The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  On his way to Flagstaff, he took a side trip to Sedona. In an antique shop he came across gifts from the 1930s he knew his girls and Vera would enjoy. He bought bucking bronco mechanical banks for his girls, and a framed newspaper article about Amelia Earhart for Vera. He wanted to teach the girls to save their money and knew Vera was fond of strong, earnest women. For himself, Guzzo bought a framed portion of a front page from a 1938 issue of the Rocky Mountain News. A photograph showed Britain’s Chamberlain, Germany’s Hitler, Italy’s Mussolini, and France’s Daladier sitting around a table. On the table, an artist had sketched Czechoslovakia carved into pieces. The caption beneath the photograph said, “A Little More of the White Meat, Perhaps, Herr Hitler?”

  Guzzo leaned toward the rental car’s cool center air vents, and as he stared at his own eyes in the rearview mirror, recalled the eyes of the old man. Although he’d never met the old man, it was as if they knew one another.

  He turned on the radio and searched the AM band. He imagined being a talk show conspiracy goon, yelling his lungs out, and because he wasn’t one of these, felt better. Then, sure enough, he found a guy crazier than him who compared the current economy to the Great Depression, and compared the President to Adolf Hitler.

  A line from a Mel Brooks movie came to mind. “It’s good to be the king.” As the jackass on the radio screamed out of the Camry’s speakers, Guzzo said, “It’s good to be the killer.”

  The driver of the red Dodge Charger R/T kept well back, catching only glimpses as they followed the Camry to Flagstaff. His passenger monitored the GPS tracker on his iPhone. They called the unit they’d stuck to the underside of the Camry “bread crumbs on a magnet.” They were dressed casually, in shorts and tee shirts. The driver’s blue shirt had white lettering saying, “I’d rather be driving a Hemi.” The passenger’s reddish-brown shirt said “ARIZONA STATE.” Both men had shoulders filling their tees.

  “You believe in God?” asked the passenger.

  “What?”

  “God. Do you believe?”

  “Of course. I’m Jewish.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Why the fuck would you ask me that?”

  “To get to know who I’m working with, in a friendly sort of way. I was raised Catholic.”

  “I’m Brooklyn Jewish. I never looked any further back.”

  “You think they paired a Catholic and a Jew on purpose?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “We didn’t get much info. Just watch for those names while we’re following. It’s nuts when you think about it—following a killer and rather than stopping him, we’re told to watch for names.” He pushed a button on his iPhone and swiped it to get to his notepad. “Here they are. Cavallo, Polenkaya, Zolotarev, Weizman. That last one’s Jewish.”

  “Were you one of those nerds sitting in line in front of the Apple store?”

  “No, the first iPhone came out a few years ago. I got mine last year. Again, about the names. What’s it mean trying to dig up names from a hatchet man? The Manhattan briefing was like being with a Wall Street bunch. I know it’s not the old days but—”

  The driver interrupted. “Old money. The names are the keys. Could be from the war. Treasures, gold teeth, whatever.”

  “Gold teeth?”

  “Shit stolen during the holocaust. The top guys came across something.”

  “Following a guy who kills old men and women’s a treasure hunt?”

  “You know what sounds better?”

  “What?”

  “That Hemi under the hood—5.7 liters, 370 horsepower. I’m going to rent one again.”

  “Okay,” said the passenger, fiddling with his iPhone. “By the way, he’s a mile ahead. You can speed up.”

  The red Charger throbbed as it accelerated through a long curving climb. A road sign said Flagstaff, 25 miles.

  Chapter 11

  Odessa Chief Investigator Voitec was quick to mock Janos’ sister Sonia being “an intimate friend” of Doctor Voronko. The discussion went off the rails.

  “Your sister’s safe, Nagy. Go back to Kiev.”

  “She’s safe because she called me.”

  “You and I questioned men from the crime scene and guests of the sanatorium. We contacted the lab analyzing soil from the victim’s mouth and received preliminary results. Perhaps I should call Odessa’s Mayor to see if he knows anything!”

  Janos tried to cool Voitec. “I appreciate all you’ve done. Yet, there’s still the question of the half-naked man confronting my sister on the beach.”

  Voitec sighed. “Hundreds of men on Odessa’s beaches fit the description. And please don’t criticize our sketch artist. I have budget shortages.”

  “But the fact your artist is a university student—”

  Voitec interrupted. “Stop, Nagy!”

  After driving Sonia back to Kiev, Janos and Mariya agreed she stay in their apartment. The apartment Sonia shared with Doctor Voronko was now part of the investigation, including Marta’s computer filled with years of professional research, as well as notes of Marta’s research into her father’s death, and her father’s research into her grandfather’s death. Fortunately, during an unannounced evening visit, Janos was able to sidetrack a tired investigator while Sonia retrieved not only personal belongings, but also plugged a memory stick into the computer and copied data files. Next day, Janos left Sonia and Mariya to the computer data while he investigated the murder of the Kiev waitress that took place within two hours of Marta’s estimated time of death.

  The waitress named Keresztes was Hungarian, originally from Uzhgorod. Janos checked other Chernobyl killer victim records, no other Hungarians, and none from Uzhgorod. Next, he visited the laboratory analyzing soil shoved into victims’ mouths. The soil must have been gathered from the same spot near Chernobyl. The lab could tell by the unique mix of isotopes. Although the sample from Doctor Marta was small because her body was in the surf, technicians insisted there was enough in her esophagus to make a positive identification. They provided isotope decay analysis graphs proving the match up.

  When Janos felt he’d reached a dead end, he contacted his friend Yuri Smirnov of the Ukraine Secret Service (SBU) in Kiev. Janos and Yuri became friends after the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone episode in which Smirnov’s old boss was implicated as a human trafficking network co-conspirator. Smirnov, who sustained a severe back injury during the episode, had a new boss who was receptive to communications with private investigators. Wheelchair bound Smirnov offered Vodka. Janos refused and waited while Smirnov downed his glass. Not the day’s first; the slur in Smirnov’s voice obvious.

  “Kiev Militia says Keresztes was a cocktail waitress at a syndicate-run club,” said Smirnov. A delay, Smirnov thinking drunk. “Corrupt Kiev Militia reveals snatches, like watching films, a detail here, a detail there. I watch dubbed Hitchcock films. He has MacGuffin.” Smirnov poured and downed another vodka. “MacGuffin in Ukraine and Russia is always money. We have many investigations in progress involving militiamen and syndicates, always looking for the money. If it wasn’t for this spinal injury I’d do more.”

  Smirnov struggled wheeling himself backwards to look out his window. It was a beautiful spring day in Kiev, but when Smirnov turned, his face was ashen like winter sky. Janos considered asking about the pain, but instead turned to his inquiry.

  “Tell me about the waitress, Anna Keresztes. Was she a prostitute?”

  Smirnov groaned as he turned his chair. “Semi-trafficked.”

  “Semi-trafficked?”

  “Lured to Kiev with a group of girls. The usual job promise from syndicate goons. Cocktail waitress jobs, pay based on selling drinks. As far as we know Keresztes never prostituted. Regarding her murder, we found neither motive nor customer of interest. Other girls at the club said she got along. But there are questions.”

 
; “Questions?” asked Janos.

  “I dislike the club manager.”

  Janos stood, walked around the desk, and took his turn admiring the wonderful spring day, blue sky resting atop the spires and greenery of the city. “Does your dislike lead anywhere?”

  “He hires many girls and weeds out one or two.”

  “Can you tell me the club and the manager’s name?”

  “Janos, I’m office-bound, not the man I was. Investigations for me have become spectator sport, films. When I share information I expect full disclosure in return.”

  “I understand,” said Janos.

  “Very well. Keresztes worked at the Chicago Blues Club on Pushkinska Street.”

  “Near the Czech bar?”

  “That’s the one, photographs of Chicago teams on walls. Manager is Nikolai Golovko. He insists being called Goalie. In Chicago Blackhawk hockey team photograph Golovko resembles goalie.”

  “Does the goalie have his mask on?”

  Smirnov laughed and winced. “No, but he has scars, and a full head of black hair, obvious hairpiece. Be careful, they named website after him…Yahoo.”

  Before Janos left, Smirnov again insisted he be fully informed. Asking an old friend to keep him informed was one thing; insisting to the point of giving an order was another. Perhaps pain and vodka had changed Smirnov, or perhaps something else.

  Janos parked his Skoda down the street. The Chicago Blues Club was nestled in a long building housing many businesses, its exterior painted a disgusting blue. It looked like a blank computer monitor. He wondered how Mariya and Sonia were doing in their search through Doctor Marta’s extensive files. He’d call them after his visit to the club.

  Inside the club was also blue, its spilled liquor smelling like ink. A girl, perhaps 18, immediately approached. She wore skintight jeans and a see-through blouse displaying silver nipple rings. The girl’s smile, pasted on, reminded Janos of Mariya and her life story. Years earlier she’d also been lured to Kiev. And now here was another girl, one of a dozen or so in the inky darkness near a set of doors to restrooms marked Babushkas and Bubbas.

  The girl held his arm. “I’m Natasha. Would you buy me drink?”

  Janos looked toward the bartender, a skinny man of African descent wearing a baseball uniform and cap with Sox stitched on it. Janos allowed Natasha to lead him to the bar. The wall behind the bar was covered with Chicago team photographs.

  “What would you like?” asked the African in accented Ukrainian.

  “I need to speak with Nikolai Golovko.”

  The conversation was very short. Golovko came out backed by two who resembled Chicago football linemen. Natasha let go of his arm and stepped back.

  “What do you want?” shouted Golovko.

  “Shouting is unnecessary,” said Janos. “I simply wish to inquire into the death of a former waitress named Keresztes.”

  “Why should I speak with you? You’re not militia!”

  Janos held out his hand. “My name is Janos Nagy. I’m interested because—”

  Golovko interrupted. “I know this name!” He turned to his linemen. “Get rid of him!”

  On the sidewalk, after Janos picked himself up, a militia car pulled up. The driver wore mirrored sunglasses. “Are you Janos Nagy?”

  “Yes.” He pointed to the club’s entrance. “I wished to ask a few questions and—”

  “Never mind those ass wipes,” said the driver. “Get your car and follow us to headquarters. Chief investigator has critical information.”

  “We have him!” shouted the passenger, another militiaman in mirrored sunglasses.

  “Who?” asked Janos.

  “The Chernobyl killer.”

  Chief Investigator Boris Chudin from Soviet days softened after the Chernobyl trafficking affair. Having given up hair transplants, tanning sessions, and new suits, Chudin was now the official “old man” at central Kiev Militia office. He’d even given up his pipe, no longer disappearing behind a cloud of smoke.

  Chudin stood and they shook hands. “I’d ask you to sit, but we have something to witness. I had my interrogator wait. Especially because of the death of your sister’s friend.”

  Chudin led Janos down the hall to an interrogation room with a huge window on one wall. The room was in shadows, the only light coming from the window to the adjacent room.

  Chudin whispered. “We had the one-way mirror installed last year. We found used theater seats for this side. My deputy’s bringing the suspect. They’ve given him lunch and I’m told he’s talkative.” Chudin nudged Janos after they sat. “The sound’s amplified and I’m told they can’t hear us unless we shout, but I still whisper. The suspect prefers Russian.”

  The stocky man in handcuffs and ankle shackles led in by two militia investigators was average height, muscular, perhaps 40. He wore blue work trousers, a blue work shirt, and yellow rubber slippers provided by the militia. His hair was brown, not very long, but naturally curly and thick. His face was round and unblemished, obviously not the bald brute who confronted Sonia on the beach in Odessa.

  The man smiled toward the window as he held out his hands to allow a militiaman to attach the handcuffs to the eyebolt buried into the thick tabletop. Janos knew the table was bolted to the floor even though he couldn’t see the bolts from where he sat. He considered commenting this was the same interrogation room when he was in the militia, except for the improvement of the one-way mirror rather than a darkened corner for witnesses. But not now because he saw in the prisoner’s wandering eyes a story was about to unfold.

  The head interrogator hung his jacket on the back of his chair before sitting opposite the man. “Vladislav Ivanych Penko, here we are again. It’s been years since I’ve been able to speak the mother tongue. Our stomachs are full and we have time. Being a bricklayer must stimulate your appetite. You finished everything on your plate. If you’d like water or tea, simply ask. As I said earlier, I’m enjoying our conversation. It’s not often I’m in the company of such a well-read person. Please proceed where you left off.”

  “Where did I leave off?” asked Penko, his voice boyish, despite his size.

  “You were speaking of your village during the Chernobyl disaster. You can start there and slowly make your way to the present. As I said, we have time. We’re recording and it will make fine reading. Perhaps, as you said earlier, one of the journals with which you’re well-acquainted will publish your statement.” The interrogator leaned forward in anticipation.

  Penko nodded and smiled. He glanced toward the one-way window, then back to the interrogator. “You think my story will interest people?”

  “Of course.”

  Chudin whispered, “A well-educated and well-spoken bricklayer.”

  Penko licked his lips, folded his cuffed hands, and spoke without hesitation as if giving a recitation.

  “Our village was ten kilometers from Chernobyl. But, as a poet would say, the winds of fate were against us. Svetlana and I met in her father’s barn. We were in the hayloft when we heard the explosion. At first we thought parents had awakened, found us missing, and searched for us.

  “Svetlana and I were separated next day. It was the same all over the region. One family from a village would be moved here, another family there. My family left in minutes, as soon as I ran home. My uncle worked at the plant and knew the danger. We piled into his car and drove south. It wasn’t until I was older I discovered Svetlana’s family was hospitalized in Kiev because of accumulated radiation due to a departure delay.

  “There I was, growing up on a farm away from our village with no idea Svetlana’s family had moved to Kiev. They had Russian language books and journals in the farm collective meeting room and I spent my time reading.”

  Penko looked toward the window, as if to explain. “While other young men smoked and drank vodka, I read. Reading helped me de
al with the situation. I lived in the past, before Chernobyl, by reading Soviet history.”

  Penko looked back to the interrogator. “It wasn’t until I was 19, searching for a job after the fall of the Union, that I moved to Kiev. I found Svetlana, but the damage had been done. While working as a waitress, she married a doctor who treated her. I greeted her on the street and we spoke of the accident and the night in the barn. The reason she needed heavy iodine treatments and hospital monitoring was because the bus they took became stuck in mud outside the village, and because everyone got out to push. The contaminated soil splashed in faces as the bus tires spun, especially Svetlana’s face. She made the mistake of pushing at the rear of the bus directly behind drive wheels. She had to spit mud from her mouth.

  “I told her we should marry because we were together during the explosion. She laughed, saying she already married. I told her I was making a childish joke. She said it was a good joke, and was glad I was able to educate myself and stay away from vodka.”

  After a pause, during which Penko stared at his hands, the head interrogator spoke. “You said you lost track of Svetlana after this. Tell us about the other young woman.”

  “The woman at the black market?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. It was in the area where automobiles are bought and sold—the open field near Zhulyany Airport where other things are bought and sold as well. The woman had milk tins lined up on a blanket. Each tin was in plastic food wrap. Her sign read ‘Magic Soil.’ She said it was from a village near Chernobyl that had been plowed under. I was with Sasha, a crazy friend who enjoyed my jokes. I said something to him—I don’t remember what—and we started laughing. Others who asked about magic soil turned on us as if we’d pissed on a saint’s relic. A man kicked Sasha in the nuts. When Sasha bent forward the man punched him.