“Leg,” he said. “We have been through far worse. It is time to stop grieving over the loss of an old friend who had to be dragged around like a child’s wagon. Ah, that’s better.”
Rostnikov opened the door to Paulinin’s laboratory and entered to find Emil Karpo watching Paulinin carefully examine the white body, which lay upon the table. The body had been cut from neck to groin and peeled open, exposing the organs, only one of which Paulinin had yet removed. The scientist was slicing the corpse’s liver on what looked like a restaurant meat slicer.
“Kofyeh, coffee?” asked Paulinin, white surgical gloves reddened with blood.
“I thank you, but I have just had several cups,” said Rostnikov.
“Nyet spahssebah, no, thank you,” said Karpo.
Paulinin’s eyes didn’t leave the mechanism, which slid back and forth with a smooth metallic sound. Rostnikov and Karpo stood silently watching till Paulinin had had enough and turned off the machine. He turned to Rostnikov, eyes wide, smile small, and said,
“New toy, the slicer. You know what a pathology slicer costs?
Never mind. You can’t get one even if you have the money. But this is better. I got it for some of those new rubles. I can’t be bothered keeping up with what they are worth. At least the new ones are bright. Where was. . oh, the slicer was purchased from a restaurant, the Cosmos on Gorky Street. It was cheap and it works better than the surgical ones I’ve seen. It slices just as thin and if you keep the blade sharp, as I do, there is no tissue and little cell damage.”
“Interesting,” said Karpo.
“Yes, and had you given the corpse to the bumblers who pass themselves off as pathologists, they would have concluded that our dead friend was told to strip, shot to death in the middle of the night on the riverbank, and shoved into the water.”
“He wasn’t?” asked Rostnikov, knowing that the man wanted, needed appreciation.
“He was not,” said Paulinin, rising and putting his right hand on the shoulder of the corpse. “Our friend drowned. He is a quite amazing creature. He was shot three times, any wound of which would have caused his death in a short time, except the wound to the head. That went around the cranium and lodged at the back of his brain. Relatively little damage. His lungs were filled with water, but not water from the Moscow River. No, the water in his lungs is clean and filled with chlorine. He died in a swimming pool after he was shot. See these bruises on his rear and back? Whoever did this was very strong, or it was more than one person. Our friend here weighed about two hundred and forty-eight pounds. He was dead weight and in a pool would be even more of a dead load.”
Paulinin raised the body so that the two detectives could see.
“Those occurred after death. Whoever pulled him from the pool put him in some kind of vehicle-a cart, a wheelbarrow-something wooden and painted white. There are splinters, small but de-tectable. The bruises came during transport of our friend. And though the traces are almost infinitesimally small, when he was transported he was covered by something made of blue terry cloth, probably an oversized bath towel. Pieces of the material are in the blood and around the edges of the gunshot wounds. There was probably a lot more, but the corpse was in the river for seven or eight hours before we pulled him out. He died last night, probably late. Next. .”
Paulinin released the corpse, which slumped back with a thump, removed his gloves with a snap and threw them into an almost full garbage can.
“Next,” he said, “the bullets. Perhaps the most interesting part of what appears to be a puzzle. They are forty-four caliber, fired from a well-preserved but very old weapon, which suggests. .?”
“That he was probably not shot by a Mafia member, or that, if he was, the use of such a weapon carries some specific meaning,”
said Rostnikov.
“Precisely,” said Paulinin, looking down at the face of the corpse. “Now you must leave. I have to talk with our friend’s liver and other organs. I’ll tell you more soon.”
Rostnikov and Karpo went into the empty corridor and let the heavy door to Paulinin’s laboratory slam shut.
“The dead man is Valentin Lashkovich,” said Karpo. “He is known as Shtopahr-‘Corkscrew’-a simple-minded killer for the Tatar Mafia. He is suspected of at least nine murders, but has been arrested for only one and released when the judge said there wasn’t sufficient evidence.”
“But there was?”
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“So, many people may have wanted Lashkovich dead?”
“Many,” said Karpo. “The obvious conclusion, were it not for the bullets used to kill him, is that he was killed as part of an on-going war between the Tatars and the Chechins. Three others, two Chechins and one Tatar, one shot in a hotel health club, one in a hotel exercise room, and one in a hotel swimming pool.”
Rostnikov knew this but listened attentively and then said, “And the weapon used?”
“The bullets were neither examined nor kept,” said Karpo. “The deaths were ruled as casualties of a Mafia dispute-a dispute, I wish to add, that may well grow larger when the Tatars learn of this murder. If they do not already know.”
“So, Lashkovich was murdered in a swimming pool,” said Rostnikov. “But why was his body thrown in the river?”
“To disassociate the crime from yet another hotel health facil-ity,” said Karpo.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Which suggests?”
“That the killer is somehow associated with hotel health clubs.”
“Or that such a location has special meaning.”
“And then there is the question of why such an old weapon was used. Definitely not a Mafia gun of choice.”
“It is intriguing, Emil Karpo.”
“The Tatars will ask for the body,” said Karpo.
“And when Paulinin is finished with it, they will have it. And you and I, Emil, will attend the funeral.”
Karpo nodded.
“Meanwhile, find out where Lashkovich lived, and swam,” said Rostnikov. “You know what to do. I’ll talk to. . who is the leader of the Tatars?”
“Casmir Chenko,” said Karpo. “He is known as the Glahz-the Eye. He wears a patch to cover the open socket where a rival gang leader destroyed the eye with his thumb when Chenko was still a young man. The rival is now blind and hiding in Estonia.”
“Perhaps you should see Chenko and I should find out about Lashkovich?”
“I believe you would deal with Chenko much more professionally than I,” said Karpo.
Rostnikov nodded. Since the death of Mathilde Verson, shot to pieces in the crossfire of two Mafias, Karpo had found a new mission in his life: the eventual destruction of all the Mafias in Russia. It was a task he well knew might not be accomplished till years after he was dead, if ever.
“Where do you suggest I look for Casmir Chenko?” asked Rostnikov.
“The Leningradskaya Hotel,” said Karpo. “Leave a message at the desk. I do not know where he actually resides, but many of his people live there and go to the hotel casino. If you wish, I will discover where he lives. It may take me several days.”
“That won’t be necessary. At least not yet. Find the hotel or health club, Emil Karpo.”
There was nothing more to say. Both men were well aware that finding a solution to the murders was crucial to the avoidance of a bloody war on the streets of Moscow. Of course, they might well discover that these murders were but the first step before the coming battle. As much as such a battle might make a slight dent in the gang population of Moscow, it might take a few, or perhaps more than a few, innocents in addition.
Rostnikov made his way slowly back to his office while Karpo went in search of Lashkovich. When he got to the office, Rostnikov removed his leg, put it on his desk, and reached for his phone.