Sasha felt that he was looking like himself once more. The mirror showed him a face that looked no more than twenty-three. He was, he knew, reasonably good-looking if a bit thin. His straight blond hair tended to fall over his eyes and he had to throw his head back to clear his vision. There was a large space between his front upper teeth, which seemed to bring out the maternal instinct in many women, and this had gotten Sasha into trouble on more than a single occasion.
But now things were looking better. Elena Timofeyeva, with whom he had been teamed for almost four months, had gone to Cuba with Rostnikov. Elena’s cheerful sense of the future had been almost unbearable. Sasha preferred, at least for now, the company of Emil Karpo. At his worst moments of depression, Sasha knew that he was a dynamo of good cheer compared to the man known throughout the MVD as the Vampire.
“Comrade Blanshevski,” Sasha Tkach tried again, “did you see …?”
“A man,” Blanshevski said, adjusting the blue cap on his head. “Petya, wait. The police don’t want your crap around here. Dog is really my wife’s.” Blanshevski leaned toward Sasha; he whispered now in case his wife might be hiding in the tree. “Hate the dog. Hate it. I’m a prisoner of the dog. The Nazis …” He spat again. “The Nazis couldn’t have tortured me more if they had captured me. If I believed in God, I would pray for the dog to die.”
“Then why don’t you kill it?” Sasha whispered back.
The old man looked down at the whimpering little dog and shook his head.
“Can’t,” said Blanshevski. “I’m not a violent man. Besides, I’m used to him.”
Something shuffled where the search was taking place, and Tkach found himself looking over the old man’s shoulder. Karpo was kneeling next to the body. The amount of blood was …
“You saw a man,” Tkach said.
“I saw Comrade Aloyon, who sits on the bench way over there and reads the paper when it’s warm, cold, hot, who cares,” said the old man. “I saw the woman with the fat baby. I don’t know her name. See her maybe twice, three times every week. Saw her even before the baby. Never even said hello. She’s always in a rush. Me, I’m not in a rush. Where have I to go? I walk a dog I don’t like in the morning. I have some tea or something for lunch. I look at my wife and out the window. I …”
“A man,” Tkach said. “You saw a man.”
“Businessman,” said Blanshevski. “I forgot. I shave. I shave twice a day. I strop my own straight razor. Skin is still smooth. Almost nothing left of the blade. I try to keep busy but …”
He shrugged and looked at Sasha for sympathy. Sasha shrugged back thinking that a month ago, before his thirtieth birthday, he would probably have considered strangling the old man.
“Businessman,” said Sasha.
“Maybe forty, fifty,” said Blanshevski. “Bald, glasses. Carried a briefcase. Gray suit. Looked a little like that one on the television. The game show where they spin that wheel. I’ll think of it. Oleg something.”
“Where did you see him?”
“There,” he said, pointing. “Petya has to do his stuff.”
“He can do it here,” said Sasha. “We’re far enough away.”
“I don’t want them to think it’s evidence,” said the man. “I heard they can do things. Go through a toilet and get DRA.”
“DNA,” Tkach corrected.
“Because of this damned dog, I could get involved here,” said the man.
“You are not a suspect, Comrade Blanshevski. You are a witness. The bald man.”
“It’s all right, Petya,” Blanshevski said, and Petya bleated with gratitude and relieved himself. “The man came out of the park and got in a car. I was this close to him. Not like you and me. Like we are to the dead girl. I’ve seen people torn like that. The war. You’re too young to remember the war.”
“What kind of car?”
Over the man’s shoulder Tkach saw Karpo get up, look around, and begin to move toward them.
“I don’t know. A little car. Dark. I don’t know kinds of cars. I’ve never had a car. A car is a car. Tin, wheels, things that go wrong. Inefficient. My daughter’s husband has a car. I don’t know what kind. They told me.”
Karpo was now next to them. Blanshevski looked up at him nervously.
“Could you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“He’s my daughter’s husband. You think I’m a fossil.”
“Not your daughter’s husband. The bald man.”
“I know. I know that’s who you meant. I was … I don’t know. A bald man. My eyes are not perfect. Watch where you’re standing.”
The last was directed at Karpo, who looked down to avoid Petya’s dropping.
“Bald?” said Karpo.
The old man nodded uncomfortably.
“How big was he? My size? Inspector Tkach’s?”
“Not as tall as you,” said Blanshevski, reaching down to pick up the dog, who was whimpering again. “More weight. Not heavy really, but … more weight.”
Karpo reached into the pocket of his black suit, removed a notebook with a dark cover, and pulled out a drawing. He handed the drawing to the old man.
Tkach knew the drawing well. He watched the old man’s face as he put the dog down and squinted at the drawing.
“This man has hair,” said the old man, pointing at the hair of the man in the drawing.
“I know,” said Karpo.
“No glasses,” the man said, shaking his head. “No glasses and hair. It’s not a photograph.”
“I am aware of that,” said Karpo.
“Still …” Blanshevski said. “It could be the man. I can’t be sure.”
Karpo took the drawing back and put it into his notebook.
“I have Comrade Blanshevski’s address,” said Tkach.
“You can go home,” Karpo said to the old man.
“Remember Petya just …”
“I remember,” Tkach assured him.
The old man adjusted his cap once more and looked back at the bloody body. He seemed about to say something but changed his mind when he looked at Karpo’s pale face and unblinking eyes. Then he scurried away.
When the man and dog were out of earshot, Tkach said, “You think it’s him again?”
“The liver is missing. So is the right eye. The victim is young. We’ll wait for the laboratory report.”
During the past five years, forty people, all young men and women, had been found dead in parks and wooded areas ranging from central Moscow to Istra, over thirty kilometers outside the city. Almost half of the murders had taken place during the day. In fact, the only pattern anyone had been able to find in the killings was that the killer alternated the times, daytime for a month, then nighttime for a month, with the exception of September of the past two years, when the killings seemed to be randomly divided between day and night. Almost all the murders had involved sexual violation and mutilation.
In spite of the great number of almost certainly related murders, until recently only a few in the MVD and KGB had known of the crimes. When they were listed in the files they had not been officially linked until the new power of the Special Affairs Office had permitted Karpo to go into the restricted files of the Procurator’s Office. When he reviewed the files, he found that some of them had been removed by direct order of the Minister of the Interior, but there was enough to track down and enough to begin a profile. Less than two days after Karpo had shown interest in the files of the serial killer, the existence of what was certainly the single worst killer in Russia since Joseph Stalin suddenly became common knowledge. Other criminal investigation branches were only too willing to allow the Special Affairs Office to take over. Journalists from other countries, obviously tipped by Russians who were afraid to ask for themselves, had begun to push and prod, to write of cover-ups, and to hint at even greater horror than the great horror itself.