Natalia Smirnova: St. Petersburg Noir

When I was done with the report, I dismissed the neighbors and went into the other room to question the wife. That took another forty minutes. The woman was in a sort of stupor, understandably enough. She answered in monosyllables. After she signed the report without even reading it, new characters appeared on the scene.

There were two of them. Both wore baseball caps and dark green canvas jackets that looked like firemen’s suits. The older one, who looked about forty, carried a roll of black plastic under his armpit. The second one, about ten years younger, was holding a folded stretcher like a spear. They looked like the Tin Man and the Scarecrow. A glitter in the eyes and a faint but familiar smell pointed to the presence of low levels of alcohol in their blood.

“Hello, ma’am. We’re from the morgue,” the first one said. “We’re here for the deceased.”

The widow nodded.

“May we take it?” This question was addressed to me.

“Yes, we’re all done here.”

“Where is he?”

“The next room.”

The two turned around and disappeared into the hallway, where Farid’s voice could be heard.

“You’re fast today.”

“Yeah, it’s the third stiff since morning. They’re dropping like flies.”

While they were attending to the body of the builder, I explained the formalities of ordering a funeral to the widow, although I didn’t actually know a thing about it. Then I drafted a cover letter for an autopsy and took it to the orderlies. They were already carrying the body out. They had tied an oilskin tag with a number on it to the wrist, and for some reason had removed the bandage around the jaw. It was a sorry sight. The widow stayed behind in the room, probably afraid she would break down. The son held the door.

Farid asked them to tow-start our G-Wagen . They agreed. After they had carried the dead body out onto the landing, they returned to the apartment and called the widow.

“Our condolences, ma’am,” the older one said, removing his baseball cap and smoothing down his unwashed hair. “Maybe we should drink to his memory? Just a shot or two? So that everything will go smoothly, like it should. So we’ll be able to deliver the body safely and all that…”

The widow nodded again in silence and went out to the kitchen. The orderlies followed behind. We stayed in the hallway.

“Won’t you have some?” she said, poking her head out.

“No,” Farid answered. “We’re on the job.”

Then he whispered to me that I shouldn’t get drawn into such things, even though I wasn’t planning on it anyway. We said goodbye to the widow and her son, expressing our condolences again, and went downstairs. The weather had deteriorated even further and reminded me of someone in a critical stage of fever. The death throes were about to begin. We got into the jeep and waited for the Tin Man and Scarecrow. Their black van with a yellow stripe was a more reliable means of starting the engine than the elbow grease of a young police inspector. It was worth waiting for. Evseyev wouldn’t miss us.

The orderlies didn’t waste much time at the spontaneous memorial service. Five minutes later they brought out the builder and loaded him in the corpse-mobile. The alcohol content in their blood had increased significantly, but the fellows weren’t in the least worried or ashamed about it. It wasn’t likely that the traffic police would stop their particular vehicle.

While we were preparing the tow rope, the tall one informed his partner that they had one more client to pick up in the neighborhood, and they wouldn’t go to the morgue just yet. They would pick them all up and deliver them wholesale. This would be easier and more economical. Apparently, their gasoline supply was intermittent, like ours.

On the way back I dreamed about the warm rec room, a cup of hot tea, and a game of backgammon with Farid. But I had to bury my dreams. That evil Evseyev, apparently frustrated in his attempts to construct the naked minor on the computer screen, was waiting at the door with another body for us. In the park a dead fellow with no signs of violent death was sitting on a bench, scaring the passersby. Probably a junkie. Probably OD’d. Onward, gentlemen—on with the inspection and the report. If anything looks suspicious, call the operative.

Thank god Mister Driver hadn’t stopped the engine, so I didn’t have to expend my valuable muscle power. I shouldn’t have to waste it on things like that anyway. There was not a single line in my job description that said that a police inspector is required to start up the official vehicle manually. Then again, I wasn’t going to get very far in my brown shoes.

There didn’t seem to be any foul play here, either. Nothing criminal anyway. The experienced Farid recognized the poor guy immediately. A local junkie with an unhappy personal life who had been shooting up for three years. The doctor confirmed it was an overdose. A dirty syringe was lying in the grass nearby. It was unlikely that someone had shot up his buddy. Not that sort of a guy. It was self-liquidation.

While I was sitting in our G-Wagen kozel drawing up the second inspection protocol of the day (which went a lot more smoothly than the first), a familiar black van with a yellow stripe pulled up. Long time no see!

“They’re sure prompt today,” Farid remarked. “Sometimes you wait for six hours, and the stiff just lies there on the ground getting soaked in the rain. Though it’s all the same to him at that point.”

The Tin Man managed to stay on his feet without any help, but the Scarecrow had to support himself with the stretcher. I wasn’t judging the guys. Theirs was a unique profession, unpleasant; you needed a way to reduce the tension or you wouldn’t make it. And it had been a hard day. One memorial service after another. That’s probably why they didn’t recognize us right away. Once they did, they started griping.

“They’re keeling over left and right! Dropping like flies. We didn’t even get a lunch break. What do you have for us now?”

We pointed to the body. Scarecrow dropped the stretcher in front of the bench, sat down beside the junkie, and lit up a cigarette. The seat was uncomfortable, and while his partner was tying on the tag, he leaned over to rest on the shoulder of his dead companion on the bench. He was zonked. Picking up the dead was nothing like beating the odds to get to the Emerald City.

When the tag had been fastened, the orderlies—cigarettes still hanging from their lips—loaded the junkie onto the stretcher and hauled it over to the van. We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz… Their movements were hardly light and agile, but they did manage to bundle the body into the back of the van, where it took its place among its brothers in misfortune.

“Back to the Corpse Motel, Valek?” Scarecrow asked his older partner, who apparently carried the weight in their symbiosis.

“Not yet. Palich will bust us. He’ll know we’re drunk and open his big mouth. By nine he’ll be outta there and we can go back. We can say the battery went dead. Jump in, we’ll go grab some dinner and call to find out if there are any more runs to make.”

“Whatever you say.”

Apparently, as supervisor of the morgue, Palich commanded the respect of the personnel.

When I handed Valek a copy of the death-scene report and the cover letter, I tried peering into the back of the van. There was nothing to see, though. The front seat was screened off from the back by a thick black cloth. It was just as well. What’s the point of knowing what’s in store for you? I hoped it was a long time before I’d find out.

Valek got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and the van waddled slowly off down the narrow park road.