by William Ryan
There were more motorized vehicles here: green and cream city buses coughing clouds of black smoke as they pulled away from the curb; bustling red and white trams and a constant stream of mud-washed trucks; but theirs was one of the only cars to be seen. Forward planning was the key to achieving the economic development necessary for the Soviet Union to take its place among the great countries of the world. The cars would come in due course.
“We’ll outstrip America soon enough,” Korolev shouted above the engine as they passed yet another construction site where iron girders were sketching out a new building against the gray clouds overhead.
“I hear they’re going to build skyscrapers,” Semionov shouted back. “Bigger than the ones in New York, bigger even than the Empire State building itself. Comrade Stalin himself has approved the plans, and they’ll be twenty times the size of the Hotel Moskva.” He indicated the huge squat building with a dismissive nod. “And they’re going to move the buildings on rails, to widen the street. It will be as wide as a football pitch, if not wider. What could be wider? Perhaps it will be as wide as a football pitch is long. Anyway, the plans are well under way.”
“A football pitch? And they’ll move the buildings?” Korolev shook his head.
“On rails, like a tram. They’ll get on at one stop and get off at another. My friend told me, but it’s secret. Although everyone knows it, so it can’t be that much of a secret. Apparently our engineers have it all worked out.”
“The Soviet Union, Vanya. An example to the world,” Korolev said, and meant it, but he spared a thought for the poky streets and familiar buildings of his youth, now being pushed hither and thither if they were lucky, but more usually flattened into rubble and used to fill in the foundations of the new city. The Moscow he’d grown up in had been a place of secrets and smells, courtyards and alleys, corners and hideaways. The reconstruction, however, would be about size and space and grandeur, as it should be, but he sometimes wondered whether he, like the old Moscow, had a place in the new world Socialism was creating around him.
The further they drove away from the center of the city, however, the more the road narrowed and deteriorated—the surface holed and pitted by heavy trucks, and slippery with packed snow that had still not been properly cleared. The reconstruction hadn’t reached this far out as yet, and tottering tenements leaned against multi-domed churches, shabby with twenty years of neglect. Most of this neighborhood had been slated for demolition and some buildings had already disappeared, flattened to create a massive tunnelling site for one of the new Metro lines. A queue of young, mud-spattered workers were gathered outside underneath a banner that they had probably answered: KOMSOMOLETS, KOMSOMOLKA! HELP BUILD THE METRO! YOUR FUTURE NEEDS A GREAT RAILWAY! As they passed the queue, a heavy truck surged out of the site entrance, forcing Semionov to stamp hard on the brakes, the Ford’s tires slithering across unexpected ice before coming to a halt. The driver, looking as though he should still be at school, waved a good-natured apology as Semionov sounded the horn.
“We’re Militia!” Semionov shouted at the driver as the truck swept past them, but the young fellow just carried on waving. Semionov was still muttering to himself when they pulled up at the Institute five minutes later.
“I’m Komsomol as well, Alexei Dmitriyevich, and that just wasn’t good driving. I’m ashamed of him, if the truth be told. If I knew which cell he was from, I’d report him. He could have killed us and it wouldn’t have been my fault. Believe me.”
“I believe you, Vanya. Come on, let’s go and have a look at the body.”
The car parked, they entered the building with its familiar smell of disinfectant and damp and, as they approached the mortuary, they heard Larinin’s voice in loud discussion with Chestnova.
“I have important matters to attend to elsewhere today, Doctor. Make no excuses for delay. It can only be inefficiency on your part. That’s what we Party members must fight against. Inefficiency.”
As they opened the door, they saw Larinin emphasize his point by stabbing a fat finger at Chestnova. The two were of an even size and bulk, but Korolev’s money would be on Chestnova if it came to blows and, indeed, she was giving a good impression of an angry bull about to charge. In the background, Gueginov was smiling nervously and, from the slightly lopsided slant to his face, Korolev deduced that he’d been at the medical spirit again.
“What’s going on here, Larinin?” Korolev asked as they approached the two combatants. Larinin turned and then adjusted his eye line upward to take account of Korolev’s greater height.
“The doctor here doesn’t seem to be aware of the Militia’s priority when it comes to the performance of speedy autopsies, Comrade Korolev. I’ve a very important case—the general himself asked me to make sure it was dealt with immediately—and now the doctor is telling me I have to wait. The criminal could be making his escape as we speak, all because she hasn’t time to look at the victim. She’s sabotaging our efforts to do our work efficiently, Comrades. She’s a wrecker, if you ask me. I wonder what her class background is.” The last remark was made with a malevolent glare that would have terrified an ordinary person but seemed to have no effect on Dr. Chestnova, other than to irritate her still further.
“Listen, you barrel of lard,” Chestnova snarled at him, her breasts swinging forward as she approached him, close enough now for her to spray his face with saliva when she spoke. “I’ve told you I’ll deal with your corpse in twenty minutes. At present I have to finish an autopsy for the NKVD. Would you like me to tell the Lubianka that you believe the Militia takes precedence over them? I’m happy to do so.”
Larinin looked for a moment like a man who’d swallowed a hornet. He blinked twice and then looked to Korolev and Semionov for assistance. Korolev shrugged his shoulders with a flat smile, while Semionov was oblivious to the drama, his nose smearing the glass window of the autopsy room where the suicides were piled. Larinin scowled at them and then waved his hand at Chestnova in a dismissive gesture.
“Well, why didn’t you say so, Doctor, instead of wasting everyone’s time? Of course State Security takes priority. Comrade Stalin himself has made that clear on hundreds of occasions. Possibly thousands.”
“Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes, but you would only listen to the sound of your own voice. Drone, drone, drone. And who the hell are you to be casting aspersions around like your damned traffic tickets? Sherlock Holmes?”
Semionov gave an emphatically negative shake of his head at this suggestion.
“Comrades,” Korolev said loudly, “Remember the proverb: in any argument the wiser one’s to blame.”
Which comment left both Larinin and Chestnova momentarily confused, before each looked at the other with a certain smugness.
“As it happens, I need to see the body as well. Come on, Larinin, I need an update on the murder scene—let’s have a smoke outside. Your corpse isn’t going anywhere and it will give Comrade Chestnova time to attend to her other duties.”
It was freezing on the Institute steps, and their breath and the cigarette smoke were indistinguishable in the cold air. Larinin explained briefly that the body had been found, mutilated, on the terraces behind the goalposts at Tomsky stadium. The large number of tattoos indicated the dead man had been a Thief and there’d been two sets of footsteps leading to and from the body. That was it, as far as Larinin was concerned. Whatever had happened, had happened elsewhere and the body had been dumped. In Larinin’s view, a Thief had fallen foul of his fellows and good riddance. Korolev listened with as much patience as he could muster and then led the others back to the morgue.
Back inside the second autopsy room two attendants rolled a canvas body bag out onto the metal work surface without any ceremony. They quickly undid the cord that ran the length of the bag and peeled it open like a banana, revealing the gray corpse within and also letting out the damp smell of decay. The attendants expertly slipped the bag from under the body, assisted
by its stiffness, then left the room without a word. Semionov whistled.
“He must have really got on somebody’s tits, I’m telling you. Look at the poor fellow’s family jewels.”
It was true enough: the Thief’s face and body were battered and bloody from a beating and a smoke-circled hole in the middle of his forehead indicated the probable cause of death. Aside from the obvious violence of his last few hours, the dead man hadn’t had an easy life—hard living, violence and drink had left their marks. A bite-sized chunk was missing from his right ear, his nose looked as though it had been broken several times and his remaining teeth were yellow and uneven. But the reason for Semionov’s shock was the horrific damage inflicted to the fellow’s genitals. Korolev had to look away to collect himself before returning his gaze to the Thief.
The dead man’s face was broad and topped with brown hair that was cut short at the sides and allowed some length on top. Even now he looked imposing, his chest impressively wide and his arms, thick and muscled. But it was the tattoos covering his body that marked him out as a Thief as surely as if his police file were lying open on his chest; they gave almost as much information if you knew how to interpret them.
The door swung open behind him as one of the attendants returned.
“Here’s his bits, the poor lad,” the attendant said and deposited two glass jars containing the missing body parts at the corpse’s feet. The penis reminded Korolev of a discarded scrap of bread dough.
“It makes you feel ill,” Semionov said, and it was true that his pallor had a greenish tinge. Korolev, who was still fighting to keep his own stomach down, had no sympathy to spare.
“So what have we got here?” Chestnova said, coming into the room and picking up one of the jars. She shook the testicle from side to side as she examined it against the light, “A testicle, by the look of things.” Then she looked up at Larinin. “More than one, if I’m not mistaken.” Larinin scowled back at her.
“Reckon it’s our killer, Doctor?” Korolev asked, hoping the question would distract Chestnova. He didn’t think he could watch a testicle being rattled in a jar for very long without disgracing himself.
The doctor looked down at the body and pressed the calf muscle with a speculative finger. “It could be. He’s in full rigor mortis, but it was cold last night. Where was he found?”
“On the terraces at Tomsky stadium, in the snow. It looks like he was dumped there.” Korolev noticed Semionov’s eyes following the jar in Chestnova’s hands as though it were a snake charmer’s flute.
“Hmm—well below zero last night. That makes it difficult to tell when he died. But there’s some decay, so it could be as much as twenty-four hours or even longer. Ah. Look here. Recognize these marks?”
Chestnova pointed out the burn marks around the groin and nipples that Korolev had spotted as soon as the body was laid out on the table.
“The same as the girl?” he asked.
“Made with the same instrument, I’d say. At first glance.” Chestnova leaned closer to examine the body. “Quite impressive tattoos, Captain, if I’m not mistaken.”
Korolev grunted his agreement. Blackish-blue inked pictures covered most of the man’s body—prison tattoos, etched out with a razor or a sewing needle, using ink made from coal dust and urine. Each image told a chapter in the Thief’s life or confirmed his position in the Thieves’ hierarchy; his criminal record, but told from the criminal’s perspective. Ironically, tattoos were often more reliable than Militia files. Policemen could be bribed and official records changed, but a Thief’s tattoos were written in stone—in a prison they were his calling card, and the first question he would be asked was whether he stood by his tattoos. An inaccurate tattoo, one that claimed a position or history that a Thief was not entitled to, would be burned or cut off by his fellows. If the incorrect tattoo was considered sufficiently offensive, the wrongdoer could pay for it with his life.
As Chestnova began to clean the body, the flow of water revealed more. The largest tattoo, an image of the crucifixion, spread across most of the corpse’s chest. A bearded Jesus stared down, the tangled crown of thorns embedded in his bloody hair and thick nails pinning his hands to the cross. It was beautifully done—each rib separately shaded, each tendon and muscle clearly defined. The pain in the Savior’s eyes seemed to reach out from the image and into Korolev’s very soul. A craftsman made this, thought Korolev to himself, and made the sign of the cross with his pocketed hand. The tattoo was a living icon, or at least had been, but it was also the insignia of a senior Thief, an authority in the prison system and on the streets. The tattoo itself was a mark of the man; it would have taken weeks for the tattooist to produce a tattoo of this size and detail, and each insertion of ink would have caused pain. It was no disgrace in the Thieves’ world to have an unfinished tattoo.
Beneath the Thief’s left nipple, just under Christ’s dangling fingers, Stalin’s profile stared sideways at a bloody red patch where the skin had been sliced away, behind him a similar patch bubbled raw. Korolev knew the tattoo and the reason it was worn, and that the missing profiles were of Lenin and Marx. He was curious that Stalin hadn’t been cut away, and wondered if it meant something.
The whole body was inked. On his left shoulder a skull was pierced by a crucifix, the crossbar of which supported weighing scales. It was a rare tattoo and meant that the dead man acted as a judge in the Thieves’ internal disputes. There was also a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on the man’s other shoulder, based on the icon of Our Lady of Kazan. The icon had a special significance for Thieves, although there was nothing strange in that, Korolov thought; known as Kazanskaya, it was venerated above all others by the Orthodox Church. There were other tattoos as well: the cat in the cavalier’s hat signifying the Thief’s happy-go-lucky approach to life; the sailing ship for a prisoner who’d tried to escape from jail; a knife entering the Thief’s skin, telling Korolev this man had killed for his clan—he’d been a charmer, this fellow.
“It muh-may be nothing. Buh-but the girl’s buh-body—it was luh-laid out in the same way as the cruh-crucifixion tuh-tattoo.” Gueginov pointed at the Thief’s chest and Korolev nodded, making a quick note, then began to check the dead man’s fingers. Two were missing, but had been for some time, probably due to gambling. A finger might settle a debt in the Zone if the loser couldn’t meet his obligations some other way. The remaining fingers were decorated with blue tattoos, drawn like signet rings.
“See, Vanya,” Korolev said to Semionov, “here’s his life story.” Korolev picked up the dead man’s left hand. “The eagle on the thumb tells us he’s an important thief, an ‘authority.’ See these two crosses in circles on the back of his hand? He’s been in prison twice, so we’ll have a file on him sure as I’m standing here. This one, on the forefinger, with the black and white diamond, means he refused to work in the Zone. The clubs and spades in the square beneath the domed monastery? Again that means he’s a senior Thief, to be respected, at least among his own kind. This one”—he pointed to a beetle with an orthodox cross on its back—“means he was convicted of robbery. The plain cross on the little finger means he did solitary confinement during his stretch. Well, if he refused to work, what did he expect?”
Semionov’s eyes were wide as he scribbled furiously in his notebook. Korolev picked up the other hand, the one with the missing fingers. He pointed to the ring tattoo on the forefinger—a square with lines criss-crossing it to represent prison bars. “This one is called ‘My fate is in big squares’—it means he’s destined to die in prison, looking at the sky through the bars of his cell. The church on the thumb tells you he was born a Thief, and the scarab beetle on the middle finger is his talisman, a lucky tattoo. It brought him good fortune, until now anyway.”
“I never saw such a thing before, the way he’s been cut up. To do this to one of their own? They’re savages. Devils.” Larinin seemed more puzzled than angry.
Korolev looked at Dr. Chestnova. She ignored him initially,
concentrating instead on hosing down the body, but then she looked up at him and nodded.
“The burn marks are so unusual—there must be a good chance it was the same man as the one who murdered the girl.” Her eyes were red with tiredness, but her hand was steady and the hose slowly revealed yet more hidden tattoos and scars, old and new, from underneath the caked blood. One of the tattoos linked the names Lena and Tesak in a heart surmounted with a cat’s head, a Thief couple. Now they had a name for the man, likely as not.
“Vanya,” Korolev said to Semionov, “look at this. See the two names in the heart and the cat’s head? The cat is the sign of the Thieves and the heart signifies a romantic relationship, as you might expect. As Lena is a woman’s name, logic would suggest that the dead fellow goes by ‘Tesak.’ That should make tracking his file down a little easier.”
A long hour later Korolev and Semionov sat against the bonnet of the Ford enjoying well-deserved cigarettes.
“Two autopsies in two days. I hope we catch this fellow soon,” Korolev muttered as Larinin came out to join them. “Well, Comrade Larinin, what do you think?”
“A dead Thief? We should be celebrating. That’s what I think.”
“Not a great loss to the Revolution, it’s true. Still, it looks like he was killed by the same person as yesterday’s girl, so the investigations will have to be combined. I’m going to take young Semionov out to the stadium in case anything was missed.”
“You’re wasting your time. He was dumped, as I said. There’s nothing to be seen out there.”
Korolev swallowed his irritation. If it had been up to him, he’d have had Chestnova visit the corpse where it had been found rather than just calling for it to be picked up. Larinin seemed to think their equal rank gave them equal investigative experience, but the fellow knew nothing.