Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

very close to the bars. Whoever came would have to move close. He could hear the door beyond his cell open, hear the footsteps, sense when the person was about to reach down. Misha got to his feet, moved quickly, feeling his testicles beating against his thighs.

Hand through the bar, ready. The sound of his jailer reaching for the door.

Misha struck, reached through the bar, grabbed the wrist. The wrist was not thick, but he could not hold it as the jailer pulled away with a grunt and gasp, dropping metal bowls that clattered to the floor.

The jailer said something through clenched teeth. “Propezdoloch, clever bastard.”

Misha thought he recognized the voice. He croaked defiantly, “I am going to get out.”

And the voice of his jailer came back, “Ni khuya, no way.”

The jailer moved quickly to the door at the end of the room, not stopping to pick up what had been dropped, not wanting to put a hand into or touch the toilet bowl.

The outer door opened and closed and Misha was alone again, but this time he had something to work with. He had recognized the voice of his jailer. He would not utter the name. He would pretend that he did not know. The darkness of the visits was still his protection.

They would keep it dark when they entered for only two reasons: to help drive him mad or to protect themselves from Misha identifying them when he was free. Which meant that Misha had a chance of being free. It was slim hope, but he clung to it, and the knowledge that he knew who his captors were.

The lights came on. The music did not. Misha looked at the mess outside his cell. One bowl, the one which had held water, was on its side against the far wall. The food bowl was overturned within his reach. Miraculously, his toilet bowl had not been moved.

In addition, there were three fresh bowls within reach just beyond the bars. Misha reached through the bars and worked the food and drink inside.

He was hungry now, thirsty too. There was much to think about. He could fashion new earplugs while he considered his plight.

He was not being tested by cossacks, but he would behave as if he were a cossack. He would imagine himself in full blue uniform and long blue coat, leather boots, and a fur hat.

Misha felt a chill. He coughed once, took a drink of water, and retreated to the wall and mattress. He had much to do.

“Your name is Anatoly Zagrenov,” said Karpo, looking down at the sheet on the badly scarred wooden table.

“People call me Bottle Kaps,” the young man said. “I call myself Bottle Kaps.”

They were in a small room in a local precinct police station. There was nothing in the room but a table and two chairs. A single window, quite small and quite dirty, about seven feet up on one wall let in a little light. The walls were a thin brown with spots and smears of dirt. The floor was rough, cracked gray concrete. There was no two-way mirror. There was but one door and any police officer passing the room ignored whatever sounds, pain, anguish, pleading, or cries seeped into the dark corridor.

The young man who wanted to be called Bottle Kaps had moved to the chair to sit. Karpo motioned to him to remain on his feet. The detective also remained standing on the opposite side of the table with the sheet of paper before him.

“You are nineteen years old,” Karpo went on. “Your mother is dead. Your father lost his job two years ago as a janitor in a plastic factory.”

“He is a drunk,” the young man said. “A parasite.”

“In contrast to you,” said Karpo.

“I work.”

“At what?”

“Things,” the young man said. “I know cars. I can fix things. But only for the right people.”

The young man rubbed the top of his head. He hadn’t shaved in about a day. Prickly small hairs were starting to grow.

“You are going back in the obyezannik, the monkey cage with the drunks and thieves,” said Karpo. “With Sergei.”

“Sergei?”

“Sergei Topoy, Heinrich,” said Karpo.

“Sergei Topoy,” the young man repeated with a smile.

“You will remain in the cage until you answer my questions and I believe your answers, Anatoly,” said Karpo.

Anatoly cocked his head to one side, spread his legs slightly, and clasped his wrist behind his back, a posture meant to show that he had no intention of cooperating.

“What happened to Misha Lovski?”

“I told you. We went out into the street. He just went his way.”

“You are lying,” Karpo said calmly.

“You may think what you like,” said Anatoly.

“A boy was murdered near the Mahezh Shopping Center yesterday, a rapper,” said Karoo.

The Mahezh was an underground mall off of Red Square where Russian rappers in loose-fitting parkas and baggy pants gathered.

“So?”

“You killed him,” said Karpo.

“I … I was nowhere near there yesterday. I have never killed anyone. I was with Heinrich and friends all day. We …”

“But you killed the boy,” said Karpo.

“No.”

“I have a policeman who will testify that he saw you do it,” said Karpo.

“I did not kill anyone,” Anatoly said. “Ask Heinrich. Ask …”

Karpo moved to the door and opened it. A young uniformed policeman stepped inside. Karpo nodded toward Bottle Kaps and said, “Is that him?”

The young policeman looked at Anatoly and said, “Yes.”

“You are certain?” asked Karpo.

“Certain,” said the policeman, who turned to leave.

“Wait,” cried Anatoly. “You … it must have been someone else. We look alike.”

The policeman was gone. Karpo had asked him to step in and identify the young man Karpo had brought into the precinct two hours earlier. Karpo had said nothing about a murder and, as far as Karpo knew, there had been no murder.

“I did not kill anyone,” Anatoly insisted, his arms now in front of him. “That cop is … I understand.”

Karpo said nothing.

“You are bluffing just to get me to tell you what happened to the Naked Cossack.”

“One minute,” said Karpo. “I give you one minute. Tell me what happened or you go back in the cage and I give Sergei the opportunity to tell me and walk out the door while you remain to be tried for murder.”

“You are bluffing,” said Anatoly with mock confidence.

“You are running out of seconds,” said Karpo.

The young man looked at the pale unsmiling figure in black. He knew the police had taken others off the streets, put them in jail for crimes they had not committed, found witnesses, usually the police themselves, to testify to their guilt. Anatoly had heard such stories. Such arrests accomplished two things. They officially solved a crime and they put someone in jail the police wanted off the streets.

“Your time is up,” Karpo said, gathering his papers.

“No, wait.”

“Your time is up,” Karpo repeated, turning toward the door.

“I will tell you, but you do not let Sergei or anyone else know I told you,” the young man said in near panic.

Karpo started to open the door.