common: multiple stabbing, lower abdomen, pelvic area. The number of penetrations varied from seven to sixteen. The depth of the plunges was similar. The blade, according to the report by the medical laboratory technician Paulinin, was the same one in all cases. Paulinin had concluded that the killer was a man, probably reasonably large and strong.
Beyond this, little was evident. The murders were generally in places where prostitutes could be founda few bars on Gorky Street, near the railway stationsbut there seemed to be no pattern. Two in a row were in the Riga Station area. Three were within two blocks of the Yaroslavl Station, but they weren't consecutive. There were no murders near any of the other seven railway stations. And there was no pattern to the specific sites. Twice the killer struck in doorways. Once in a women's public toilet. The deliveryway to the Marx and Engels Museum another time. The period between murders formed no pattern. It varied from months to days. Even the time of day established little other than that the murderer probably had a job with normal day hours, since all of the murders took place in the late eveningwith one exception. The second prostitute, Hild Grachovnaya, had been murdered on a Tuesday afternoon, which might or might not have meant that Tuesday was the killer's day off. The women had nothing in common other than that they were prostitutes. Some were young. Some not so young. One was a Ukrainian. Another was a Mongol.
The charts in front of him looked random, and Karpo knew that a further complication might be that there were other victims about which he knew nothing. There were a few missing prostitutes. But that meant little. They might even be dead, but it didn't prove that this serial killer had murdered them. It might also be that he didn't kill only prostitutes, that he killed other women, men, boys, children, in a different manner, that the victims dictated the way they would be killed. That might account for the mis-filed report. It had been in the file along with the others. Karpo had carefully copied every word. He had his copy before him, but it made little sense. It was in the file for this killer, but it had the wrong file number, at least it had originally had the wrong file number. Someone had carefully crossed out the old number and typed in the number of this case.
There had been a number of people investigating the murders; each one was listed on the enclosed reports, along with Anatoly Vidbraki, who had been assigned the entire series a year ago, just before he dropped dead of a heart attack. There had been a murder since thentwo, if one counted the killing recounted in the renumbered report. Karpo reread his copy of the report on the murder of Sonia Melyodska. It had been a stabbing but with a different knife from all the others. The murderer had stabbed only twice and much deeper than in the other killings. The killing had been in the daytime, which was not necessarily out of the pattern, but the victim had definitely not been a prostitute. She had been a soldier in uniform on leave, and she was killed on the stairway in the Vdnkh Metro Station. The killing was even witnessed by an old woman who saw only that the killer was a heavy man who fled up the stairs.
Normally, Emil Karpo would have simply examined the report and determined that the investigating officer had made a mistake, in this case a very big mistake. That was not uncommon. Though it displeased him, Karpo had long since learned to accept incompetence and lack of dedication among the police, as he had learned to accept it among shop clerks, street cleaners, office workers, everyone. There was nothing wrong with the various economic and revolutionary plans that had been put forth to move the Soviet Union forward. The problem lay in the lack of discipline of the people, not all the people, but too many people: the very old, who were corrupted by memories of life before the revolution, and the young, who were corrupted with visions of tempting sloth in France and the United States.
The weakness of the people, the corruption of the system, were not peculiar to the Russians. Karpo was sure of that. Triumph, vindication, for communism would not ultimately begin with the masses. It never had. It would begin with the few who were dedicated, were willing to sacrifice, to take on the burden and serve as silent examples. Lenin had done this.
But this apparently misfiled report was not a sign of weakness and mistake. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov had written this report, had conducted the investigation of the murder of Corporal Sonia Melyodska in the Vdnkh Metro Station. In many ways Rostnikov was a puzzle to Emil Karpo. In many ways Rostnikov, with his unstated criticism of the state, was a challenge to Emil Karpo. But Rostnikov did not make big mistakes like this. In investigations, Rostnikov seldom made any mistakes at all. He moved carefully, slowly, sometimes too slowly, but he did not make mistakes.
The solution was simple. Karpo turned off his desk lamp, stood up, and went to look for Rostnikov.
At the moment Emil Karpo left his small room and carefully set on the door the tiny hair that would betray an intruder, Sasha Tkach was sitting in the office of the assistant procurator for the Moscow district. Procurator Khabolov's hound dog face was sniffing the report Sasha had written on the Gorgasali brothers, Felix and Osip, the black market dealers in videotapes and records. It didn't seem important enough to Sasha for him to be called right to the assistant procurator's office. It was a large, bare office with a desk in the middle of the wooden floor, a pair of large windows behind the desk, and a photograph of Lenin between the windows. Sasha Tkach had been in this office very few times. He did not enjoy his visits. He would have felt more comfortable clutching the briefcase on his lap, but he kept his hands resting gently on it as he watched Khabolov's face.
Assistant Procurator Khabolov, on the other hand, greatly enjoyed the visits of junior investigators. Khabolov had been in his current position for less than a year, having replaced Anna Timofeyeva, who had put in ten years without a vacation and had worked eighteen-hour days and six-and-a-half-day weeks during that decade until the moment of her first heart attack. Khabolov was determined that he would meet no such fate. As dedicated as Anna Timofeyeva had been to her job, Khabolov was dedicated to Khabolov.
He pretended to read the report one more time, slowly, watching Tkach out of the corner of his eyes. Some of the older, more experienced inspectors were less impressed by Khabolov's act. Their visits were not visits he enjoyed. Little was known about Khabolov among the staff of the Procurator's Office, but he was not viewed as a man of mystery. Most knew enough and guessed the rest after spending ten minutes with him.
Khabolov had no training in law. He had come to his first term as a deputy procurator after having distinguished himself as a ferret who sniffed out shirkers among factory workers. His moment of glory had come when he discovered the tunnel in an Odessa piston factory through which workers were smuggling vodka, which they consumed in great quantities, leading to a slowing down of production and a failure to meet quotas. Khabolov had later, through the payment of strategic bribes, discovered how a trio of dock workers had funneled Czech toothpaste into the black market. He had been rewarded for his many revelations with the job he now held.
'Mmm,' Khabolov hummed, eyes still fixed on the report. His hand went up to the top button of his brown uniform. He unbuttoned the button and sat back, reaching for the now-tepid cup of tea in front of him.
Sasha Tkach knew enough to show nothing.
Khabolov finished his tea, put down the cup, looked at the report, placed it on the empty desk, and patted it with his hand. Only then did he look at Tkach.
'Fartsoushchiki,' he said with contempt. 'Black marketers. You can smell them.'
The deputy procurator's nostrils curled as if he were smelling one of the Gorgasali brothers.
'You've done well. This is a good report. You've returned the twenty rubles you did not spend?'
'Yes, Comrade,' Tkach said quickly.
'And the record album?'
'Here, in my briefcase,' Tkach said, snapping open the case and reaching in. His hands found the wrapped copy of the children's book he had bought for Pulcharia, moved under it, and came out with A Hard Day's Night. Khabolov didn't move.
'I can…' Tkach began.
'Leave it right here,' Khabolov said, his hands folded on the desk, his eyes on Tkach.
Tkach put the album on the edge of the desk. Khabolov ignored it.
'This is an important black market operation, Comrade Tkach,' the deputy said, leaning forward, his voice dropping. 'Perhaps not as important as the automobile thieves you were instrumental in catching, but quite important.'
Since Khabolov seemed to be waiting for a response, Tkach said, 'Yes, Comrade.'
'Quite important,' Khabolov repeated, as if something were now understood between them. 'They have other connections, these brothers of yours. That is certain. We can bring them in now or we can take this investigation to the next step, to find out who supplies these brothers, these traitors to the five-year plan.'
Again Khabolov waited.
'What is the next step, Comrade?' Tkach asked.
