Death of a Dissident

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Turn off the engine,” he said to the driver. “If you get cold, come inside.”

  Rostnikov moved into the building and up the stairs slowly. His leg would allow no other progress, but that did not disturb him. He knew that Alexiev, the strongest man in the world, could move no faster than himself. If Alexiev walked up four flights of stairs, his massive legs were in pain from chafing against each other. Strength was not a matter of swiftness but heredity, determination, and dignity. Dignity had a price. Rostnikov’s hand touched an old peeling poster on the red brick stairway wall. “Surpass America…” it began and never ended. The area of competition was lost in the act of some young vandal of the past.

  The officer in front of Apartment 612 was short, stocky, and dark. His collar was clearly rubbing his neck painfully. His winter cap was pulled down against his ears, which bent comically. The officer recognized Rostnikov and stepped out of the way.

  “It’s warm out here,” said Rostnikov. “Open your jacket and relax. Who’s in there?”

  “Wife, daughter, Officer Drubkova,” said the officer, unbuttoning his coat.

  “The corpse?”

  “Covered with a sheet. No one has touched it.”

  Rostnikov knocked and waited for a woman’s voice that told him to come in.

  An awkward move of the foot was all that kept him from slipping in the sticky trail of blood, and even so, he almost fell. Only one of the three women in the room had looked up to see him enter. She was clearly Officer Drubkova. Her face was pink and eager. Her zeal would be oppressive and tiring. He knew her type as soon as their eyes met. She had been kneeling next to the corpse which was covered with a white sheet, a sheet that showed remarkably little blood, considering the broad trail of it in the room. The corpse must have been covered very recently, Rostnikov decided, fascinated by the clear outline of the sickle under the sheet.

  A woman and young girl, with hands identically folded on their laps, sat in an uncomfortable-looking straight-back sofa of uncertain period looking at the white figure on the floor.

  Officer Drubkova bounded toward him like an athletic bear and introduced herself, almost saluting.

  “Officer Drubkova,” she said. “The hospital has been alerted and will come for the body when you are finished. There is a hole in the window which I have covered with cardboard. We have touched almost nothing and I have retrieved a book that was thrown through the window.”

  She handed it to Rostnikov, who tucked it awkwardly under his arm not wanting it at all, but not wanting to offend her. Nor did he bother to tell her that it was pointless to avoid touching the room. If there were fingerprints, they would be on the handle of the sickle and nowhere else that would be meaningful. Any room is a maddening, useless fury of fingerprints.

  “Very good,” said Rostnikov. Officer Drubkova’s pink face turned a pleased red. “Now go to another apartment and call the hospital. I want the corpse taken care of as soon as the photographs are taken. When you make the call, remain in the hall and do not let anyone in except Inspectors Karpo and Tkach. Do you know them?”

  She nodded affirmatively.

  “Good. I can count on you.”

  Officer Drubkova hurried out of the room and Rostnikov opened his coat in relief. He glanced at the law book under his arm and placed it gently on the wooden table. He lifted one of the three wooden chairs at the table and moved it directly in the line of vision between the two thin women on the sofa and the body on the floor. The mother tried to look through him, found him too solid and then allowed something like anger to touch her face. That was what he wanted, some awakening and emotion, something to touch beyond grief. The young girl, however, simply stared through him.

  “I’m Inspector Rostnikov. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. My father enjoyed Crime and Punishment and named me after the detective. I’ve always thought it had something to do with my becoming a policeman.”

  The woman allowed more anger to show.

  “I am Sonya Granovsky and this is my daughter Natasha.” Defensiveness and hostility were there, waiting for him to say the wrong thing, for she badly needed someone to attack, to blame.

  “I have a son,” said Rostnikov, looking at the young girl.

  Sonya Granovsky’s brown eyes looked at him curiously. This was not the conversation she expected.

  “He’s in the army now, but I don’t think he likes it. Why would anyone in his right mind except Officer Drubkova like the army?” he said in a whisper.

  They fell silent as Rostnikov continued to look at Natasha.

  “How old are you?” he said softly.

  The mother looked down at her daughter as if she had forgotten the girl was there and was curious about what the answer might be.

  “I’d guess you are sixteen,” Rostnikov said.

  “Fourteen,” the girl said, without refocusing her eyes.

  Rostnikov sighed and spoke even more softly, so softly that it almost seemed that he was speaking to himself.

  “My father died when I was fourteen,” he said. “For a few years after that I had trouble deciding whether I had liked him or not. I still have trouble, but I think I understand him better now. It always surprises me to think that I am now older than my father ever was. Did you like your father?”

  The mother turned her head fully to the daughter now, definitely curious about the answer.

  “I don’t think so,” said the girl. “No…I did like him…I…”

  She was almost on the verge of tears, and Rostnikov pushed her a little further, unsure of whether he was doing it primarily for her therapy or to break through to conversation quickly, for once Karpo and Tkach came the approach would have to change and time might be lost. Rostnikov chewed at his lower lip and turned around to look down at the corpse.

  “To tell the truth,” he said. “For years I felt guilty about not liking my father. It was only after I became a man that I began to feel sorry for that fourteen-year-old boy who carried all that guilt for something that was not his fault. I felt better about my father after that.”

  He kept his back turned to the two women, but he could hear the sound of sobs suppressed, a spurt and then the gentle cry of grief. He had not wanted hysteria and had done his best to avoid it and had succeeded. He rose slowly and took off his coat. There were many questions, many things to do. He felt terrible, he felt wonderful. He felt the excitement of the chase and the inevitable curiosity at his lack of regret over the victim. He almost wished that it would not turn out to be too simple. Before it was over, Rostnikov would remember that wish and regret it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “SO,” ROSTNIKOV SAID, “WHO WOULD want to do such a terrible thing?” He looked back over his shoulder to see if he would get a response, would break through the sobbing. If not, he would try again. It sometimes happened, actually more times than it did not, that a close friend, a neighbor, a relative committed a murder and those around indeed knew and could provide the name immediately. Rostnikov sensed that it would not be that simple, but not to try would be an error that might come back to haunt him.

  Sonya Granovsky held her daughter and turned cold eyes on the pacing policeman.

  “You,” she said. “You killed him. One of you came in here and killed him, killed him for what he thought, what he said, what he wanted.”

  Grief had made the woman speak out in a way she would never have spoken in a natural state. It was refreshing and somewhat astonishing for Rostnikov to hear such outcries, and he secretly enjoyed moments of honesty, though he hid his pleasure behind a patient nod and sigh. In most cases, Russians had learned to control their outrage or kill it. Complaints were fruitless and could be dangerous.

  “I did not kill your husband,” he said softly.

  “Not you, one of you, K.G.B.,” she shouted. “They were following him, threatening him.”

  “No,” said Rostnikov, wondering if he could ask for a cup of tea, not to keep the woman busy but to have something to do with his hands that
wanted to touch objects in the room, the small painting on the wall, or to reach out and engulf the two thin women, to comfort and quiet them.

  “No,” he repeated. “Listen, it is not beyond the power of the state to act, but like this? No point. It is not…”

  “Clean?” she finished, her body shaking.

  “Clean, a good word,” Rostnikov agreed.

  “You did it,” she repeated, turning her eyes back to the corpse. “That is what happened, what we will say, what I know. You can kill us, beat us, send us to the Vladimirka prison, but that is what we will say, what we know,”

  Rostnikov had seen this look before. He had lost for the moment. She had fixed on the idea, grasped it like a god, a cause, something to exist or be martyred for. She would, at least for now, cling to the belief that her husband had been killed by the state. The three, detective, woman, and girl, all looked at the body. A spot of blood had grown larger, seeping through the sheet. It spread in an uneven pattern, as if it had life, were groping. It cast a spell broken by a knock at the door.

  Officer Drabkova opened the door and stood back to let Karpo and Tkach in. Karpo the Tatar looked first at Rostnikov, whose look told him how to act. Tkach looked first at the corpse, then at the two women and finally at Rostnikov, who made a nod to draw the two men closer.

  “Officer Drubkova,” Rostnikov whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “will you please take Mrs. Granovsky and her daughter…” and he was at a loss as to where they could go. They certainly couldn’t sit there watching the corpse. “Mrs. Granovsky, do you have someplace you can stay, someplace—”

  “Our place is here,” she spat back.

  “You can hate me just as well in another apartment,” he countered.

  “No,” she said between her teeth, “it is easier here.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Rostnikov agreed, “but I can’t have it. We have work to do, a murderer to find. We can take you to a cell.”

  “Fine,” said Sonya Granovsky, straightening her back and indeed, it would be fine with her. Rostnikov knew he had made a mistake.

  “Why don’t I take them someplace and question them?” Karpo said, turning his eyes on the two women. Sonya Granovsky looked up at the gaunt, almost corpse-like figure and suppressed a shudder.

  “My brother, Kolya, he lives near,” she said, “he might…”

  “He will,” Rostnikov added emphatically. “Officer Drubkova will see that you get there.”

  Drubkova moved quickly to the two women and helped them up with more gentleness than Rostnikov had thought she possessed. The girl was still crying softly as Officer Drubkova helped her put her coat on. Sonya Granovsky dressed herself and turned to face Rostnikov once more at the door. Her hat was on an angle, a comic angle like Popov the Clown. Maybe with a wisp of hair in her eyes she would look like the dissheveled American actress whose name he couldn’t remember.

  “I meant what I said,” she said with a tremor.

  Rostnikov nodded and watched Drubkova lead the two figures out.

  “Drubkova,” he called when the door was almost shut and the woman hurried back into the room. “You, personally, are to remain with them all night. If they don’t let you stay in the apartment, remain outside as close as you can. Hear what you can hear and prepare a report. You will be relieved in the morning. Tkach, see to it.”

  Tkach nodded and Drubkova left, her brown uniform tight with pride.

  When the door closed, Rostnikov went to the sofa and sat heavily in it. Karpo knelt by the body and pulled back the sheet.

  “Tkach, go out in the hall and tell the man out there to have the evidence people get up here now.” Tkach did as he was told and Rostnikov watched Karpo examine the body.

  “You frightened that poor grieving widow,” Rostnikov said with a smile.

  “A talent developed over the years,” Karpo answered, looking into the eyes of the corpse.

  “And what does my corpse tell you?” Rostnikov asked.

  “Secrets,” said Karpo softly. “He whispers to me. The dead and I get along quite well.”

  “Better than the living?” said Rostnikov, watching the Tatar’s fingers explore the area around the wound.

  “Yes,” said Karpo evenly. “Whoever did this had strength. This sickle is old and rusty, yet the penetration is deep and through a bone. A strong man.”

  “Or a madman or woman given the strength of purpose or anger,” Rostnikov said, looking at the dead man’s face. It was an angry face even in death. He would be forever angry.

  Karpo rose.

  “Assuming he was not lying down when he was struck,” Karpo began.

  “He was not,” said Rostnikov. “The trail of blood is from the front door.”

  “Of course,” Karpo continued. “The killer was not tall, the wound indicates someone no bigger than…”

  “…me,” Rostnikov finished.

  Karpo shrugged and Tkach reentered the room. “And what are you working on?” Rostnikov asked the young man. “Just the most important cases.”

  “State liquor store thefts,” he answered quickly. “Someone is breaking into state liquor stores at night. Huge amounts have been taken. It is a very large, very bold black market operation. I have—”

  “No details,” Rostnikov said holding up a hand and looking back at the corpse. “That will wait. You get two, maybe three hours sleep and then start following up on Granovsky’s friends. Be nice, be kind, be sympathetic. Find out if he had enemies, what they think. Be discreet, but find out.”

  “Shall I take a uniformed man with me?” Tkach asked.

  “What you think best,” responded Rostnikov, without turning around. “Would you see if there is any tea here?”

  “Yes,” said Tkach moving past the corpse and to the kitchen area. “You think the tea…”

  “I’d like some tea,” Rostnikov closed. “Don’t worry about fingerprints. The killer didn’t come in and make tea. He or she did it and ran. There was a K.G.B. man watching the place when Granovsky was murdered.”

  “That is Granovsky, the…” Tkach said turning from his search to take another look at the corpse.

  “It is,” said Rostnikov looking at Karpo, whose face betrayed nothing. “And you Emil, your cases?”

  “Apartment robberies, assault, and someone masquerading as a police officer has been preying on African students at Moscow University, pretending to suspect them of crimes, taking their money. Complaints…”

  “Ah,” sighed Rostnikov, listening for the sound of boiling water, “political.”

  “Everything is political,” Karpo added, wandering to the window to examine the hole.

  “I sit corrected,” Rostnikov.

  “I was not correcting you,” said Karpo. “I was observing.”

  “Yes,” sighed Rostnikov, rising with effort to the sound of a knock at the door. “Well this is more political. When the evidence people finish, I want you to take that sickle and find what you can find.”

  The door opened and three dark figures entered slowly. One held a suitcase, another, wearing thick, tinted glasses, carried a camera.

  “Tkach, we are leaving,” said Rostnikov. “Gentlemen, there will be hot water in a few minutes for tea.”

  The third dark figure, who wore no glasses and carried nothing, spoke in a rumbling voice that sounded like a Metro train.

  “You had a message from Procurator Timofeyeva,” he said. “A taxi driver was killed a little while ago, two witnesses. Before he died, the taxi driver said, ‘Granovsky!”

  “Karpo,” Rostnikov said pulling his coat on, “you take that. I will pay a visit to the K.G.B. in the morning and we will meet at Petrovka…when we can meet at Petrovka.”

  The trio of dark figures moved past Rostnikov, who turned for a last look at Granovsky—an angry man and look what his anger got him. There was perhaps a lesson in this room, on that face. Rostnikov absorbed the lesson without thinking about it.

  “Do any of you remember the
name of the American movie actress with the yellow hair that kept falling in her face?” Rostnikov asked. “She had to keep blowing it out of her eyes.”

  “Veronska Lake,” said the man with the bag, moving to the corpse.

  “No,” sighed Rostnikov scratching his ear, “the hair wasn’t designed to be over the eyes. It was always by accident.”

  “I see,” said the man with the thick dark glasses, groping his way to the kitchen in search of the tea.

  “Maybe it was Deanna Durbin?” said the man with the camera.

  “No,” said Rostnikov, “thanks.” It was one of those annoying things of no consequence that would drive you mad if you couldn’t remember. There was a chance, not much of a chance perhaps, but a chance that Rostnikov’s career might be in danger, but this nearly forgotten American movie star had cropped up and had to be named to set his mind at rest. It would come, it would come.

  An hour later Emil Karpo entered the M.V.D. building on Petrovka Street. The armed duty guard looked at him with no sign of recognition but made no move to stop him. The older officer at the desk, fully uniformed, white-haired, involuntarily nodded in greeting at the striding Karpo, though he knew Karpo was not one to respond to social gestures.

  A dark suited man named Klishkov passed Karpo on the way down. Klishkov who bore an ugly red scar across his face and nose from an attack by a drunk, glanced at Karpo, who let his eyes respond in unblinking acknowledgement.

  The door to Room 312 was closed but a light was on behind it. It was one of many “discussion” rooms in Petrovka. Such rooms could be used for meetings, conspiracies, or interviews with suspects or witnesses. Because of the uneven heating of the building, some of the interview rooms were painfully cold in the winter while others were oppressively hot. This was a cold one. Karpo opened the door and faced two men across the small table in the center of the room. The Roshkovs, father and son, were startled and started to rise. Karpo ignored them and turned to the uniformed officer who stood in the corner. The officer, well aware of Karpo’s reputation, moved smartly forward and handed him a clipboard with a report attached. Karpo took it and read it ignoring the sudden babbling of Vladimir, the elder Roshkov.