was and what he should do.
“Well?”
“What do you want to do?”
Iosef shrugged. He had hoped Elena would answer the question, but it looked as if there was to be a stalemate.
They sat on the edge of the bed in front of the window. Iosef’s apartment was small, hardly an apartment at all, one tiny room with a bed near the window and a sink in the corner with a single-burner stove top next to a small refrigerator with a microwave atop it. There was also the luxury of a toilet and shower right next to it with just enough room to stand.
Sara had done her best to make the room comfortable for her son, and she had done a good job.
It was the place where he and Elena could be alone.
It was the place where they now had to decide if they were to marry the next day.
“Do you really want to?” she asked.
“Yes, I wish to marry you. I wish to spend as many of my days as possible with you next to me laughing, frowning, humming, and I wish you to have a daughter with me, one who looks like you, and I wish to have a son with you, one who looks more like you than me, and I wish to begin this journey soon.”
“Tomorrow? You are sure?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Everything is ready. It is as good a day as any and better than most.”
“I sense,” she said, “a lack of enthusiasm.”
“You sense the nervousness of any normal bridegroom. And you? Are you not on less than sturdy legs?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile, looking at him. “But I will not fall.”
He leaned over, kissed her gently, and felt her arms tighten around his neck as they rolled back on the bed with Iosef on top.
“We had best call your mother and tell her,” whispered Elena.
“We have something else to take care of first,” he said, reaching down to unbutton her blouse.
Rostnikov did not hear the first knock at the door. He was asleep in the chair he had placed by the window from which he could cause unease in Aleksandr Chenko.
With the second knock, Rostnikov called out, “I am coming.”
And come he did, rumbling to the door, urging his mechanical leg to cooperate with his good right one.
He went to the door, right hand in his pocket, where he had tucked in a small, efficient seven-shot Nagant revolver.
“I brought you something,” said Aleksandr Chenko as the Chief Inspector opened the door.
Chenko held out a bottle.
“Nitin wine,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps we can have some later.”
Then Aleksandr took a tarnished pocket watch from his pocket and handed it to Rostnikov, who held it in the palm of his left hand as he stepped back. Right hand still in his pocket, he motioned to the chair opposite the one he had been sitting in for the past two days. Chenko sat, a smile on his face, teeth showing.
Was this how the old couple sat night after night talking, reading, falling into a literary slumber?
Chenko was dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a black sweater. He sat awkwardly.
“I can offer you either tea or coffee the temperature of this room,” said the policeman.
“Perhaps a glass of the wine I brought.”
“Later.”
“Yes,” Chenko said, folding his hands in his lap and looking out the window at the darkened window of his own apartment.
“You look uncomfortable,” said Rostnikov. “Would you prefer we go for a walk?”
“No, this is fine.”
The younger man was not obviously armed. He had never used a gun in his compilation of the dead, and Rostnikov was reasonably certain he would not begin now. Nevertheless, Rostnikov sat in a position from which he could easily reach the revolver in his pocket.
“You know why I am here?” said Chenko, leaning forward.
“To confess,” said Rostnikov, now examining the watch Chenko had handed him. On the back of the watch was some kind of badly scratched engraved writing that Rostnikov could not read.
“It says:
“Who are they?” asked Rostnikov.
“I do not know. The man from whom I got it was named Taras Ignakov,” said Chenko, still smiling. “You have questions. Go ahead. I will give you answers.”
“Where did you get this watch?”
“From the pocket of a man with a dirty curly black beard, only one tooth, and yellow eyes.”
“You took it,” Rostnikov prompted him.
“From the pocket of a dead man.”
“And. .?”
The deep breath was long and quite mournful before Chenko replied.
“Oh yes, I killed him. I think he was my sixty-first. You have not yet found his body?”
“No.”
“When possible, I obtain their names and memorize them. And I always honor them by taking something from their pockets if there is anything to take. I have a hidden box filled with rings, watches, coins, even shoelaces.”
“Why?”
“At first I did it to be recognized and feared. Then I realized that swinging the hammer and listening to a cracking skull and a final sigh gave me a sense of great power. It is better than sex.”
At this point Chenko reached behind his back and lifted from his belt a claw hammer, which he placed in his lap.
“I was not asking why you kill. I asked why did you memorize their names? Why did you take souvenirs of your crimes? Do you want to remember what you did and who you did it to?”
Rostnikov shifted his weight to be better able to reach and retrieve the gun in his pocket.
“Yes,” said Chenko. “That too.”
“Normal people do not want to remember when they commit murder. Mafia members do not want to remember. Robbers who kill do not want to remember.”
“And what is your point?” asked Chenko.
“You are sick.”
“Can I be cured?” Chenko said with a smile.
“I do not think so,” said Rostnikov.
“Nor do I. You want me to confess because I feel guilty? I feel no guilt. None at all.”
“You like killing.”
“Yes.”
“And if you are not in prison you will kill again, and you may even do it in prison. You should be isolated in a cell for the remainder of your life. And I think you know I am right.”
“You could just kill me. I know you have a gun in your pocket,” said Chenko. “Or maybe I could kill you. I can leap from this chair and dig the claws of my hammer deep into your skull before you can get out your gun. Even if you manage to get it out and shoot me, I think with my lunge I could still watch my hammer strike.”
“Let us hope the moment does not arrive when we must test your theory,” said Rostnikov, looking almost sleepy. “Have you ever killed someone who was facing you?”
“No, but I will if I must. I wish to have a large and open trial at which I can tell what I have done. Can I have that, policeman, or do you plan to just kill me?”
“I have not yet decided,” said Rostnikov. “I wanted to have this conversation first.”
Chenko clicked his teeth together softly and said, “Look at my numbers. Am I not the maddest of all?”
