away in the kitchen. “Phone numbers, addresses.”
“And you think one of them killed my Lena?”
“And your Fedot Babinski. Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Ivan, I know people. I have learned to smell fear, anger, regret. I would wager much of what I own that one of them is a murderer. I am going to have bread and gooseberry jam. You sure you do not want any?”
“I will have some.”
“Good, and coffee.”
Vera moved to the small kitchen area where she could prepare the food and see him as they continued to speak.
“Were you all right here?” she asked.
“No,” he said, getting up and looking around the room.
“I will pass what I know on to the police anonymously, and perhaps they will dig a bit more and pick out the murderer from among those on our list. Then you shall be free again.”
“I want to get some sleep,” he said.
“We shall eat our bread and jam and you may go into the bedroom and sleep.”
“Yes,” he said, rubbing his closed eyes with thumb and finger.
“May I ask you a question?” she asked from the kitchen.
“Anything,” he said, folding his huge hands on the table.
“Would you like company in bed?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he said, accepting knife and platter.
She placed a plate of sliced brown bread and a large jar of jam on the table.
It was at this point that, without understanding why, he had decided to follow through on the enterprise that to this point had only been a vague thought.
If it worked, Ivan Medivkin might soon be either a free man or in prison. He wondered which it would be and then, when he had finished three slices of bread and jam, he thanked Vera and went into her bedroom, where, despite the undersized bed, he fell asleep less than two minutes later.
5
“What do you see?” asked Paulinin.
The look on his face, Iosef Rostnikov decided, was that of either a madman or someone under the influence of a chemical substance. Paulinin needed a shave. Paulinin needed some sleep. Paulinin probably needed something to eat. Without his laboratory coat, Paulinin looked decidedly thin.
Zelach and Iosef looked down at the corpses of the man and the woman who were facing them with their eyes closed.
“Like two people who have been beaten to death,” said Iosef.
“Yes, yes, certainly yes,” said the scientist with a smile. “But what about the wounds?”
Zelach, never happy to be in this dungeon of alternatively sweet and acrid odors, said, “Their faces are purple and swollen.”
“And?” Paulinin urged.
“The woman has been beaten more severely,” said Iosef. “Broken cheek and nose. One punch to the face. Right here.”
He reached over and touched the rubbery cheek of the corpse of the woman.
“All of the damage is to the right side of the damsel’s face,” said Paulinin. “Now look at him. Go on; go on.”
Iosef and Zelach looked again.
“The woman was killed by someone left-handed. It took the killer only two quick punches. One to the face. One to the neck. Whereas the man was hit at least four times, with the heaviest blows from a right hand.”
“So,” said Iosef, “we have two murderers.”
“Yes,” said Paulinin. “Two people who are able to strike with great power, one left-handed and one right- handed.”
“How tall?” asked Zelach.
Akardy Zelach seldom spoke in Paulinin’s laboratory. Zelach’s goal was to leave the large, cluttered room and its smells and visions as soon as possible. Speaking, asking questions, only prolonged the visit.
Paulinin and Iosef looked at Zelach as if he had suddenly appeared from nowhere. This was the second time he had spoken.
“That is a good question,” said the scientist. “Judging from the angle of the blows, I would say the person who killed the woman was taller than she and the person who killed the man was about his height, unless of course. .”
“What?” asked Iosef.
“Unless our victim here was on the floor when he was struck,” said Paulinin. “Have I answered your question, Inspector Zelach?”
“Yes.”
“And how is your mother?”
Zelach had spoken of his mother only once to Paulinin, and that had been several years ago. At that time Zelach had mentioned that his mother had great trouble breathing and that state doctors were doing little for her.
“The same,” Zelach said, and then amended his comment to, “not so well.”
“Wait,” said Paulinin, holding up a hand and disappearing into dark shadows and narrow paths.
Iosef was looking down at the bodies now, examining them closely. In a few seconds, Paulinin emerged, carrying a small, brown bottle.
“Here, give one of these pills to your mother in the morning and one at night before she goes to bed,” Paulinin said. “And, under your promise that she has no thoughts of suicide, tell no one where you got this. It is quite illegal.”
Zelach took the pills, said nothing but nodded his thanks.
“There is something you have not shared with us,” said Iosef, facing the scientist.
“There is,” said Paulinin. “I wanted to finish a few more tests to be certain, but I am reasonably certain that I know who killed the woman.”
“Would you give them to your mother if she were ill?” asked Zelach.
They were walking swiftly toward a crackling concrete-box apartment building. The something that fell from the sky was neither rain nor snow but a kind of penetrating gray slush that was peculiar to Moscow.
“My mother is ill. As you know, quite ill,” said Iosef. “I would offer her something that Paulinin handed me, but he has not offered such a thing to me.”
Zelach nodded. He could feel the brown bottle in his pocket, hear the pills tinkling against the brown glass.
They had entered dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Stalin-era buildings like this over the years. Dark stairwells that echoed sharply with each step and smelled of tobacco, food, and the sweat of a thousand bodies.
Zelach carried a small Chinese-made flashlight for situations like this. There was, however, enough light in this sagging building to see the numbers on the doors.
Iosef knocked. He knocked again. He knocked a third time. They heard a shuffling on the other side of the door, and Iosef, in his deepest and most commanding voice, said, “Police.”
“I am not at home,” came the voice of a woman.
“Open the door,” said Iosef. “We are here to talk to you about your husband’s death.”
