sent by the clerk downstairs, who sat behind a barred window that made him look more like a prisoner than a police officer. The uniformed man, with an ageless pock-marked face, had barely looked up when they identified themselves.
Sasha had said they wanted to see whoever was in charge of ongoing investigations. When the man behind the bars had asked which investigation, Elena said, “The rapes.”
“Which …?” the man had begun, and then he had looked up at them. “Lieutenant Spaskov on the second floor, Room 2. He’s in a meeting in his office. I think he’ll be done soon.”
So they now sat on a wooden bench outside four offices with no names on the doors but numbers over each. They could make out the sound of voices from a few of the offices but no distinct words. In Russia, government officials had learned to keep their voices down and their conversations quiet.
“This is a waste of time,” Sasha said.
“You have a better lead?” answered Elena.
“An old woman got a glimpse of a man who tried to rob her ten years ago. He may be the rapist. Now she sees a policeman two or three times in a police car in Leningrad Square and declares it is the man.”
“She gave a description,” said Elena quietly as she unbuttoned her jacket.
“Which could fit a few million men in Moscow and half or more of the police,” he said, slumping on the bench. “I need some coffee.”
There were voices in Room 2; one in particular was deep, confident. Occasionally another voice or two would respond.
“How is your aunt?” Sasha said, holding his head, which cried for coffee.
“Anna Timofeyeva is fine,” said Elena, looking forward at Room 3, from which no voices came. “She and your mother get along well.”
“My mother follows the agreement?” he asked.
“Usually,” said Elena. “She comes when she is invited, and when Anna wants her to go, she says she is tired and needs to rest. Your mother is less inclined to follow the rule about not complaining about you, Maya, the children, and the failure of the new Russia to protect her son. She can’t stop. Aunt Anna can take more of it than I can. I dread walking down that corridor at night and hearing your mother’s voice behind my aunt’s door.”
“I know how you feel,” said Sasha.
“Your mother supports the Nationalist Party,” Elena said.
“Just talk,” he said, trying to sit upright in the hope that it might ease the tension of his caffeineless headache. “It was probably a bad idea to have her move into your building, but we were desperate.”
Elena shrugged and said, “Aunt Anna seems to find your mother amusing and distracting if a bit too loud. Your mother is no fool. She is, however, protectively conditioned to act like one. Eventually the act, if played long enough, becomes reality.”
Sasha threw his hair back from his forehead and looked at his partner, who turned her clear, round face to his, prepared for attack.
“You’re right,” he said.
“She’s not allowed in the door without her hearing aid,” said Elena, “but I don’t think it works properly, or she just has too many years of shouting to overcome her hearing loss.”
“Going home to my mother can be depressing,” he said, “but she is good with the children. She worries about me. She talks with affection about your aunt.”
“But not about me,” said Elena.
“She finds you cold and distant,” he said, now closing his eyes.
“Perhaps, but I do not want to cultivate too close a relationship to your mother,” said Elena as the door to Room 2 opened.
Three uniformed policemen wearing helmets and carrying Kalishnikov automatic rifles stepped out. They were all young. They wore their supposedly bulletproof jackets outside their uniforms. The jackets were of no use against weapons such as the ones they were carrying, and criminals increasingly had weapons far more powerful than those of the police. The jackets were slightly cumbersome, but they were required. The three men, all in their twenties, moved quickly down the hall past the two seated detectives.
A man appeared in the doorway, at least six feet tall, medium build, with thinning dark hair and a mustache, which was common in many officers. At first they grew them thinking it would make them look older. Later some kept them simply because they had grown accustomed to them. It looked good on this man in blue slacks, a blue shirt, and a leather jacket, unzipped.
“Spaskov,” he said, introducing himself as the two detectives rose.
Elena and Sasha introduced themselves and showed their cards. Spaskov stepped back so they could enter his office. It was surprisingly large and surprisingly empty-a desk, a chair behind it, four wooden chairs in front of it, nothing on the walls, and a file cabinet in one corner across from the desk on which there sat two wire boxes, both neatly piled with reports. One small, framed photograph and one file were on the desk in front of the chair. There were no windows.
“Would either of you like tea or coffee?” Spaskov said.
“Coffee,” said Sasha gratefully.
“Nothing,” said Elena.
Spaskov left the office and the two detectives sat in silence till he returned moments later with two white mugs. He handed one to Sasha, who thanked him and immediately took a drink. It was awful-murky, and stale-but it was coffee.
“Frankonovich says you have some information on the rapes,” Spaskov said, sitting not behind his desk but at one of the wooden chairs before it. Elena and Sasha pulled up their chairs to face him.
“Most of the attacks came in this district,” said Elena.
Spaskov nodded emphatically.
“Brutal,” he said. “What he has done … When I was promoted, Major Lenonov assigned me the case. I interviewed the victims, at least the ones who came forward or were hospitalized and reported by the hospital. Some of them were badly injured, permanently injured. No description. The man is strong, as the report shows. He is probably medium height. There seems to have been no pattern other than the attacks occur at night on women who are alone. Young, old, some girls. I will get you a copy of our file on the case.”
Spaskov drank some of the hot coffee from his mug.
“The Office of Special Investigation has been assigned the case,” said Tkach. “We have a new lead.”
Spaskov was placing his mug on his desk when Sasha spoke. He paused and turned with interest.
“New lead?”
“Witness,” said Elena.
Spaskov sat back to listen.
“An old woman was robbed almost ten years ago,” said Sasha. “She wasn’t raped but she thinks the man was trying to rape her. He hit her on the head from behind, but she fought back, fought him off, got a look at his face. The attack bore striking resemblances to the reported rapes that began four years later.”
Spaskov looked incredulous.
“I know,” said Sasha, warming his hands on the mug. “The woman is old. The cases may not be related. By now her recollection of the man may be a blur, a confusion. She might identify a perfectly innocent man.”
“She claims she has seen the man since,” said Elena. “She seems certain.”
“Where?” asked Spaskov.
“In a police car,” said Sasha.
“She says the man who attacked her was a police officer?” said Spaskov.
“Yes,” said Elena. “She says she saw him in a police car two or three times about three years ago, all around Kievskaya railway station.”
Spaskov nodded, finished his coffee, and put the cup down on his battle-scarred desk.
“Does she have a time of day? How good is the identification? I’ve been in this district almost twenty years. I know every patrol car officer.”
“She says it was during the day each time, between three and five,” said Elena. “The policeman was dark, wore a cap, had brown eyes and a small white scar on his face.”
Spaskov was momentarily lost in thought.
