Rostnikov made a note on his pad. Other officers and many habitual criminals called him the Washtub. It might mean something. It might not. The bomber was no fool. However, Rostnikov knew a great deal about the man, enough so that the bomber would have great reason to be concerned if he knew the extent of the information.
“Give my regards to your wife and the two little girls,” the bomber said.
“And give mine to your mother and sister,” said Rostnikov.
It was a risk. Rostnikov had come to the conclusion but not the certainty that the bomber had a mother and sister, that his father was dead.
The bomber hung up. Rostnikov also hung up and sat back, forgetting the swivel of the chair he was in, and almost fell backward. Sasha started to rise from his chair to help, but Rostnikov smiled and sat erect. Now he was certain about the bomber’s family. He was also certain, and had been for months, that there was a connection among all the bombing victims. They all worked in jobs or held positions involved in providing public and private energy. The victims ranged from low-level electricians to scientists to the government’s deputy director of energy.
Only once had the bomber said anything related to his choice of victims: “The madness must be stopped. Those who produce it must be stopped.” Rostnikov certainly agreed that the madness had to be stopped, but it was the bomber’s madness.
‘The list,” he said, looking at Karpo.
Karpo nodded. A long list had been compiled of people related to the production of energy or research on energy who lived in and around Moscow. Every one of the more than seven hundred had been contacted and told to be very wary of suspicious mail. They had also been given a code that was to alert them if the police believed a bomb had been sent. Each person on the list would be called, and the only thing said would be “penguin.” The National Police had agreed to give total cooperation, and within the hour twenty secretaries, officers, and maintenance workers would be making calls and saying the single word. None of the callers would have the slightest idea why they were making these calls or what they might mean. It was the responsibility of each caller to reach the people on his or her list, either at work or at home, as soon as possible.
“Alert the mail room,” Rostnikov went on. “I should be receiving a letter or package from the bomber. I doubt if it is a bomb, but …”
Karpo nodded. He would tell the mail room to put any letters or packages to Inspector Rostnikov on a separate table. They would also be told to touch the items as little as possible.
Karpo and Elena looked at Sasha Tkach.
“Yes?” asked Rostnikov.
“Emil has an idea about the Shy One,” said Sasha, who looked decidedly tired.
“The rapist began five years ago,” Karpo said. “Four years before that, a woman of sixty was attacked in the hallway of her apartment building. She was large and singularly determined. She fought off the attacker, and he fled when the door to another apartment opened. The woman called the police and reported the attack as an attempted robbery. However, the method was identical to that of the rapist.”
“Four years earlier,” said Rostnikov.
“Correct,” said Karpo.
“Conjecture?” said Rostnikov.
Conjecture was not Karpo’s strength.
“It was his first try,” said Sasha. “He failed miserably and didn’t get up the courage to try again for four years.”
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov. “How did you find this case?”
“Computer,” said Karpo. “Cross-check of my open and closed files and the central Petrovka files. I searched for attacks on women from behind, the presence of a knife, the warning. It turned up this case.”
“How does it help us?” asked Rostnikov.
“The intended victim saw the attacker’s face,” said Elena. “At the time of the crime, she said she would never forget him.”
Rostnikov nodded. There was no need to tell them what to do, only who should do it.
“Sasha, Elena, you keep this. Emil, I need you on the bomber. You get Iosef. I’ll keep the murder of the young Jews. Zelach can help.”
The three investigators got up. Elena and Sasha wanted to discuss what had happened only this morning, what it meant. Who was Yakovlev? Why had they gotten raises? Karpo had no such questions.
“When I was a child,” said Rostnikov, leaning forward to draw a bird on a branch over the word washtub, “my favorite color was blue. Now it is red. What is your favorite color, Elena Timofeyeva?”
She was the least accustomed to such displays of curiosity by Rostnikov, who always seemed genuinely interested in the answers to questions that appeared to be of no great consequence.
“Purple,” she said.
Rostnikov looked at Sasha.
“Green,” he said.
It was Karpo’s turn.
“Black,” he said.
Rostnikov had not really expected an answer from Emil Karpo. He looked up and saw something in the man’s eyes that caused him concern.
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “Send in Zelach, please.”
The trio of inspectors left.
Moments later a nervous Zelach knocked at the door, waited to be told to enter, and then slouched in to stand before the desk.
“Sit,” said Rostnikov.
Zelach sat.
“How is your mother?” asked Rostnikov.
“Well,” said Zelach, “she’ll be happy to hear about the raise. It is true?”
“True,” said Rostnikov. “Director Yakovlev is a man of his word.”
He did not add that his word was often something others did not like to hear.
Zelach was forty-one, unmarried, lived with his mother, and was both loyal and far from bright. When he was told to do something, he would do it, even if it might cost him life or limb. Zelach had lost part of his eyesight in an attack by a criminal two years earlier. His recovery from that and other injuries in the attack had resulted in a long convalescence.
Zelach was dressed in worn but neat slacks, shirt, and jacket; all selected by his mother.
“Two questions, Zelach,” said Rostnikov, “and then we go to work. First, what is your favorite color?”
Zelach looked decidedly confused.
“Orange,” he said. “My mother’s is white.”
“So is my wife’s. Second question,” said Rostnikov, “How did your father die?”
Zelach looked even more puzzled.
“You know. He was shot.”
Zelach’s father was a uniformed officer. He had been shot while trying to stop a black market deal in a garage. There should have been no shooting. It was a minor crime, and the black marketeers would probably have been able to bribe their way out of any serious punishment. Still, one had panicked and a single 9mm bullet had taken the life of Zelach’s father.
“How did you feel about it?” asked Rostnikov, thinking about the bomber to whom he had just spoken.
“Feel? Sad, angry. I wanted revenge.”
“Revenge,” said Rostnikov, putting the finishing touches on his bird. “Did you ever get your revenge?”
“No,” said Zelach.
“And plainly it has not driven you mad,” said Rostnikov.
“No,” said the even more confused Zelach.
“Do you still think of revenge?”
“No,” said Zelach.
“Come,” said Rostnikov, rising with difficulty. “Later we’ll have birds to draw, colors to see. Now we catch a murderer.”
FOUR
Ludmilla Henshakayova was startled by the knock at her door. She had been sitting at her window looking out at the snow starting to fall again. In the corner a man on the television screen began to laugh. Ludmilla didn’t know why he was laughing and she really didn’t care. He and the electric picture box were there for mindless company. Ludmilla did not like to be alone.
Another knock.
Ludmilla did not live in the best of neighborhoods. Her apartment building was in fatal disrepair, and from her window not far from where the trolleys turned she could see only the ancient cemetery and its occasional visitors. Mostly, from the window, she watched the ugly huge crows perch on the tombstones, leaving their claw prints in the snow. Ludmilla was nearly seventy and barely able to survive on her pension plus the money she made selling flowers in front of the Bolshoi when the opera, ballet, or other event was going on. Such events were frequent, and Ludmilla needed the money badly, but recently the cold had gotten to her, and Kretchman, the flower supplier, had suggested that she stop until the weather grew warmer. But how could she?