'Was there some evidence of intimidation, some suggestion of murder?' Pankov asked, wondering if this were some kind of test by Rostnikov.
'It's not important,' Rostnikov said, pushing the pad away. 'Might I suggest that we proceed to the case list and make the assignments?'
The Wolfhound was puzzled, but the Wolfhound was better than a professional actor. His eyes fixed knowingly, sympathetically, on Rostnikov, as if he knew exactly what was on the inspector's mind. Then he turned his eyes to the neat black vinyl folder in front of him. The colonel opened the file, now anxious to go through the routine and get the brooding Rostnikov out of the room. He had hoped for a concluding half hour or more of philosophical musing and teaching, but Rostnikov had poisoned the atmosphere.
Snitkonoy flipped open the folder and scanned the list of new cases for the morning. All had already been assigned to the investigators who took the initial calls, except for three that had been appropriated by the KGB. Those cases had thick black lines through them, lines so thick and so black that one could make out no trace of a single letter designating the case. The Wolfhound's gray eyes scanned the list and then he grinneda private, knowing grinas he passed out copies of the new case list to the three men in the room.
'Comrades, do you see anything of special concern on this list? Any cases you would like transferred to other investigators? Concentrated upon?'
It was the routine morning speech, but the list was not routine for Rostnikov, who had expected simply to be assigned to an additional case or two without great consequence or meaning. And then his eye caught the description of Case Number 16. He let his head come up lazily, hiding his reaction. A show of enthusiasm or real interest might doom his chances. The very fact that he wanted the case might be reason enough for the Wolfhound to demonstrate his power and assign it to someone else.
'Number five,' Grigorovich said. 'The increased activity of assaults on old people near the war memorial suggests…'
It went on like that for twenty minutes. Rostnikov made a point about reexamination of the evidence from a family murder the week before. He supported Grigorovich's interest in the assault case and, though he thought it was idiotic, nodded in agreement when Pankov suggested a consolidation of four cases, all of which dealt with reports of illegal sales of vodka. There was clearly no relationship among the cases other than the recent interest in alcoholism that Gorbachev had been pushing for the past year. It was fashionable to denounce alcoholism.
Now that Grigorovich and Pankov each owed him something, Rostnikov made his move.
'Number thirty-four,' he said. 'The report of several assaults in parks. It may be a pattern. Other than that, nothing seems to need further attention, though there are a few cases that might be worth a minor review of initial investigation. Numbers' he scanned the list casually 'three, twelve, sixteen, and twenty-four.'
The other three men scanned the list and nodded, not seeing anything worth checking in any of the cases, but not wanting it to seem as if they had missed something.
'Fine,' sighed the Wolfhound, closing his vinyl file, placing it on the table, and slapping his palm against it. 'If you have time, Comrade Inspector, you can review initial investigations on those cases. Number thirty-four, the assaults, I think should be supervised by Sergei Pankov.'
Pankov smiled in triumph, and Rostnikov and Grigorovich nodded in agreement.
'Good,' said the Wolfhound. 'I have a report to give at the People's Court in Podolski this afternoon. Since we got started a bit late' and with this he paused for less than a breath to let his eyes fall on Rostnikov before he continued — 'there will be no time for progress reports on continuing investigations. We will, therefore, meet tomorrow morning at six for progress reports. Inspector Rostnikov, this note is for you.'
The Wolfhound produced an envelope from behind his back and handed it to Rostnikov. Without waiting for comment, the Wolfhound.turned and strode out of the room, his shiny black boots clapping against the tile floor.
Grigorovich and Pankov placed their various papers into folders, tucked the folders under their arms, and uttered a clipped 'Good morning, Comrades' as they exited.
Alone, Rostnikov looked up at the single window for the first time since he had entered the room. His leg had grown stiff, his clothes were still wet, and he knew it was still raining. The envelope the colonel had handed him was grayish-white, unmarked. Nothing was written on it. Rostnikov slit the top flap with his fingernail. The note was brief, typed. He looked out at the rain, sighed, and stood up. He would have to take the metro, but he should still make it by the time indicated in the letter.
Before he left the building, he went to the central desk and said that he wanted a copy of the report on Case Number 16 for that morning.
'Case Number?' the short-haired woman behind the desk asked, looking at the stack of files in front of her.
'Oleg Pesknoko, the circus performer who died this morning,' Rostnikov said.
'Ah,' said the woman triumphantly, locating the file and handing it to Rostnikov. 'The accident.'
'Yes,' Rostnikov said, tucking the file under his arm. 'The accident.'
The man who had killed eight prostitutes in the past six years had no idea on that Monday morning that Investigator Emil Karpo of the Procurator's Office was looking for him. Yuri Pon really didn't worry about the police at all, because he was well aware of, the official status of the investigation of his activities. He was aware of the progress, or lack of it, because he worked in the central records department of the Office of the Procurator General of Moscow.
Pon had not even checked the files for the possibility of any recent activity. No one really cared about the prostitutes. There were too many other priorities: murders, mannings, crimes against the state. Since prostitutes did not officially exist any longer, the file referred to the victims as 'women of questionable character.' Pon referred to them, and only to himself and his diary, as the snakes.
Since he was a boy, Pon, who was nearing his forty-first birthday, had seen these women and had sensed, knew, what they were. He had seen them, been fascinated by the prostitutes who hung around the railway stations and the others who sat in hotel lobbies or restaurants on Gorky Street. He had seen them, dreamed of them, even wanted them, though he was repulsed by the idea. There was no possibility that Yuri Pon would actually go to bed with a prostitute.
As he sat at his desk, stamping the folders in front of him with an official seal, he shook his head to confirm his determination. He would never go with a prostitute. It would be like… like wrapping a snake around your most private parts, the way he had wrapped a cloth in the tub when he was a child. But it would be more smooth and scaly. Yuri Pon shuddered. The shudder ran through his puttylike body. Nausea made him lift his eyes and peer through his glasses toward the washroom. But the feeling passed and he sat back, furiously stamping, stamping, stamping.
And why had mis come on? He had been drinking the night before. That was true. But that wasn't unusual. Had he been drinking the night before it had happened the other times? He didn't remember. Perhaps he had, but there had also been many nights when he had consumed far more vodka, felt far more the pull and repulsion of the prostitutes, especially the one at the restaurant on Gorky.
'Comrade Pon,' a voice broke in.
Pon shook and almost dropped the seal in his hand.
'Pon,' the woman repeated.
'Yes,' Pon answered, adjusting his glasses and looking up at Ludmilla Kropetskanoya, the assistant files supervisor, who always wore black and looked like a light pole.
'File these.' She handed him a half dozen files and strode away from his desk toward the stairs. 'And try to hurry with this busywork and get back to the computer.'
Pon watched her leave, feeling nothing but a vague dizziness from the drinking of the night before. As he rose he continued to wonder why he was thinking about the prostitutes once more. Was he going to start having those nights again? The nights when the feeling wouldn't go away? Night after night after night, feeling his body in the darkness, responding to the memories of those women, responding but never satisfied. The killings had given him relief, great relief. But the feeling had always come back.
Pon tucked the sheets of new information and reports under his left arm and pushed the odd pieces of paper back into the files as he walked slowly to the rows of drawers behind him. He paused at the white plastic table, stacked the files, and began to sort them by case number.
It had been almost a full year since he had last needed to find a prostitute. Though he was too cautious to be
