Rage

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  In fact, it was a nice change from yesterday because at least the wipers could deal with this stuff.

  Szacki passed the campus and was out of Olsztyn, with a wall of forest on either side of the road. He had never told anyone, but he loved the landscape of this road. Other major Polish cities were surrounded by a buffer of hideous suburban sprawl. After leaving the center, you drove through high-rise blocks, then a zone of stores, workshops, rusty signs, and yards full of plowed-up mud. In Olsztyn they had exit roads of that kind, too, mostly toward Masuria, but this one was different. Once out of the center, you came to the university campus, formerly a German psychiatric hospital. There were some old buildings shrouded in legend, then some modern ones financed by the EU. Then a gas station, and that was it. No more town. From here, the road ran in a gentle arc, and a few hundred yards beyond the sign announcing the Olsztyn city limits, there was no sign of civilization, just forest. What he loved about this place was that in only a few minutes you could find yourself in the middle of nowhere.

  There wasn’t much traffic. Szacki speeded up a bit as the road gently undulated, in tune with the rhythm of the hilly Warmian landscape. It was about twelve miles to Stawiguda.

  He had always lived in the city. He had never had any other view than staring at apartments in neighboring buildings. For forty-four years. If right now this pile of junk had skidded on the slush, Szacki would have died without knowing what it felt like to stand at a bedroom window with a cup of coffee, gazing at a view that stops only at the horizon.

  Three years ago, after a short time living in the provincial town of Sandomierz, he had gone back to Warsaw, merely to convince himself that he and his home city had already given each other everything they had to offer. He had been terribly tired and could feel that ugly leviathan crushing and depressing him. He had started looking out for recruitment offers before he even unpacked his clothes. And on a hunch, he had chosen this part of the country. Lakes, forests, and sunshine. Summer vacations. He had never been there and had always gone to the seaside, but that was how he imagined it. He would settle down, find a small cottage with a view of a pine copse, and he’d be happy, reading upbeat books in the evenings and tossing logs into a potbellied stove. There were no women inhabiting these visions—just him, peace, and quiet. At the time he ardently believed that only solitude could give a man a real sense of fulfillment.

  Two years on, his reality in no way resembled his earlier imaginings. He was well into a relationship, still new, but no longer a passionate romance. And he had moved, of course, from a studio in a housing block to his girlfriend’s apartment, so very much in the city that only a tent pitched on the town hall steps could have been more urban. It was in an old villa with a garden, but he could see his workplace from the kitchen window—such was the malevolence of fate.

  Stawiguda was a large village, a messy sprawl, consisting mostly of modern single-family houses. There was no urban planning or architectural concept here that would have changed the area into a pleasant place. It was like an overview of projects from a catalog, separated from one another by various stone walls and fences. Disney castles alongside small-scale Polish manor houses, McMansions next to log cabins. On top of that, it was every neighbor’s ambition to have walls of a distinctive color, as if the address alone were not enough to identify the property.

  The Najmans’ house was—as far as Szacki could see in the falling dusk—willow green. Apart from that, there was nothing distinctive about it. Fairly new, probably built in the last seven to ten years. Square plan, one story, with small windows and a huge roof, higher than the rest of the house. As if the attic were the most important space. There was a metal fence with solid stone pillars separating it from the neighboring properties, and a driveway made of paving bricks, now coated in melting snow.

  Szacki parked in the mud outside the main gate and got out. Mrs. Najman was waiting by the side gate, wearing a long sweater. Her arms were folded, pressed tight to her body, and her hair was wet with snow. She might have been waiting for some time.

  Szacki wondered if that meant anything.

  Inside, the house was not unusual in any way. It was a large space, but had low ceilings and not many windows. The living room, kitchen, and dining room were combined into a single not very cozy space.

  There was a blocked fireplace, a TV the size of a movie screen, and a large U-shaped leather couch with a split-level glass table in front of it. On the lower level were newspapers, and on the upper, a stack of remote controls. No books.

  He kept quiet, waiting for the lady of the house to make coffee while he wondered what to say. If they had simply found Najman’s body in the bushes, she’d have been the first suspect—the wife, who hadn’t reported him missing for a week. But somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to kill him, reduce him to bare bones, and hide him in the city. And apart from all that, he wasn’t 100-percent sure the skeleton was Najman’s. When he’d called her to say he was coming, Szacki had only established that indeed, Najman hadn’t been at home for over a week.

  She set the coffee down in front of him, along with a small plate of cookies.

  Szacki sipped the coffee. The woman sat opposite, nervously chewing her cuticles. He wanted her to speak first,

  “So what’s happened?” she asked.

  “We’re not entirely certain, but we suspect the worst.”

  “He’s injured someone,” she stated rather than asked. Her eyes widened.

  That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting.

  “On the contrary. We suspect your husband may be dead.”

  “What’s that?”

  He wasn’t good at these conversations. Usually the people he interviewed had already been worked over by the police. Falk would have been useful—he was sure to have had some training.

  “We suspect he’s been killed.”

  “In an accident?”

  “As the result of foul play.”

  “Does that mean someone else caused the accident?”

  “It means someone else may have deprived him of his life.”

  “Murdered him?”

  He nodded. Teresa Najman stood up and came back with a carton of vegetable juice. She poured herself a glass and drank half of it. She looked quite ordinary, like a teacher or an office worker. Average height, slender, with an unmemorable face, and ash-blonde shoulder-length hair. A suburban mother. He looked around, but he couldn’t see any evidence of children. No streaks on the walls, scattered toys, or crayons in a mug. But Najman was fifty, she looked about thirty-five. Maybe a teenager?

  “But who did it?”

  “I’m sorry, but please would you try to focus? We’ve found a cadaver in Olsztyn, in a state that’s not suitable for identification. We suspect it may be your husband’s corpse.” He felt he should say something like a normal person now. “I’m very sorry to be giving you this information. I must ask you a few questions, and then a policeman will come and ask you for something with your husband’s DNA, hair from a comb, for instance. That will help us identify the body. I’d also like to get a picture of him, if possible.”

  She poured herself more juice and drank it in one go. It left a red ring around her mouth, as if she’d put on her lipstick without looking. For a short while she sat in silence, then got up and disappeared into another room. Szacki made a mental note that either she didn’t keep a photo of her husband in her wallet, or she didn’t want to hand over the most personal one. He also noted that Teresa Najman was not particularly talkative. The question was whether it was because she was in shock, or because she was being careful with her words. The prosecutor’s experience was merciless: when it came to mysterious disappearances and murders, in four out of five instances, the spouse was to blame.

  He decided to provoke her.

  A few minutes went by before she came back and handed Szacki a print in postcard format.

  “I had to print off an up-to-date one,” she said. “They’re all on the computer now.”


  He examined the picture. A portrait taken in summer, in bright sunlight, a smiling face against a brick wall. A handsome guy, masculine, distinctive, in the style of Telly Savalas. A bald, egg-shaped skull, thick black eyebrows, hazel eyes, a straight nose like a Roman general, full lips.

  The macho type who’s very attractive to women, even if their intuition tells them not to get involved.

  The only flaw marring his manly image was a misshapen right ear as the result of some injury.

  “Won’t I recognize him?” she said, interrupting his contemplation of the photograph.

  “The cadaver is not suitable for identification,” he said, and seeing the blood drain from her face, he quickly added, “The DNA method is safer and will save you from distress. We generally try not to involve the relatives if the identification might be exceptionally traumatic.”

  “But what happened?”

  Good question.

  “Did somebody beat him up? Stab him? Shoot him?”

  That was not just a good question, it was also a very difficult question.

  “Unfortunately, at this stage we don’t know.”

  She stared at him vacantly.

  “Piotr’s bald,” she said, pointing at the photo.

  “Sorry?”

  “Piotr’s bald. I can’t give anyone hair from his comb.”

  “Please don’t worry, the policeman will take care of that.”

  “Maybe from his electric razor, there’s always some stubble dust. Do you think that’ll do?”

  He had no idea, but he nodded with the solemnity of a spiritual adviser.

  “When did you last see your husband?”

  “On Monday,” she quickly said.

  “In what circumstances?”

  “He went off to work.”

  “Where?”

  “He has a travel bureau in Jaroty. I mean an agency, not a bureau.”

  He has. Not “We have.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I work at the library in Kortowo.”

  “At the university?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you got any children?”

  “A son, Piotruś, he’s five.”

  He was amazed. A five-year-old who didn’t turn the living room into a playground.

  “Where is he now?”

  “At my mother’s place in Sząbruk.”

  He didn’t entirely know where that was.

  “For long?”

  She stared at him as if he were transparent and she were watching a very interesting television program behind him. And froze.

  “Has he been there for long?”

  “Since last week. I wanted a rest, and Mom adores him.”

  “Since Friday last week, or since Monday last week?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m totally wiped. Is this an interrogation?”

  “No, we’re just having a chat.”

  Something told him they would be having an interrogation, though.

  “Did your husband say if he was going anywhere?”

  “No, he didn’t.” She suddenly came to life and made a face as if that question had only just gotten her thinking.

  “Had he ever gone off to work and disappeared for a week before?”

  “He did a lot of traveling, you know. That’s the tourist industry. The tour operators often organize trips for the salesmen so they can see what they’re recommending. I went on one myself. The customers like it if you can tell them about it all.”

  “Did he just go off without warning? Do they take them away from one day to the next?”

  “No, of course not. Why?”

  “Weren’t you surprised your husband hadn’t come back from work and had vanished?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Sometimes he was secretive.”

  Szacki almost snorted with laughter. The woman was obviously lying in a way that made him want to leave right away. In a moment he’d ask her to establish a version and stick with it, otherwise he’d probably explode. It pained him to watch her thinking up lies—the only thing missing was for her to start mumbling to herself. On top of that, the whole situation seemed to defy logic. He had said he was coming in advance by phone, so if the woman had any connection with her husband’s disappearance, or knew anything, she’d had enough time to sort out the facts in her mind. Meanwhile it looked as if the whole situation was a surprise to her. Except she was brazenly lying.

  Why?

  “Where did he get the scar from?” Szacki asked, changing the subject.

  She gave him an inquiring look, as if he had addressed her in a foreign language.

  “Where did he get the scar from?” he repeated.

  He impatiently tapped a finger on the photograph. He’d decided to see if he could knock her off-balance.

  “The scar. On his ear. Where did it come from?”

  She spread her hands in a gesture of amazement, as if her husband had always gone about in a cap and only now, in that picture, had she finally learned the truth.

  “Please, Mrs. Najman. This isn’t a social chat. Your husband is dead. Do you understand? He’s dead.”

  He was expecting her to burst into sobbing and hysteria, which was the usual reaction at these moments.

  Teresa Najman squinted, trying to focus, chewed her lip, and finally said, “Yes, I do.”

  There was no hysteria; it was more like relief that she had actually managed an answer.

  “He was murdered. I’m the prosecutor conducting the investigation. As the victim’s wife, you’re legally implicated. An important witness. At the very least an important witness.”

  He waited for righteous indignation and hand flapping.

  “I understand . . . ,” she said, in a hesitant tone.

  “So please focus and answer the question. Where did he get the scar from?”

  “From the past. We hadn’t met then. I don’t really know where he got it.”

  “Didn’t you ever ask?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Did you try calling him? At work? On his cell? Did you text him?”

  There must have been a dramatic twist in the plot of the imaginary movie playing behind him, because Teresa Najman had completely tuned out.

  “Did you call him?”

  She wanted some more juice, but there were just a few drops left in the carton, which she spent ages carefully shaking out.

  “It’s funny you ask that, because I don’t think I did call.” She gave him an apologetic look. “I don’t know why not.”

  5

  He toiled away with Teresa Najman for a little longer, regretting that he wasn’t interviewing her for a witness statement, and that it wasn’t being recorded. If the woman had anything to do with her husband’s disappearance, it would be persuasive in the case. He got her to provide some information about the foot operation, which confirmed what Frankenstein had said, including the long walks. He took the medical documentation with him, and on his way back he dropped it off at the hospital on Warszawska Avenue. He had to leave it with the watchman, though the lights were on in the anatomy department. “The professor has locked the door and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  As Szacki was leaving the hospital grounds, he couldn’t help imagining Frankenstein putting a stolen brain into the skull and attaching electrodes to it. His name obligated him to do it.

  Szacki was sure the office would be empty at this time of day, but there was Falk in the hallway, filling out some documents. He was sitting at a small table on a little chair for visitors, twisted into an unnatural position. When he noticed Szacki, he stood up in a flash and put on his jacket.

  “Haven’t you got a better place to work?”

  “I usually use a desk in the secretariat, but it’s locked after hours.”

  So much for the boss’s ever-open-door policy.

  “Please come in my office. I’ll leave instructions at reception to let them know you can make use of it whenever—I have a spare desk.
Unless I ask to be on my own. All right?”

  Falk did up the top button of his jacket and held out a hand in a stiff gesture, as if he really were made of pieces of wood tied together with string.

  “Thank you very much.”

  He bowed comically, and Szacki suddenly realized who Falk resembled. He’d always sensed a likeness to someone, but he hadn’t guessed who it was, because it had been ages since he’d last seen those movies. He looked exactly like Peter Sellers. He hadn’t noticed it because, first of all, Falk was young, and second, he was deadly serious. Meanwhile, Szacki remembered the actor as older, with a permanent smile glued to his lips. But apart from that, Falk had the same slight figure, big schnozz, high forehead, and thick black eyebrows curving downward past his eyes.

  “Yes?” asked Falk politely, because, thrilled with his discovery, Szacki was staring at him in an odd manner.

  Szacki didn’t answer, just opened the office door and let Falk in. Then he told Falk to listen, and recounted the story of the skeleton from Mariańska Street.

  This profession can be thankless. Any prosecutor could reel off a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t be a prosecutor—from the bureaucracy and the idiotic statistics, to the incompetent expert witnesses and the recalcitrant policemen, right through to the mental burden of being in permanent contact with evil and the public contempt that they encountered every step of the way. There was no prosecutor who hadn’t sat at home and thought about becoming a defense attorney, or who hadn’t been to a social gathering and decided to put on a counselor’s gown, or who hadn’t felt like packing the whole thing in after a drink or two. Curiously, surprisingly few people walked away from the profession.