What he cannot explain is his sister’s murder. That afternoon he went to her house and confessed to her everything that has been a burden on him for the last two years, in a desperate attempt to get her help.
As soon as he finished, she laughed out loud, as she could not believe him, but when she realized he was serious she started attacking him. A scandal around the family name would deprive her of the career she was dreaming of abroad.
He tried to calm her down, while in reality, he was in greater need of an encouraging word. He held her hands and she pushed him away, throwing him on the couch. Her next movement was to take her mobile phone in her hands to call their father.
He approached her and threw her mobile on the floor. After great effort, he convinced her to speak to Orpheus the next day. Once again, he chose to save some time for something that was surely unavoidable. He left her apartment and ran to his car.
He arrived at the beach. He proceeded towards the sea and got lost for a long time in the sounds of the waves. He understood he could not overturn the fateful end. The news of his sister’s murder released him from the impasse in which he was trapped but created a new one. He thinks that perhaps the invisible enemy killed Natalie, but he finds no logical connection to it.
Aimilios exits the room and makes a gesture to the guards. He proceeds in the corridor. He overpasses the information desk of the floor and smiles at the brunette nurse with whom he had a conversation in the morning. He turns right. He arrives at the stairs. He descends the stairs of the second floor and gets lost in the corridors of the first.
He takes his mobile out of his pocket. He types a number on the touch screen. He places the device on his ear and approaches the window. The recurring tones of the outgoing call intensify his anxiety. ‘‘It is me. The police officer knows about Maniatis.’’
Contradictory truth
Third round of interrogations as the main suspect comes to the table. He has his hands in his pockets while taking his seat in front of us with reduced confidence comparatively to the last time.
‘‘Here again.’’
Peter, having equipped his nervous system with two cups of black coffee, seems ready for the next battle.
‘‘I hope there won’t be a third murder making me come back. Your company is not especially pleasing to me.’’
The round starts with an attack from the defense. He listens indifferently to the new melody and is reluctant to state again that his compositions are nothing like these handy pre-assembled notes.
‘‘Where did you go last night after the rehearsal?’’
‘‘Home. I have no alibi, simply because I don’t need it.’’
‘‘How did you meet Ioannis Vasilikos?’’
The caffeine has offered Peter a false coolness and I am trying to estimate when its effect will wear off. The musician seems to be annoyed by the question.
‘‘What does it matter? Officer, I am tired of this situation. Have you got evidence that incriminates me? If not, let me leave and call me again if you find it. I am tired with this game of yours!’’
‘‘So, what games do you like? Did you have more interesting activities in Russia with Ildar?’’
‘‘What has Ildar got to do with it? We have collaborated for many years in the theatre and he came here to help with the choreography. Will you blame him as well now?’’
‘‘I would suggest you calm down… He is not accused because he was in Moscow at the time of the murder. Probably you haven’t understood the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Vladimirov…’’ he smiles and, for the first time, I think I feel empathy for the composer. ‘‘It is a given that the two murders are linked. The killer is the same person. You knew both girls and contacted them shortly before their death. Two unique special melodies were found on the corpses and you are a composer, plus you were present on the site of the crime in the case of Nomikou,’’ he ends lowering the tone of his voice.
The composer breathes out sharply. ‘‘But there is no evidence! Anyone could have known both girls and could have been their murderer. Substantially I didn’t know them!’’ he responds loudly, and his veins shake in his throat.
‘‘You won’t convince me by shouting… If you want us to complete this interrogation earlier, I suggest you cooperate. So, I am asking you again. Where and how did you meet Ioannis Vasilikos?’’
The interrogated person retreats in his place. He is a very expressive man. This is proper for a man of arts. Such kind of man should have a strong and multifaceted personality with fluctuations, internal searches, with a balanced balance and a dose of psychedelia. I dry cough, as I realize I have just described the psychographic pattern of a murderer.
‘‘Ioannis is a doctor. He was practicing when I first met him. I had been to the hospital for some medical examinations,’’ he confesses looking at the outer vertical surface of the desk.
‘‘Why did you stay here and write songs for him instead of returning to Russia? Is there anything connecting the two of you?’’
‘‘For personal reasons, I don’t want to return to Moscow. Ioannis has no connection with this.’’
‘‘Is your cooperation good? Do you trust him?’’
‘‘We cooperate very well, but I never trust anyone in my life.’’
‘‘You’re right… Imagine him murdering to incriminate you… You should not trust anyone these days…’’ he is testing him with his known caustic way.
The Russian reciprocates a playful smile. ‘‘Ioannis the killer? Are you kidding me?’’
‘‘At your age and with your experiences, you should know that people are not always what they show. An iceberg in the middle of the ocean doesn’t reveal its power and extent. For someone ignorant it would be incapable of dismantling even a small boat. Many people hide well behind situations and events and in the end turn to what they want to show. A coward scared young man with a passion for glory!’’ he crosses his hands and rests his elbows on the table.
‘‘He is not ambitious. All these months we’ve been cooperating he has shown great humility in the frantic pace of his recognizability,’’ he continues by relaxing his shoulders.
‘‘Mr. Vladimirov… On the bodies of both girls quantities of anesthetic drugs were found. The medical examiner said that the dosage was not accidental, but someone had knowledge of the exact quantity and ratio. He had knowledge or acquired it from someone…’’
‘‘So, you are telling me, officer, that I cooperated with Ioannis to kill the girls?’’
‘‘No? I told you everything. I am waiting to hear your version of the story.’’
The prompt is interrupted by an incoming call on the mobile phone of the insane investigator. Antonella and I jerk up from our seats as if someone let us free. The composer takes his time to offer a satisfying, I hope, answer. The call is completed, and we have a new criminologist in the room. The effect of caffeine seems to have worked out. I cannot wait for his next statement, recognizing a commotion on his face.
‘‘Mr. Vladimirov… Let me give you one more clue. Traces of blood that don’t belong to the victim where found on the knife. Your DNA sample will be compared to this and we will soon have the results. And now I am listening to you.’’
I look at Peter with my own lie detectors and I am trying to figure out if he is bluffing. The composer pales and his gaze stops moving.
‘‘You won’t find anything…’’ he says with a low voice. ‘‘I swear to you, I have no connection with the murders…’’ his voice contracts. ‘‘You won’t find anything, because I didn’t do it!’’ he shouts. ‘‘Why would I want to spend in prison the few years of my life left?’’ A sudden tear rolls down his cheek. ‘‘I didn’t do it…’’ The pupils of his eyes are connected with red lines. ‘‘I swear to you. I didn’t do it.’’
‘‘Is there anything we should know, Mr. Vladimirov?’’
He throws a sharp laugh approaching the limits of paranoia. ‘‘I had no intention of returning to Russi
a. I chose to write my end here, hiding from everyone and everything. Do you know the disease of the kinetic neuron, officer? The doctors have given me a maximum of five years…’’
I have no idea of the disease he is mentioning, but Peter seems to know it. The colour of his face changes and the instant sympathy for the composer is turned into solidarity.
‘‘Don’t look at me with empathy, Mr. Deligiannis… I have accepted it. I am dying, but in no case am I a murderer!’’ he says, and his secret is coming to light.
A man who is sacrificing himself to make others happy can’t take a life.
The lyricist’s words come to my mind and now I can understand what he meant.
‘‘If the analyses show us that the blood belongs to you, then what will your contradictory statement be?’’ Antonella presents an unprecedented crisis of impartiality or is trying to help him.
He rubs his neck with his left hand. ‘‘This isn’t possible… No… No…’’ His face has blushed. ‘‘The day before yesterday Ioannis took my blood for re-examinations. Perhaps someone followed him and took the sample to incriminate me, but this is a crazy scenario.’’
‘‘In other words, do you exclude that Vasilikos may have set all this up?’’ Peter’s question is formulated with such a stomp that it only seeks a positive answer.
‘‘Yes, I exclude it. This discussion is meaningless.’’
Six in the afternoon. I feel that today is the longest day of my life. Dima Vladimirov is in custody until the results from the blood test come out. I don’t believe there will be an identification, so I am anxious about Victoria’s arrival at the Department. On the other hand, Antonella is completely sure that the composer’s sample will fit and the case will close tonight. She had remained steady in her opinion from the beginning.
Peter supports an alloy of plausibility and science fiction, saying that if there is an identification of the DNA samples, then the likelihood of the crime scene being set up increases. His point of view is enhanced by the facts that we have not found any motive and the result of the analysis showed that the blood was on the knife many hours before the murder. Antonella hurried to claim that this indicates his premeditated crime, that this time he was not favored by luck. A new culprit is also found on the face of Ioannis Vasilikos and this makes us look up for information about his past.
‘‘He was admitted fourth in the Medicine School of Athens and got his degree in exactly six years with honors. He started his practice a few months after his graduation, as the wait for the specialty he chose was short…’’ Antonella makes us look forward to her next word. ‘‘Cytologist…’’ she raises her eyebrows. ‘‘I didn’t know that such a specialty exists.’’
‘‘The cytologist studies under a microscope the cells that come from different areas of the body to diagnose cancer, precancerous deformations, simple inflammations, etc.’’ Peter explains to us.
Mr. Wikipedia spoke.
‘‘I believe Vladimirov. He is not the killer. Call it instinct. You know I rarely make wrong evaluations,’’ he insists on his view.
Someone who knows he has a few years of life left and has chosen to move away from his family is surely not interested in postponing the end. Of course, the instinct does not see this.
The door opens and Andrew brings us Victoria Stahious. From the first moment I saw her, I want to discover more about her strange friendship with Natalie and I am looking forward to finding out what she will tell us.
She is wearing blue tracksuits and has her hair caught in a well-combed braid. Her eyes are examining every item in the room. Maybe she is noticing details that I have not seen in the four years I have been in the Department.
‘‘Impressive coincidence, don’t you think?’’ Peter is desperately looking for an element, which - in opposition to me - he does not think he will find in Victoria. ‘‘How long have you known Aphrodite?’’
The young student is sitting in front of us. She is listening to Peter’s question but looking at Antonella.
‘‘About two to three months. I didn’t know her personally.’’
‘‘To speed up the process… In case you haven’t been informed, Natalie and Aphrodite were murdered by the same person. We are trying to find someone who knew both girls. One of those people is you.’’
‘‘Me?’’ she points to her chest with her index. ‘‘Me? Do you suspect me of murder?’’
‘‘No, not one, but two murders,’’ Peter makes it clear to her.
‘‘I have done nothing!’’ she shouts and the calm girl becomes a lion.
‘‘Every murderer who respects himself doesn’t confess immediately,’’ he is ironic again.
‘‘Why would I kill Aphrodite?’’ she yells and her veins spring on her tiny neck.
‘‘You mean you had a reason to kill Natalie?’’ I ask her and she turns towards me. She looks like a surrounded wild beast condemned to execution; Antonella on her left, me on her right and Peter in front of her.
‘‘No!’’ she yells again.
‘‘I think you were jealous of her, that you hated her self-confidence, her social circle, everything on her. You were jealous of what she had and you didn’t, weren’t you?’’
My attack manipulates her denial. She looks at me with clear eyes that are not thinking of hiding the truth.
‘‘Yes, I admit it. I hated Natalie, but not because I was jealous of her. I hated her because she had the worst character I have ever met in my life!’’ she confesses with courage. ‘‘She thought she was the centre of the world! I was happy with her death. I admit it. Such people are not worth living.’’
‘‘Then why did you hang out with her?’’ Antonella poses her first question.
She turns on the left. ‘‘Because it was the only way to approach Aris,’’ she says, and I raise my eyebrows. I did not expect this. ‘‘I was in love with him,’’ she sighs and lowers her eyes on her blue tracksuit.
‘‘Traces of blood which don’t belong to Aphrodite were found on the knife of the murder. If we ask you to give DNA samples and fingerprints will you cooperate?’’
Question from the centre.
‘‘So, I will make a file to the police?’’
‘‘No. I will ensure nothing is stored,’’ Peter, who seems to believe her, explains to her gently.
Her gaze deviates from the center and shares right and left.
‘‘OK.’’
We are alone in the room again, trying to solve the multiplicative puzzles. I have fallen on the desk and simply want to fall asleep. I feel sleepy. I am thinking of my son. I am thinking of my daughter. I know that when I return home at night, she will be sleeping hugging her pink bear, while Harry will greet me ready for midnight getaways from the kitchen to the couch and back to the bedroom.
‘‘With everyone showing such willingness to give a DNA sample, I will ultimately believe that I am the killer,’’ Peter says having lost his temper. ‘‘The most logical scenario is that someone has set a trap to the composer. The lyricist doesn’t have a strong alibi, while the singer has none. In any case, he is the one I suspect more. I don’t like his face!’’ he comes to a meritocratic conclusion. ‘‘Those who pretend they don’t understand much, have in fact everything under their control… Also the fact that he is so careful with his outfit, makes him quite provocative…’’
‘‘I agree. I also exclude Victoria, but why are you excluding the Russian?’’ Antonella asks him.
‘‘You have become obsessed with the composer, Antonella!’’ Peter exclaims and I laugh silently.
‘‘I don’t like his face, Peter.’’ Now it is her turn to be ironic to him.
If I had to choose, I would make the difference betting on the lyricist. He is the only one keeping his cool in this story. Basically, him and the dancer, but the latter has been excluded from the bets from the first moment. It remains to be seen what the DNA analysis will reveal to get the composer and Victoria out of the frame.
‘�
��Tell them to call the dancer here again. I want to know more about Dima Vladimirov. I want to learn how Vladimirov was in his normal life, before coming to Greece. He knows him more years, so he will be able to tell us if the famous composer is cruel and ruthless, as he shows, or sensitive and fragile, as the lyricist said and I believe.’’ He gives me his order and I exit into the corridor.
I am standing in the position of the observer and I doubting Peter’s judgment once again. I am afraid that this is also one of the cases he is not right, and his selfishness will be greatly hurt. Again. I do not want him to be upset. I brag about him so much when the conspiracy theories woven by his mind, with his exaggeration coming forward, bowing are verified. But this is life; full of exaggerations, surprises, and games that seem not possible to take place.
I ask Christine to contact the dancer and find the opportunity to drill in Andrew’s office. I knock on the door twice; however, I don’t manage to catch his attention. I am glad that the commander is not in my place. He is holding his head with his palms reading a book. He may be dealing with a case assigned to him. The book may also be hiding the cover ‘‘How to become good parents’’.
‘‘Andrew!’’ I shout and he raises his green eyes on me. I smile secretly. ‘‘Are you busy?’’
He closes the book and I manage to see that it is a hardcover version showing two babies on the cover.
‘‘Tell me what you need…’’ he brings the laptop near him and is boringly preparing to follow my orders. Andrew is a well-crafted submissive mean; very useful for Peter, not enough for the commander, completely unnecessary for me.
I sit on the chair in front of him. ‘‘I don’t want anything.’’ He moves his fingers away from the keyboard and turns his big eyes with dark circles to me. ‘‘Actually, yes I do,’’ I say and he returns his attention back to the laptop. ‘‘I want us to speak about Eleftheria.’’
The Last Symphony Page 20