“Rococo,” Dubinkin said.
“I don’t doubt it, Comrade,” Korolev said in a tone that he hoped conveyed his disapproval of everything the old aristocrats had stood for.
Chestnova led them along a corridor toward the back of the building and Korolev kept his eyes fixed on the white cotton of the doctor’s coat where it stretched across her broad shoulders, and tried not to think about death and corpses and autopsies. He’d never liked them.
“Certainly instantaneous,” Chestnova said, when she’d ushered them into one of the autopsy rooms and pulled a sheet away to reveal the professor’s naked body lying face down, his body sadly mutilated, and not only by the killer.
“He must have been dead before his head hit the desk. The bullet entered here, high on the skull and to the left, and never came out. I found it lodged at the back of the right jawbone.” She rattled a lead slug in a metal receptacle.
By the look of it, she’d found it by cutting off half the professor’s head and extracting most of the contents. Korolev felt the familiar flood of saliva at the back of his cheeks and he swallowed several times-his hands in his pockets forming into fists.
“No gunpowder residue on the entry wound, which suggests the muzzle wasn’t too close-I would expect to see some scorching or burning if the muzzle was less than three or four feet away. It depends on the weapon, of course. Then again, if something was used to muffle the sound it might have absorbed it-but I haven’t found fabric or anything similar inside the wound, so probably not. Did your men come across anything?”
“No.”
“Well the bullet isn’t in bad shape. Big. I’d have expected it to make more of a mess. I’d also have expected it to exit-but again, it didn’t. And that’s consistent with something your forensics man pointed out-that the other bullet barely penetrated the table top. He thought that might mean a low-velocity weapon-I’d tend to agree with him.”
Chestnova handed the slug to Korolev. “You can take it away with you.”
Korolev put it in his pocket, not really wanting to think about the contents. Meanwhile, Chestnova was pointing to a purple graze on the dead man’s white shoulder-close to his neck.
“This is where the other bullet grazed him. I’d guess it was fired after the professor had slumped forward, the wound is across the top of the right shoulder, as you can see. And there’s tearing to his jacket as well. You can see the bullet hole on the desk, here.”
Chestnova picked up a file from a side table and took from it a photograph of the professor’s upper body lying across his desk.
“Yes,” Korolev said, taking the picture from her.
“Well-that’s it, really. I’ve had his clothes packed up for you in case the forensics men can make something more of them. I’ll run you through the report anyway.”
“Thanks,” Korolev said, unpleasantly aware of his entire body being covered with perspiration, as Chestnova ran them through the dead man’s age, weight, and overall medical condition. All of which came down to this-a man who could have lived for another thirty years had been snuffed out. Instantaneously.
A pause seemed to have developed around him, and Korolev looked away from the curling white hair on the professor’s chest to find Dubinkin and Chestnova’s eyes on him.
“Is there anything you’d like to ask?” the doctor asked, her expression kindly.
Korolev forced himself to look back at the body once again. He wasn’t going to be sick, he told himself-he was just a little unwell. Things would be better if he could put a handkerchief over his mouth to take away the smell of death. At least in the winter the bodies stayed cold when they were out of the refrigerated cabinets. He swallowed and pointed to the photograph Chestnova had given him.
“You see there’s a pen in his right hand-here-and a document onto which his head has fallen-here. I’m thinking if he was writing, which it looks like he was, and sitting upright, which his body position would indicate, and if you say Azarov was five foot nine, so not a small man, and the fatal bullet wound is high on the skull…”
“Yes,” Chestnova said patiently.
“And there’s no muzzle residue on him either. And no sign of a pillow or anything being used. Well, then the fellow who did it must have been a giant, surely? He must have been about eight feet tall.”
Chestnova shrugged.
“I just give you facts-it’s your job to pull them together into what actually happened.”
“Azarov could have been leaning backward,” Dubinkin said, “talking to someone in front of him whose job was to distract him.”
“That’s a possibility,” Korolev managed to say, his nausea forgotten, as he wondered whether that was how State Security went about things when they didn’t want a fuss made.
“It’s only a thought,” Dubinkin said.
The Chekist stroked his mustache and, to cover his unease, Korolev wrote “Trajectory” in the notebook he’d opened.
“Have you any other questions?” Chestnova asked.
Korolev shook his head. They both looked to Dubinkin, who smiled and shook his head also.
“Very good, I need to find a porter to help me prepare Dr. Shtange,” Chestnova said, giving Korolev a sympathetic glance. “If you’d like to go outside for a few moments, take a walk around, then I’ll be ready by the time you’ve finished. There’s no need to wait here in the meantime.”
Such a woman, Korolev thought to himself, such a wonderful woman-as he walked toward the door as quickly as his pride would allow him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Tell me, Korolev,” Dubinkin began, when they were standing on the institute’s steps once again, with only a haze of tobacco between them and the sun.
“Tell you what?”
“I’m curious, you see. I’ve been through your file and you must have seen more bodies than most-in the German War. Against the Whites. In Poland. I’m surprised how squeamish you are. Why is it, do you think? You must see plenty of them in this job as well.”
Korolev wasn’t sure whether he should be more concerned that Dubinkin had spotted his squeamishness or that there was a file with his name on it somewhere in the bowels of the Lubyanka. But then again, he’d known there must be. The lieutenant was looking at him the way a chess player might after an opponent had made a surprising move.
“I’m not sure…” Korolev began.
“Oh, don’t worry about the file. Everybody has a file on them,” the Chekist said. “Everybody who is worth having a file on, at least. Anyway, yours is nothing to worry about, believe me-exemplary, is how I’d describe it. You’ve never failed in your duty to the State and your abilities are valuable to us. An occasional weakness and the odd bad association aren’t so important in those circumstances-after all, no one’s perfect.”
“What do you mean by bad associations?” Korolev asked-not so much because he wanted to but because he had the impression that Dubinkin had used those words for a reason. And, sure enough, the Chekist had an answer for him.
“Your former wife might be such an association.”
“Zhenia?”
“Have you more than one?” Dubinkin asked, pretending to look shocked. Personally, Korolev thought it wasn’t a subject for humor.
“No, only Zhenia. Is she in trouble? With you people?”
Dubinkin pulled the cigarette he was smoking from its silver holder and dropped it to the ground. He considered Korolev for a moment, then shrugged.