A Whisper to the Living

“Stalin would have taken care of the problem,” said Yuri’s grandfather, starting to eat the thick soup before him.

Yuri did not know what the problem was, but he nodded his understanding and agreement. His mother smiled at him and slowly began to eat.

“There is no Maniac in the park,” his grandfather repeated more to himself than to his daughter and grandson.

“The policeman has one leg,” Yuri said.

“He is not a policeman. He is a molester of children. No one with one leg is allowed to be a policeman. Stay away from him.”

Yuri knew better than to argue. They ate in silence to the ranting of voices from the television set. When the meal was over, Yuri’s grandfather rose once more, saying, “Policemen with one leg. Maniacs in the park. You read too many wild stories.”

With that Yuri’s grandfather left the apartment to go downstairs and outside, where he could smoke two cigarettes. He had been told by doctors that he had to stop completely, but he had no intention of doing so. He was only sixty years old. Others he knew who smoked were older than he. Doctors since the fall of the Soviet Union told everyone they had to stop smoking.

“There is a Maniac and there is a policeman,” Yuri said, helping to clear the table and put the leftovers in plastic containers. “And he is not a molester of children.”

“I have heard these tales of a Maniac,” Yuri’s mother said, turning the volume of the television set down to a whisper. “I think there was even something on the news. Was that in our park?”

“Yes,” said Yuri.

“And your policeman with one leg is there to catch him?”

“Yes.”

Yuri had not mentioned the candy that the policeman had shared with him. He knew it would not be a good idea.

“Solachkin is a jackass,” his grandfather said, bursting through the door. “A fool, a jackass, a. . jackass.”

Yuri welcomed his grandfather’s return. It interrupted the conversation with his mother, a conversation about the policeman that was beginning to make Yuri uncomfortable.

“You know what that ti sleepoy, asleyp mudak, that impotent bastard, said?” Yuri’s grandfather said between his nearly closed teeth. “He believes in your Maniac? I told him that it was just a trick to divert the minds of the public from the invasion of Ossetia by Putin and his puppet Medvedev. When the police have wrung the last sweat of rumor from the streets they will find some fool to accuse of their make-believe murders and lock him away or even shoot him.”

Yuri had an open book before him. As he was picking it up to retreat to the bedroom, his grandfather strode across the room, beating Yuri to the bedroom. Wherever his grandfather roosted, Yuri would go in the other room.

Through the open door of the bedroom, Yuri heard something rattling and the voice of his grandfather saying, “Betrayed, betrayed by Putin. I am not afraid to say it. Betrayed. I thought KGB Putin would resurrect the Communist Party, but what has he done?”

Yuri’s grandfather emerged with a small wooden box and a board tucked under his arm.

Without a word, Yuri’s mother got up and touched her son’s cheek. She looked so tired. Yuri touched her hand and smiled.

“You set up,” his grandfather said, placing the chessboard on the table.

Olga Platkov moved across the room and through the door to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Yuri opened the wooden box and placed the chess pieces in the center of each box.

“You have white. You open,” his grandfather said. “You want tea?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I will heat the water. You get the tea.”

The two prepared the tea side by side.

“You have white,” Yuri’s grandfather said. “I have black.”

It was the same thing he said before every one of their games of chess. He had said it since Yuri was five years old. The truth was that Yuri looked forward to these games, to chess with his grandfather, who ceased ranting as soon as the game began.

“School is good?”

“Yes,” said Yuri, reaching for the pawn directly in front of the King’s knight.

In the six years they had been playing, Yuri had not won once. This did not seem to bother either him or his grandfather. Yuri knew he would soon start winning.

He changed his mind and moved the knight over the line of pawns.

“A new gambit,” his grandfather said, reaching into his shirt pocket to pull out a cigarette and put it between his teeth. He would not light it. He never did when he was inside the apartment. “Well, let us test your mettle.”

Maybe this would be the game Yuri finally won.

“Now for the reports,” said Paulinin to the couple at his table, the woman next to him, the man just beyond.

The problem and the particular value of Paulinin’s reports was that they were meticulous and detailed, written with a dark, ultra-thin-point pen. There were thirty-two identical fine-point black gel pens in the drawer of his desk right next to the two small jars of pain pills. Paulinin always wrote in clear, small letters. He wanted no mistakes or distortions. When he finished each report, he carefully transferred his notes to the computer.

Before beginning his report, he had turned off the CD of Beethoven’s Fidelio. It was Beethoven’s only opera and the only opera that the scientist really liked. There was an inevitable melancholy to the overture, an echo from the pit in the cell. Most of Paulinin’s guests appreciated the opera.

He had already examined and written reports on five of the victims of the Bitsevsky Maniac and on the latest corpse, that of one Daniel Volkovich, which Inspector Iosef had sent him. Paulinin was not at all sure that the simple case required his special forensic skills. Oh, he was pleased that the son of the Chief Inspector thought highly enough of Paulinin’s skill to bring him this guest. However, the visitors were piling up. Six were in the refrigerator one flight up, and two were before him in the laboratory.

He looked down at the quite pretty woman with her eyes closed and began, “Lena-”

A lightbulb crackled. He began again.

Before writing the reports on his own form and not that of the government, he spoke to both the tape recorder and the two corpses.

“Lena Medivkin and Fedot Babinski were murdered by. .”

“. . two different people,” said Iosef, who had received the report from Paulinin confirming what he had thought.

Iosef and Akardy had remained in the musky gymnasium, neither sitting. Handcuffed, Ivan the Giant stood between the two policemen. Across from them stood Klaus Agrinkov, the manager, and at his side stood a bewildered middleweight with a completely smashed nose. A towel was draped over the shoulders of the middleweight, whose name was Osip. He had no idea what was going on. The only thought in his mind was of getting home and telling Maria that he had met Ivan Medivkin, who was as big as his myth.

“Different people?” said Agrinkov.

Ivan did not appear to have heard. His mind was focused on escape.

“So our expert tells us,” said Iosef. “Both of the victims were beaten to death. However, the blows to Lena Medivkin were short, hard, much more powerful with a right hand than the left. And Fedot Babinski was killed by crushing straight punches to the face, neck, and stomach with a left hand, which suggests. .?”

“Two assailants in the room,” said Agrinkov, nodding his head.

“But not necessarily at the same time,” said Iosef. “Our laboratory has not yet fully established how far apart they were killed, but it appears the woman was killed first.”