All of his clothing, and there wasn’t much of it, had been black until Mathilde had bought him a tie, a blue French tie with a small flower in the middle. Karpo had worn the tie twice before. He was wearing it today.
The Soviet Union had collapsed. Communism had almost disappeared. Crime, which once could be contained within the pages of his neatly kept notes, was now overwhelming. He would need a library the size of a football field to keep track of the anarchy that had clutched Moscow. Karpo had lost his mother when he was born. He had no sisters or brothers, aunts or uncles. His father had died four years ago, and now Mathilde. What had attracted her, she who was so full of life, so willing to laugh, so beautiful, to the dour, pale, humorless man Karpo saw in the mirror? That was the question he had asked both her and himself ever since they had been drawn together. And now she was gone.
“Well?” Paulinin prompted after a fruitless search for something among the mountain of piled-up books and the jars containing specimens of human organs, appendages, and even a man’s head. There were items of clothing on a rack in a corner, arranged in no particular way. Knives, wrenches, a hammer, saws, a pair of false teeth, plaster casts of footprints and handprints littered a table that ran the length of one wall. The other tables were similarly cluttered with boxes, large and small, and various objects including the metal handrail from a Moscow city bus stained with blood.
“Well?” Paulinin repeated, folding his hands for an instant on a mass of reports and papers on his desk and then rubbing his palms together.
Emil Karpo’s opinion of him was the only one Paulinin valued. This little man saw no one socially, lived alone, and slept at his desk as often as he went back to his apartment, which was in as much disarray as his office. He cared little who ran the government. Paulinin cared nothing about politics, which was one of the reasons he worked alone in a converted storeroom and was given almost no funding.
No one, however, ever considered getting rid of the nearly mad man in the blue smock, for it was generally acknowledged that Paulinin was an encyclopedia and a near-genius at examining forensic evidence.
“I have a surprise,” Paulinin said, trying to pry his visitor’s eyes from the photographs. Karpo was always quiet and correct, always spoke little, but today was different-today he was nearly a robot.
The police inspector continued to look at the photographs slowly, carefully. Finally he looked up, and Paulinin handed him a two-cup beaker of tea. Karpo took it and drank some of the brown, tepid fluid. It tasted of something sharp and bitter, the residue of some experiment that Paulinin had failed to remove completely from the beaker before brewing his tea.
“What do you make of it?” Paulinin asked, taking a sip of his own tea from a black cup on which was written in English PENSACOLA EYE AND EAR CLINIC.
Karpo looked down again at the photographs of the man who had killed Mathilde. The man was literally covered with tattoos-head, neck, arms, fingers, back, front, legs and toes, even his penis. The tattoos were colorful, vivid, and extremely well done. The subjects seemed random. On his right forearm a series of church domes, on his chest just below the collarbone a fiery eight-pointed star. The tattoo on his back depicted a rearing horse mounted by a man with a death’s-head, who in turn held a bearded man by the hair and appeared to be about to behead him.
Karpo turned to the photos of the nude body of the man who had died in the street. He, too, was covered in tattoos.
“Prison tattoos,” said Karpo.
“And?” Paulinin prompted.
Karpo knew a little about prison tattoos. He knew that professional criminals spent much of their time inflicting themselves with the tattoos when they were in prison, giving themselves some distinction from the other prisoners.
“Your tattooed men carried no wallets, no identification. There was a rubber band in the pocket of the bald one, a thick one. I would guess he was carrying a great deal of money and that it was taken from him before the police arrived. More likely, it was taken by the first officer at the scene.”
Karpo said nothing. He took out his notebook and began to write.
“All but one of your dead men’s tattoos are in code. This corpse,” he said, pointing to the bald man, “had been a pakhan, a prison boss, a member of the vory v zakone. The eight-pointed star makes that clear.”
“The eight church domes?” Paulinin asked.
“Each dome represents a completed sentence.”
“Good, good,” said Paulinin, gulping down his tea. “You paused at the death’s-head. A creature from medieval folk tales told by the Bogatyrs, a violent, crusading breed. It indicates that our corpse was a murderer. No drug tattoos. None that look forced on him by other inmates to mark him for crimes such as heroin addiction, crimes against children, submission. Your man has no facial tattoos and no sign that he ever had one and had it removed. In fact, he had no tattoos removed and has continued to shave his head prison-style. He was proud of his record.”
“And?”
Paulinin put his cup down. “His name is Mikhail Sivak. He was last imprisoned in Correctional Labor Colony Nineteen, maximum security, just outside of Perm. Your people will discover all this through his fingerprints perhaps, but it will take them days, perhaps a week or more if they even bother.”
Paulinin shook his head fiercely. His hair bounced.
“The newest tattoos on Mikhail Sivak are definitely in the style of Correctional Labor Colony Nineteen. I have seen them before. As for knowing his name, did you notice that his eyes are open in all the photographs?”
Karpo nodded.
“Those dolts at the hospital couldn’t tell you his name, though it was written right on him.”
“In prison code?” Karpo guessed.
“No,” said Paulinin. “I looked at the corpse when they were done with him. I closed his eyes. On one lid was written ‘Do not wake me.’ On the other was his name, Mikhail Sivak. The other one had no name tattooed on his body.”
“This eagle on his right buttock, the one carrying the bomb?” Karpo asked.
Paulinin was up now, lifting bottles, opening boxes-searching for something.
“The bomb and eagle is recent,” Paulinin said. “It suggests that he now deals in powerful weapons. The artist who did this tattoo was especially precise, definitely an artist. The bomb is an exact replica of a hydrogen bomb. I expect I’ll be seeing more of these in the future.”
“You said you had a surprise for me,” said Karpo. “Was that it, the trade in nuclear weapons?”
“No … here,” said Paulinin, finding what he was looking for. “I knew it couldn’t be far.”
He held up something that looked like a small painting, a replica of the eagle and bomb that was tattooed on the head of Mikhail Sivak. The painting was sandwiched inside two sheets of glass. Paulinin handed the treasure to Karpo.
“I took it from his body,” said Paulinin. “Scalped him like one of those American Indians. Such art deserves to be preserved.”
“May I keep this?” Karpo asked.
“A gift from me,” said Paulinin with some pride.
The pressed, colorful skin of Mikhail Sivak fit tightly into Karpo’s jacket pocket.
“Questions,” said Karpo.
Paulinin waved an arm to show that he was prepared.
“What can you tell me about the dead man at the table with the woman?”
Paulinin paused in his fussing over the box from which he had taken the patch of Mikhail Sivak’s skin. “The bullets from his weapon killed the two tattooed men in the street. He must have been a good shot to use a handgun against people who knew how to use automatic weapons. Our man with the four-fifty-four Casull was, as you know from looking at his wallet, a German. Heinz Dieter Kirst. He and the woman were both killed by the same weapon, instantly. The bald man must have been firing after he died. The man and woman were killed by a dead man.”