We’re running more tests, but we have scheduled surgery for the day after tomorrow in the morning.”
Rostnikov looked at the ceiling.
“Sarah will be upset that I told you,” said Leon.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “Relieved. Thank you, Leon.”
“You are welcome, Porfiry Petrovich.”
The two men rose.
“It might be a good idea if you had different pants. Those have been badly shredded. I have several pairs of trousers from my late father-in-law,” said Leon. “I think they may fit you.”
“Why not?” said the policeman. “Why not?”
Paulinin had cleared off three tables in his laboratory, no easy task considering the amazing clutter. On one table lay the corpse of the recently murdered Chechin gangster. His hands were at his sides, and an open incision from the center of his ribs to his lower abdomen revealed a jumble of pinkish organs, intestines, and other body parts. On the second table lay the burned corpse from the roof of the apartment building on Kalinin. Its head was missing. On the third table were at least one hundred charred and partly burnt pieces of photographs, segments of cassette tape, and various items gathered by Paulinin from the hotel roof.
Emil Karpo, Iosef Rostnikov, and Akardy Zelach stood watching attentively. Paulinin, they knew, had a passion for exhibiting his skill before small appreciative audiences. Paulinin stood between the two corpses. He wore a blue smock and white latex gloves.
“There is still much to learn here,” he said. “It will take two or three days, maybe less. Had the corpses and this evidence been given to Pariatsok or Mendranov or any of the incompetents who call themselves pathologists and know nothing about careful examination and simple logic, they would have befouled the evidence, come to the wrong conclusions, and allowed the guilty to escape. That does not happen with Paulinin, who has been con-signed to this room for two decades. What they do not know is that I am content here, though I could use more modern equipment.”
None of the three detectives spoke or looked at each other. All three knew that those who knew of Paulinin and his laboratory also knew that he could be happy nowhere else.
“This is definitely the German, Jurgen,” he began, pointing at the blackened, headless corpse. “Teeth, bone structure, size, small hair samples all coincide with his description. I will find more. I will prove it conclusively. You can continue to search for our German, but he will be found nowhere but here in front of you. He was drunk when he died. He was nude when he was burned.
There are no signs of burnt clothing clinging to his bones. His skull was definitely cracked by a heavy wooden object brought down with great force, but that did not kill him. He was also stabbed in the neck, as I noted immediately upon examining the body. Now I know that the small slivers of wood in the skull and the others in the neck are from the same object, almost certainly one that broke upon striking the German’s head.
“Paulinin has changed his mind about one early conclusion. It takes courage in this profession to admit a possible error, even if the error is rectified immediately. There is a definite possibility, perhaps even a likelihood, that the German, while he was killed by the stab wound, may not have been quite dead when his body was burned. Oh, he was certainly dying and would have died, even with immediate expert attention, which is not easy to come by in Moscow and impossible everywhere else in Russia.”
“So,” said Iosef. “He was burned alive but he was dying?”
Paulinin looked up with satisfaction. It was the question he’d been waiting for.
“It is very possible. I’ll know more when I have finished my discussion with our headless friend. It would help if I could speak to him in German, but it is a language which I dislike.” He gently patted the scorched rib cage. “Now,” said Paulinin, “we bypass our second victim and go to the interesting pile of plastic bags.”
Paulinin moved to the pile of bags and looked at the policemen lined up attentively.
“I can salvage many of the photographs,” he said. “It takes time and delicacy, a skill those buffoons with all their equipment do not possess. I have already restored three of them to the point where the images can be seen with reasonable clarity. And I have begun carefully reclaiming pieces of tape, which I will put together onto a single reel and then copy.”
“May we see the photographs?” asked Iosef with just the proper tone of respect.
Paulinin nodded magnanimously and lifted three plastic envelopes. “I’ll hold. Don’t touch,” he said.
Iosef and Zelach moved forward to examine the photographs.
Emil Karpo remained where he was.
Even through the blur from the dim lights, the images on the photographs were clear. Yevgeny Pleshkov was in explicit and rather uninventive sexual positions with Yulia Yalutshkin in two of the pictures. In the third, he was in bed with Yulia and another woman, a very young woman.
“We will need everything as soon as possible,” said Iosef.
“As soon as possible,” said Paulinin. “And I decide when that shall be.”
“You’ve done an amazing job,” said Iosef.
“Yes,” said Paulinin. “It is odd, but I do not like Germans any more than I like their language. My father was killed by them.
Three of my uncles were killed by them. But when they are dead and on my table, they are not only forgiven, they become my friends and we talk. Death unites us.”
All three men knew that Paulinin had frequently been heard speaking to corpses with great animation.
“And now,” he said, “the big gangster.”
He went behind the corpse of the dead Chechin, placed his gloved hands on the table, and said, “Shot two times. Either would have been fatal. Very close range. The same gun that was used to shoot the Tatar in the river. Considering his wounds, the fact that he was capable of speaking to the guard who found him before he died indicates this man’s strength and the certainty that whoever shot him did so within a minute or two of his death. He too will tell me more. Perhaps he will even yield the name of the person who shot him.”
Emil Karpo had listened attentively.
Rostnikov, whom he had tried to locate before coming to the lab, could not be found. It was essential that he know about the murder of the Chechin before an all-out war began in the streets between the Chechins and the Tatars. It was not the lives of the gangsters about which Karpo was concerned. It was the innocents, always the innocents, who might well be the victims of the gangsters, notoriously poor shots.
“Now,” said Paulinin, “I would like to be left to do more work.” He looked down protectively at the white corpse before him.
“Thank you,” said Karpo. “Lunch tomorrow?”
“I’ll bring it,” said Paulinin with a sincere smile.
“No,” Karpo said, unwilling under any circumstance to eat anything Paulinin might make. He had frequently drunk weak tea prepared in this very lab, in specimen cups which may well have contained anything during their long lives. “It will be my treat, a sign of my great respect for your continued excellent work.”
“In that case,” said Paulinin, beaming, “I accept. One o’clock?”
“One o’clock,” Karpo confirmed as he turned and led the way for the other two detectives through the maze of tables, piles of jars, books, and pieces and bits of mechanisms of all types and many sizes.
Iosef knew that somewhere in this museum of clutter his father’s leg floated in a huge jar. He was sure, should he ask, that Paulinin would be happy to show it to him. Iosef had no desire to see it.
Before coming to Iosef ’s laboratory for the demonstration, Emil Karpo had finished checking the newspaper clipping files-
the computer had been of no help-for the information that would confirm his memory of the shoot-out. Karpo had found what he had been looking for. The clippings had not been mis-filed. They had simply never been properly filed at all. Going through them required a knowledge of what you were looking for and when it might have taken place.
One article contained the name he sought. It was mentioned but once. Karpo made a copy of the article, folded it neatly into his wallet.
Now, knowing the identity of the killer, he would have to find Rostnikov.
Yevgeny Pleshkov, the hope of Russia, the pride of Petrovar, could think of no place to hide and no one to go
