The confession tyb-2

by Olen Steinhauer

  I arrived at the office early and found Mikhail Kaminski hunched over my desk, hand on his forehead, absorbed in a slim stack of typed pages. He’d had a haircut since I’d seen him last, his mustache was trimmed to a razor’s width, and his coat had large shoulders that rose as his elbows spread on the desk. Then I realized what he had before him.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  He looked up, blinking, and smiled as if suddenly recognizing me. “Ferenc!” He tapped the sheets with that trigger finger. “You’re really very talented. I had no idea.” He pushed himself back in my chair, scratching the floor, and crossed his hands in his lap. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  There was something in his voice. So I took Emil’s chair. “You’ve been going through my things.”

  He nodded at the papers. “How do you do this? I mean, all I write are reports. They’re so dry. But you, Ferenc, you’ve got a way with words. How do you do that?”

  “I work at it. Now please put them back where you found them.”

  He lifted the top sheet and read aloud: “ She moved through the world as if nothing was worth her effort, but she nonetheless influenced the outcome of situations. The proper word, or a subtle gesture, and someone was filling her empty glass with wine. You see what I mean? I feel like I’ve known this woman before. You’ve nailed it just right. I’m impressed.” He tapped the pages again. “Impressed, and a little disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “I’m not an artist, not like you. But like anyone, I enjoy a good read. I know what I like. It’s a shame to see your great talent wasted like this.”

  I waited.

  “This,” he said, laying his hand on my words, “It’s so…so unreliable. All this-how should I put it? — this me me me. You understand?”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  He crossed a leg over his knee. “Who do you think would be interested in this, Ferenc?”

  I shrugged.

  “There’s my point! No one, except for yourself. You should be writing about subjects that unite people, subjects we can all relate to! For example, there’s a wonderful Soviet writer, whose name I can’t remember now, but he wrote about the building of a dam in Siberia. Now that’s a story! You see the human drama of people working together for a great aim, and when you read it, you feel a part of that endeavor. And when, in spite of foreign saboteurs and some nasty hooliganism, the dam succeeds, you can’t help but clap and feel the same pride those workers feel. But this,” he said, abruptly changing tone. “This is about you, and only you. And this relationship-this marriage-what depressing people! The story about the dam, that’s what people want to read. I ask you again, who would want to read your story?”

  I wanted to reply, but there was no satisfactory answer.

  “I’ll tell you who,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer. “People who revel in their pain. You see what I’m saying? Healthy people want to read about camaraderie, about healthy love, about how to be valuable to their society. They want lessons on life. What does this teach them? How to fail in life. Do you plan on publishing this?”

  I was wordless. Then, finally, I managed: “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Well. I wonder. This stuff is bourgeois, cosmopolitan. It’s rootless. This sort of thing could be dangerous.”

  “For me?”

  “For the city, for the country, and yes, I suppose, even for you. Keep it to yourself, Ferenc. That’s my little bit of literary criticism. Keep these kinds of thoughts to yourself, and for the rest of us explore the things that people really care about. We want healthy writers. Healthy writers are concerned with progress, enthusiasm for life, human industry. Unhealthy writers…well, they’re the kind of people who walk away from battle when their country needs them. They attack their superiors. Am I making myself clear?”

  I nodded, my fingers fiddling with my rings.

  “Good,” he said, still smiling. He patted my shoulder. “Keep at it, you’re very good. And I look forward to reading your great proletarian novel one of these days.”

  I watched him walk away, his casual stride, and all the organs in my exhausted body hardened into heavy rocks.

  Kaminski wasn’t there just to critique my fiction. He greeted each inspector as he arrived, as if they were all old friends who had been unfortunately separated from him for a while. Then Moska came out of his office and asked us to gather around. “New regulations,” he said. “We’ve fitted all the Militia cars with two-way radios. We’re later than a lot of cities getting this done, but the funding came through, I think for obvious reasons. From now on, whenever you go out on a case, you’re supposed to use one of our cars rather than your own. So we can keep track of you.”

  Kaminski shook his head. “It’s so you can call for help whenever you need it. The streets aren’t as safe as they once were, we all know this.” He must have taken our silence for agreement, because he clapped his hands together, grinning hugely. “You may have wondered where I’ve been the last week and a half. Out west in Budapest, as they say. You’d be surprised how good things are now. They’ve cleared up the barricades, it was a mess. Busses turned over, set on fire. It took some real pigs to do that. But you’ll be happy to know that now it’s peaceful, and they’re busy rebuilding. It’s becoming almost normal.”

  Brano Sev gave a lesson in the garage, all of us bent over the open doors of a new Mercedes. “You pick it up like so. Press here and speak. The reply comes from here.” He pointed at a small speaker grille. “When a message comes in, you do the same thing. Pick it up, press, and talk. But remember that when you press the speaking button you cannot hear what the central office is saying.” He turned it on by flicking a switch. A red light glowed and we heard static. He pressed the button, silencing the static. “Central, this is a test. Can you hear me?”

  When he released the button, a garbled woman’s voice said, This is Central, Sev. We hear you fine.

  “Who’s that?” asked Stefan.

  “Regina Haliniak. She’s new.”

  “A new girl,” he said, smiling at the rest of us. “Cute?”

  Brano looked at him, expressionless, and switched off the radio. And I stared at Stefan, disturbed that, with Magda, he could even joke about a voice on a radio.

  When we got back to the office, there were two notes on my desk: one from the lab, saying that they had clear prints from five different people in Antonin’s apartment-I could pick them up whenever I wanted; the second was from Moska, asking to see me in his office.

  “Ferenc, you were looking for the Kullmann woman?”

  “I’m going over today. But her name is different now.”

  “Yes, yes. I know. Sofia Eiers.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because she’s just been reported dead, Ferenc, and the only names I learn are those that don’t matter anymore.”

  30

  The Eierses lived out on the edge of the Fifth District. These low homes were still as they had been for a hundred years: a stone suburb of clay-roofed houses that were charming because of their style and infuriating because of their plumbing. Emil had decided to stay behind, and Stefan sat in the Mercedes passenger seat, switching the radio on and off, listening to bursts of static.

  “Just turn it off, will you?”

  He did, then watched the homes pass. “What do you think of this case?”

  “I don’t know what to make of it. An art curator is killed, then his prize artist. Now, the artist’s ex-wife.”

  “I’d like to know why Josef Maneck started drinking,” he said.

  “Back to that.”

  “He was doing well for himself, he was respected. Martin said he couldn’t live with himself-why? Maybe Eiers knows.”

  Mathew Eiers looked nothing like a clerk. He was a dark man with broad, massive shoulders, and at home he wore a tight-fitting undershirt that showed off his thick biceps. Which made it all the stranger to see him burst into tears at unexpected
moments. I offered him a cigarette. He shook his head. “And please, don’t smoke in the house. Health.”

  He had laid Zoia, or Sofia, on their bed, and at the foot of the bed was a weight bench. Above the bed, on the wall, was a crucifix. She was dressed in a short, fashionable black dress. I nodded at it. “Is this what she was wearing, when…?”

  He straightened the hem over her thigh. “It is.” Then he started to weep.

  She looked a little pale, but asleep. No great beauty, she had a certain peasant attractiveness. Short, dark hair and a rounded chin. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her arms, her hands and neck, seeking clues, but I didn’t want to touch her. There was some discoloration around the neck, a bruise. “Do you know what caused this?” I asked.

  He leaned over her. “I didn’t notice that. What-what do you think?”

  “I don’t think anything yet, Comrade Eiers. Please sit down and tell us what happened.”

  Mathew Eiers settled on the weight bench, tears under control now. “We spent the weekend in the country with my parents. She was in a good mood, she liked to travel. You know, we had a good time every time we traveled.” He looked at her closed eyes. “We got in late last night. This morning was, well, as it always is. Blessed. I went out to buy the paper, and when I returned she was-” He looked at me. “But I don’t under stand.”

  “You found her here?”

  “In her chair, in the kitchen. I tried to make her heart start again. I’ve heard of it. You hit right here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “But it didn’t work. Nothing worked. So I cleaned her off and put her to bed.”

  “You cleaned her off?”

  “Her face.” He touched his own. “She had…fallen. Into her breakfast.”

  “What was it?”

  “Porridge. She eats it every morning. It’s good for her.”

  Stefan had been standing in the doorway, keeping notes. “Did you eat the porridge as well?”

  “Never,” he said, holding down the sobs. “I eat yogurt. Fresh yogurt from the country. It’s for the bones.” Then he looked again at his wife, sniffing. “Oh Lord. You don’t think it was…?”

  “We should check on it,” I said. “Tell me. Were the doors unlocked when you went for the paper?”

  He shook his head. “I locked the front door when I left-I had to use the key to get back in. I checked the back door, too, after I found her. Both were locked.”

  We looked into the bag of oats, but if it was poisoned, we’d never know without the lab.

  “You know,” I told him, “we were planning to come see your wife today before hearing about this.”

  “What?”

  “About her ex-husband, Antonin.”

  He straightened and his voice leveled off: “What does he want?”

  “He’s been murdered, Comrade Eiers. Before he died he had been in correspondence with your wife. He mentioned in a letter the sense of his mortality. It’s vague, but perhaps he knew who was going to kill him. Perhaps she knew.”

  “Or maybe you know,” said Stefan.

  Mathew Eiers glared at the floor. “I would have liked to do that.”

  “To kill him?”

  He looked as far from tears as we would ever see him. “I didn’t, no, but I could have. She still saw him now and then. Sofia thought I didn’t know, but husbands know these sorts of things, right? They didn’t make love, I’m sure of that, but she wasn’t honest to me about it. I could either do something about it or not.” He shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  “Why not?” asked Stefan.

  He concentrated on the floor and spoke slowly: “Because I didn’t want to lose her. Sofia had left him for me. She could choose to go back just as easily. I knew this. It didn’t matter how evil he was.”

  “Evil?” I said. “Isn’t that a little strong?”

  “That’s what Sofia told me. She used that very word. She never told me why, but she said that his evil deeds had made him a star in the Capital. His fame was at a terrible price.”

  Stefan didn’t seem to understand. “But if she thought he was evil, why would she still see him? Why would she go back to him?”

  He smiled for the first time. “Come on, Comrade Inspector. Don’t be naive. You don’t go to bed with someone because you know they’re pure. And sometimes you don’t love purity. Sometimes you do everything precisely be cause of impurity. Sometimes you can’t help it.”

  We let that sit a moment. The living room was stuffy; he’d sealed it against unhealthy drafts.

  “Let’s try some names on you,” I suggested. “Did Sofia ever mention a Josef Maneck?”

  “Maneck died some time ago, didn’t he? He was a business associate of Antonin’s-you know, the art business-before he fell off the wagon.”

  “Any idea why he did that?” asked Stefan.

  “What?”

  “Fell off the wagon.”

  Mathew shook his head.

  I cleared my throat. “How about a Nestor?”

  “Nestor Velcea?”

  Stefan wrote it down.

  “I never met him, but Sofia called him the greatest artist she’d ever known. She and Antonin lived with him their first year in the Capital, until he was sent away.”

  “To a work camp,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yes. I suppose he got one of those summonses from Yalta Boulevard. You know- document check. She never really told me the details of what happened-it was a sensitive subject. Understandably.”

  “Understandably,” I said. “But he’s supposed to have been released.”

  Mathew frowned. “Really? From the way she praised him, I wouldn’t mind meeting this guy. His paintings are supposed to be better than Antonin’s early work, but I’ve never seen them. He was a little weird, she told me. He refused to show his work in public and didn’t even sign his paintings. A little mixed-up in the head, maybe.”

  Stefan cut in: “I still don’t understand why your wife thought of Antonin as evil. Didn’t she say why?”

  “My wife wasn’t a gossip, Comrade Inspector. She stated her opinion and left it at that. I respected her for it.”

  While Stefan retrieved the bag of oats, I used the bathroom. There was another crucifix beside the mirror, and on the floor was a book by an American weightlifter named Atlas. It was all in English, but there were photos of this massive man throughout, showing how to lift weights, which kinds of food to eat, and how to live in order to grow into a healthy old age.

  I drove Stefan back to the station, then took my writings out of my desk and put them into my satchel, not looking up as Kaminski strolled in. The Russian positioned himself by the door, hands in his pockets, watching us a while before speaking. “There was a little confusion today. We tried to reach all of you by the new radios, but had no luck.” He held up his hands. “It’s a new system, we understand this, and there will be bumps along the way. But, guys, the radios have to be left on in order to function. This only makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “But what about that noise?” asked Stefan. “They hiss like mad all the time.”

  “Then you turn the volume down,” Kaminski explained. “Not all the way, but some. The call-in will be loud enough for you to hear it.” He took a step toward my desk. “Any questions, Ferenc? I can get Brano to show you how to use it again.”

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s no trouble,” said Sev, rising from his own desk.

  “I get it. Really.”

  31

  The next morning, I took the tram into town. The car would be a burden if I wasn’t going to use it. Then we set off for Unity Medical. Emil drove, I sat in the passenger’s seat, and Stefan sank into the back. The radio hissed quietly.

  “Kaminski’s got something planned,” said Emil. “All this with the radio. I don’t know what it is.”

  Stefan grunted. “The Americans said they’re rounding up demonstrators in Budapest. They’re making them identify their friends and sending them all to prison. That’s
what he was doing out west in Budapest. He’ll do it here, too.”

  Emil touched the radio and turned the volume up-static filled the car-then down. He drew his hand from the radio. “Do you think they can hear us through this?”

  We all looked at the hissing box, its red light burning, and said nothing else until we were out of the car.

  Markus Feder was in a better state. “Three visitors at once, I should be pleased.”

  The lab was clean and empty. No tables with lumps beneath sheets, no indescribable smells, just the faint lingering odor of ether. He had a clipboard in his hand.

  “First, these fingerprints. I asked the boys to pass them on to me, so I could check them with the corpses. Out of five sets from Antonin Kullmann’s apartment, two were identified as you two, Ferenc and Stefan. I checked the remaining three: One is Antonin Kullmann’s and one is Sofia Eiers’s. Here’s the unknown one,” he said, passing over a card onto which eight prints had been transferred to ten boxes.

  I waved it. “The guy I chased.”

  “Tell us about Sofia Eiers,” said Stefan.

  Feder raised a hand. “Thanks for giving me an easy one this time. The boys checked the oats first, and they came up clean. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to look at the body yet.” He smiled. “Didn’t you guys notice the marks around her neck?”

  “I did,” I said, but sounded overeager.

  “Well then. It might have suggested something else. The girl was strangled. The killer came up behind her and used his whole arm. Leaves fewer marks, just a welt, but breaks the trachea pretty quickly. As soon as I saw her it was obvious. You said she was found with her face in her breakfast?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s what made us think-”

  “Don’t worry about it. The thing is, there was a single thumbprint on the back of her neck. Again, I checked, and it’s from that one you have in your hand. He must have decided she looked better in her porridge.”

  I looked down at the card.

  “Looks like your killer’s starting to get a heart,” he said. “No more barbecues.”

  If the doors were locked, that left two possibilities-either Sofia Eiers knew her murderer and let him in, or the murderer had been waiting inside the house since before breakfast time that morning, hidden. He had broken into the house, perhaps over the weekend, while the Eierses were in the country, and waited. Once Mathew stepped out, he killed Zoia and left, locking the door behind him.