“Whatever you say.”
Apparently, as supervisor of the morgue, Palich commanded the respect of the personnel.
When I handed Valek a copy of the death-scene report and the cover letter, I tried peering into the back of the van. There was nothing to see, though. The front seat was screened off from the back by a thick black cloth. It was just as well. What’s the point of knowing what’s in store for you? I hoped it was a long time before I’d find out.
Valek got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and the van waddled slowly off down the narrow park road.
“I have a feeling that’s not the last time we’ll be seeing them today,” Driver said, his eyes following the van.
“Who knows? Today may be the thirteenth, but it’s not Friday. It’s Tuesday.”
“All the same, it’s the thirteenth.”
On the way back, we swung by the shopping center to pick up a drunk from the cop stationed there, at the request of Evseyev, who had called us on the walkie-talkie. The drunk turned out to be that same beggar as before. The breadwinning megaphone was fastened around his neck with a sturdy chain, so no one could take it from him. The beggar didn’t put up any resistance. It was all the same to him. Unlike ours, his shift was over.
I don’t know whether Evseyev ever finished the game of erotic Tetris, but Farid and I didn’t get to battle it out over backgammon that night. Reports rained down on us thick and fast. There were family dramas, complaints about noisy neighbors, drunken brawls with the use of sharp objects or cutting implements. There was even a runaway—or a crawlaway—of a six-foot-long boa constrictor, from the apartment of a rich eccentric. Naturally, we didn’t go after it; we sent the owner to EMERCOM.
I just kept on trucking, and, in contrast to my experienced partner, didn’t whine, driven by my sense of duty and the dream of moving away from my parents and into my own apartment. The whole time I was counting the hours to midnight, when the thirteenth would give way to a more auspicious date on the monthly calendar.
But the dark powers wouldn’t give up. They’re not called dark powers for nothing. They delivered their final blow just five minutes before the finish line. Evseyev, their trusty messenger, breezed into the rec room just when we were arranging the pieces on the board.
“Quit loafing, you two—we’ve got another stiff.”
“Aw, gimme a break! This day can go shove it!” Farid said. “Let us play at least one game!”
“Your game can wait. Doesn’t look like homicide… The wife came home and found her husband dead in front of the door. Looks like she’s been drinking. Maybe she even killed him herself. Go check it out. If there’s any sign of foul play, I’ll send the operative. Here’s the address.”
That was the third time today we were hearing about the operative.
The courtyard, rain, the jeep, hand crank… In a month I’d be ready for some kind of pull-starting engine contest.
The address was in the farthest reaches of our precinct, next to the railroad embankment, in one of the barracks built after World War II by German prisoners. Back then they were barracks, that is. Afterward they repaired them and slapped a bit of plaster on the walls, and offered it to the ex-cons returning from a hard-labor lumber camp who didn’t have a place to live. A homey little spot that had earned the name Blue-Light District because of its plentiful bashed-up inhabitants, with all manner of bruised faces and shiners. It wasn’t a favela in Rio, of course, but strangers were well advised not to set foot there. Locals either, as a matter of fact. It might be hard to find your way out with a shiner that all but blinds you.
We had already been to the district once today about a duel fought by the local “nobility.” We separated them when the gentlemen had just squared off to fight, having chosen their weapons (broken bottles, or “roses” as they call them). High society, in other words.
This time I grabbed a flashlight, just in case, since the electricity had been turned off in most of the barracks because of unpaid bills. I prepared myself mentally to come face-to-face with real crime.
The jeep kept a steady course, somehow coping with the absence of a real road. We reached the barracks without incident. Farid was chewing out his beloved Rubin soccer team for losing to Barcelona. “Isn’t it time for them to take a short vacation? The coach too. Fifteen days in the drying-up tank should do it. To get them moving again. Their bosses pay them big bucks, and they don’t even bring in a penny. I understand losing to Zenit— but to Barcelona?”
The buildings didn’t have any numbers on them, but Farid knew the area like the back of his hand. He could have found any address blindfolded.
“Which pad?” he asked.
“Number eight.”
“Third floor,” he said automatically, turning off the engine.
We got out of the warm vehicle. The three-story structure appeared black against a still-blacker sky. Fantastic. All we needed was some lightning, a flock of crows, a peal of thunder, and, in the background, an airplane plunging to earth, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. It was a good thing I brought the flashlight. Candles or torches gleamed here and there in the dark windows. The age of nanotechnologies. Kupchino, St. Petersburg, Russia in the twenty-first century… At least the landline still worked, since someone had managed to call the police.
I entered the building first, lighting the way and scaring off the rats. I won’t go into any detail about the smells that assaulted us. I’ll just say that week-old garbage smelled like Dolce & Gabbana in comparison. On the first landing we were greeted by some petroglyphs, with the message Dead hedgehogs go north. The artwork of young junkies—I recognized the elevated style.
The middle-aged woman who had called the police met us at the door. Sitting on the floor. Leaning against the wall. With a half-empty bottle of vodka in her hand. I tried to get her to tell me what had happened. She tried to answer me, but her tongue wouldn’t obey her. She had been at the bottle for quite awhile already. Not to mention the stress of the situation. It’s a wonder she could dial the number at all.
While I was busy trying to bring the woman to her senses, Farid turned on his own flashlight and ventured into the apartment to take a look. He didn’t stay long. Thirty seconds later he was back, crossing himself. Farid the Muslim was crossing himself!
I shone the flashlight directly in his face. It looked like it was made of stone. What had he seen in the apartment? Dismemberment?
“Alex,” he said in a hollow whisper. “There’s… in there…”
“What?”
“The builder.”
“What builder?”
“The one from earlier. The same one. I’m seeing things. For my sins. Allah is punishing me for my sins.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. What did he mean, the same one? What sins? Since when did Allah make sinners hallucinate? Pushing aside the babbling wreck of a driver, I boldly went into the apartment, where no policeman had gone before, and noticed that instead of a lock, the door was held shut by the sash of a housecoat tied to the doorknob.
The dead body was lying in the hallway, a few feet away from the entrance, facedown. He was wearing a khaki work jacket. I was already less nervous than I had been in the morning. I was getting used to things. Without feeling any squeamishness I lifted up the head of the already cold body by the hair and pointed the flashlight square in his face.
Then I crossed myself too. I did it without even thinking, and just about dropped the flashlight. It was the builder who had choked on the dumpling, the one I had written up so scrupulously in my morning report. There was no mistaking it. I examined his hand. The oilcloth tag was still hanging on the string.