Dog Who Bit a Policeman

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  The woman, well groomed but plain in spite of her makeup, smiled at Leon and thanked him.

  “It will be fine, Marianskaya,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the door next to Rostnikov.

  She looked down at the block of a man seated awkwardly and then allowed herself to be ushered out.

  “People like that pay the bills,” said Leon, turning to Rostnikov after he had closed the door.

  “You owe me no explanation,” said Rostnikov.

  “I know, but why is it that I feel I do?”

  “A little guilt?” asked Rostnikov, rubbing his face into a semblance of wakefulness.

  “Perhaps. Yes.”

  “You needn’t feel guilt, Leon,” said Rostnikov. “I know the good you do.”

  “Yes,” said Leon, sitting in the chair next to Rostnikov and unbuttoning his jacket. “But do I do the good things because I feel guilt for being able to live like this with the huge fees I get from the Marianskayas of Moscow, or do I do it because I am a saint?”

  “You are a saint,” Rostnikov said solemnly.

  Leon smiled.

  “I suppose it is my duty to accept beatification from a distinguished member of the government. I like you, Porfiry Petrovich.”

  “I am humbled and honored and I like you.”

  “I did not mean to be patronizing,” said Leon. “I’m tired. I have more rich patients coming, some with very little wrong with them, all who want a great deal of my time. I would rather be in my apartment through that door, playing Mozart or even Brahms. I am thinking of getting a harpsichord. Do you like the sound of a harpsichord?”

  “I prefer the piano,” said Rostnikov. “Harpsichords remind me of Russians in powdered wigs trying to act like Frenchmen.”

  They sat silently in the waiting room chairs for a few seconds and then Leon said, “You saw my appointment book.”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Did you mean me to do so?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Sarah is ill.”

  “She will tell you,” said Leon.

  “You tell me.”

  And Leon did, concluding, “I have never lied to Sarah, but I have sometimes not told the complete truth. It is what doctors must do.”

  “And policemen,” said Rostnikov.

  “The surgeon may have no trouble relieving the pressure on the brain, but the recent tests are troubling. We’re running more tests, but we have scheduled surgery for the day after tomorrow in the morning.”

  Rostnikov looked at the ceiling.

  “Sarah will be upset that I told you,” said Leon.

  “No,” said Rostnikov. “Relieved. Thank you, Leon.”

  “You are welcome, Porfiry Petrovich.”

  The two men rose.

  “It might be a good idea if you had different pants. Those have been badly shredded. I have several pairs of trousers from my late father-in-law,” said Leon. “I think they may fit you.”

  “Why not?” said the policeman. “Why not?”

  Paulinin had cleared off three tables in his laboratory, no easy task considering the amazing clutter. On one table lay the corpse of the recently murdered Chechin gangster. His hands were at his sides, and an open incision from the center of his ribs to his lower abdomen revealed a jumble of pinkish organs, intestines, and other body parts. On the second table lay the burned corpse from the roof of the apartment building on Kalinin. Its head was missing. On the third table were at least one hundred charred and partly burnt pieces of photographs, segments of cassette tape, and various items gathered by Paulinin from the hotel roof.

  Emil Karpo, Iosef Rostnikov, and Akardy Zelach stood watching attentively. Paulinin, they knew, had a passion for exhibiting his skill before small appreciative audiences. Paulinin stood between the two corpses. He wore a blue smock and white latex gloves.

  “There is still much to learn here,” he said. “It will take two or three days, maybe less. Had the corpses and this evidence been given to Pariatsok or Mendranov or any of the incompetents who call themselves pathologists and know nothing about careful examination and simple logic, they would have befouled the evidence, come to the wrong conclusions, and allowed the guilty to escape. That does not happen with Paulinin, who has been consigned to this room for two decades. What they do not know is that I am content here, though I could use more modern equipment.”

  None of the three detectives spoke or looked at each other. All three knew that those who knew of Paulinin and his laboratory also knew that he could be happy nowhere else.

  “This is definitely the German, Jurgen,” he began, pointing at the blackened, headless corpse. “Teeth, bone structure, size, small hair samples all coincide with his description. I will find more. I will prove it conclusively. You can continue to search for our German, but he will be found nowhere but here in front of you. He was drunk when he died. He was nude when he was burned. There are no signs of burnt clothing clinging to his bones. His skull was definitely cracked by a heavy wooden object brought down with great force, but that did not kill him. He was also stabbed in the neck, as I noted immediately upon examining the body. Now I know that the small slivers of wood in the skull and the others in the neck are from the same object, almost certainly one that broke upon striking the German’s head.

  “Paulinin has changed his mind about one early conclusion. It takes courage in this profession to admit a possible error, even if the error is rectified immediately. There is a definite possibility, perhaps even a likelihood, that the German, while he was killed by the stab wound, may not have been quite dead when his body was burned. Oh, he was certainly dying and would have died, even with immediate expert attention, which is not easy to come by in Moscow and impossible everywhere else in Russia.”

  “So,” said Iosef. “He was burned alive but he was dying?”

  Paulinin looked up with satisfaction. It was the question he’d been waiting for.

  “It is very possible. I’ll know more when I have finished my discussion with our headless friend. It would help if I could speak to him in German, but it is a language which I dislike.” He gently patted the scorched rib cage. “Now,” said Paulinin, “we bypass our second victim and go to the interesting pile of plastic bags.”

  Paulinin moved to the pile of bags and looked at the policemen lined up attentively.

  “I can salvage many of the photographs,” he said. “It takes time and delicacy, a skill those buffoons with all their equipment do not possess. I have already restored three of them to the point where the images can be seen with reasonable clarity. And I have begun carefully reclaiming pieces of tape, which I will put together onto a single reel and then copy.”

  “May we see the photographs?” asked Iosef with just the proper tone of respect.

  Paulinin nodded magnanimously and lifted three plastic envelopes. “I’ll hold. Don’t touch,” he said.

  Iosef and Zelach moved forward to examine the photographs. Emil Karpo remained where he was.

  Even through the blur from the dim lights, the images on the photographs were clear. Yevgeny Pleshkov was in explicit and rather uninventive sexual positions with Yulia Yalutshkin in two of the pictures. In the third, he was in bed with Yulia and another woman, a very young woman.

  “We will need everything as soon as possible,” said Iosef.

  “As soon as possible,” said Paulinin. “And I decide when that shall be.”

  “You’ve done an amazing job,” said Iosef.

  “Yes,” said Paulinin. “It is odd, but I do not like Germans any more than I like their language. My father was killed by them. Three of my uncles were killed by them. But when they are dead and on my table, they are not only forgiven, they become my friends and we talk. Death unites us.”

  All three men knew that Paulinin had frequently been heard speaking to corpses with great animation.

  “And now,” he said, “the big gangster.”

  He went behind the corpse of the dead Chechin, placed his gloved hands
on the table, and said, “Shot two times. Either would have been fatal. Very close range. The same gun that was used to shoot the Tatar in the river. Considering his wounds, the fact that he was capable of speaking to the guard who found him before he died indicates this man’s strength and the certainty that whoever shot him did so within a minute or two of his death. He too will tell me more. Perhaps he will even yield the name of the person who shot him.”

  Emil Karpo had listened attentively.

  Rostnikov, whom he had tried to locate before coming to the lab, could not be found. It was essential that he know about the murder of the Chechin before an all-out war began in the streets between the Chechins and the Tatars. It was not the lives of the gangsters about which Karpo was concerned. It was the innocents, always the innocents, who might well be the victims of the gangsters, notoriously poor shots.

  “Now,” said Paulinin, “I would like to be left to do more work.” He looked down protectively at the white corpse before him.

  “Thank you,” said Karpo. “Lunch tomorrow?”

  “I’ll bring it,” said Paulinin with a sincere smile.

  “No,” Karpo said, unwilling under any circumstance to eat anything Paulinin might make. He had frequently drunk weak tea prepared in this very lab, in specimen cups which may well have contained anything during their long lives. “It will be my treat, a sign of my great respect for your continued excellent work.”

  “In that case,” said Paulinin, beaming, “I accept. One o’clock?”

  “One o’clock,” Karpo confirmed as he turned and led the way for the other two detectives through the maze of tables, piles of jars, books, and pieces and bits of mechanisms of all types and many sizes.

  Iosef knew that somewhere in this museum of clutter his father’s leg floated in a huge jar. He was sure, should he ask, that Paulinin would be happy to show it to him. Iosef had no desire to see it.

  Before coming to Iosef’s laboratory for the demonstration, Emil Karpo had finished checking the newspaper clipping files—the computer had been of no help—for the information that would confirm his memory of the shoot-out. Karpo had found what he had been looking for. The clippings had not been misfiled. They had simply never been properly filed at all. Going through them required a knowledge of what you were looking for and when it might have taken place.

  One article contained the name he sought. It was mentioned but once. Karpo made a copy of the article, folded it neatly into his wallet.

  Now, knowing the identity of the killer, he would have to find Rostnikov.

  Yevgeny Pleshkov, the hope of Russia, the pride of Petrovar, could think of no place to hide and no one to go to. He had considered staying with Oleg, but the police had already been to Oleg and might be checking his apartment for the missing politician. Besides, Oleg had appeared greatly upset by the suggestion that his friend might stay with him. Yevgeny considered telling his friend that he knew of Oleg’s preference for men, had known it for years, probably even before Oleg knew, but if the man wanted to hold onto his image, Yevgeny was not one to pull it from him.

  “I have … visitors,” Oleg had said. “Other coaches, members of the team. It wouldn’t be safe.”

  Yulia had left Yevgeny in the park, where he sat on a bench watching some small children play and wondering if it was going to rain. He had money in his pocket but no desire for drink, women, or food.

  The children in the park were kicking a soccer ball. They were no more than four or five. The ball came to the seated Pleshkov, who made an effort to kick it back to the children without rising. The kick dribbled off the side of his right foot and rolled a few pathetic feet. One of the children, a boy wearing a shiny purple jacket, picked up the ball and gave the dirty man on the bench a look of disdain. Then the boy ran away shouting, “I’ve got it.”

  Years ago, actually not that many years ago, Yevgeny and Oleg had played side by side. Yevgeny was a striker. Oleg was a left-wing. Together they had set park league records, and Oleg had gone on to the professional ranks and a coaching career.

  Now, Yevgeny could barely get his foot on the ball.

  He had murdered a man. Yulia had photographs and tapes that could mean the end of his career, especially the one that seemed to show Yevgeny nude in bed with an equally nude young man who was kissing him. Yevgeny remembered no such incident. It was Oleg who liked other men, not Yevgeny; Yevgeny had been outspoken in his condemnation of drug use, gangs, homosexuality, and alcohol. His positions were part of the campaign that was winning over the hearts and minds of those who had enough of the pleasures of democracy. Yevgeny was not a Communist, never had been, but he truly believed that the best path to gaining the rights of hardworking and voting Russians was a return to sanity and order with a new, more temperate democracy.

  Yevgeny tilted his head back, rubbed his very bristly chin and face, and knew what he must do. He could not sit all day on this bench watching children play and waiting for the rain. Yulia might or might not return. She would certainly be questioned by the police. No, he could not sit here all day and possibly all night. He had to relocate some fragment of his dignity. He decided to call his wife and son and ask them to come and get him.

  Rostnikov got the message from Karpo. It was sitting on his desk when he returned to Petrovka as thunder shook the walls of his office. Thunder, but still no rain. Rostnikov wore a strange suit of light blue pants and a dark blue jacket he had accepted from Leon’s collection of his late father-in-law’s clothes.

  One who didn’t know him might think that the Washtub was making some kind of fashion statement. Those who knew him or of him by sight and who saw him enter the building and go up to his office thought that there was some reason for disguise, though they wondered how anyone who looked like Rostnikov, walked like Rostnikov, and was as familiar to the criminal world as Rostnikov, could possibly think that a disguise would be effective. Maybe the Washtub was simply going mad. Even Rostnikov was not immune to lunacy.

  Porfiry Petrovich wanted to call Sarah, had planned to call Sarah, but the message from Emil Karpo changed that. He called Karpo in his cubicle across the hall, and Karpo appeared with the copy of his clipping.

  “The same weapon killed both the Tatar and the Chechin,” said Karpo, placing the copy of the newspaper article on the desk in front of Porfiry Petrovich.

  Rostnikov read the article and then placed his calls and scratched at his artificial leg where it itched. Karpo stood in front of the chief inspector’s desk, waiting patiently.

  It took Rostnikov almost an hour to reach the two Mafia leaders, and in neither case did he talk to them directly. He gave the message to each person to whom he spoke that Shatalov and Chenko should meet him in one hour at the tourist stolovaya, the self-service restaurant, directly across from the Old Moscow Circus.

  “It is a small restaurant, as you may know,” he told each man. “Filling it with men carrying guns will not encourage business. Only Chenko and Shatalov will be inside.”

  In both cases, the person on the other end of the phone said that they would pass on the message.

  “It is essential,” said Rostnikov. “Tell them that I know who the killer is.”

  Rostnikov hung up the phone after the second call and sat back.

  “Emil Karpo, the world is a strange, sad, wonderful, and horrible place, and Moscow is at the very center.”

  “I know,” said Emil Karpo, and Rostnikov believed that the gaunt specter before him did know.

  “Did you also know that I am keeping voluminous notes for a book I am writing on the tastes, beliefs, interests, and hobbies of Russians? That I am planning to contact an American agent who will sell it for two million dollars? That I will buy a very small restaurant near my apartment where I will be manager, Anna Timofeyeva will come out of retirement to be the chef, and you will be headwaiter?”

  “I do not wish to be a headwaiter.”

  “I know, Emil. I was joking.”

  “I know you were joking,” said
Karpo.

  “It is part of my lifelong goal of making you smile, though I fear your laughter might cause your death,” said Rostnikov, examining Karpo’s pale solemn face for some sign of amusement, the slightest twitch in the corner of his mouth, a telltale pursing of the lips.

  “Humor has no function for me. I was fortunate to be born without the ability to see humor in anything. I recognize irony, as I have just done with your joke, but it does not amuse me. It does not distract me.”

  “That is unfortunate,” said Rostnikov. “Distraction is my solace.”

  “And justice, which is unattainable, is mine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THERE WAS A MATINEE AT the Old Moscow Circus. Rostnikov and Karpo had arrived early, and Porfiry Petrovich had talked to the owner of the very small stolovaya with only three tables and a stand-up cafeteria-service counter that ran the length of the shop. The man who owned the shop owed Rostnikov a big favor. The restaurant owner, whose name was Cashierovsky, said he would put a “closed” sign in the window immediately. The show was beginning at the circus in fifteen minutes, and most of the remaining restaurant patrons would be attending it.

  “Can I bring you something?” the man had said. “My pleasure to treat you?”

  “Pahmadoori?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then booterbrod pahmadoori, tomato sandwich,” said Rostnikov. “And a mineral water. Emil?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You will hurt Cashierovsky’s feelings,” said Rostnikov, who had chosen the table farthest back from the door, which he faced, with Karpo opposite him.

  “Tea and a roll,” said Karpo.

  “He is a monk,” Rostnikov explained.

  Cashierovsky smiled. He knew well who the Vampire was. Cashierovsky hurried to fill their order, put out the “closed” sign, and shooed out the remaining patrons, telling them that he had to shut down because he was going to the circus.

  They were early. It still wasn’t raining.

  The day and the view of the circus reminded Rostnikov of another day several years earlier, when he had stood in the rain and watched a circus performer commit suicide by leaping from the head of the statue of Nikolai Gogol in Gogol Square. It had happened right before the eyes of Rostnikov and the traffic policeman in the nearby tower, in addition to dozens of spectators, some of whom had urged the man to jump.