— I was the one who saw Ilinaya running to the station. She was badly beaten up, shaking — she couldn’t speak for a while. I called the militia.
— Ilinaya?
— She found the body, stumbled across it. Her and the man she was with.
The couple in the forest — Leo had known there was something wrong.
— Why was she beaten up?
Aleksandr looked nervous.
— She’s a prostitute. The man she was with that night is an important Party official. Please, don’t ask me any more.
Leo understood. This official wanted his name kept out of all the paperwork. But could he be a suspect in the murder of the young girl? Leo nodded at the young man, trying to reassure him.
— I won’t mention you, I promise.
Leo’s hand pushed through the thin sheet of snow.
— The girl’s mouth was filled with soil, loose soil. Imagine I was struggling with you, right here, and I reached out to grab something to stuff into your mouth because I’m afraid you’re going to scream, I’m afraid someone’s going to hear you.
Leo’s fingers hit the ground. It was hard, like the surface of a stone. He tried another place, then another and another. There was no loose soil. The ground was frozen solid.
18 March
Standing outside Hospital 379, Leo reread the autopsy report, the main points of which he’d copied longhand from the originaclass="underline"
Multiple stab wounds
Blade indeterminate length
Extensive damage to the torso and internal organs
Raped either before or after death
Mouth was full of soil but she did not suffocate, her nasal passage
was clear. The soil was to some other purpose — to silence her?
Leo had circled the last point. Since the ground was frozen the killer must have brought the soil with him. He must have planned the murder. There was intention, preparation. But why bring soil at all? It was a cumbersome means to silence someone, a rag, or cloth or even a hand would have been far easier. With no answers Leo had decided to belatedly take Fyodor’s advice. He was going to see the body for himself.
When he’d asked where her body was being kept he’d been told to go to Hospital 379. Leo hadn’t expected forensic laboratories, pathologists or a dedicated morgue. He knew there was no specialized apparatus for dealing with wrongful death. How could there be when there was no wrongful death? In the hospital the militia were forced to canvass for a doctor’s spare moment, such as a meal break or ten minutes before surgery. These doctors, with no training beyond their own medical qualifications, would take an educated guess at what might have happened to the victim. The autopsy report Leo had read was based on notes taken during one of these snatched sessions with a doctor. The notes would have been typed up several days later by a different person altogether. There could be little doubt that much of the truth had been lost along the way.
379 was one of the most famous hospitals in the country and reportedly one of the finest free-to-all hospitals in the world. Situated at the end of Chkalova Street, the hospital was spread over several hectares with landscaped grounds stretching into the forest. Leo was impressed. This was no mere propaganda project. Plenty of money had been invested in these facilities and he could understand why dignitaries reportedly travelled many kilometres to recuperate in the picturesque surroundings. He presumed that the lavish funding was primarily intended to ensure that the Volga’s workforce was kept healthy and productive.
At reception he asked if he could speak to a doctor, explaining that he needed help with the examination of a murder victim, a young girl they had in their morgue. The receptionist seemed uncomfortable with the request, asking if it was urgent and wondering if he couldn’t come back at a less busy time. Leo understood: this man wanted nothing to do with the case.
— It’s urgent.
The man reluctantly moved off to see who was available.
Leo’s fingers tapped against the front desk. He was uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance. His visit was unauthorized, independent. What did he hope to achieve? His job was to find evidence confirming a suspect’s guilt, not question the guilt itself. Though he’d been exiled from the prestigious world of political crime to the dirty secret of conventional crime, the process was much the same. He’d dismissed the death of Fyodor’s little boy as an accident not because of any evidence but because the Party line necessitated a dismissal. He’d made arrests based upon a list of names given to him, names drawn up behind closed doors. That had been his method. Leo wasn’t naive enough to think that he could change the direction of the investigation. He had no authority. Even if he’d been the top-ranking officer he couldn’t reverse the proceedings. A course had been set, a suspect chosen. It was inevitable that Babinich was going to be found guilty and inevitable that he was going to die. The system didn’t allow for deviation or admissions of fallibility. Apparent efficiency was far more important than the truth.
And what did it have to do with him, anyway? This wasn’t his town. These weren’t his people. He hadn’t pledged to the girl’s parents that he’d find the killer. He hadn’t known the girl or been touched by the story of her life. What’s more, the suspect was a danger to society — he’d taken a baby. These were excellent reasons for doing nothing and there was one more reason besides:
What difference can I make?
The receptionist returned with a man in his early forties, Dr Tyapkin, who agreed to show Leo down to the morgue as long as it didn’t involve any paperwork and on the condition that his name didn’t show up on any documents.
As they walked the doctor expressed doubts as to whether the girl’s body was still there.
— We don’t keep them for long unless we’re asked to. We were under the impression the militia had all the information they required.
— Did you carry out the initial examination?
— No. But I’ve heard about the murder. I thought you’d already caught the man responsible.
— Yes, it’s possible.
— I hope you don’t mind me asking but I haven’t seen you before.
— I arrived recently.
— Where are you from?
— Moscow.
— Transferred here?
— Yes.
— I was sent here three years ago, also from Moscow. No doubt you’re disappointed to be here?
Leo remained silent.
— Yes, don’t answer. At the time I was disappointed. I had a reputation, acquaintances, family. I was good friends with Professor Vovsi. I felt coming here was a demotion. Of course, it turned out to be a blessing.
Leo recognized the name — Professor Vovsi was one of many leading Jewish doctors arrested. His arrest and the arrest of his colleagues had marked the acceleration of a Jewish purge driven by Stalin. Plans had been drawn up. Leo had seen the papers. The removal of key Jewish figures within influential spheres was to be followed by wider purge, targeting any Jewish citizens whether they were prominent or not, plans cut short by Stalin’s death.
Unaware of his companion’s train of thought, Tyapkin blithely continued.