of forty murder sites in close proximity to Metro stations being random.”
Sasha poured himself some more tea from the thermos Maya had prepared for him. Some time during the night, Sasha had begun to develop a slight cough and when he got up in the morning he thought he might have a temperature.
“Why didn’t anyone notice this connection to Metro stations before?” asked Sasha.
“Perhaps,” said Karpo, “because there is no overt connection, only a proximity that becomes remarkable when the sample becomes large enough. Coincidence would have had at least one of the murders taking place farther than five minutes from a station, or one or more of the murders even closer to a Metro station. It would appear, therefore, that 341 does not want to act too near a station and is afraid of getting too far from one.”
“I’m catching a cold again and I distrust such statistics,” said Tkach.
“I have noticed that you are remarkably prone to viral attack. I suggest large doses of citrus and aspirin and I share your skepticism, but I think the possibility that I may be correct is worth pursuit unless you have a potentially more promising conjecture.”
“I have a cold.”
“I’m sorry, but you have colds with increasing frequency.”
“Pulcharia asked about you,” said Tkach, stifling a sneeze. “She likes you.”
Karpo allowed himself a smile, though no one, with the possible exception of Rostnikov, would have recognized it as such. He looked up at the clock on the wall of Rostnikov’s office. It was a few minutes before four.
“I read,” said Tkach, returning to his skepticism, “that a researcher for the American Encyclopedia Britannica determined the square footage of forest in the Soviet Union by calling a forest ranger and asking how many trees grew on an average square acre of forest. The researcher then looked at a map, added up all the area marked in green in the Soviet Union, divided it by acres, and multiplied it by the number the forest ranger had given her. That figure then appeared in the encyclopedia and has subsequently been picked up by almanacs and even used by
“And you find a relationship between this anecdote and my conclusions about 341?” asked Karpo.
“You see spots on a map and draw a conclusion.” Tkach sniffled. “You see a pattern. You connect the dots to make the picture you want to see.”
The tinkling fluorescent light from the single fixture above Rostnikov’s desk sent long shadows down Karpo’s pale face.
“I see no other reasonable conclusion,” said Karpo. “I think 341 will realize this too,” he said.
“Realize what?” asked Sasha, holding back a sneeze that confounded him by emerging as a cough.
“Perhaps soon, or perhaps after more killing, he will become aware of his pattern.”
“And perhaps never,” said Tkach. “But, assuming you are right, what will he do?”
“Force himself to kill a great distance from a Metro station, if he is capable of doing so. Or commit a murder in a Metro station, if he is capable of doing so.”
“Or,” said Sasha, “simply go right on the way he has been. We can search far from a Metro station, inside a station, or near a station. The circle is closing around our killer, Karpo. We have him trapped within the confines of greater Moscow.”
“I assume that was sarcasm. I do not find sarcasm productive,” said Karpo.
Someone tapped at the door and Sasha called for whoever it was to enter. A female clerk with very short hair stuck her head in and announced that Sasha had a call.
Karpo responded by looking down at the map.
“Deputy Inspector Tkach,” Sasha said into the phone.
“You sound worse,” said Maya. “Did you drink the tea?”
“I’m drinking,” he said. “I’ll get an orange or some pills.”
“Pulcharia has a cough too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If it gets worse, I’m calling that doctor, Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin, the one we met at the party. The clinic lines are getting longer and the nurses always take your temperature and give you the same bottle of red syrup.”
“Good idea,” said Tkach. Karpo, standing pale and still, reminded Sasha of the statue of Lenin in October Square. Then Sasha remembered that the statue of Lenin was no longer in October Square.
“Try to come home and get some rest,” Maya said.
“I’ll try,” Sasha said, aware that home and rest were antagonistic concepts. His greatest chance at recuperation would probably be to remain right here in Rostnikov’s overly warm office pondering the Metro theory of Emil Karpo.
When Sasha hung up the phone, Karpo spoke.
“We have a profile of victims. Central Computer indicates that they are sixty-four percent males and thirty- six percent females. The median age of victims is twenty-one, with the range from fifteen to thirty. An examination of the victims suggests that the younger ones looked a bit older and the older ones looked younger than their age. All of the victims were approached while traveling alone.”
“So,” said Tkach, leaning back dreamily, “the odds are approximately three to one that
“So it would seem.”
“Ah,” said Tkach, fighting a strong urge to close his eyes and lean far back in Rostnikov’s desk chair. “And when?”
“Soon perhaps,” said Karpo, still staring at the map. “He killed two days ago. He has killed on consecutive days. He has waited months to kill. What he has not done is strike three days after a murder.”
“But he might go back to an old pattern,” said Tkach, resisting the urge to touch his own forehead to check his temperature.
“All things are possible,” said Karpo. “We are dealing with a madman. Like all mad people, he has a set of needs, a pattern that compels him.”
“Like killing always five minutes from the Metro. So, what is your plan?”
“My plan,” said Karpo, “is to find as many young people as we can who fit 341’s victim profile, and place them where they can be watched if they are approached by anyone.
“And how many decoys and watchers would that take to have any statistical chance of finding 341?” asked Tkach.
“Several hundred,” said Karpo.
“We’ll need the Wolfhound to get the Metro police to cooperate,” said Tkach. “You are talking about one hundred police.”
“Then we shall ask him for that. We shall convince him that it is imperative.”
“And the decoys? Even if we get enough police, which is not likely, where are we going to get a hundred decoys who fit the victim profile?”
Karpo simply looked at Sasha and said nothing.
“You have at least one in mind,” said Sasha.
“Yes,” replied Emil Karpo.
“So, you have me. All you need are about fifty more.”
“I think I may know where to get them,” said Karpo. The phone on Rostnikov’s desk rang. It was precisely nine-thirty.
Yevgeny Odom was a hardworking man. Not only did he carefully plan murders and protect Kola, he also worked two jobs.
Since his full-time job did not start till early in the afternoon, he put in two or three hours each day in the blood bank at the hospital. His army service as a medical assistant had taught him how to draw blood, and his pleasant disposition had earned him his civilian position. Donors frequently reported to doctors and nurses that the tall man with the small smile drew their blood with almost no pain and great good humor, both characteristics that were traditionally in short supply in Russia.
When he went to the hospital in the mornings, he always carried his flat, compact, blue carry-on bag, an
