Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 30

Lena opened her hotel room window and lit a cigarette. She was thinking about what she’d say tomorrow morning at the district psychiatric clinic. Would anyone even speak to her? Was there any point in going?

Suppose someone had looked through the patient charts in November and December of 1982. They were sure to indicate blood type. Would the murderer himself have looked at the charts? Hardly. That would be too risky. In any case, he had to have had friends in that clinic or else he knew someone who had official access. Who could have official access? Someone in the police or prosecutor’s office, or a psychiatrist from another district or town. They didn’t let just anyone in, after all. Of course, an outsider could make something up to get access, but then he risked being remembered and exposed. No, the murderer wouldn’t do something like that.

A woman had gone to see the Slepaks. Suppose she was the one who’d stuck the light-colored, hand-knit sweater behind the stove. Then it was perfectly logical that she’d had access to the files. Volkov’s wife was a psychiatrist. No, that didn’t fit. Raisa Danilovna had said the woman was “scary looking.” Regina Gradskaya was beautiful. Had she altered her appearance when she’d visited Raisa Danilovna? Yes, that was a logical possibility. A woman can change a lot about her appearance. But she doesn’t make herself so ugly that that would be the main feature to stick in someone’s memory.

Fine, let’s leave Volkov and Gradskaya out of it for now so we don’t get mixed up. Let’s say we have an equation with two unknowns. X and Y. A man and a woman. So, woman Y was murderer X’s accomplice. She helped him frame the older Slepak and planted evidence. After they arrested Slepak, the murders stopped. Did he stop killing? How? Why? Did she cure him or something?

Lena suddenly remembered that the psychologist had written in his article that some sexual psychopaths could be treated with hypnosis, that those patients were highly suggestible, and instances were known when hypnosis and psychotherapy made them completely well. If the illness wasn’t connected with deeper pathologies, like schizophrenia, then there was hope. Hope doesn’t help anyone, though. And serial killers don’t get treatment. Society gets rid of them. And rightly so, probably.

Lena had a poor grasp of psychiatry and regretted not bringing a copy of the article or at least a printout of her translation. Not that one article covered everything. She needed to talk to a professional. But where was she going to find one? Not at the local clinic! She should at least read a psychiatry textbook of some kind.

It had turned cold. Lena shut the window and put on her jacket. But she was shivering anyway. She remembered that Mitya had been reading a psychiatry textbook. Which meant he had been following the same line of thinking. And how had that ended?

Lena picked up her enamel mug, poured out the coffee dregs, and washed the mug and immersion heater. She needed some tea to warm up. She thought she had packed a Pickwick herbal teabag. She’d put it in at the last moment, not at the bottom with the coffee and sugar, but in a side pocket.

Squatting in front of her bag, Lena discovered that the side pocket was unzipped. She specifically remembered she hadn’t gone in there that day. The zipper to the main compartment, on the other hand, she’d left open. And now it was closed.

The Pickwick was where it was supposed to be. Lena opened the bag. Now she had no doubt that someone had been rummaging through her things. Rummaging neatly, tactically even. But whoever had done it had made mistakes: they’d mixed up the zipped and unzipped zippers, they hadn’t bothered to put her nightshirt and other underwear back in their separate plastic bag, and they folded her sweater and wool skirt much more neatly than Lena herself had in her haste.

Maybe the maid? But they get fired for that. And the room hasn’t been cleaned.

After going through her things, Lena discovered everything intact, and nothing had gone missing. She’d just been searched. What for? This didn’t look like a continuation of what had been happening to her in Moscow. This was something new.

Please let it be that sweet, talkative Sasha really is from the Federal Security Service and not something else. What if Misha was more worried than I thought and decided to watch over me while I’m here? No, he would have warned me. And Sasha would have behaved differently. Did Major Ievlev order him to drive me? I hope to God he did.

Misha Sichkin was in mourning. He’d just learned of the untimely death of his two suspects, Andrei Likhanov, born 1967, and Ruslan Kabaretdinov, born 1970. Both had been neatly strangled in the night.

Shovel and Claw had been killed in prison. Naturally, none of their cellmates saw or heard a thing.

That bitch! Misha thought as he paced around his office and puffed at his seventh cigarette of the morning. She’s clever, I’ll give her that. She didn’t touch Pasha. Someone had to hang for Azarov, so she couldn’t get along without Pasha. That was a brilliant move.

Misha couldn’t concentrate. He was angry and nervous. It was beyond his abilities to figure out who could have copied the recording of Sevastyanov’s interrogation and gotten it to Gradskaya. But from the very beginning he should have thought of that. Should have, but didn’t.

The telephone rang so unexpectedly that Misha startled.

“It’s Ievlev,” he heard when he picked up the receiver. “We need to talk.”

“We do,” Misha echoed. “And better in the fresh air.”

Half an hour later they were sitting on a bench at the back of the Hermitage garden. It was a clear morning. Sparrows were chirping and hopping around a soggy crust of bread. Young mothers, slowly pushing strollers down the still-wet paths, were raising their faces to the warm sun.

“I’m flying to Tyumen tonight,” Ievlev informed him as he watched a mangy crow make off with the crust the dozen sparrows had been arguing over. “Your boss’s wife has decided to open her own investigation. I think it’s time to let him know. Something might go wrong and your colonel could wind up a widower with a babe in arms.”

“You must be joking.” Misha shook his head.

“I couldn’t be more serious.” Ievlev lit a cigarette and leaned back on the bench. “I think it’s time we shared information. Honestly and frankly.”

“As of this morning, my information isn’t worth a brass tack. During the night my two suspects were killed in their cells. Their good neighbors strangled them with their bare hands. And now I’m like a dog. I understand everything, only I can’t tell anyone. I know Gradskaya’s behind it. All I had left was to put some pressure on those two thugs to get the evidence I need.”

“And the motive?” Ievlev asked quickly.

“The motive,” Misha repeated pensively. “There are lots of clues, but not even a glimmer of a motive.”

“That’s what your boss’s wife is in Siberia for.”

“Are you joking again? Or mocking me?”

“Listen, Major, I understand you’re trying to regroup after losing your only good lead.” Ievlev put out his cigarette on his boot’s rippled sole and threw the butt straight into the bin by the next bench. “But you have to remember, Polyanskaya probably did share her thoughts with you. At first I thought she was dwelling on the Sinitsyns’ deaths out of an excess of emotions.”

“Did you come here by car?” Misha asked.

“Yes. What of it?”

“Let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way. Only we have to call first. Do you have a phone in your car?”

“I’m not a Gradskaya or a Volkov.” Ievlev stood up and started digging in his pockets. “Here’s a token. Call from a payphone like an ordinary Soviet man. So where are we going?”

“First to a Japanese firm, and then to my boss’s apartment.”

“Got it.” Ievlev nodded.

For a long time they didn’t want to call Olga Sinitsyna to the phone. The secretary politely explained in a delicate voice that Olga Mikhailovna was in a meeting.

“Tell her it’s Sichkin from the Interior Ministry,” Misha insisted.

“The Interior Ministry?” The delicate voice sounded astonished. “Couldn’t you call back in half an hour?”

“I could and did.”

“Well, all right,” the secretary conceded. “One minute.” He heard a soft melody and a minute later a woman’s low voice.

“This is Sinitsyna.”

“Olga Mikhailovna, hello. My name is Sichkin. I—”

“Hello. Lena told me you’d be calling,” Olga interrupted. “I have a key. When will you be here?”

“Right away.”

“Do you know the company address?”

Misha repeated it. Olga explained the best way to get there.

On the way, the two majors continued to share information and learned much from each other that was new and interesting.

“So you were never able to figure out who the guy was that Gradskaya met on the boulevard?” Misha asked when they’d driven up to Kokusai Koeki.

“Ex-military.” Ievlev grinned. “I could tell from his bearing.”

“That makes sense,” said Sichkin. “All the guards at the Butyrka Prison are ex-military.”

Olga Sinitsyna bore a striking resemblance to her dead brother. Looking at the tall, beautiful blonde, Misha suddenly pictured Mitya Sinitsyn, just as blond and blue-eyed, with the same broad, joyous smile.

“Go into Windows and you’ll find a file called ‘Rabbit.’ Write it down or will you remember?”

“We’ll remember. Rabbit, in English.”

As they were walking to the car, the young secretary caught up with them and said in her delicate voice, “Olga Mikhailovna asked if you would water the cacti.”

“Yes. Tell Olga Mikhailovna not to worry. We’ll be sure to water the cacti.”

Entering the empty apartment, Misha first lifted the telephone receiver and dialed the duty officer, to verify whether the alarm he had installed had gone off.

“They never turned it on, Major,” the duty officer reported.

“What a muddlehead,” Misha cursed Lena.

Besides Mitya’s texts, Lena had also entered both letters in the “Rabbit” file—from Slepak and from First Lieutenant Zakharov’s mother.

Ievlev actually whistled.

“Slepak wrote poetry! Who would have thought!”

Misha turned on Lena’s little inkjet printer and printed out everything in the file in triplicate.

“I wish she’d left a note.” Misha shook his head. “What does this Zakharov have to do with this? I don’t see the connection. Other than time and place. But Slepak lived in Tyumen and they tried him there. And judging from the address, this Zakharov was from Tobolsk.”

“They must have had a large combined operation going there,” Ievlev said thoughtfully. “There were murders in a few towns. Including Tobolsk. So the team was big. And Zakharov could well have been a part of it. One last thing, where are the cacti?”

It was nearly dawn before Lena fell asleep. She dreamed of Liza and Seryozha. Her dream was so vivid and happy, she didn’t want to wake up. Liza was playing with a huge yellow ball on a sun-drenched beach. Seryozha was walking out of the sea, tanned and smiling. He scooped up Liza and sat her on his shoulders. “Papa, my ball!” Liza shouted. The ball was rolling swiftly and ringing so loudly that Lena opened her eyes.

The telephone on the bedside table was about to explode.

“Lena, you took so long to pick up, I got scared.” She heard Michael’s voice. “Did I wake you?”

“No. All’s well. Good morning.” She glanced at the clock. It was ten.

“Well, all’s not well with me. I was getting ready for my run and I went into my bag for my sneakers only to discover someone had rummaged through my bag.”

The remnants of sleep vanished as if by magic. Lena sat up abruptly on the bed.

“Is anything missing?” she asked.

“Nothing but my talcum powder. They must have gone through it yesterday, while we were riding around town. But I didn’t check the bag last night. I got out everything I needed in the afternoon. But today I went for my sneakers, which had been on the bottom, and they were right on top. It’s a good thing I took my wallet with me yesterday.”

“Wait, did you say you’re missing your talcum powder?”

“Yes. Lightstar English Talcum. A big tin can, like in the old days. I’ve been using that brand for years. We have to tell the administrator.”

“Absolutely. Someone rummaged through my bag, too. But nothing’s missing. Nothing at all. I’ll get washed quickly and we’ll go downstairs.”

“I guess I won’t be running today.”

Before going downstairs, Lena dialed Sasha’s number. He picked up immediately.

“What’s missing? A can of talcum powder?” he asked after listening to Lena. “Talcum is that white powder people sprinkle on their feet and armpits, right?”

“Exactly. A fine white powder.”

“Got it. Okay, you go down to the administrator and I’ll be there in half an hour.”

The administrator, a plump young woman in a formal suit, refused to acknowledge their complaints.

“This is the first complaint like this we’ve ever had,” she said. “And nothing’s missing. I’d understand if it were money or valuables. But the hotel rules are written out in black and white: the administration bears no responsibility for valuables left in rooms. It’s in Russian and English. And a can of talcum isn’t much of a valuable. Basically, your things were already unpacked. What grounds do you have for a complaint?”

Sasha walked into the lobby. For some reason the administrator immediately stopped talking.

“Ask her where the director’s office is,” Michael said irritably. “I have no intention of leaving it like this. A can of talcum only costs fifteen dollars, but I don’t like staying in a hotel where people rummage through my things. I’ve traveled to more than twenty countries. Nothing like this has ever happened.”

Lena interpreted. The administrator looked at her with eyes full of hate.

“Tell your foreign friend that he has no proof,” she hissed through her teeth. “The director’s office is the third door on the left, down the hall. But he won’t be in until the afternoon.”

“Fine.” Lena nodded. “We’ll stop by then. But we will stop by. We haven’t made anything up. Why would we? You’ll agree, though, it’s not nice when someone goes rummaging in your things.”

“I appreciate what you’re saying,” the administrator softened a little. “But if you or he had lost something valuable, we would have checked the maids on your floor and spoken with the women on duty. But over a tin of talcum… I don’t understand!”

“We’ll be out all day again today.” Michael would not relent. “Where is the guarantee that this won’t happen again?”

“I will personally keep an eye on the maids making up your room,” the administrator promised.

“Thank you, of course. But I seriously doubt it was the maids. Where can we get breakfast?”

Lena couldn’t stand conflicts with peroxide-blond lady administrators. It was simpler to keep quiet than to yell. For them, arguments like this came with the job. They yelled with skill and pleasure. And nearly always won.

If it hadn’t been for Michael, Lena wouldn’t have gone to the administrator at all. She knew how the conversation would end.

“The buffets on the third and seventh floors are open now,” the lady replied, and she turned away, making it clear that the conversation was over.

“Sasha,” Lena called to the driver, who had been sitting in an armchair, leafing through magazines. “Are you having breakfast with us?”

He nodded and stood up. “With pleasure.”

The second-floor buffet was deserted. Sasha took a big ham omelet and sausage with peas. Lena and Michael each had a vegetable salad and a portion of sour cream.

“Now we can go to my room for coffee,” Lena said. “It’s going to be the usual weak slop here.”

“What about the clinic?” Sasha asked quietly, sending half of a sausage into his mouth at once.

“You know, I was thinking, no one there is going to talk to me. I’ll show them my press credentials and ID and they’ll throw me out. People don’t much like journalists these days. If I were from Federal Security or the Interior Ministry, that would be a different conversation.”

“Do you really need to do this?” Sasha smiled.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that killer who terrorized these parts in the early eighties, was he something special in some way? Right now there are already so many articles and books about maniacs. What makes your killer so much more interesting than Chikatilo and Golovkin?”

“So there’s no point writing about him? There are movies, too. But barely anyone knows about this Siberian serial killer. And what disturbs me isn’t him per se but his psychology and his fate. You know, they execute anyone judged sane. But how can a sane man rape and kill six girls ages fifteen to eighteen?”

“You don’t think they should have executed him?” Sasha carefully wiped his plate with a crust of bread and put the crust in his mouth. “Or do you think they executed the wrong man?” he added quietly.

“I think,” Lena replied just as quietly, “they should figure out who rummaged through our bags yesterday and why.”

“You promised us coffee in your room,” Sasha reminded her, looking into her eyes.

“Yes.” Lena nodded, standing. “Let’s go. I have Pickwick herbal for you,” she said to Michael in English. “You don’t drink coffee in the morning, after all.”

She had to make the coffee three times. Sasha drank it by the glassful, and to each glass he also added two cubes of sugar.

“You’re not worried about your heart?” Lena asked, sipping her small cup.

“Well, I’m not going to drink out of a thimble like that!” Sasha grinned. “Anyway, your coffee is amazing, and I have no complaints about my heart for now. So how about the clinic?”

“Nothing’s going to come of it today anyway. Michael has big plans. He wants to cram the local history museum and a couple of villages into one day. By the way, do you know whether there are still Old Believers living in Zagorinskaya?”

“Yes, there are. But it’s more than a hundred kilometers to Zagorinskaya. Ninety minutes there, ninety minutes back. That’s three hours just on travel. And it’s nearly noon. So we’ll have to put off the museum until tomorrow.”

Lena interpreted this information for Michael.

“Okay. We’ll put off the museum. If I get to talk to genuine Old Believers, I’ll be so happy I’ll forget about my English talcum.”

“Tell him Old Believers generally won’t talk. They live a very insular life,” Sasha reminded her.

“Michael can talk to anyone.” Lena smiled. “Even a deaf-mute, even through an interpreter. When I work with him, the people he’s talking to forget all about me pretty fast. They think they’re talking to him directly. Michael’s a kind of communications genius.”

“Well, let’s see how he manages with our schismatics.”

After coffee, Lena and Sasha had a cigarette.

“I’m going to my room to get dressed,” Michael announced.

“I’ll wash up as well,” Lena said. “It’s time to go.”

In the bathroom she remembered she’d left the immersion heater on the table. That had to be washed as well. When she went back to the room, Sasha was sitting on the bedside table unscrewing the phone. Glancing at her, he winked through his glasses and shook his head expressively. Without saying a word, Lena picked up the immersion heater and returned to the bathroom.