The Soviet Union had prided itself on the equality of women. Movies, newspapers, posters showed women as leaders, workers, soldiers, the equal of men. The truth, as she had learned early in life, was the exact opposite. Women were considered inferior, and often those put in token positions of authority were chosen because of their party loyalty and a nonthreatening lack of intellect. Anna Timofeyeva had been a notable exception. She had taken pride in her achievement, but she had taken enormous satisfaction in her work.
And then, so suddenly, it was all over. The brown uniform that she had worn for sixteen years was traded for bulky skirts and sweaters; the large office for a small one-bedroom apartment.
Anna had never married, had never shown or had any interest in men as anything but people for whom she worked or who worked for her. She showed no greater interest in women as friends, companions, confidants, or lovers. She had tried sex with two men and one not particularly pretty but quite slim woman many years earlier. None of the three encounters had given her any satisfaction.
And so Anna sat in her apartment, read, and welcomed the company of her niece, which she would soon be losing when Elena and Iosef married. From time to time Porfiry Petrovich would visit, either to ask for her advice or simply to sit with her and drink some tea. All too often she was visited by Lydia Tkach, Sasha’s mother, who had an apartment down the hallway and around the corner.
It was Porfiry Petrovich whose idea it had been for Lydia to move into the apartment complex. Anna could still pull some strings. Lydia could have afforded much better, but she was content to move half a corridor from Anna and to knock at the door uninvited so that she could relate her woes in a very loud voice to the captive former procurator.
Recently, however, there had been great respite from Lydia. Lydia was seeing a man, a painter named Matvei Labroadovnik. She had told Anna all about him. Anna would have bestowed a medal, one of the dozen or so she had in her drawer in the bedroom, to the man if he were to end Lydia’s daily visits. But, at the same time, she felt uneasy the single time the man had come with Lydia to be shown off. Intuition, which came from years of talking to liars on multiple sides of the law, had taught her when someone was wearing a mask. The man had been wearing a mask of satisfied contemplation. Behind the mask, Anna was certain, was a racing mind. But that was Lydia’s problem. For the moment, he was Anna’s ally.
“Tell Aunt Anna what you want to do,” Elena said to Iosef, moving to the seat opposite her aunt.
Elena and Iosef had been up all night, meeting with the dozen uniformed officers assigned to their case, trying to come up with an idea they could present to the Yak, talking to Paulinin, who, they discovered, was even stranger than usual after the hour of midnight.
Paulinin had kept his right hand reassuringly on the head of the naked corpse of Toomas Vana during their entire conversation in the laboratory. From time to time Paulinin had looked down at the mutilated face of the dead man and smiled reassuringly.
The corpse was as white as the snow falling two stories above and outside Petrovka. The multiple wounds formed an odd pattern.
“We have had a very interesting conversation,” Paulinin said. “He has told me about his life and the woman who killed him.”
Elena wanted to ask what the dead man had said, but she still was not sure of the proper protocol with the odd scientist in the dingy laboratory jacket. Was he waiting for her to ask a question or would he be offended by being interrupted in his musings? Iosef had been the one to speak.
“What has he told you about the woman?”
Paulinin, hand still on the dead man’s head, twitched his nose to push his glasses back an infinitesimal notch, and said, “The woman loved him. She loved the others she attacked too. But she was reluctant to tell him, to tell them. She always strikes her first blows someplace vulnerable, the neck, eye, scrotum, nothing consistent, shy about admitting her purpose. She jabs. Here. There.”
Paulinin pointed at various wounds before continuing.
“And then, she strikes hardest at the heart, always at the heart, always the hardest blow. This time it caused her enormous pain. She used her right hand again. She has trouble maintaining her attack. The blade goes this way and that. The thrusts are growing weak. She tried her left hand. Remember?”
“Yes,” said Elena.
“But,” Paulinin went on, “it was not natural, it did not give her satisfaction. You want to know how I know?”
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“Because she went back to the right hand in spite of the pain. The right hand. The heart.”
“She wants to break his heart,” Elena said before she could stop herself.
Paulinin pondered her comment and nodded his head in agreement.
“Yes, something like that. She loves him. You said the little girl on the platform heard the attacker call the man Father.”
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“She loves her father,” said Paulinin. “I loved my father.”
“But you didn’t kill him,” Elena said.
“Of course not,” Paulinin said in exasperation. “And I don’t believe she has killed her father. She is sending him a message he cannot hear. Maybe she will kill him. Meanwhile, her wrist has a very severe sprain, possibly it is broken. She is probably feeling great pain. But that will not stop her from attacking again. The same kind of man, well-dressed, possibly carrying a briefcase, tall, between the ages of forty-five or so and fifty-five or sixty, from what my friend”-and here he gently patted the dead man’s head-“has told me.”
“Why does she attack on metro stations beginning with the letter K?” Iosef asked.
“How should I know?” Paulinin returned with irritation. “I am not a psychiatrist. Maybe her father’s name begins with a K, or maybe something happened to her on a metro platform that began with a K, something when she was a little girl. Now she cannot remember which K station it is. Maybe her name begins with a K. Maybe a million things. When you find her, ask her and tell me.”
They had left Petrovka and walked miles in the nearly empty streets through the snow, talking, and Iosef had come up with his plan. Now he stood in Anna Timofeyeva’s apartment. He reached down to pick up the cat, which did not complain, and said, “I will wear a suit and tie, put a little gray in my hair, carry a briefcase, and travel from station to station spending time on each K platform.”
“He will make himself a target for a madwoman,” Elena said, looking at her aunt.
Anna Timofeyeva was a solid, heavyset woman with a wide nose and a distinctly Russian face. Her best feature was her large brown eyes, which she fixed on whomever she spoke to, giving her full attention, or, in some cases, the semblance of full attention.
“The likelihood of this woman finding you,” she said, looking up at Iosef, “is not great. There is no shortage of potential victims for this …” She almost said “poor woman” but stopped herself and simply said “woman.”
“You see,” said Elena.
“And who knows if and when she will strike again?” Anna went on.
“Her favorite time seems to be between nine in the morning and three-thirty in the afternoon,” Iosef said.
Anna pondered the answer and said, “She is not free to attack early and she must be somewhere in the late afternoon. Perhaps she has a night job. Most likely she has no job at all but she has something to do, somewhere to be.”
“The likelihood that she will find you,” Elena said, “is very small.”