by Greg Dinallo
“I don’t know,” he replies, averting his eyes.
“You’re insulting my intelligence, Sergei, not to mention your own. If the kid was with her, he knows what was missing.”
His head bobs sheepishly, then with a sigh, he concedes, “You’re right. Shevchenko asked us to withhold it. You know, to weed out the nuts who always confess to these things.”
“You can tell me, for Chrissakes.”
“Right now, I wouldn’t trust you with the time of day. Besides, I told you, I’ve no interest in street crime. I ran the obit, and I’m done with it. You’ll have to talk to Shevchenko.”
“Oh, I plan to, but I’m talking to you now. We had an agreement, Sergei. It’s my story, and—”
“No. No, Nikolai. We didn’t run your story. The kid dug out the facts, it fell apart, and I spiked it.”
“You should’ve consulted me.”
“I didn’t think you’d want your by-line on an obit.”
“Depends on whose it is.”
“That a threat?”
“Take it any way you want.”
He stares at me, hands on hips, then shakes his head in dismay. “You don’t know when someone’s trying to do you a favor.”
“I know when I’m being screwed.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“You should be.”
I charge out of the office loaded for bear—a bear named Shevchenko. Militia Headquarters is less than a mile from here as the crow flies; but the railroad tracks and Ring Road triple the distance. Yesterday’s icy drizzle has turned into stinging sleet. There isn’t a cab in sight. I hunch down into my parka and head south toward Uspenskiy, a narrow street behind the Hotel Minsk that winds east toward Petrovka.
About a half hour later, I’m at No. 38. I’m not sure whether it’s because Shevchenko put my name on the list of approved visitors, or the red-cheeked sentry is anxious to return to his shack, but I’m cleared through the gate without incident. A sergeant at the desk in the lobby explains Shevchenko isn’t in yet and directs me to a waiting area.
I shake the sleet from my parka, light a cigarette, and begin pacing. The revolving door spits out a steady stream of shivering employees. I’m grinding my fifth Ducat into the terrazzo when Shevchenko arrives. He spots me out of the corner of his eye and makes a beeline for the corridor that leads to the elevators.
“Investigator Shevchenko?!” I call out, vaulting a low partition to intercept him.
“Katkov, please.”
“I thought we had a deal?!” I protest, purposely raising my voice. Everyone within earshot reacts. He stops and looks around uncomfortably. “Well?!” I prompt in a tense whisper.
“Had is the operative word,” he replies through clenched teeth, directing me into an anteroom off the lobby. “I had something at stake too, remember?”
“Until somebody promised you more!”
“Not true. I’m as pissed off as you are, Katkov. This was the best shot at chief I’ve ever had.” He slaps his briefcase on the table and goes about removing his trench coat.
“Come on. Who got to you?”
“Nobody. This reporter from Pravda was here when Vorontsov’s daughter showed up to ID her father. He—”
“I know. His name’s Drevnya. You should have told him to take a hike!”
“And violate his rights?!” Shevchenko exclaims, pretending he’s shocked. “Really, you’re the last person I’d expect to suggest that. Of course, there was a time I could’ve locked him up and thrown away the key. But times have changed. Haven’t they?”
“I don’t think Vera Fedorenko would agree. Do you?!”
“Fedorenko . . . Fedorenko,” he repeats, needling me. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Was there something else you—”
“Pravda’s obit said Vorontsov’s valuables were stolen. You and I both know they weren’t. Now, I want to know, what was?”
His jaw sets and his eyes sharpen with a warning. “Off the record.”
An exasperated groan comes from deep inside me. “Off the record.”
“His medals. He was killed for his medals.”
“His medals?”
“Yes, they’re solid gold, highly prestigious, and worth a small fortune on the black market. Somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million rubles. The killer didn’t want to tear them from Vorontsov’s jacket and risk damaging them. So he—”
“He?!”
“Or she,” he concedes indulgently, “dragged the body behind the wall, where, without risk of being seen, they could be removed with care. That piece fits rather neatly now, wouldn’t you say?”
“What about the time discrepancy? That fits rather neatly now, too?”
“Perfectly. Vorontsov didn’t spend an hour or two shopping, because he didn’t have to take a number and wait in a queue. He bypassed it completely because he was wearing the right medals.”
“Come on, that protocol crap went out with the apparatchiks. Nobody gives a damn about medals anymore.”
“I beg to differ. You’re familiar with the names Krichevsky, Komar, and Usov?”
“The poor bastards who were killed in Red Square, protesting the coup. Yes, I am. I was there. Where were you? Cheering on the conspirators?”
“The point is, your buddy Boris-don’t-call-me-an-apparatchik-Yeltsin—free-marketeer and champion of democracy, mind you—awarded the Hero of the Soviet Union to each of them posthumously.”
“An acceptable lapse in judgment.”
“That was no lapse, Katkov. This society has been medal-crazy since czarist times. Like it or not, the damn things are part of our culture. We award them for everything from having babies, to bravery in combat, to growing cabbage; and we wear them like oil-rich Arabs festooned in gaudy jewelry. You think the new order is going to change that?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Don’t be naive. Last week I saw a picture in a Western magazine of Soviet Jews who emigrated to Israel. Dozens of them. All diehard refuseniks who couldn’t wait to forsake their country for a miserable patch of desert. Yet every last one was proudly wearing his medals. Soviet medals.”
“Sounds to me like you have a little problem with Jews, Mr. Investigator.”
“Katkov.”
“Marx was a Jew. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” he hisses impatiently, baring tobacco-stained teeth.
“Not all of us want to live in Israel, believe me. This Jew, for one, is going to stay right here and make your life miserable.”
“Don’t do this, Katkov. Don’t make it personal.”
“You’re the one who’s making it personal. You want me to accept that there’s no political angle here just because you say so?”
“No. Because the facts don’t support it.”
“You’re saying they support that some thug just happened to see a guy with a chest covered with satin and brass leave his lodge hall? Followed him? Shot him? And stole his medals?”
“Yes, I am. A tipsy guy, by the way.” Shevchenko slips a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Preliminary toxicology report,” he says as if holding the Communist Manifesto. “Vorontsov’s blood alcohol level was point one three. He was legally intoxicated.”
“So is most of Moscow at that hour.”
“It made him an easy target.”
“If he was wearing his medals. Just because his daughter said so doesn’t mean he was.”
“I sure hope you’re challenging me to prove it.”
“Bet your ass.”
Shevchenko smirks, scoops up his things, and blows out of the anteroom. I follow, as he walks briskly to the end of the corridor and down a staircase. The pungent odors of urine and disinfectant intensify with each step. They come from a dank warren of cells and caverns in the basement, where prisoners and evidence are stored.
In the latter section, boxes, envelopes, folders, and large individually tagged items are stuffed onto rows of shelves behind wire-mesh fencing. Shevchenko fills out a
requisition form and slips it to a clerk. The dour fellow fetches a large paper sack, which he exchanges for Shevchenko’s initials. The investigator drops it on one of the tables and ceremoniously removes Vorontsov’s blood-spattered sport coat.
“I thought his daughter claimed his things?”
“She did. That’s how we know about the medals. She took one look at this and asked what we’d done with them. I’d no choice but to retain it.”
“Because it proves he was wearing them.”
Shevchenko nods slyly and pushes the coat toward me. “See for yourself.”
The fabric is a heavily textured wool. I give the area next to the lapels a careful once-over. There are no impressions, no fading, no pinholes, tears, or marks, nothing to indicate there was ever one medal affixed to it, let alone a chestful. “Sorry. I don’t get it.”
Shevchenko opens a drawer where examining tools are stored and removes a magnifying glass. “Try the lining.”
I turn the jacket inside out and slowly move the lens over the imitation silk, zeroing in on the area behind the breast pocket. And there, puckering the fibers in neat rows, are dozens of pinholes.
“See them?” Shevchenko prompts.
I look up and nod glumly.
“According to his daughter, he was the proud holder of three Heroes of the Soviet Union, two Orders of the Red Banner, the Order of Lenin, and enough secondary military and civilian decorations to adorn half the members of Parliament.”
I’m beginning to get a hollow feeling when something dawns on me. “Hold it. That still doesn’t prove Vorontsov was wearing the medals when he was killed. They could’ve been removed ages ago.”
“Good, Katkov. Very good. That was my question. And Mrs. Churkin had the answer. It’s a new coat. As a matter of fact, she helped her father transfer the medals from another a few days before.”
The hollowness returns with devastating impact. Homicide not withstanding, a billion-dollar government scandal has turned into a two-bit robbery. The lead story, the series of follow-ups, the wire service sales, the five-hundred-thousand-ruble fee, the professional satisfaction—all blown away. But as the senior investigator would say, there’s still one piece that doesn’t fit. “What about those documents?
“Vorontsov’s?”
“Uh-huh. The Committee for State Property. Something’s going on.”
Shevchenko begins folding the coat. “Undoubtedly. But you’re making this into something it isn’t.”
“What about your theory that he was hit because he was going to blow the whistle on someone?”
“I was wrong.”
“You were right, dammit. You said you thought he was a watchdog, and he was.”
“True,” he says, preening. “But it’s not relevant to my case. The fact remains that Vorontsov was wearing his medals when he left the house and wasn’t when he was found. My report will state: Crime, homicide. Weapon, nine-millimeter Stechkina. Motive, robbery. Have I made myself clear?”
“What’s clear is those documents should be turned over to the guys who handle this kind of stuff.”
He burns me with a look and shoves the folded sport coat into the evidence bag.
“Come on, I know there’s a department here that—”
“Look, Katkov,” he interrupts, ignoring the suggestion, “despite my fondness for the old guard, I’m not going to bring charges against the new one, especially against the ministry that employs me, or against the CSP’s privatization program, which, I’m man enough to admit”—he pauses, barely able to say it—“might, might, be the key to pulling our economic chestnuts out of the fire. Are you?”
“Yes, if it’s infested with corruption.”
“And you have evidence of that?”
“No, but I know what might,” I reply pointedly. “And I’d be more than happy to run with it, if they happened to fall into my hands.”
Shevchenko’s eyes flare. He knows what I want. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. We go up to your office. You accidentally leave the documents on your desk and head for the John while I get acquainted with the nearest copying machine.”
“Not a chance.” He sweeps the bag off the table, pushes it through the window to the clerk, and charges out of the evidence room.
“Okay, back to square one. If not you, who?”
“Pardon me?” he challenges, stepping up his pace.
“Come on. Which section handles white-collar scams?”
“Economic Crimes.”
“Thank you. Why not give the documents to them?”
“Because the Interior Ministry is investigating irregularities at the CSP. If Vorontsov’s superiors determine his suspicions are valid, they’ll take whatever steps are necessary to—”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Sure I do. Maybe they already have.” He starts up the staircase, lighting a cigarette.
I’m right on his heels, thinking he knows better, knows that whatever Vorontsov uncovered probably goes from the top down, knows the bureaucrats can’t be trusted to investigate themselves. Furthermore, his evasiveness suggests he has an ulterior motive. And I know what it is. “Who’s in charge of Economic Crimes, anyway?” I prompt offhandedly.
He reaches a landing and starts up the next flight. “Fellow named Gudonov.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He transferred from Central about six months ago.”
“Would that be Investigator Gudonov?”
Shevchenko nods. “Around here, he’s become known as Incinerator Gudonov.”
“Incinerator?”
“Uh-huh. Black-market money transactions fall in his area. He hauls whatever he confiscates down to Sanitation and burns it. Claims it’s a deterrent. Fucking grandstanding, if you ask me.”
We climb a few more steps. “So, is that Senior Incinerator? Or Chief Incinerator?”
“Senior,” Shevchenko replies apprehensively, sensing where I’m headed.
“And how long has Senior Investigator Gudonov been on the militia?”
“We were in the same class at the IMPC.”
“Where?”
“Interior Ministry Police College.”
“An old rivalry then.”
His shoulders go up.
“Would you say he’s an ambitious fellow?”
“A snake.”
“Professionally frustrated?”
“Extremely.”
“How many openings for chief are there?”
“Not enough.”
“And if you gave Gudonov these documents, you’d be handing him the promotion while you’d be stuck solving a two-bit homicide.”
“I don’t have to put up with this. Get it into your head: The documents came from the Interior Ministry, and I’m returning them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a seminar.”
“A seminar? Keeping up with the latest in thumbscrews and eavesdropping devices, are we?”
“No such luck,” he replies with a disgusted scowl. “Try sitting through a lecture on how law enforcement agencies can better share information, sometime.” He forces a smile and walks purposefully toward a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I exclaim, right on his heels as he pushes through the doors. “Sharing information. Those documents are—”
“That makes two of us—” a voice interrupts sharply. It’s a woman’s voice, angry and amplified, speaking Russian with what sounds like a heavy American accent.
I freeze, realizing I’ve followed Shevchenko into a lecture hall filled with law enforcement personnel, who turn and stare at us.
“—And unless I’m mistaken,” the woman goes on, glowering at me from behind the lectern, “I’m the expert in this area.”
“Just what I need,” I say, as we move down the aisle toward her. “Maybe you can convince this thickhead to cooperate.”
“Oh, no. No, that’s your job. That’s what
this seminar’s about,” she replies, coming out from behind the lectern with her microphone. She’s tall, larger than life, with large Mediterranean features; large jumble of coarse black hair; large gestures; indeed, everything about her that counts is large. “And I’ve several workshops planned where you’ll be putting these data-sharing techniques into practice. But for now, I’d appreciate it if you’d both take your—”
“There won’t be anything to share if we wait,” I interrupt. “He took the documents from someone’s apartment, and—”
“They’re evidence,” Shevchenko protests, turning to the stage. “Look, this man isn’t even a—”
“Evidence?!” I explode, cutting him off in the nick of time. “You’re the one who said they weren’t. They’re the victim’s property!”
“I don’t think he’s up to claiming them. Do you?!”
“His daughter is! And I’d be more than happy to—”
“Gentlemen?! Gentlemen, please,” the woman pleads, maintaining a professional demeanor. “Maybe a practical lesson would be valuable at this time. If your colleagues agree, perhaps we can—”
“Colleagues?!” Shevchenko roars as an affirmative murmur rises from the audience. “This clown isn’t a police officer. He’s . . . he’s a journalist!”
“A journalist?” the speaker sneers, realizing she’s been snookered. Her coal black eyes lock onto mine like angry lasers. “What’s with you media people, anyway? Is it an international conspiracy, or do you all share a genetic defect?”
“Actually, it’s an eating disorder. We have this obsessive hunger for truth.”
“Yes, and a nasty habit of publishing it without any regard for the consequences.” She shifts her gaze to the audience and resumes, “Speaking of the media—with all the crime and narcotics coming out of Eastern Europe, effective media relations and control are all the more vital. I’ll be dealing with it in tomorrow’s session. I call it: Debunking the Power of the Press and Other Myths. But it’d be a shame to pass up an opportunity for a hands-on demonstration now.” She looks off to one side of the stage and nods.
Two uniformed militia officers, each about the size of my refrigerator, stand and lumber up the aisle toward me, to applause.