The Twelfth Department

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Korolev followed the cobbled drive until the trees opened up to reveal the imposing facade of the Anatomical Institute. Before the Revolution, the building had housed some prince or other and back then it must have been a sight to see. The years since might have left it a little the worse for wear perhaps, but it was holding itself together somehow, and in that respect it reminded him of certain other remnants of the years before the Revolution—himself included.

Chestnova was sitting on the former palace’s marble steps, enjoying the sunshine and engaged in desultory conversation with two burly men in white coats while she worked her way through a papirosa cigarette. As the car came to a halt she put a hand up to shade her eyes so she could see who’d arrived.

“Korolev,” Chestnova said, when he opened the car door. “I was expecting you before this.”

“I had to stop off at home.”

“Don’t worry. I found a pleasant way to pass the time.”

She took a step forward, squinting at his face then reaching a finger to pull the lid of his injured eye down. She shook her head slowly.

“I won’t ask.”

“That would be best.”

There was the sound of another car coming along the drive and Dubinkin’s Packard emerged from the trees. When it came to a halt, the Chekist stepped out wearing a neat gray suit and an open white shirt. Korolev wouldn’t necessarily have spotted him as a Chekist, but perhaps the two fellows in the white coats were better judges of that sort of thing. By the time Dubinkin had taken two more steps, they’d disappeared—leaving only the faintest wisp of smoke to show they’d ever been there.

“Comrade Lieutenant,” Chestnova said, glancing at the space where the two men had been. “It’s always a pleasure.”

“And for me, Doctor.”

“You two know each other?” Korolev asked.

“Comrade Dubinkin and I have come across each other once or twice.” Chestnova spoke in a carefully neutral tone.

“On other matters, Korolev,” Dubinkin said, “but I’ve never seen the good doctor wield a scalpel. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you then. I do the autopsies as soon as possible in the summer—they’ve both been completed. I informed your Colonel Zaitsev, of course.”

“I see.” Dubinkin looked disappointed.

“Will Colonel Zaitsev be joining us?” she asked.

“No.” Dubinkin’s negative was final.

Chestnova turned her gaze to Korolev and he found himself shrugging his shoulders.

“Let’s get on with things then,” the doctor said, and flicked away the cardboard tube that was all that was left of her papirosa.

Korolev hadn’t seen the grand entrance hall of the Anatomical Institute before—he normally came in the back way when he visited—but this time Chestnova pushed open one of the large oak front doors at the top of the steps, and he followed. Inside, he found himself gazing at magnificent decoration that rose to the roof itself. Columns, turrets, alcoves and the Lord knew what else soared upward, all framed by two magnificent curving staircases. The hospital’s management had done its best to adapt the entrance hall to the current regime, however, and a banner exhorting the workers to meet their Five Year Plan in four years was hung across a balustraded landing, while busts of Stalin, Lenin, Engels and the like now filled the delicately crafted alcoves that must once have been filled by the original owner’s aristocratic ancestors. They didn’t look too out of place.

“Rococo,” Dubinkin said.

“I don’t doubt it, Comrade,” Korolev said in a tone that he hoped conveyed his disapproval of everything the old aristocrats had stood for.

Chestnova led them along a corridor toward the back of the building and Korolev kept his eyes fixed on the white cotton of the doctor’s coat where it stretched across her broad shoulders, and tried not to think about death and corpses and autopsies. He’d never liked them.

“Certainly instantaneous,” Chestnova said, when she’d ushered them into one of the autopsy rooms and pulled a sheet away to reveal the professor’s naked body lying face down, his body sadly mutilated, and not only by the killer.

“He must have been dead before his head hit the desk. The bullet entered here, high on the skull and to the left, and never came out. I found it lodged at the back of the right jawbone.” She rattled a lead slug in a metal receptacle.

By the look of it, she’d found it by cutting off half the professor’s head and extracting most of the contents. Korolev felt the familiar flood of saliva at the back of his cheeks and he swallowed several times—his hands in his pockets forming into fists.

“No gunpowder residue on the entry wound, which suggests the muzzle wasn’t too close—I would expect to see some scorching or burning if the muzzle was less than three or four feet away. It depends on the weapon, of course. Then again, if something was used to muffle the sound it might have absorbed it—but I haven’t found fabric or anything similar inside the wound, so probably not. Did your men come across anything?”

“No.”

“Well the bullet isn’t in bad shape. Big. I’d have expected it to make more of a mess. I’d also have expected it to exit—but again, it didn’t. And that’s consistent with something your forensics man pointed out—that the other bullet barely penetrated the table top. He thought that might mean a low-velocity weapon—I’d tend to agree with him.”

Chestnova handed the slug to Korolev. “You can take it away with you.”

Korolev put it in his pocket, not really wanting to think about the contents. Meanwhile, Chestnova was pointing to a purple graze on the dead man’s white shoulder—close to his neck.

“This is where the other bullet grazed him. I’d guess it was fired after the professor had slumped forward, the wound is across the top of the right shoulder, as you can see. And there’s tearing to his jacket as well. You can see the bullet hole on the desk, here.”

Chestnova picked up a file from a side table and took from it a photograph of the professor’s upper body lying across his desk.

“Yes,” Korolev said, taking the picture from her.

“Well—that’s it, really. I’ve had his clothes packed up for you in case the forensics men can make something more of them. I’ll run you through the report anyway.”

“Thanks,” Korolev said, unpleasantly aware of his entire body being covered with perspiration, as Chestnova ran them through the dead man’s age, weight, and overall medical condition. All of which came down to this—a man who could have lived for another thirty years had been snuffed out. Instantaneously.

A pause seemed to have developed around him, and Korolev looked away from the curling white hair on the professor’s chest to find Dubinkin and Chestnova’s eyes on him.

“Is there anything you’d like to ask?” the doctor asked, her expression kindly.

Korolev forced himself to look back at the body once again. He wasn’t going to be sick, he told himself—he was just a little unwell. Things would be better if he could put a handkerchief over his mouth to take away the smell of death. At least in the winter the bodies stayed cold when they were out of the refrigerated cabinets. He swallowed and pointed to the photograph Chestnova had given him.

“You see there’s a pen in his right hand—here—and a document onto which his head has fallen—here. I’m thinking if he was writing, which it looks like he was, and sitting upright, which his body position would indicate, and if you say Azarov was five foot nine, so not a small man, and the fatal bullet wound is high on the skull…”

“Yes,” Chestnova said patiently.

“And there’s no muzzle residue on him either. And no sign of a pillow or anything being used. Well, then the fellow who did it must have been a giant, surely? He must have been about eight feet tall.”

Chestnova shrugged.

“I just give you facts—it’s your job to pull them together into what actually happened.”

“Azarov could have been leaning backward,” Dubinkin said, “talking to someone in front of him whose job was to distract him.”

“That’s a possibility,” Korolev managed to say, his nausea forgotten, as he wondered whether that was how State Security went about things when they didn’t want a fuss made.

“It’s only a thought,” Dubinkin said.

The Chekist stroked his mustache and, to cover his unease, Korolev wrote “Trajectory” in the notebook he’d opened.

“Have you any other questions?” Chestnova asked.

Korolev shook his head. They both looked to Dubinkin, who smiled and shook his head also.

“Very good, I need to find a porter to help me prepare Dr. Shtange,” Chestnova said, giving Korolev a sympathetic glance. “If you’d like to go outside for a few moments, take a walk around, then I’ll be ready by the time you’ve finished. There’s no need to wait here in the meantime.”

Such a woman, Korolev thought to himself, such a wonderful woman—as he walked toward the door as quickly as his pride would allow him.