When she finished the book, she closed the covers, spooning up the last of her hot chocolate, thinking about what she’d read. There was the one item of substantial relevance: the fleeing men. There were also other things that should have been included but weren’t. The missing pieces created very serious holes in the investigation, holes that should have been closed by then. Oto Bogan was one of the keys to the resolution of the case, but there was only an absolutely minimal statement by him. He was described in the preliminary report as semi-hysterical, crying, and not able to say anything more than a few words over and over about his wife being killed for no reason.
There had been no follow-up: investigators hadn’t spoken to Bogan again. There was a small report indicating that an attempt had been made to question him, but Bogan had not been found either at home or at work, and there had been no significant effort to locate him after that. It was getting very late in the game. Not to have the man brought in for questioning was absurd. Slipshod. The only known witness who might be able to shed some light on why this had happened was a missing person in the case.
Jana ran through the physical evidence in her mind: the timing of the shots, the position of the people at the time of the shooting, the two guns she’d found. Both Bogan and his wife had been targets.
Why the wife?
There was nothing in the murder book about her background. Friends had not been questioned. Relatives had not been tracked down. A son living in Berlin had only briefly been questioned by telephone. No one on the Slovak police force had taken the time to go to Berlin to interrogate him in person. Why? In a case of this importance, intimate questioning of the son was an obvious necessity.
Jana began to get angry at the careless way the investigation had failed to expand and examine all aspects of possible motive. There had been no attempt to look into the couple’s finances; and with a financier as one of the targets, it was imperative to see if he had made any serious, intractable enemies or been involved in any fractious transactions that might have left people looking for ways to get even. Money was truly the root of most evil, particularly in a case involving dual assassins in a planned killing like this.
Jana tried to reason out why the investigation had moved so slowly. The only immediate explanation she could come up with was that Bogan and his wife had moved in the rarefied circles that law enforcement personnel always approached gingerly. Police were careful to avoid the kinds of repercussions that only the rich and powerful can bring down on them. That thought did not make Jana’s conclusion any less damning: so far, the investigation had been mired in glue. At this point, it was a complete botch.
The chief investigator, Jakus, was not the best man for this type of case. Not imaginative enough. But it was more than just that: much of what had not yet been done was basic, and any experienced investigator should have gone much further than the murder book indicated. The prosecutor assigned to the case was not stupid. She had to see the holes that still needed to be filled. Why was this investigation being allowed to simply creep forward? There was something more here, something that had not been documented in the murder book, an item of proof or process that had not been included.
And Jana had to find out what it was.
Chapter 8
There were large, loose flakes of snow drifting through the air, melting when they hit the ground. It was the precursor to the larger snowfall that was expected when the evening’s colder air swept through the area. The icy gusts coming off the Danube pushed at Jana as she walked to her car. She drove back to her office thinking she would try to leave early so she could get home before the full fury of the storm hit.
In the police building, few of her investigators were around, most of them out in the field working on their cases or heading home early to beat the heavy snow. Even the office felt colder, as if in anticipation of the night winds. Jana took off her coat, slinging it onto one of the office chairs, turned her portable office heater on, and set the murder book on the corner of her desk. Juggling multiple cases is the norm for investigators. Unfortunately, as with all supervisors, Jana had to deal with personnel matters as well as her cases. She hated the personnel issues, since they took time away from the investigative process, but they had to be attended to.
She unlocked her desk drawer, pulled out a number of the personnel folders, and began going through them, taking notes on each one, preparing to write up evaluations of the people in her division who were up for promotions. She focused on the task for the next few hours, finally finishing, only then realizing that her pen hand was sore from writing and her back ached from sitting for so long. She noticed the hour and made up her mind to go home.
She thought about what work she would take home with her, something she could comfortably ease into on her living-room couch. Jana had promised the relatives of the young gypsy man who had accidentally killed himself that she would go over the evidence in his case one final time. It was a small enough file, so she put it in her carrying case. As she did so, she realized that she’d thought of the death of the young man as accidental. Preconceived notions about cases were the bane of good investigations. She had to try, once more, to consider the file with an open mind. Promises had been made to the young man’s relatives that she would be objective, and she was determined to keep it.
Jana momentarily listened to the absence of sound from the other offices. Most of the lights were out. Everyone in her division had gone home, and here she was, still working. Empty offices are lonely, distant places. It was hard for Jana to tolerate even herself in this type of atmosphere. The cold outside had come inside. Jana’s eyes went to the picture of her granddaughter on the desk. They hadn’t talked in a month. The girl lived with her father’s parents in the United States. Time to make a phone call.
Jana began to dial the number, then stopped. As much as she wanted to make the call, she was not allowed to dial long-distance numbers from the police lines unless the call was work-related, and all long-distance calls were automatically recorded, logged, and sent to the accounting division. She set the telephone back in its cradle. Her cell phone did not have international service, so she would have to make the call from home.
Jana put the personnel files back in her desk drawer and locked it. Then she put on her coat, took the carrying case with the file on the dead youth in it, and walked out of her office. She was home in thirty minutes. The first thing she did, before she even took off her greatcoat, was call her granddaughter. She got a recorded message. The family would be away for a few days. Jana hung up, angry at herself for needing to hear her grandchild’s voice so much. Police officers weren’t supposed to be so needy.
It was just that it was hard to be alone on a cold evening.
Chapter 9
The wind was keening outside Jana’s house, icy snowflakes peppering the windows, rapidly creating a white coating, blocking most of the outside view. She made herself some hot tea, then spread sheep cheese on a number of crackers. She set her tea and crackers next to her couch in the living room, then wrapped herself in a blanket, getting ready to read the file on the young man who had been killed with a shotgun, when there was a knock at her front door. The knock was so light that she almost ignored it, thinking she was mistaken. Then she heard it again, this time slightly louder.
Jana went to the door, opening it with the chain still on. Outside stood a girl who looked no more than thirteen. Her hair and clothes were caked with snow, her teeth were chattering, her face was blue with the cold. With the snow swirling around her, she was rapidly turning into an ice sculpture. Jana quickly unlocked the door chain and, without asking the girl why she was there, pulled her inside and closed the door.
The girl stood shivering in the middle of the room, holding out two small metal objects to Jana.
“Earrings,” chattered the girl. “Earrings for sale.”
Jana took the earrings, a pair of bare-metal crescents, then grabbed the blanket that she had left on the couch and wrapped
it around the girl, who clutched it tight to herself.
“Sit down,” Jana said. The girl stared at her as if she didn’t quite comprehend what had been said. The girl was frozen, ready to go into hypothermia. Jana pulled one of her easy chairs over to the girl, then half pushed, half lifted her into it. “I’ll be right back. Stay there.”
Jana went to her bathroom and pulled a large bath towel from a cabinet above the tub, then darted into her kitchen, poured a can of soup into a pot, and put it on the stove to heat. When she went back into the living room, the girl was standing by the crackers and cheese that Jana had made, stuffing them in her mouth. She saw Jana watching her but didn’t demonstrate any concern that she had been caught eating someone else’s crackers. The girl was consumed with the need to fill her stomach.
“You’re welcome to the crackers.” Jana spoke softly so as not to frighten the girl. “I have soup on the stove. Bread. I’ll make eggs as well.”
The girl nodded, going into the box of crackers, stuffing more in her mouth. She soon finished the box, regarding it somewhat regretfully now that it was empty. The blanket Jana had wrapped around her had fallen around her ankles. The girl put down the empty box and wrapped the blanket tightly around herself again. Jana walked over to her and toweled off her head, the girl continuing to chew all the while, her cheeks fat with the remnants of the crackers she’d stuffed in her mouth.
“You’re not dressed warmly enough,” Jana said.
“I have two sweaters on,” the girl mumbled through her full mouth. “That’s enough.”
“If it’s enough, why did you get so cold?”
“I’m not so cold.”
“I could have sworn your teeth were chattering,” Jana countered.
“So, they were chattering.” There was a tone of belligerence in the girl’s voice, as if she resented that Jana had pointed out a weakness in her.
“Your mother should have given you a coat.”
“I think she’s maybe living in Moldova.”
“Then why aren’t you living in Moldova?”
“Even the hot water is cold in Moldova.” The girl rubbed a hand over her body, then slapped it on her thigh several times, trying to restore some feeling. “My mother had other things on her mind, so she left me. I think she found another man. He took her somewhere. I don’t know where.”
“Your father, then.”
“He’s somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t tell me where he was going when he left. My mother left before he did. Actually, I’m not sure she was my mother.”
“Why aren’t you sure?”
“She never said she was. At least my father said he was my father.”
Jana stood back several feet from the girl to look at her. Her hair tousled, she looked like an irritated, wet monkey.
“The soup should be ready.” She took several steps toward the kitchen. The girl remained rooted to her spot, not following her. “We eat soup in the kitchen!” Jana pressed. She continued into the kitchen, and the girl, after a brief hesitation, followed, her stomach overcoming her intransigence. Jana pointed to a chair at the small kitchen table, and the girl sat down. Her shivering was now only spasmodic, her teeth less like castanets. The girl was becoming more alert to her surroundings, visually examining everything in the kitchen as if she were a wary animal, checking where the easy exits were.
Jana watched her. She was a young girl who had seen a little too much, had been exposed to too much, had been disappointed and hurt a little too much. She also had a defensive anger about her, her searching eyes reflecting a pressing need to control her environment, always expecting and preparing for the worst.
Jana stirred the soup, decided it was ready, and fixed a bowl for the girl, pouring a small part of the soup into a juice glass for herself. She put the bowl, along with a spoon, in front of the girl, then stood leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping at her own soup. The girl didn’t bother with the spoon, gulping directly from the bowl.
“You’ll burn your tongue,” Jana warned her.
The girl slowed down, taking smaller sips.
“What’s your name?” Jana asked.
There was no answer.
“If you eat my crackers and drink my soup, you have to give me your name,” Jana insisted.
“Call me Em. My last name is Mrvova.” The words came reluctantly out of her mouth between sips. “That’s my Slovak name.”
“You have more names?”
“When we move, we always take a different name.”
She might be a Rom, Jana thought, but the girl’s coloration did not look typically gypsy. But perhaps it was in the eyes.
“Rom?” Jana asked.
“No.” The girl thought about it. “Well, maybe my father was. Part, maybe, but I don’t know. My ‘mother’ never said. She called me Em. So she knew my name. That’s all I asked.”
“How did you get into Slovakia if your mother and father aren’t in the country?”
“My mother brought me here. Then she left.”
Em used her finger to clean the last remnants of soup from the bowl, then licked the finger.
“Are you going to buy the earrings?” Em asked, finished with her finger.
Jana had forgotten about the earrings. She picked them up from the counter where she’d laid them when making the soup. They were crudely made, but not badly shaped.
“I make them from scrap aluminum,” Em said. “They’re light. Cheap, so I can sell them cheap. They still look good enough to wear.” Her chin jutted out defiantly, as if she expected criticism; then she went on quickly. “Each one is a different design. People can afford to buy two pairs. You want two pairs? Three euros for one, five euros for two pairs.” Em focused her gaze on the refrigerator. “You have any milk?”
Jana took a carton of milk out. “It will be cold.”
“Warm it,” demanded the girl.
“Please?” Jana suggested.
“Okay, I don’t need the milk,” Em concluded, stiffening up, challenging Jana.
Jana opened the refrigerator, ready to put the milk carton back.
“Please,” Em said through gritted teeth, wanting the milk more than getting her own way.
Jana closed the refrigerator, rummaged around until she found another small pot, then poured milk into it, setting it on a lit burner.
“You have no money?” Jana guessed. “No place to go?”
“I have a place,” Em asserted. “They just want money for staying. Maybe I can borrow some from you?”
“You would never pay me back.”
Em thought about it. “That’s true. I need all I can get, so there’s no way I can pay you back.”
Jana eyed the girl. “Your clothes are wet. You need to take them off.”
“Why?”
“To get more comfortable. So you don’t die of pneumonia.”
“I don’t know you well enough to take my clothes off.”
Jana thought about it, then made a decision. “I have clothes that belonged to my daughter. In the small bedroom.” She pointed toward the bedroom door. “Go into the closet. They’re there. Pick what you want that fits and put them on.”
The girl hesitated, not sure what to do. “They’re your daughter’s.”
“She died.” Jana generally hated to say those words, and she wondered as she said them why they came so easily this time. “The clothes that you put on will be much better than the ones you’re wearing. It’s a good trade.”
Em thought about it, then nodded her agreement. “Okay.”
“Take a hot bath first.”
“You saying I’m dirty?”
“Wet. And dirty.”
Em glared at her, her mouth tight. Jana shrugged, sipping the last of her soup. “You’re selling earrings. This means you’re a businessperson. It’d be good business to take the bath. Remember, you get new, dry clothes afterward.” Jana pointed firmly in the direction of the bathroom.
&
nbsp; Still looking as if she’d been insulted, Em got out of her chair and stalked down the hall to the bathroom. Jana waited another minute for the milk to warm, then poured it into a large glass, took a box of cookies out of a cabinet, opened it, and carried the cookies and milk to the bathroom. The door was open; there was no bath running. Jana felt a small surge of annoyance. The girl had not listened, had obviously headed straight for the new clothes. Jana stalked into the small bedroom. Em was on the bed, still wrapped in the blanket, breathing evenly, dead to the world. The girl suddenly seemed strikingly vulnerable, looking very much like the at-risk child she was.
Jana pulled the feather comforter from its place at the foot of the bed and slid it over Em. She took a last look at the girl, then turned off the light, leaving the room. Em could take her bath in the morning.
Jana sat back down on the couch in the living room and picked up the file on the young gypsy man.
The file was not very thick. Most police files sum up people’s lives quickly, giving individuality short shrift. Only things related to the crime are put in the report; everything else is incidental. The dead youth had been seventeen, recently enrolled in a trade school hoping to become a computer technician. Everyone wants to work on computers now, Jana thought, even the gypsies. His mother and father reported that he would have a drink every so often, but just with his friends, on special occasions, and he never drank heavily. Jana went to the coroner’s report briefly. The young man had been drinking at the time of death, and according to the toxicology report his blood alcohol indicated that he would have been very drunk. Not good when you’re carrying a loaded shotgun.
If his mother and father were wrong about him never drinking heavily, what else were they wrong about? Listed among the items found on his person was a small aspirin tin containing five acetaminophen/codeine tablets. Jana went back to the toxicology report. The coroner’s office had not run a test for any toxins other than alcohol. One of the technicians, or perhaps the autopsy surgeon himself, had decided to save time and money on an investigation that looked run-of-the-mill by ignoring the possibility that more testing needed to be done. Why had the young man been using painkillers? Jana went over the medical report again. This time she focused on the full-body diagram, on which the coroner had made notes.
Requiem for a Gypsy Page 5