In the Name of a Killer

by Brian Freemantle

  Valentina nodded, dumbly, with no thought of protest. She pulled the shapeless cardigan about her again when she stood up. As she crossed the room to a bedroom door Danilov saw the backs of her slippers were trodden down, like Olga’s, so that she had to scuff to keep them on. At the door she looked back helplessly at them and said: ‘I haven’t got the key. It’s locked and I haven’t got the key.’

  ‘I have,’ said Danilov, walking forward with the second of the two keys on Yezhov’s ring. It worked.

  The bedroom was immaculate, as it had been for the first police examination. As they entered, Cowley commented quietly to Danilov, in English: ‘Everything fits the profile.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Danilov, also in English.

  Valentina Yezhov hung back as the four men entered her son’s sealed room. Striving for some professional propriety, Cowley said: ‘You must come in as well. See everything that we do: be aware of anything we take.’

  Obediently the woman came forward, but still only just put herself inside the door.

  They all searched, Kosov roughly until Danilov stopped him and warned they didn’t want anything hidden by the dismissive way the man was throwing things aside. Pavin, the evidence collector, was the one who really led. And it was Pavin who found the secret place – nothing more than a floorboard, sawn through to create a lid over the natural space beneath. Inside were three pornographic magazines, very old and worn, all masochistic, all showing chained and tethered naked women in various poses of apparent suffering. In a lot of the pictures, their breasts were the object of attack.

  Beneath the magazines were two cotton purses. They contained, in total, ten buttons of the sort used on women’s clothing.

  To Pavin, Danilov said: ‘Parcel up all his clothes, for forensic’ To the woman he said: ‘I want you to come with us. You’ve got to help us talk to him.’

  Valentina looked beyond Danilov, to where Pavin was at the wardrobe. ‘Don’t crease his clothes. He doesn’t like his clothes being creased. I have to keep everything pressed.’

  Cowley recognized the sort of irrational remark people made under intense, breaking-point pressure. It was also probably very significant.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Refused the lead at Bronnaja, Kosov bustled for control back at his own Militia post, but again Danilov opposed him, accepting the obvious offence although trying to minimize the disagreement as much as possible before the others, his sole concern now to get the investigation properly and professionally concluded. He contradicted Kosov’s announcement that they would resume at once the questioning of Yezhov in his cell, insisting instead that any further interviews had to be in a much larger interrogation room in which the man might feel less constrained and in which Valentina could wait until they were ready. There were other things that had to be set in motion first. Pavin had to contact the Serbsky Institute, to summon the doctor who had been Yezhov’s most recent psychiatrist: the man was to bring with him Yezhov’s complete case history. Danilov himself awoke Leonid Lapinsk, refusing to go along completely with the older man’s instant excitement but agreeing that the circumstantial evidence looked overwhelmingly convincing.

  They had taken over the day-room in which Danilov had earlier examined Yezhov’s possessions, to which were now added the clothes, buttons and magazines taken from the apartment. While Danilov telephoned his superior, Cowley sifted carefully through what had been assembled, with a pen tip, not his fingers.

  When Danilov replaced the receiver, the American said: ‘The circumstantial evidence against Paul Hughes looked pretty convincing, too.’

  ‘Not like this,’ argued Danilov.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Cowley agreed. He was still standing by the table that held the exhibits. ‘In Washington the Bureau have specialists on button identification. Have done, for years: buttons are the first things that come off, in violent situations. There’s a pyrolysis test. One using a gas chromatographic mass spectrometer. Another involving something called a Foyier Transformer infra-red spectrometer.’

  Danilov nodded, unoffended at the inherent criticism of Russian scientific methods: certainly with the pathologist Viktor Novikov there had been more than sufficient reason for criticism. ‘And DNA?’ he prompted, expectantly.

  Cowley nodded in return, then indicated the clothes. ‘We’ve got comparison checks from each victim. Suzlev only from his hair, but from all the rest – Ann Harris, Lydia Orlenko and Nadia Revin – all the trace sources like blood and bodily fluids we could possibly want. If there’s a speck – something so small it can only be seen under a microscope – on any of this stuff, our people in Washington can find it and match it. Match it so that it’s incontestable in any court.’

  Danilov stared at the piled possessions, noticing that since he had been there earlier Yezhov’s topcoat, which must have been somewhere else in the building, had been added. It was grey, with an attached hood, and heavily padded: the sort of coat Lydia Orlenko had described. There was what looked to be a smear of blood on the left collar; he recalled the bruising beneath Yezhov’s eye and wondered what sort of scuffle or fight there had been when he had been seized that night on Spiridonievskii. ‘There would appear to be enough to divide between our two forensic laboratories.’

  ‘I understood your people didn’t use the deoxyribonucleic acid test in criminal investigations yet?’ Cowley challenged, gently.

  ‘There would have to be a division,’ said Danilov, adamantly.

  ‘We could be specific about that division,’ suggested the American. ‘The topcoat, for instance. Lydia Orlenko said her attacker wore a padded topcoat.’

  ‘I think you should have the topcoat,’ Danilov conceded. ‘And all the buttons. The rest we’ll separate equally.’

  Like competing children allocating prizes to themselves, thought Cowley, unable to rid himself of the impression of illegal amateurism. Despite which, in the circumstances – always the awkward, conflicting circumstances! – he decided it was the best compromise he could expect. ‘That sounds fine.’

  Danilov had tea brought in from the canteen and saw that some was taken to Valentina Yezhov, too. When Pavin returned from another office, from which he had spoken to the Serbsky Institute, Danilov itemized how the exhibits were to be split. It was a further half an hour before Kosov, who’d removed himself from a situation of challenge by disappearing into his own upperfloor office, reappeared to announce the psychiatrist’s arrival. It gave Kosov the excuse to be involved again: Danilov didn’t object.

  The Serbsky doctor was a small, fussy man named Aleksandr Iosifovich Tarasov and he was clearly ill-at-ease in surroundings in which he was unfamiliar – probably a psychological failing of his own. He kept patting himself, as if needing the reassurance of a medical uniform instead of the stained and falling-off-his-shoulders suit he was now wearing.

  He had treated Petr Yakovlevich Yezhov for an undefined paranoia, although certainly there were elements of persecution. He did not consider the breast fetish, indicated by the crimes for which Yezhov had been detained, to be part of that persecution, however. Yezhov’s faculties were impaired – it was difficult to estimate, but he wouldn’t put the man’s mental age above thirteen, probably less – and the breast fixation could be associated with rejection as a young child by a disappointed mother. Tarasov seemed doubtful of the American opinion that the buttons could be associated with a nipple obsession, although he was aware of such discussion and even theses in international psychiatric journals. He had personally recommended Yezhov’s release, believing the man’s mental stability adequate for him to live outside a restricted community: being restricted had always caused him great, sometimes self-harming, distress. It was always possible that Yezhov had regressed since his release. It was even more possible, from the man’s case history, that the violence already manifested could worsen even to the point of murder. He was, of course, quite willing to sit in on any interrogation: he understood that was why he had been summoned. It was a
good idea for the mother to be present: she’d always been a strong, if debatable, influence.

  They assembled in the same large room as Valentina Yezhov, who hunched uncertainly at the table, hands clasped around her empty cup, suspecting the worst but still not fully informed as to why she had been brought to the station or why her son was being held there. The crying had worsened, river marks of tears down her face, her eyes red. She recognized Tarasov and instantly invested the psychiatrist, someone whom she knew, with superior authority and demanded to know where her son was and what – exactly – he had done. She repeated the same word, exactly, several times, like a courtroom lawyer.

  ‘He’s been bad again,’ announced Tarasov. ‘Like before. Worse.’

  ‘No!’ It wasn’t an outburst, like her son’s cell-room reaction. It was the sad, unquestioning acceptance of some horror that had always lurked close at hand.

  Danilov was unhappy at the number of people there were crowded into the room. It was necessary for Cowley to be there, maintaining everything on an equal basis. And for Pavin’s presence, to record every exchange. It had been his idea to include the mother and the psychiatrist. Which left Kosov as the only intruder. The number had to stay as it was. To Valentina, he said: ‘I want to talk to Petr Yakovlevich. You must tell him it has to be the truth.’

  ‘Why?’ She was hollowed out. She didn’t know – couldn’t think – where she could go from Bronnaja Boulevard but knew she’d have to move on somewhere. She’d be a pariah now, someone who’d spawned a monster.

  ‘I want him to tell me.’

  Danilov was at the table, facing the woman. Tarasov was beside him. Everyone else, by unspoken agreement, withdrew to the edges of the room. Cowley shifted where he stood, against the wall, disconcerted by this preliminary scene, as he had been disconcerted by a lot of other things since this day had begun, when it hadn’t been day at all but the middle of the night.

  Valentina gave a listless shrug of acceptance, They were authority, official: she’d learned always to defer to authority. It was safer: you didn’t get into trouble if you deferred to authority.

  A sound, a bitten-back sob, burst from her when Petr Yakovlevich was brought into the room. His hands were manacled in front of him. There was a towering Militia man on either side and another behind, holding a metal chain looped to the manacles in front: if Yezhov had tried to lash out, as he had in the cell, the following guard could have flipped him off his feet simply by yanking on the lead chain. The bruise on Yezhov’s cheek was deepening, purple and brown now. Blood, from the head graze when he had been kneed back by Kosov, blackly matted his clumped hair. His face was twitching, nerves alive beneath his skin. His eyes rolled, in terror.

  Danilov half turned, furious, seeking and failing to find Kosov. Bastard! he thought. Bullying, posturing bastard.

  Jesus, thought Cowley, against the wall.

  ‘Take the chains off!’ said Danilov.

  ‘No.’ It was Kosov’s voice.

  ‘Take the chains off!’

  The impasse was silent. The chained man focused on his mother. He didn’t smile. His eyes still rolled. Flat voice, with no meaning, he said to her: ‘No.’

  The officer at the rear, the one holding the restraining chain, had been attached to the station when Danilov had controlled it, although he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Danilov rose from the table, going to them: he held out his hand towards the one he recognized and said: ‘Give me the key.’ It came from another man, the one to the right. Danilov unfastened the manacles himself and held Yezhov’s arm, taking him to sit next to his mother. As he resumed his own seat, Kosov said: ‘Your decision.’

  Valentina hesitated, then reached out for Yezhov’s hand: it was the one on which the blood had dried, from the graze. Danilov saw for the first time that there was a heavy, silver-metalled ring on the man’s little finger and remembered the chin bruising – and the suggested American cause – on every victim.

  ‘Tell him he has to answer me truthfully,’ ordered Danilov.

  Valentina did. ‘Everything you’re asked,’ she insisted. They’d be kind, if she did what they told her.

  Yezhov nodded.

  ‘You go walking, at night?’ Danilov began.

  Slowly, frightened, Yezhov came around to face Danilov. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where? Ulitza Gercena?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Ulitza Stolesnikov?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Yezhov smiled hopefully sideways, towards his mother. She smiled back.

  ‘Granovskaya?’

  ‘I think so.’ Yezhov smiled more proudly, like a child doing well in a test.

  ‘Uspenskii Prospekt?’

  ‘Don’t know Uspenskii Prospekt.’

  ‘What do you do, when you walk?’

  ‘Just walk.’

  ‘Why do you have a knife?’

  ‘Knife?’

  ‘You had a knife tonight.’

  ‘Like it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Safe.’

  ‘When you …’ began Danilov but stopped, at the movement beside him as the psychiatrist came into the interrogation.

  ‘Remember me, Petr Yakovlevich?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You made me a promise, in the hospital? The same promise, a lot of times? About girls. It was a promise about girls.’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Have you forgotten what you promised me in hospital? What you said you wouldn’t do any more?’

  ‘Haven’t hurt anybody.’

  ‘Do you know people have been hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you looked for women, for girls, when you’ve been out at night?’ asked Danilov, re-entering the questioning.

  ‘Not allowed.’

  ‘Did you hurt anyone with the knife, Petr Yakovlevich?’ asked the psychiatrist.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why were you carrying buttons?’ asked Danilov. ‘And why did you hide buttons in your room?’

  ‘Wanted to.’

  ‘Do you think of buttons as something else?’ persisted Tarasov, conscious of the American assessment of their significance.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are they then?’

  ‘Buttons.’ Yezhov suddenly frowned, as if he were recognizing the psychiatrist for the first time. ‘No jacket. I don’t want to wear the jacket.’

  Danilov detected the sound of shuffling behind him, from the people grouped along the wall. He sighed to himself. ‘You stuck your knife into people, didn’t you? Into women, when you were walking?’

  There was the faintest sound, a gasping intake of breath, from Valentina but it was loud enough to distract her son, who looked towards her. He smiled, forever hopeful of her approval.

  ‘I want him to answer,’ Danilov insisted, annoyed at the deflection.

  ‘Did you stab those women?’ said Valentina, using both hands now to hold her son’s. ‘Look at me! Did you hurt them, with that knife?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Did you cut their hair off?’ came in Danilov.

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘And take buttons from their clothes?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  Careless of Yezhov hearing him, the psychiatrist said to Danilov: ‘There is no purpose in this. He probably genuinely doesn’t remember, even if he did do it.’

  ‘That’s what I want to know, if he did!’ said Danilov.

  ‘You’re not going to learn it this way, with a confession,’ Tarasov insisted.

  ‘Could we?’ pressed Danilov. ‘Not here, perhaps, where he’s obviously bewildered. Clearly frightened. But somewhere else: the Serbsky, perhaps, where he’d feel more relaxed?’

  Tarasov laughed, in open derision. ‘He was never relaxed and cooperative at the Institute.’

  ‘How then?’

  ‘When he decides to tell you. If he’s got anything to tell you. Maybe never,’ said the psychiatrist, with defeated honesty.
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  ‘Home now,’ announced Yezhov, brightly, not appearing to be frightened any more. ‘We’ll go home now.’

  ‘No!’ said Valentina, her fear surfacing. ‘I don’t want … I couldn’t …’

  ‘He can’t stay here,’ said Danilov, talking to the psychiatrist. He was worried, too late, that it had been a mistake to unchain a man as strong as Yezhov who might fight against being returned to a hospital where he had developed a phobia against confinement.

  The worry was unfounded.

  Tarasov briefly left the room, to summon an ambulance, and brought a medical bag with him when he returned. Valentina encouraged her son to swallow the sedating pill, which took effect before the vehicle arrived. To make certain, Tarasov administered an injection when he was quite sure Yezhov was too subdued to object. The man had to be carried out on a stretcher.

  Danilov stopped the psychiatrist at the door. ‘I want a blood sample, as soon as possible. And some hair, from what he’s got left.’

  Tarasov nodded, and walked on.

  Cowley wondered how many invasion of privacy statutes existed in America forbidding samples being taken from suspects rendered unconscious. He halted Valentina Yezhov at the door and said: ‘I want to know something important. Does Petr Yakovlevich smoke?’

  The woman frowned back at him. ‘Never! He hates smoking.’

  Cowley stood back for her to leave, looking across the less crowded room to the Russian. ‘Well?’

  ‘Lydia Orlenko was in shock. We know that.’

  ‘There’s not enough. It’s all circumstantial, like it was with Hughes.’

  ‘I know.’

  The FBI questioning of Angela Hughes was gently sympathetic – even to the extent of appointing a woman agent to conduct the interview – and very early it was disclosed that there was now doubt about her husband’s alibi for the day the Russian taxi driver was killed.

  ‘In Moscow you told an agent that your husband came home before midnight on the night when the Russian woman was attacked? That you heard a clock strike?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you positive about that?’