Rostnikov, from the time he was a boy, had been an avid lifter of weights. He kept a set of barbells and a bench at home and from time to time entered park and district competitions, which he invariably won. Now that he was placed in the senior bracket of such competition, he won even more regularly and thus competed less.
“How did you get here, huh?” asked Rostnikov.
“Well, my father. .”
“No, Igor. I was talking to our floating friend.”
“He is dead,” said the young officer.
“If not, we are witnessing a miracle,” said Rostnikov. “I was told once by a Inuit shaman in Siberia that it is a comfort to the souls of the dead to talk to them before they are taken by the spirits.”
“You believe that?” asked Druzhnin. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business to question. .”
“No, that is fine,” said Rostnikov, taking another sip of the coffee. “I don’t believe either, but I find it helpful to speak to the dead even if they do not answer. If the Hindus are correct, our floating friend has already been reincarnated, perhaps as a very small ant in a forest where he will not know he had once been human and might never, in his life as an ant, see a human being.”
“Perhaps,” said Druzhnin, adjusting his cap and trying not to look directly at the chief inspector, who seemed, to give him the benefit of the doubt, a bit odd.
A group of four men was coming down the embankment not far from the boat.
“Forensics,” one of the men called to Rostnikov.
“I know,” said Rostnikov.
“We’ll pull in the body,” the man on the shore said. “Can you give us a hand?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “It stays where it is.”
The man onshore, who was no more than forty, looked at his colleagues, one of whom said something Rostnikov could not hear.
Then the man spoke again. “We have to do our job,” the man said.
“My name is Penzurov. We have met before.”
“I recognize you.”
“Porfiry Petrovich, we have to do our job,” Penzurov repeated.
“No, you do not,” said Rostnikov. “The job must be done. But you do not have to be the ones who do it. Would you like to come aboard and have some coffee?”
“We were sent to retrieve and examine the body,” Penzurov said in confusion.
“Then return to whoever sent you and inform them that Inspector Rostnikov of the Office of Special Investigation told you that your outstanding services would not be required.”
“Why?” asked the man.
“Because,” said Rostnikov. “And I mean no offense, you have a less than outstanding record of examination of bodies, crime scenes, and collected evidence. The responsibility is mine. Technician Paulinin of Petrovka will conduct the examination of the body.”
The four men conferred. Rostnikov sipped his coffee and looked across the river at the massive Hotel Baltschug Kempinski towering over the smaller, ancient decaying buildings and churches.
“I believe we have jurisdiction,” said the man as firmly as he could.
“I believe you do not,” said Rostnikov. “Do not try to pull the corpse in or I shall come ashore in a black mood and be forced to embarrass you into departure.”
“We shall report this immediately,” said the man.
“That is a very good idea,” said Rostnikov.
The four men made their way back up the embankment. One of the men, the oldest, slid and slipped on the dewy grass of late spring. No one helped him up. He scrambled to the top of the in-cline and looked down at his dirty hands before joining the others.
Rostnikov handed his empty mug to Officer Druzhnin, who said, “Would you like more?”
“No, thank you,” said Rostnikov.
The officer nodded and headed for the door to the cabin, the two mugs clinking together as he moved.
Rostnikov turned awkwardly to the bobbing corpse and said,
“What are you doing here? What happened to your clothes? Who are you?”
A small undulation raised the body slightly.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll talk to Paulinin,” said Rostnikov. “I’m comfortable talking to the dead, but
Now two men appeared at the top of the embankment. Rostnikov turned again, giving his artificial leg a hitch.
The two men who stood looking down at the inspector and the floating corpse were an incongruous pair. One was tall, very pale, and dressed completely in black-shoes, socks, slacks, turtleneck sweater, and jacket. His dark, receding hair was brushed straight back. Rostnikov looked at Detective Emil Karpo who returned the look without emotion. Karpo was known as “the Vampire” or “the Tatar” by criminals and law-enforcement officers. Karpo had been a completely dedicated Communist who had not overlooked the political system’s many shortcomings but who believed that eventually the system would succeed. It was not Communism that was the problem but the men who seemed determined to corrupt it.
The sudden transition from corrupt Communism to corrupt democracy had been difficult for Karpo, but he had been helped through the change by Mathilde Verson, a redheaded part-time prostitute who had grown quite close to him. And then Mathilde had been killed in the crossfire between two Mafias. Karpo had survived by throwing himself into his work even more than was usual. In fact, Emil Karpo spent all of his waking hours relentlessly pursuing criminals from both the past and the present. Karpo’s small room was dominated by shelves filled with notebooks on past unsolved and solved crimes. The rest of the space in which he lived was little more than a cell, with a small dresser, cot, and closet.
Since he spent little, Karpo had money to buy the computer that sat on the desk in his room. The computer was devoted to storing Emil Karpo’s vast files and running cross-checks which might link anyone to any crime.
The man at his side, Paulinin, was shorter, disheveled, clad in a stained white laboratory coat, and decidedly uncomfortable. He seemed to be talking to himself.
Rostnikov waved for the two men to come down and join him.
Officer Druzhnin appeared on deck, looked at Rostnikov, who nodded, and let down a plank for the two men to board the small boat.
“Thank you for coming,” said Rostnikov to Paulinin. “I’m sorry to bring you out so early, but you are the only one I trust to give me a meaningful report about our floating friend.”
Paulinin grunted, adjusted his glasses, and stood at the rear of the boat next to Rostnikov, looking down at the dead man. Behind Paulinin, Karpo said, “He’s a member of the Tatar Mafia. The tattoo is theirs.”
“A start,” said Rostnikov. “Paulinin?”
“By the condition of the corpse, I would say he has been in the water less than a day, perhaps much less. My guess? He died last night. But. .”
Paulinin looked around, found a grappling pole, and awkwardly but carefully nudged the corpse toward the boat. He used the flat side of the pole to keep from damaging the bloating corpse.
“Hold this,” Paulinin said, handing the pole to Karpo, who took it and firmly pulled the body closer to the boat.
“We must turn him over,” said Paulinin.
“Officer Druzhnin, please,” said Rostnikov.
The young officer climbed over the rear railing, feet on a narrow platform near the water level and one hand on the railing. He reached down and tried to turn the naked corpse over on its back, but the man was too heavy and slippery. Karpo moved forward and joined the young officer. Together, they managed to turn the corpse. Druzhnin held the body awkwardly to keep it from turning facedown again.
Paulinin looked down at the corpse.
The dead man was thick necked and had a well-trimmed short beard. A dark hole burrowed into his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. He also had three dark spots in his hairy chest and stomach.
“Pull him up here, carefully,” said Paulinin.
