Dog Who Bit a Policeman

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  A dozen or so people watched the ambulance pull away. One of the watchers was having his pocket picked by a gypsy. The gypsy tucked the man’s wallet into his pocket and started across the street toward the railway station.

  Down the street the man who had released the dog was getting into a parked car. Rostnikov could not make out the car’s license.

  Rostnikov considered letting the gypsy go. Rostnikov had a great deal to take care of, but if he let the gypsy escape, the crime would twist inside him. It would take weeks to go away. It had happened before.

  Slowly, Rostnikov crossed the street, carefully waiting for traffic to pass.

  Meanwhile, in the room he had shared with Elena, Sasha sat dressed and ready for the knock that came on his door. Cup of coffee in hand, he moved across the room and found himself facing Peter Nimitsov and Boris Osipov. Illya Skatesholkov was absent.

  There was a very good reason why Illya was not there. He was dead. Illya had made a decision on his own not to send Bronson into the hotel elevator to kill the woman. He didn’t want to risk the animal getting killed. It didn’t take their best dog to do the job. Illya didn’t intend to tell Peter what he had done.

  Immediately after the attack Illya had returned the dog to the kennel and gone to Peter Nimitsov’s office to report that the policewoman was dead.

  “And Bronson?” Peter had asked.

  “Fine,” Illya had answered.

  “Because,” said Peter, “he was never at risk. I told you to send Bronson to do the job.”

  “I … the woman is dead. Romulus did the job.”

  “It is not a question of whether she is dead or not. It is a question of doing what you are told. This will be only a start. You will keep doing things like this. It is inevitable. History, Illya. Our history. Nicholas let Rasputin destroy the Russian Empire. Peter, my namesake, more than two hundred and fifty years ago was advised to move the capital from Moscow to St. Petersburg. But Moscow has remained the heart, the brain of Russia. If Russia is to survive, Moscow must live. The first Russian university was founded here, the first Russian newspaper published here. It is here the working people have first risen up against oppression for more than eight centuries. Did you know that Moscow University was the center of the Decembrist movement?”

  “No,” said Illya.

  Peter was pacing and Illya was mute and confused. Did this young man with the white scar across his nose want to, really expect to be the leader of a new Russia? And what kind of leader? A new monarchist or the focus of a new uprising led by the working people of Moscow? It seemed to change almost daily.

  “No … never again,” said Peter. “The essence of my success is complete loyalty and obedience. Czars have fallen because of disobedience. It will not happen to me.”

  Illya had looked at Boris, who stood off to the side. It had been clear from the look on Boris’s face that he had no intention of intervening.

  “I was going to kill you, Illya,” Peter had said. “But we’ve been together so long I didn’t have the heart. So I decided Boris should do it.”

  “No,” Illya pleaded. “It was just …”

  “All right, all right. Don’t weep. I’ve changed my mind,” Peter had said.

  Illya had just started to look relieved when Peter took out his gun. “I will kill you.”

  With that, Peter Nimitsov had fired four times, and Illya Skatesholkov had died.

  Now, his gun replaced by a fresh one and the old one dropped into the river, Peter Nimitsov stood at the door of the hotel room registered in the name of Dmitri Kolk of Kiev.

  “May we come in, Dmitri?” asked Nimitsov, standing with Boris in the doorway.

  Sasha stepped back to let them enter. They did, and the young criminal entrepreneur looked around the room while Sasha closed the door.

  Nimitsov was dressed in a neatly pressed dark suit and a conservative silk tie. Boris wore the same suit he had worn the night before. An attempt had been made to press or iron it, but the job had been bungled. Sasha wondered if Boris had a wife or mother.

  Peter sat in a chair after examining it to be sure there was no dust or dirt on it. Boris stood. Boris tried not to show it, but he glanced from time to time at Peter Nimitsov with a look of fear that Sasha noted.

  “Would you like some coffee? Tea?” Sasha asked.

  Peter crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “No, thank you,” he said. “Did you see that your Segei Bubka had won another world title?”

  “Yes,” said Sasha.

  Bubka was the Ukrainian pole-vaulter who had won seven world titles and Olympic gold medals. He was a national hero.

  “Did you know that Lyuba Polikarpova is dead?”

  “I know,” said Sasha, moving to the table to pour himself more coffee. “I could never remember her last name. Then, of course, I knew her only a short time.”

  “She was killed by a dog in the elevator of this hotel,” Peter said, watching Sasha, who took a sip of coffee.

  “A dog?” said Sasha. “The man at the desk told me she was attacked, but he didn’t say whether it was by a human or animal. I had assumed it was a human animal—thief, rapist, madman.”

  “And?” asked Nimitsov.

  “And what?” asked Sasha. “It was a dog attack, a very flamboyant one, and I assume you were responsible, that you were sending a message to me. Tell me, what is the message?”

  “She was a police officer,” said Nimitsov.

  Sasha scratched an itch on his cheek and said, “I had considered that possibility myself. There was something about her—the way she watched me, how badly she performed in bed, several things. You’re sure? I could never find any definite proof.”

  “Yes,” said Nimitsov. “I am sure.”

  “I’ll have to find some other woman to amuse me,” said Sasha, sitting. “Perhaps the woman from the other night.”

  “Tatyana,” Peter Nimitsov said.

  “Yes.”

  “It can be arranged,” said Peter. “Right, Boris?”

  “It can be arranged,” said Boris.

  “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” asked Sasha.

  Nimitsov stared at Sasha, who waited patiently and drank his coffee. “Tonight,” he finally said, “I want your dog ready. I want a good fight before Bronson kills him.”

  “Tchaikovsky will not lose,” said Sasha.

  “He will lose,” said Nimitsov. “Or you will die. Many people are betting on your dog. The odds are going down. Overfeed your animal. Give him a drug, nothing too strong. I want a decent fight, with Bronson having just the edge he needs to insure his victory. There will be people there I wish to impress, people you will wish to impress. These people have heard about Bronson. They do not know your dog.”

  “You don’t think your dog can win without help?” asked Sasha.

  “I don’t wish to take a chance,” said Nimitsov, a smile suddenly appearing on his baby face. “I intend to make a great deal of money tonight, and much more in the future with the help of these people I have mentioned. I can arrange for you to place a very large bet that will give you plenty of money to buy a new dog anywhere in the world. Besides, you have other dogs.”

  “None as good as Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha, trying to contain himself.

  “It cannot be helped,” said Nimitsov, rising.

  “A good fight and a dead pit bull. I’m more interested in our progress in getting me and my animals into the syndicate,” said Sasha, reaching over to put down the coffee cup.

  “We will make arrangements before the fight,” said Nimitsov, moving toward the door. “We will discuss our future before the fight.”

  “What about now?” asked Sasha.

  Nimitsov simply shook his head.

  “Then tonight, before the fight,” Sasha said. “I am not losing my best dog without assurance that the sacrifice will be worth it.”

  “You’ll make a great deal of money tonight,” Nimitsov said.

  “I want a
future with a great deal more than I can make in one night. My dog doesn’t fight and die till we talk and I get some information from you.”

  “Dmitri,” Nimitsov said, shaking his head and touching the scar across his nose. “I could kill you here and now. I would enjoy doing it. I have not yet decided whether I like you or not.”

  “We will have a deal tonight before the fight,” Sasha repeated, folding his arms in front of him. “Or I will take my animals and go back to Kiev.”

  “I’ve decided. I don’t like you,” said Nimitsov, “but I would be doing just as you are if I were in your position. All right.”

  “What about the police?” asked Sasha. He had almost forgotten this part, which Rostnikov had said was essential. Without it, Nimitsov might wonder why he was not more curious about the fact that a police officer had been not only watching him but sleeping with him.

  “We will take care of that,” said Nimitsov. “Now don’t say another word. I am not in my best mood and I do not like demands. Boris will be back to pick you up at eight. We will have dinner. You will get your dog and we will go to the arena.”

  Sasha knew he had gone as far as he could go. He sensed that the young man in the rumpled suit was on the verge of a violent explosion.

  The two visitors left.

  When the door closed, Sasha groped his way back to the chair. His hands were trembling. Maybe, he thought, his mother, Lydia, was right, that he had a family, that he should get out of this before he was killed. He knew he wouldn’t quit, but the thought had come quickly and seriously to him. He could not stop his hands from shaking.

  Chapter Ten

  ELENA SAT UP IN ONE of the two hospital beds in a small room off of Leon’s office. The room was reserved for patients Leon did not believe would be best served in a hospital.

  In this case, however, the request to keep Elena in the private room came from Porfiry Petrovich, who stood next to the bed, looking down.

  Elena’s injury was ugly but was not nearly as bad as it appeared at first glance. The teeth bites were deep but they were in the fleshy part of her shoulder. No muscles had been torn or ripped, though the dog’s teeth had gone deeply in. The blood had been easy to stop and the wounds had required surprisingly little suturing.

  “I can,” Leon had said, “arrange for rabies injections.”

  On this Rostnikov deferred to Elena, who wore a clean but not becoming white hospital gown.

  “No,” she said. “I saw the dog that attacked me, at the arena. I don’t see how he could be rabid.”

  “It is a risk,” said Leon, looking at her bandaged and taped shoulder, her arm in a sling.

  “A small one,” said Elena.

  “A risk,” Leon repeated.

  “I do not believe the dog was rabid,” she repeated.

  “Nor do I,” said Rostnikov. “I have dealt with rabid animals before. They were wild, could not be stopped in their attacks. They looked mad except in the earliest stages. This dog did not appear to be rabid. However, I believe I may be able to get the dog tonight.”

  “Well,” said Leon. “It is your life. I will give you an address and a name where you can take the dog for testing.”

  “I will ask Paulinin,” said Rostnikov. “You know him.”

  “Yes,” said Leon. “I’ll leave you. I have patients. I’d say you can leave this afternoon, but sit still, take the pills, and be back tomorrow for me to look at the wound.”

  “Can she stay overnight?” Rostnikov asked. “I would prefer that no risk be taken that she might be seen.”

  “Overnight,” Leon agreed. “No longer, please.”

  With that, Leon went back to his other patients and Rostnikov turned to Elena.

  “I’ll tell Anna Timofeyeva,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Elena.

  “You want a book to read?” asked Rostnikov, pulling the Ed McBain novel from his back pocket.

  “Maybe later,” she said, looking at the window. “I could have been killed. I would have been killed if you …”

  “But I was,” he said. “May I sit?”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  Rostnikov sat with a sigh of relief. He had examined his trousers, which were torn beyond repair, but he did not have time to take care of them. Perhaps he could stop at home for another pair, not that he had that many, before heading for Petrovka. He sat quietly.

  “You want to check on Sasha,” she said.

  “In a little while.”

  “I think I should like to get some sleep now,” Elena said. “The pills, the … I’ll be better with a little sleep.”

  “You want a medal?” asked Rostnikov. “I can get you one.”

  “For being attacked by a dog and surviving?”

  “Medals are easy to come by and there are still those who respect them.”

  “Not Anna Timofeyeva,” said Elena.

  Rostnikov agreed. “There was a policeman I worked with when I was a young man,” he said. “He was older than I was, funny, totally corrupt. I learned from his example how not to behave and think. His name was Ivanov. Big man, bad teeth, very bad teeth, laughed a lot when we were alone, uniform was always too tight. One day, winter, he went off on his own, told me to wait at a kvass stand while he met with an informant who didn’t want anyone else to know who he was. I stood shivering. Then I heard shouting and a gunshot. I hurried as quickly as my leg would allow into the building where Ivanov had gone. I found him lying in an open courtyard used by the building tenants as a garbage dump. He had slipped on a patch of ice. His gun had accidentally discharged.

  “I called for an ambulance. Ivanov was in pain. He had shot himself through the shoe and blown off the big toe on his right foot. His shoulder was separated and he had a concussion, and there was much blood from the laceration of his scalp where he had hit the sharp insides of a broken old radio. He was bleeding from both ends.

  “Ivanov was given a medal. A general who had served in the war against the Nazis came to the hospital to present the medal. Ivanov said he had seen a known criminal enter the building and that he, Ivanov, had been ambushed. Pictures were taken of the wounded policeman. The unnecessarily large white bandage that covered Ivanov’s head was a banner over his brave smile. Ivanov told me when we were alone that he had entered the building to pick up a regular payoff from a black-market dealer in electrical goods. I was disciplined for not backing up my mentor in spite of the fact that he had ordered me to stay in the street drinking kvass.

  “A few days later, a petty thief was shot down by another policeman, a friend of Ivanov, who identified the dead man as the one who had ambushed him. Ivanov’s friend also got a medal.

  “Now a hero, Ivanov, when released from the hospital, was promoted and insisted on working with his equally heroic, medal-winning friend who had courageously confronted and killed the enemy of the state.

  “Ivanov and his friend appeared at public events, particularly when a police officer was honored. Ivanov and his friend were transferred to the Ministry of the Interior and eventually to the personal protective staff of the minister himself. Ivanov’s friend eventually became minister, and Ivanov was retired with a generous pension after years of additional corruption on a much grander scale than when I had worked with him. He asked me once if I wanted a medal. He was in a position then to give them himself. I politely said no. So, Elena, you want a medal?”

  “Politely,” she said, closing her eyes. “No.”

  If she was not asleep in the next few seconds, she soon would be. She had pulled the thin blanket up to her neck and was holding the fringe loosely. She looked like a very young child.

  “Stay awake a moment longer,” he said. “There is someone I want you to meet. The person who told me that you were to be attacked.”

  Elena opened her eyes and watched Rostnikov cross the room, open the door, and motion to someone in the small waiting room. He held the door open, and Elena, fighting sleep, looked up at the blond girl who had been with Boris the ni
ght before. She was wearing a simple blue dress with a wide black patent-leather belt. The young woman approached the bed. Rostnikov remained at the door.

  “They say you will be fine,” the young woman said, standing next to Elena’s bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell Inspector Rostnikov sooner.”

  “You saved my life,” said Elena, taking the woman’s hand with her good one.

  “I must go,” the young woman said, smiling and backing away from the bed.

  “Your name,” said Elena, now fighting sleep.

  “Svetlana,” the young woman said. “Sleep.”

  Svetlana left the room, closing the door, and Rostnikov moved to Elena’s bedside.

  “Yaklovev is her uncle,” said Rostnikov. “She is very valuable to him, and to us. Also, I like her.”

  “So … do … I,” Elena managed to say as she was falling asleep. “I have reason to.”

  “Rest,” said Rostnikov, who touched the bed and went through the door in search of a phone and Leon.

  The small reception room with three comfortable chairs and a desk was empty. Leon had a part-time receptionist/nurse, but Rostnikov had not seen her today.

  The phone was on the desk. He reached for it and saw Leon’s appointment book open to today. As he placed his call, Rostnikov glanced at the appointment book and read the upside-down name: Sarah. No last name.

  Rostnikov got his call through and discovered from the man he had left at the hotel that Sasha was fine, that the plan had worked, and that the meeting was set for tonight before the scheduled battle of the dogs. Sasha had managed to give the man that much information and no more.

  Porfiry Petrovich’s plan had been to return to Petrovka. There was much to do, much to learn. It was early, but days had a discomforting way of being over just as they seemed to be beginning. Rostnikov sat in one of the chairs. Normally, he would have read the novel he brought with him, but he had left it with Elena.

  He adjusted his leg, rested on the arms of the chair, and fell asleep. He was awakened moments later by the sound of a door opening and the sight of Leon ushering out a very well dressed woman in her forties. She looked as if she had just stepped out of one of the new salons after visiting a tasteful but expensive clothing shop.