“You have questions for me,” he said. “First I have one for you. Why do you want me to go to the park with you?”
“You have been to the sites where the bodies were found. You have seen the bodies. You have done the investigation. The files show the facts. I would like your impressions.”
“For all the good they will do you,” Tarasov said.
“What did you feel when you looked down at the bodies?” asked Rostnikov.
“What did I feel? As if I would get little sleep that night. Let me see. Neatness. They were all laid out on their backs, hands at their sides, faces forward. Their wounds could not be seen, though some had blood on their faces from the attack. Indifference. They were not the objects of hatred. The killer didn’t care about them as people. It was all very efficient. Those were impressions. They are not in the report. Our killer is intelligent. You were in the park this morning again.”
“Yes.”
Though responsibility for the serial killer had been passed onto Rostnikov, Tarasov would continue to monitor progress or failure from a distance. Rostnikov had assumed at least one of Tarasov’s people would be lurking in the wind.
“He will not attack you.”
Rostnikov shrugged.
“We had people posing as homeless or pensioners for weeks. He never struck. He seems to know when we placed a decoy in the park. Add to that the fact that no one of reasonable interest ever appeared more than once in the hundreds of photographs we took with a telephoto lens. The Maniac struck quickly each time at various places both inside the park and on the walks around it. He will not strike at you.”
“He might come and talk to me,” Rostnikov said.
“Why would he do that?”
“Curiosity, a desire to talk to someone about what he has done and why he has done it.”
“He never spoke to any of my undercover men.”
“Would you have?”
“No,” said Tarasov. “Good luck.”
Except for having murdered his wife, Aloyosha Tarasov was a law-abiding Russian. He took no bribes, played no favorites, kept the secrets of his superiors, and always did what he was told. He was considered a highly competent investigator, and rightly so. He wanted nothing more than to survive, do the work he loved, and be respected. His wife had never understood that. She had wanted to get out of Russia, with or without her husband. Were she to leave, his career would be in jeopardy.
Olga had never been the object of his love. He needed a wife for appearances and a reputation for normalcy. One morning eleven years ago, he had stopped at home after having been at a crime scene nearby. He had found Olga standing in the living room with a suitcase in her hand. She told him that she had arranged passage to Poland and was leaving immediately. He had calmly struck her with his fist and thrown her out of the window of their eighth-floor apartment on Kolinsky Street. A passing pedestrian was slightly injured by the falling body.
Olga had cooperated in death as she never had in life. She had left a good-bye note that could easily be interpreted as a confession of suicide. Tarasov had unpacked her bag, called in the demise of Olga, and sat down to wait for the arrival of an investigator who was dutifully uncomfortable in the presence of an MVD major.
Aloyosha Tarasov did not have pangs of guilt, did not experience bad dreams, and spent almost no time remembering his dead wife or his deed.
Years later Rostnikov had read the supposed suicide note and concluded that it was just what it had been, a statement of her decision to leave. Though it had all taken place years earlier, Rostnikov had asked Emil Karpo to dig into the evidence. He had found airline bookings and discovered that Olga Tarasov had a ticket to Warsaw on Aeroflot the day of her death. He pursued the matter no further. Not yet, perhaps never.
Rostnikov liked his MVD counterpart. They weren’t quite friends, but they were a bit more than acquaintances. From time to time they had lunch together or met to keep each other informed. Rostnikov knew that if the opportunity presented itself, he would have no trouble launching a full investigation into the death of Olga Tarasov.
“Anyplace particular in the park?” asked Tarasov.
“Where they play chess.”
Tarasov leaned forward to tell the uniformed driver where to take them and then turned back to Rostnikov.
“We checked all the chess-playing regulars. They are mostly old men, and the younger ones all have alibis for at least three or four of the murders.”
Rostnikov nodded and said nothing.
“None of them remember seeing anything or anyone suspicious.”
Rostnikov nodded again.
They were silent for most of the rest of the drive.
And now they stood side by side next to a table on the end.
The playing was quick. The small-timers were not necessary.
A skinny, shivering old man at their side glanced at them and whispered, “The sun is going down. Games have to be finished. A game unfinished is a game that gnaws at the heart and mind. Better to lose than to leave a game unfinished. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Yes, but there are unfinished games that cannot be abandoned with the setting of the sun.”
“You are the police,” the man said.
“Yes,” said Tarasov.
“I have seen you here before.”
“Yes,” said Tarasov.
“You asked me about suspicious strangers and I told you I had seen nothing.”
“Yes,” Tarasov said once more.
“Even if they finish now,” the man said, “I don’t think I’ll play.”
“Avoid the unfinished game,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes.”
The old man smiled, showing uneven brown Russian teeth.
The policemen walked away, leaving the thin man alone in front of the coveted table and game.
“They would not notice if our killer came up behind one of them, caved in his skull as he sat considering his next move, and dragged the body away,” said Tarasov.
“They would notice a new player who sat down.”
“Yes,” said Tarasov. “But they would not notice a missing player. One of your victims may well have played here a few times. They seem to show no curiosity about regulars who do not show up one day and never appear again.”
“Maybe I’ll have Emil Karpo play tomorrow,” said Rostnikov.
“He plays chess?”
“He is quite good, but he shows no enthusiasm for the game.”
“And do you?” asked Tarasov.
“Not for the game of chess,” said Rostnikov, taking in the area while still looking at Tarasov.
Aleksandr Chenko, string shopping bag in hand, hurried down the path about fifty yards from the chess tables. The bag was heavy with milk, bread, vegetables, and cans of sardines and a large box of kasha. His prize purchase that day at the Volga Grocery had been a bunch of large nearly perfect radishes. He had brought the radishes out and placed them in the bin, spreading them to give their best effect. To ensure that this bunch would still be available, he had placed it gently in a corner of the bin and covered it with ice. He would clean them and admire them before slicing a few of the larger ones and putting them on a sandwich with the sardines.
He did not look directly toward the chess tables, nor at the two who were obviously policemen. Yet he saw them. One had been here several times before. The one with the bad left leg had only begun to come over the past week. At odd hours he would sit on a bench and read a book.
There was something intriguing about the man with the bad leg who was built somewhat like a large brick. It would be interesting to get close and see what he was reading, perhaps even to talk to him. At some point Aleksandr knew he might be caught, but it was essential that this not happen before he had reached his mark. If he chose to go on killing, every victim after that would be a bonus.
At that moment he decided that the policeman with the bad leg would be the one with whom Aleksandr made the record. That would happen soon. Then he would celebrate. Tonight, after eating his sandwich of radishes and sardines, he would call both The Moscow News and The Moscow Times and give them an accurate count of the dead. Since the police were not letting people know, he would tell them. It was essential that people around the world knew.