitated, rose and opened his broad hands palm up as if he were about to deliver a sermon.
“Samsonov,” Galich said. “I’m sure you know that. He was outspoken and quite bitter. He quite openly declared that the government had purposely sent an incompetent to conduct the investigation so the truth would never be known.”
“There is something in the reports to that effect. And you, Comrade Galich. Did you agree with him?”
“I’m a historian and amateur archeologist,” replied Galich. “Until further information is available, I choose not to form an opinion.”
“Wise,” said Rostnikov, standing. “Perhaps we can talk again.”
“I gather you do not believe, as does Sergeant Famfanoff, that Commissar Rutkin was killed by a bear from the taiga.”
“Considering the nature of the wounds, it is highly unlikely,” said Rostnikov, moving slowly toward the chair on which his coat rested. “Is there anything else you could tell me that might be of some assistance?”
“No, nothing I can think of at the moment,” said Galich, rubbing the back of his head. “But you might hear some nonsense from the janitor Mirasnikov and his wife. Shamanism is still practiced among the few Evenk natives remaining in the area and superstition is remarkably powerful. The word ‘shaman’ itself is a creation of the Evenks, the native Siberians who live in the forests. The atheist rationality of the Revolution has failed to conquer much of
Siberia beyond the limits of the larger towns and cities. There was even talk that Commissar Rutkin was killed by a snow monster called up by an Evenk shaman to destroy the godless intruder.”
“Interesting,” said Rostnikov getting into his coat. The noise of the plow outside suddenly stopped.
“You’re mocking,” said Galich.
“Not at all. I find it very interesting. Please have Famfanoff find me when he finally awakens but please do not wake him. From here I’ll be going to the Samsonovs’ and then to General Krasnikov’s.”
“You have much to do,” said Galich. “Let me show you my modest collection of weights.”
Rostnikov followed the big man to a door off the wooden stairway to the right. Galich opened the door and stood back to let Rostnikov in. The small room with a tiny frosted window contained a sizable collection of weights piled neatly on the floor. Bars were neatly hung on racks and four barbells were lined up evenly against the windowed wall.
“If this meets your needs, please feel free to come back at any time and use them,” said Galich.
“It more than meets my needs,” said Rostnikov.
“I find the weights very satisfying, very therapeutic and reassuring,” said Galich stepping back to close the door.
Before he put on his gloves, Rostnikov shook Galich’s hand.
“Then you’ll return?” said the former priest. “Perhaps before you finish your work in Tumsk you’ll even join me for dinner. I’ve visited Moscow many times and I’d like to hear about how it is now, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I would not mind,” said Rostnikov.
The square was plowed as were paths along the hills. Rostnikov slogged into the nearest furrow and made his way higher up the slope to a nearby house almost identical to that of the former priest.
Like the other houses the front faced down the hill toward the town square. Rostnikov moved off the plowed path and through the snow to the door. Before he could knock the door opened.
“Doctor Samsonov?” Rostnikov asked.
The man before him was lean, tall and somewhere in his forties. His hair was dark and thin and his face placid. Beneath the placidness Rostnikov sensed a seething anger. The man wore a black turtleneck sweater. He pulled up the sleeves slightly as he examined the policeman at his door.
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