So, in November of 1982, Zakharov had gone to Moscow specifically for this document. For the psychiatrist Gradskaya to compose a psychological portrait of the criminal, she would have had to familiarize herself with the materials of the investigation.
In late December, police arrested Nikita Slepak, age forty-five. Slepak had a midlevel technical education, was married, an alcoholic, and was registered at the local drug and psychiatric clinics. On one of his benders, Slepak had tried to sell women’s jewelry and a watch near a beer stall. He’d created a scandal, cutting the line and shoving the baubles under the stall owner’s nose and attempting to pay for his beer with them. A duty cop happened to be walking by and responded to pleas for assistance from the stall owner.
Nikolai Ievlev looked at the photographs and the detailed descriptions of the items taken from N. V. Slepak at the time of his arrest. Here was the small gilt pendant in the shape of a bell tower on a silver chain, and the nickel-silver bracelet, and the silver seal ring, and the Dawn watch on the black leather strap, and the heart-shaped enameled pendant with the rose. All of the jewelry taken off the murdered girls.
Slepak was blind drunk, and the report said he’d actively resisted arrest. Later, after he’d slept it off, he said he hadn’t stolen the trinkets, he’d found them in the pocket of his quilted jacket.
When his home was searched, they discovered a sweater with blood spots stashed behind the stove. It was the blood of Angela Nasebulova, the latest victim. A small, carefully washed tourist knife with a plastic handle was wrapped in the sweater. The nature of her wound pointed to it having been inflicted by a knife of this type. And Slepak’s blood type was the same as the killer’s, which had been determined from an analysis of the sperm.
He often went to Tobolsk to stay with a relative; he’d lived there for long stretches. He did odd jobs wherever he could find them. Then he’d drink up all his earnings, sometimes right in Tobolsk with his relative. Sometimes, if they were at odds, Slepak would go back to Tyumen and drink there instead. He didn’t have an alibi for a single one of the six murders.
He was tall, broad shouldered, and blond. And he had a tattoo on his left wrist—NIKITA, written in small letters.
For a long time he didn’t understand what they wanted from him. Then they nearly beat him to death in the holding cell at the Tyumen jail, smashed his head, and crushed his genitals. After that, he answered all their questions with the same phrase: “I didn’t kill anybody.”
Slepak never did admit his guilt. But he didn’t write any statements or petitions or appeal to any higher offices. His lawyer did his job strictly by the books and with little energy. In the courtroom, the dead girls’ relatives rained loud curses on the beast, the pervert, the vile monster Slepak. If anyone had had any doubts about the evidence against him or the nature of his guilt, in the atmosphere of that courtroom, they would have felt foolish, even blasphemous. If not him, who? Everything pointed to him. If they hadn’t caught him when they did, who knew how many more victims there might have been?
The Tyumen Provincial Court sentenced Nikita Slepak to death. The sentence was carried out in the spring of 1983. Up until the last hour of his life, he continued to repeat the same thing, like an incantation: “I didn’t kill anybody!”
Of the entire large operational and investigative team, only one person expressed any doubts about Nikita Slepak’s guilt—First Lieutenant Igor Zakharov. But in late November 1982 he was killed under mysterious circumstances, randomly attacked by hooligans. There were no clues. His murder was never solved.
CHAPTER 33
“Hello. Are you Nadezhda Zakharova?”
“Yes, I am.” The plump, gray-haired woman nodded and wiped her floury hands on her apron.
“My name is Polyanskaya. I’m from Moscow. Twelve years ago you sent your son Igor’s story to my magazine.” Lena pulled the old letter out of her bag and handed it to her.
Nadezhda Ivanovna took it cautiously with her fingertips.
“You’re that same journalist? I remember. Of course I do.”
“Gran! Who’s come?” A child’s voice came from the back of the apartment.
“It’s for me, Igor,” the woman shouted in response.
“Something’s burning in the oven!” A sturdy, crew-cut boy of thirteen came into the front hall. “Hello.” He nodded to Lena and stared at her curiously.
“Please, come in, take off your coat.” Her hostess remembered herself. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
She ran to the kitchen. It really did smell like something was burning there.
“What’s your business here?” the boy asked gravely, not taking his eyes off Lena.
“Personal business.” She smiled, took off her jacket, and started unlacing her boots.
Her hostess reappeared, without her apron now, and invited Lena into the room. Lena was immediately struck by a large portrait made from a blown-up photograph of First Lieutenant Zakharov on the wall.
“So many years have passed. Here is my grandson, grown up already,” Nadezhda Ivanovna said, sitting at the table across from Lena. She nodded at the boy. “When little Igor was born, big Igor was already gone. Three months later.” She sighed, fell silent, and propping her chin in her palm, looked at Lena quizzically.
“Nadezhda Ivanovna, I know your son Igor was on the team working the Slepak case.”
“What’s this? Have they decided to look for the real killer again? After so many years?”
“Why again?” Lena asked softly, feeling her fingers turn cold.
“An investigator from the General Prosecutor’s Office in Moscow came specifically to talk to me about it. A long time ago, in ’84, I think. A year after Slepak was convicted. She questioned me, in great detail, about what my Igor had told me and when. I gave her his diary and a few other papers. I hoped they’d find the real killer and at the same time whoever killed my little…”
“I’m sorry, Nadezhda Ivanovna. Are you absolutely certain the woman was from the Prosecutor’s Office?”
“Please, I’m an educated woman, after all. She showed me her identification. And asked her questions professionally. I did have a police officer for a son, so I do have some understanding of these things.”
“Forgive me again, but you didn’t ask me for any identification,” Lena remarked.
“But I remember you.” Her hostess smiled in response. “You performed at the police officers’ club. I was sitting in the first row. You have a memorable face. And you haven’t changed at all. It’s not often anyone comes here from Moscow, especially from such a famous magazine. And my Igor read your letters to me out loud and the editorial notes you wrote him. And I subscribed to the magazine for years. You were a special correspondent, and your photo was above all your articles. No, don’t think I would let just anyone into my home.”
“Nadezhda Ivanovna, if you have such a good memory for faces, maybe you remember what the woman looked like?”
“I can’t describe her in detail, of course. But you know, she was… How can I put it? Outwardly unpleasant, her face… Basically, an unpleasant face. But a very fine person. A very charming woman. Now what her name was, I don’t recall.”
“Did you ever tell any of Igor’s colleagues about her visit?”
“Oh no! She warned me from the very beginning that the General Prosecutor’s Office was reviewing the case in secret. She said there was reason to suspect the real killer worked for the police. That’s why she asked me not to tell anyone anything. She even made me sign a nondisclosure agreement. It was an official form, ‘Office of the Prosecutor of the USSR.’ She promised to return Igor’s diary, but she didn’t. I guess the investigation hit an impasse and she forgot about it.”