In the Name of a Killer (The Cowley and Danilov Thrillers)

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Back off, Barry!’ warned Baxter.

  ‘Why don’t you do that, Barry?’ demanded Danilov, and wished he hadn’t attempted the tough-guy mockery.

  Barry stood reluctantly aside, face aflame. He was having difficulty in controlling his hands. ‘Wait!’ he hissed, lips tighter than ever. ‘Just wait!’

  Danilov walked easily by, emboldened by Pavin’s presence behind: relieved, too, that his assistant did not speak until they got down to street level.

  ‘What happened back there?’ said Pavin.

  ‘They were upset,’ said Danilov. He knew the American had wanted to hit him: he felt lucky the whole stupid episode hadn’t ended in a brawl.

  Danilov expected a protest gesture, but not what Novikov staged at the pathology division. From Novikov’s office he was directed downstairs where an attendant further guided him to the examination theatre. The smell when he got there – a collision of formaldehyde and disinfectant and stale human body waste – clogged in his throat; it was even worse when he pushed through the door, to enter. Novikov wore a stained gown and a cotton protective hat which made him look hairless. He stood at the sink, washing his hands, a mask pushed down around his throat. A sheet, also stained, covered the body of Ann Harris.

  ‘I was sure you wouldn’t mind coming here,’ said the pathologist, without any tone of apology. ‘I realized from your having Lapinsk intercede that it was incredibly urgent so I knew you wouldn’t want to wait upstairs. You could have asked me yourself, of course.’

  Novikov was a large, fleshy man, bulbous-nosed and thick-lipped. His hands were large, the fingers sausage-like. He didn’t even look like a surgeon, Danilov thought: surgeons should have delicate, tender hands. He supposed it wasn’t necessary to be tender with a dead body. He said: ‘I don’t mind at all,’ which wasn’t true.

  ‘Some people haven’t got the stomach for dissecting rooms.’

  Fuck you, decided Danilov. ‘I said I don’t mind.’ Coming through the door he’d had to swallow against the smell: he wanted to do so again but didn’t.

  ‘Tough policeman, eh?’

  ‘I need the preliminary report.’ He didn’t want to spar and score debating points. He wanted to learn things that might help him trap a madman. And get out as quickly as he could, away from the smell and away from this man who had hands like a butcher.

  ‘I suppose senior colonels get all the most important cases.’

  Danilov waited. His stomach felt loose. He made himself go further into the room, closer to the covered body. One foot protruded from beneath the sheet: she’d painted her toe-nails a pale pink. Danilov liked the colour. Larissa painted her nails sometimes: Olga never did. Olga even forgot to cut them.

  Novikov spent a long time drying his hands and took off the protective hat, releasing a fall of lank hair, before he spoke. ‘White female Caucasian, aged between twenty-five and thirty. Weight, 54 kilos. Brown eyes. Black hair. Cause of death a puncture wound, from the rear, between the eighth and ninth ribs, under the scapula. Clean entry, with no bone contact. The weapon entered from the right side, through the intercostal muscle and lung, severing the aorta before penetrating the heart. There were superficial wounds to the head, which did not contribute to the cause of death …’ He paused. ‘I’m not going too fast: you’re managing to assimilate all this?’

  ‘I’m managing.’ Danilov almost retched after just two words.

  The pathologist smiled, as if he realized. ‘No organic disease. Appendicectomy scar, lower right abdomen. As I told your man at the scene, it’s difficult to establish a precise time of death: I’d estimate between eleven and one o’clock. How’s that?’ He smiled again.

  It was inadequate to the point of being absurd: the bastard was forcing him to stay in the room and ask questions. ‘Depth of the wound?’

  ‘Nineteen and a half centimetres.’

  ‘Blunt or sharp instrument?’

  ‘I said a clean entry.’

  ‘Pointed then?’

  ‘What else could it be?’ Novikov smiled, a magician arriving at his best trick. ‘Why not see for yourself?’

  The sheet came back with a flourish. Ann Harris lay on her back. The rigor had left the body, which had a wax-like sheen and like wax appeared to be melting, bubbled and flaccid. Only the snarl remained, more horrifying than before. Novikov had examined like a butcher. The body incision, from neck to crotch, was carelessly jagged, the subsequent stitching uneven. Nothing had been swabbed clean, after being sealed.

  ‘You’ll have to help me turn her over.’

  ‘Cover her,’ said Danilov, tightly, not looking. When was the mutilation of Ann Harris going to stop?

  ‘I thought you wanted to see?’

  ‘Cover her.’ Strangely, Danilov’s stomach was settling, despite Novikov’s charade. When the pathologist didn’t move, Danilov himself pulled the sheet back over the disfigured corpse. Even-voiced he said: ‘So it was a tapered wound?’

  Novikov’s disappointment was visibly obvious, a vein pumping in the man’s right temple. ‘It was a tapered wound,’ he agreed.

  ‘Width, at the point of entry?’

  ‘Five centimetres.’

  ‘Thickness?’

  ‘Five millimetres, at its thickest: the back of the knife.’

  The other man shifted, with apparent impatience, and Danilov thought, your game, you bastard: now you stay and play it. ‘Any surface tearing of the skin at the point of entry?’

  ‘Why didn’t you look for yourself?’

  ‘Any surface tearing of the skin?’

  ‘I said it was clean!’

  ‘A sharp knife then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Especially sharp?’

  ‘How can I answer that?’

  ‘By telling me if there was any fractional indentation of the skin immediately around the wound.’

  ‘There wasn’t.’

  ‘Which would indicate the knife being especially sharp?’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption.’

  ‘Any indication that the knife blade was serrated?’

  ‘Smooth-bladed. No serration.’

  ‘It could have been a kitchen knife?’

  ‘It could have been.’

  ‘Anything to show a struggle?’

  ‘I told your man last night.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘There was bruising to the left thigh and buttock. It was postmortem lividity: that means it occurred after death.’

  ‘I know what it means. What about fingernail scrapings?’

  ‘Nothing. Death was practically instantaneous.’

  ‘Sexual assault?’

  ‘None.’ Novikov hesitated, then said: ‘But there had been recent sexual intercourse.’

  Danilov sighed, exasperated. ‘Which you haven’t thought important enough to tell me until now?’

  ‘It would have been in my complete, written report.’

  ‘I don’t want to wait until your complete, written report!’ The obstructiveness was back-firing, making the man himself appear incompetent: Danilov wished there had been others to witness it, like before.

  ‘There was semen, in the vagina.’

  ‘Sufficient for blood grouping?’

  Novikov nodded. ‘B. Rhesus Negative.’

  The most common, Danilov reflected, bitterly. ‘What was her group?’

  ‘B again. But Rhesus Positive.’

  ‘Why are you sure it couldn’t have been rape?’

  ‘Rapists don’t replace tights and knickers. She was properly dressed. There was no vaginal bruising.’

  ‘Was there bruising around the wound?’

  ‘Very slight.’

  ‘Was it a stab? Or was the knife driven in?’

  ‘Driven in.’

  Abruptly, again, Danilov realized a further important omission. He gestured to the covered body. ‘You didn’t say how tall she was.’

  ‘One point six five metres.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me t
he direction of the wound. Was it upwards? Downwards? What?’ The pathologist swallowed and Danilov doubted the man had properly checked.

  ‘Across, from right to left: slightly upwards, perhaps.’

  ‘So the killer could be approximately the same height? Or slightly smaller. If he were taller it would have a downward direction, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It didn’t come into any contact with bone?’

  ‘I already told you that.’

  ‘How difficult is it to thrust a knife into someone and get cleanly between the ribs?’

  Novikov considered the question. ‘Someone did it: she’s dead.’

  ‘Help me!’ demanded Danilov, exasperated. ‘You know the problem! You did the first autopsy!’

  Novikov smiled, pleased at the other man’s outburst. ‘There’s usually some bone contact.’

  ‘There wasn’t last time: there hasn’t been now. So could it be someone who has medical knowledge?’

  The pathologist shook his head. ‘I can’t help you. On a darkened street, presumably walking, it would be incredibly difficult for anyone even with medical knowledge to avoid any bone contact.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That missing any bone was a fluke: that you shouldn’t attach undue significance to it.’

  Danilov decided he couldn’t ignore it, either. A wash of fatigue, a recurrence of that morning’s tiredness, swept over him. He began to put out his hand, to support himself against the dissecting table upon which the sheeted body lay, but stopped when he realized what he was about to do. ‘When can I have your written report?’

  ‘A day or two,’ the pathologist dismissed.

  Danilov was suddenly furious at the other man’s posturing. ‘What reason did Lapinsk give for wanting the autopsy today?’

  ‘Just that it was urgent.’

  ‘She’s an American,’ Danilov disclosed. ‘The niece of an important politician in the United States. People in the White House here and in America are going to be watching this.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the other man, the obstructive arrogance fading.

  ‘I want the report by tomorrow,’ demanded Danilov. ‘Two. The Americans will want their own copy.’ He looked at the covered body, then back to Novikov. ‘They’ll see the way you carried out the autopsy when the body is released.’

  The pathologist made as if to speak, to argue, but didn’t. Instead, after a pause, he said, dry-throated: ‘I’ll make two copies.’

  ‘Is there anything you haven’t told me? Something that’s going to be in your written report that I should know now?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Danilov held out his hand. ‘I need her fingerprints.’

  Novikov’s throat moved. ‘They’ll come with the report.’

  So he hadn’t taken them yet. ‘Don’t forget anything else, will you?’

  ‘But it’s been almost a fortnight,’ Larissa protested. He’d reached her from a street kiosk.

  ‘This is different: unusual.’ He hadn’t given her any details, just that it was a murder.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ He thought she might have asked about an unusual murder.

  ‘You don’t sound very interested.’

  ‘You know that’s not true! And I don’t want to argue.’

  ‘I want to see you!’

  ‘I really will try tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t let me down.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Danilov. I hope, he thought. Or did he?

  There are four psychiatric clinics in Moscow. The best known is the Serbsky Institute for Forensic Psychiatry, in Kropotkinskii Street: during the oppressive, population-controlling era before the second Russian revolution, it was the place in which the KGB detained political dissidents, claiming they suffered paranoid schizophrenia.

  Major Yuri Pavin personally led the record-searching team on its first visit, to explain their needs to the white-coated principal. The man was shaking his head before Pavin finished talking.

  ‘It would need a computer to do a thorough search,’ the psychiatrist protested.

  ‘Your records aren’t computerized?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long could a physical search take?’

  ‘Months, to be completed properly.’

  Pavin looked to the other two detectives with him: both were already frowning at the potential task ahead of them. The search wouldn’t be conducted properly, Pavin knew: here or anywhere else.

  Chapter Five

  Power in Washington is layered, and those layers are divided again, between publicly known influence and private, behind-the-scenes importance. Senator Walter Burden, who did not welcome the political cartoonists’ impression of him as a living version of Kentucky Fried Chicken’s Colonel Sanders, although the physical similarity was remarkable, enjoyed both. And expertly used both, to the public and private promotion of Senator Walter Burden. One day – a day of his choosing – he intended to occupy the White House. Which some pundits considered inevitable. And which was why, within twenty-four hours of the alert from Moscow, a conference was convened by Secretary of State Henry Hartz with the Directors of both the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Hartz’s seventh-floor office at the State Department, in that incongruously named part of the city called Foggy Bottom.

  Hartz, who but for his German birth, which constitutionally precluded his seeking the office, considered himself a Presidential candidate, stood at the window overlooking the unseen, sunken memorial to the Vietnam war dead, his mind completely occupied by the news from Russia. Even before a moment’s examination of all the implications, it was obviously going to be hell: sheer and utter hell. Which worried him. Denied his presidential aspirations by the mischance of his birthplace, Hartz believed he had achieved the next best thing. His periods as Secretary of State had been times of unmarred diplomatic success, properly acknowledged by the incoming President who had asked him to remain in office, after succeeding the previous White House incumbent. Hartz had seen the request continuing under Burden. Ahead of any discussion of additional information from Moscow, he knew that expectation could be jeopardized if Burden were not handled like the prima donna he was. Hell, Hartz decided again.

  The intercom warned him of the arrival of the two Directors and Hartz was at the door when they entered. Richard Holmes, head of the CIA, was a tall, dark-haired man with a sun-bed tan and the attitude of think-twice caution of a Washington survivor. He neither smoked nor drank and had been an intelligence professional all his life. There were outstanding offers, all in excess of $1,000,000, from three New York publishing houses for his memoirs. Holmes was a happy, contented man.

  He entered ahead of the FBI chief. Leonard Ross had believed his political ambitions fulfilled the previous year with his appointment to head of the Bureau. But no longer. In just one year he had become first disillusioned and then sickened by the shadow-watching political intrigue of the capital until now he yearned to return to the New York State bench where he had served with distinction as its senior judge.

  There were handshakes and greetings and Hartz led the group towards the couches and easy chairs in that corner of the office furthest from the windows and their hotchpotch view. Hartz said: ‘I thought we might benefit from some conversation ahead of Burden getting here.’

  ‘How’s he taking it?’ asked Holmes. He was pleased with the Agency’s legal advice that there was no way the CIA could become involved. He’d already wired the Moscow station to stay clear.

  ‘Predictably,’ said Hartz. ‘He’s already phoned our ambassador in Moscow direct. Asked me what the President was doing about it. He’s demanding investigation, from both of you. Actually told me he wants the bastard – his word – who did it brought back for trial in this country.’

  The FBI Director shook his head in cynical bemusement. Washington at its best – or worst – he thought. ‘He can forget it.’

  Apprehe
nsion settled heavily on Hartz. ‘What, precisely, is the legal guidance?’

  ‘The CIA doesn’t have any jurisdiction or authority,’ said Holmes, quickly. He wished the relief hadn’t sounded so obvious.

  ‘The Bureau has a criminal investigation capacity but again no jurisdiction or authority in the Russian Commonwealth,’ said Ross.

  ‘Burden expects there to be both.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what Burden expects,’ said Ross, who in addition to his disillusionment also had the financial independence to speak his mind. ‘I’m stating the legal reality.’

  ‘The Russians are behaving arrogantly,’ said Hartz. ‘I don’t think they should have entered her apartment as they did.’

  ‘What are you doing about that?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘There’s been a complaint, from the embassy. I’m calling the Russian ambassador here, to emphasize it.’

  ‘I don’t know the diplomatic protocol, but the Russians are investigating a murder,’ Ross pointed out, mildly.

  ‘You approve what they did?’ asked Hartz.

  ‘If the situation were reversed and it had happened here in Washington I wouldn’t have censored any of my people for doing the same. And there’s not a lot of practical purpose in complaining after the event, is there?’

  The desk buzzer gave another warning, but Senator Walter Burden was already through the door before the Secretary of State reached it for a personal welcome. Burden nodded in recognition to both Directors and said in advance of sitting down: ‘I want to know everything that’s happened! All the developments!’ The man was immaculate in a broad-striped suit and pink shirt: the tie and pocket handkerchief formed a matching combination. He sat on the edge of his seat, leaning towards them intently: for no obvious reason he put on heavy reading glasses. He nodded, as if giving everyone in the room permission to speak.