“Do you have informants within the mafias, the nationalist groups, the hate groups?” asked Belinsky.
Rostnikov shrugged and said, “I have been asked by the director of my office to request that you cease your services and activities until we find the murderers.”
“No,” said Belinsky firmly.
Rostnikov nodded, having anticipated the answer.
“More may die,” said Rostnikov, “as you said.”
“We will help God and the police to try to keep that from happening,” said the rabbi.
“And I will see what I can do about getting the ducting and tools to heat this place adequately,” said Rostnikov.
“Why?” asked Belinsky.
“Because it is cold in here,” said Rostnikov. “And because my wife and son are Jews, as will be my grandchildren. Perhaps one day one of them will choose to come here on a winter morning. I should not want them cold.”
The rabbi examined his visitor with curiosity.
“One last question,” said Rostnikov. “Do you have a favorite color?”
“Yes,” the rabbi said. “Two colors, blue and white, the colors of Israel.”
“I’m exploring a theory that people often reveal a great deal about themselves from the colors they feel drawn to,” said Rostnikov. “It is not my idea but that of a German psychologist who wrote an article I read. It seems reasonable, but the puzzle is what to make of people’s choices.”
“So, you’ve not yet drawn any conclusions?”
“About you, yes. You are an ardent Zionist who might well do something dangerous to find these murderers. The colors don’t tell me this. They confirm it. My own favorite color seems to tell me nothing about myself. But that is the nature of life.”
With that the policeman turned and limped out the door into the snowy night. Belinsky had spent far too much of his time with far too little result keeping the stoves filled with wood. After the funeral he would need to visit each member of the small congregation, not only to help strengthen their resolve but also to urge other Jews to come to stand with them. Belinsky knew he could be very persuasive. That was one of the reasons he had volunteered for this assignment. A horrible irony of the murders could ultimately be that the congregation might grow rather than dwindle, that the money Israel was investing in this congregation would continue to draw those hungry for food and others who shared their outcast state. Belinsky had faith in his God and in his own power of persuasion.
Rostnikov, however, was a nagging puzzle. Belinsky couldn’t afford to like the man, yet he was drawn to the detective’s apparent openness and odd ideas. In addition, Rostnikov had volunteered to help with the heating system. Belinsky would see if that came to pass. It is easy to make promises and only a little harder to ignore them.
He let the fires die down while he sat in a chair in silent prayer. When he felt the fires were safe, he retrieved his coat from the alcove near the entrance, turned out the light, and locked the door.
He headed toward his small apartment, which was only two blocks away. The streets were empty. It was late and it was cold. There was little for the people of Moscow to do except visit friends, talk and drink tea, read a book, watch television, and produce more Russians.
Avrum Belinsky was less than a block from his apartment building when they appeared. There were three of them. Avrum knew they were there fifteen feet before two of them stepped out of the doorway. He knew there was another one behind. He had seen the one behind in the shadows of a darkened house and been careful not to show in his gait or manner what he had seen.
Belinsky’s hand was on the gun in his pocket as he approached the two men who stood before him now, waiting for him to turn around and see that his escape was impossible. But Belinsky didn’t want to escape. He continued to walk forward toward the two men, and he didn’t look behind him.
FIVE
IT WAS CALLED TROTSKY STATION by the policemen who worked there and by most of the veterans from other law enforcement agencies who had dealt with or heard about it. Actually this police station, like the other 133 stations in Moscow, had a number. Only the administrators ever used the number. No one was quite sure why it was called Trotsky Station.
The primary tale was that Trotsky and a group of friends had lived for a time in the building. It was certainly old enough. The large stone blocks it was built with probably had been white once. Now they were gray. The stairs to the second floor needed repair. The walls needed plastering and painting, and the heating system was barely functional. The building also had a distinctive, and certainly not pleasant, moldy odor. The floor tiles were loose, and the toilets in the rest room were reluctant at best.
Another reason less often given for the Trotsky name was that those assigned to the district had a reputation for effective brutality. It was said that the major in charge during the 1950s had actually smashed a murder suspect’s head with a hammer—a death similar to Trotsky’s.
Elena and Sasha sat in the anteroom in front of the office of a Lieutenant Spaskov to whom they had been sent by the clerk downstairs, who sat behind a barred window that made him look more like a prisoner than a police officer. The uniformed man, with an ageless pock-marked face, had barely looked up when they identified themselves.
Sasha had said they wanted to see whoever was in charge of ongoing investigations. When the man behind the bars had asked which investigation, Elena said, “The rapes.”
“Which …?” the man had begun, and then he had looked up at them. “Lieutenant Spaskov on the second floor, Room 2. He’s in a meeting in his office. I think he’ll be done soon.”
So they now sat on a wooden bench outside four offices with no names on the doors but numbers over each. They could make out the sound of voices from a few of the offices but no distinct words. In Russia, government officials had learned to keep their voices down and their conversations quiet.
“This is a waste of time,” Sasha said.
“You have a better lead?” answered Elena.
“An old woman got a glimpse of a man who tried to rob her ten years ago. He may be the rapist. Now she sees a policeman two or three times in a police car in Leningrad Square and declares it is the man.”
“She gave a description,” said Elena quietly as she unbuttoned her jacket.
“Which could fit a few million men in Moscow and half or more of the police,” he said, slumping on the bench. “I need some coffee.”
There were voices in Room 2; one in particular was deep, confident. Occasionally another voice or two would respond.
“How is your aunt?” Sasha said, holding his head, which cried for coffee.
“Anna Timofeyeva is fine,” said Elena, looking forward at Room 3, from which no voices came. “She and your mother get along well.”
“My mother follows the agreement?” he asked.
“Usually,” said Elena. “She comes when she is invited, and when Anna wants her to go, she says she is tired and needs to rest. Your mother is less inclined to follow the rule about not complaining about you, Maya, the children, and the failure of the new Russia to protect her son. She can’t stop. Aunt Anna can take more of it than I can. I dread walking down that corridor at night and hearing your mother’s voice behind my aunt’s door.”
“I know how you feel,” said Sasha.
“Your mother supports the Nationalist Party,” Elena said.
“Just talk,” he said, trying to sit upright in the hope that it might ease the tension of his caffeineless headache. “It was probably a bad idea to have her move into your building, but we were desperate.”
Elena shrugged and said, “Aunt Anna seems to find your mother amusing and distracting if a bit too loud. Your mother is no fool. She is, however, protectively conditioned to act like one. Eventually the act, if played long enough, becomes reality.”
Sasha threw his hair back from his forehead and looked at his partner, who turned her clear, round face to his, prepared for attack.
“
You’re right,” he said.
“She’s not allowed in the door without her hearing aid,” said Elena, “but I don’t think it works properly, or she just has too many years of shouting to overcome her hearing loss.”
“Going home to my mother can be depressing,” he said, “but she is good with the children. She worries about me. She talks with affection about your aunt.”
“But not about me,” said Elena.
“She finds you cold and distant,” he said, now closing his eyes.
“Perhaps, but I do not want to cultivate too close a relationship to your mother,” said Elena as the door to Room 2 opened.
Three uniformed policemen wearing helmets and carrying Kalishnikov automatic rifles stepped out. They were all young. They wore their supposedly bulletproof jackets outside their uniforms. The jackets were of no use against weapons such as the ones they were carrying, and criminals increasingly had weapons far more powerful than those of the police. The jackets were slightly cumbersome, but they were required. The three men, all in their twenties, moved quickly down the hall past the two seated detectives.
A man appeared in the doorway, at least six feet tall, medium build, with thinning dark hair and a mustache, which was common in many officers. At first they grew them thinking it would make them look older. Later some kept them simply because they had grown accustomed to them. It looked good on this man in blue slacks, a blue shirt, and a leather jacket, unzipped.
“Spaskov,” he said, introducing himself as the two detectives rose.
Elena and Sasha introduced themselves and showed their cards. Spaskov stepped back so they could enter his office. It was surprisingly large and surprisingly empty—a desk, a chair behind it, four wooden chairs in front of it, nothing on the walls, and a file cabinet in one corner across from the desk on which there sat two wire boxes, both neatly piled with reports. One small, framed photograph and one file were on the desk in front of the chair. There were no windows.
“Would either of you like tea or coffee?” Spaskov said.
“Coffee,” said Sasha gratefully.
“Nothing,” said Elena.
Spaskov left the office and the two detectives sat in silence till he returned moments later with two white mugs. He handed one to Sasha, who thanked him and immediately took a drink. It was awful—murky, and stale—but it was coffee.
“Frankonovich says you have some information on the rapes,” Spaskov said, sitting not behind his desk but at one of the wooden chairs before it. Elena and Sasha pulled up their chairs to face him.
“Most of the attacks came in this district,” said Elena.
Spaskov nodded emphatically.
“Brutal,” he said. “What he has done … When I was promoted, Major Lenonov assigned me the case. I interviewed the victims, at least the ones who came forward or were hospitalized and reported by the hospital. Some of them were badly injured, permanently injured. No description. The man is strong, as the report shows. He is probably medium height. There seems to have been no pattern other than the attacks occur at night on women who are alone. Young, old, some girls. I will get you a copy of our file on the case.”
Spaskov drank some of the hot coffee from his mug.
“The Office of Special Investigation has been assigned the case,” said Tkach. “We have a new lead.”
Spaskov was placing his mug on his desk when Sasha spoke. He paused and turned with interest.
“New lead?”
“Witness,” said Elena.
Spaskov sat back to listen.
“An old woman was robbed almost ten years ago,” said Sasha. “She wasn’t raped but she thinks the man was trying to rape her. He hit her on the head from behind, but she fought back, fought him off, got a look at his face. The attack bore striking resemblances to the reported rapes that began four years later.”
Spaskov looked incredulous.
“I know,” said Sasha, warming his hands on the mug. “The woman is old. The cases may not be related. By now her recollection of the man may be a blur, a confusion. She might identify a perfectly innocent man.”
“She claims she has seen the man since,” said Elena. “She seems certain.”
“Where?” asked Spaskov.
“In a police car,” said Sasha.
“She says the man who attacked her was a police officer?” said Spaskov.
“Yes,” said Elena. “She says she saw him in a police car two or three times about three years ago, all around Kievskaya railway station.”
Spaskov nodded, finished his coffee, and put the cup down on his battle-scarred desk.
“Does she have a time of day? How good is the identification? I’ve been in this district almost twenty years. I know every patrol car officer.”
“She says it was during the day each time, between three and five,” said Elena. “The policeman was dark, wore a cap, had brown eyes and a small white scar on his face.”
Spaskov was momentarily lost in thought.
“A number of officers have scars on their faces,” he said. “I’ll go check immediately, but I think your witness is probably wrong.”
Spaskov left again, taking his and Sasha’s mugs. He didn’t offer more coffee, but what Sasha had taken in was probably enough to tide him over, especially if he could convince Elena to give him three or four of the aspirin she carried in her bag.
Spaskov came back. In his hands was a file, which he handed to Sasha, and a notebook.
“Assignment reports are bulky,” he said, sitting. “I copied some of the schedules that might fit. You can look through the whole thing downstairs if you like. If the woman did see her assailant and he was a police officer, there were two regular afternoon patrols in that area, same officers for at least five years. Two of the officers were army veterans, joined the force after your witness was attacked. One of the officers on patrol at that time is dead, died in a car accident while off duty a little over a year ago. He can’t have committed the recent rapes, obviously. And the last unlikely suspect is retired now. No scar. He works as a guard at an electronics storage warehouse. I know him well, name is Peotor Grinsk. I can’t believe he could be your man, but here is a file photograph of him, which I would like returned.”
Spaskov handed the photograph to Elena. Sasha leaned over to look. The man in the small photograph had nearly blond hair and no scar.
“Peotor is short, stocky, and, as the data in his file shows, he has blue eyes. He is married, married young, has a granddaughter now. But you are welcome to him as a suspect. Now I must go. The men who passed you in the hall are on the way to the home of a known drug dealer. I should be there, though it will be of little use. We have one hundred ten officers in this district and more than seventy thousand citizens, about a quarter of whom seem to be involved in criminal activity of some kind.”
Sasha and Elena knew what he meant. The drug dealer would have retained one of the new specialists who might be a lawyer. The specialist would know whom to bribe and who had secrets they would not want revealed. The specialist would have information on members of the police and courts. The drug dealer would probably have connections with a mafia. He would be back in business within a week and spend no more than a night or two in the station’s lockup. Sasha and Elena both knew about lockups in Moscow. It would not be a pleasant night or two for the drug dealer, even if he found some guards he could bribe.
“If you need anything more, let me know. I want to catch this rapist. I have a wife and a young daughter. I want him. I want him alone in an interrogation room. But between us, Peotor is not your man, and your witness sounds far from reliable.”
Sasha looked at Elena as if the lieutenant’s words confirmed his opinion.
“I must leave now,” said Spaskov. “You can take the file with you and make a copy. I would like it back.”
Sasha and Elena nodded. Nothing they found in the file was very helpful or new. There was a sheet on each victim with a photograph. Some of the women were battered beyond
recognition. All looked blank and confused. None had given a description, only a sense of the man’s size and a vague account of a deep voice that might have been purposely disguised.
Nonetheless, they walked the almost eight blocks in the snow to the apartment of Ludmilla Henshakayova and showed her the photograph of Officer Grinsk. The old woman barely glanced at it.
“That’s not the man,” she said. “I know the man. I’ll never forget him. I have seen him. He is a policeman. I told you.”
“Anyone could be mistaken,” said Elena gently.
Ludmilla looked at the young woman and answered, “About many things, but not about this.”
The morning was growing a bit warmer, but it was still cold and white with snow. Sasha and Elena stood in front of Ludmilla’s apartment. A trolley bus drove slowly by, its wheels crunching tire patterns in the thin layer of snow that had accumulated since the street was cleared early that morning.
“And now?” asked Sasha.
“You know,” she said.
Sasha shook his head and watched the trolley pull away down the street. They would reinterview every victim, try to discover something others had missed, try to build a profile from bits of information, most of which, like Ludmilla’s, would be flawed.
Paulinin rubbed his head. His hair was probably in dire need of washing. But Paulinin was only one odd exhibit in this lower-level laboratory of Petrovka. Iosef had heard about the man and about the place, but now that he was actually inside it, the laboratory exceeded even his more extreme imaginings. Large, yes, and amazingly cluttered. Tables filled the room, and to get around you had to walk through a maze of them and past shelves piled with oddities, most of which Iosef could neither absorb nor identify.
There were shelves of glass jars filled with animal organs, probably human. Brains and hearts were the most common. There were pans piled high in a sink. Books and scrawled notes and reports were scattered everywhere, even on the floor near Paulinin’s desk in a far rear corner of the room illuminated by about a dozen hanging lightbulbs, all covered with green metal shades that reflected downward. The room was remarkably bright. The curiosities were clearly visible: machines of various sorts; a few of them with spaces for or containing test tubes; a cardboard box of bright, untarnished tools ranging from scalpels to hammers and chisels. Iosef had almost banged into a shelf containing boxes of bones.
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