William Ryan: The Holy Thief

“She’s in here,” the general said, walking blithely through the central doors of the templon and into the sacristy, from which white light poured out into the murky nave. Korolev hesitated and then made for the “Deacon’s Door” to the side. The “Holy Doors” in the center were forbidden to all except priests and, even if the holy fathers didn’t seem to have been inside this particular church for a good ten years, he wasn’t walking through their doorway.

Before he even caught a glimpse of the murdered girl, Korolev already knew something terrible had happened to her. He could smell it. Despite his years in the army, or perhaps because of them, he hated the smell of blood. He didn’t much like the sight of it either and the white marble floor was covered with the stuff. The serene faces of the saints circling the room looked off into the distance, as though they were pretending the horrific scene beneath them had happened somewhere else-and he didn’t blame them. It wasn’t just blood-the poor girl lying on the altar had died hard. He swallowed an urge to retch and could feel his nails digging into the palms of his hand, grateful for the pain they caused. The body had been horrifically mutilated, and he struggled to control his stomach, saliva sharp and salty in his mouth. He reassured himself that if he could last another ten seconds he’d be fine; it was the first minute that was the worst. He took another step forward and, looking down at her, guessed her to have been pretty when life had colored her skin. Only the Devil himself could be responsible for evil such as this. On the other side of the altar, the general sniffed angrily.

“In a church, of all places,” Korolev heard him whisper and looked up at the general in surprise. Two careless remarks in one day either meant he trusted Korolev more than he should or that Popov had grown weary of life. But then the savagery of the crime had indeed been amplified by the location. Korolev took another step forward, careful not to step in the blood, particularly not the congealed shoeprints that might give a clue to the killer.

She was laid out on her back, her arms extended at right angles to what was left of her chest. Where the body was not hacked open or smeared with blood the skin was pearly white, as though it had never seen the sun, but he was aware this might be an effect of the arc light’s intensity. The girl’s legs were slightly spread, enough for Korolev to see that burn marks scorched the skin all around her pubic mound; indeed, most of her pubic hair was a smudged frizzle. He felt the nausea recede as he began to do his job. What kind of lunatic could have done something like this? He looked over at the general, who shook his head in disbelief, his mouth an angry straight line, nodding toward where a wrinkled ear and an eye that had been gouged from the girl’s face sat, each in their separate frame of dried blood. The eye looked as calm as those of the apostles above it. It took a few moments for Korolev to realize that the last item of the grim arrangement was the girl’s tongue.

“I think she may have been alive when he did some of this,” he said. “Otherwise there wouldn’t be so much blood. Who’s coming from the Institute?”

“Chestnova,” replied Popov, his attention focused once again on his pipe. “Did you see those marks?” He pointed at the girl’s crotch. The charred welts were unusual and there were more on the breasts.

“Electric, do you think? She was clearly tortured. Dr. Chestnova might be able to tell us the order of events, but if the tongue was cut out first then he did it for pleasure, not information. He’s an evil one, Comrade General.”

Popov turned toward the girl once again-breathing deeply, the knuckles of his fist white around the pipe, looking down at the torn and mangled body. There was a savage expression on his face.

“Now listen to me, Alexei, and listen well. You don’t rest until you catch this fiend. Do you understand? And if you break a few bad eggs along the way to making this omelette, so much the better. You have carte blanche. I’ll assign Semionov to assist you. He can run errands, learn a thing or two perhaps-he’s not stupid. But find the killer, and when you find him-when you find him, you give him to me.”

The first thing Korolev did when he returned to his desk in Petrovka Street was to call Gregorin at the Lubianka. He wanted to ask the staff colonel’s permission to rearrange the lecture, but was interrupted before he had a chance to ask.

“Comrade, may I take it you have been assigned to the murder on Razin Street?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev said, wondering how Gregorin could possibly know about the murder already.

“One of my colleagues just told me about it. Shocking. I’m glad Comrade Popov chose you for the investigation-it sounds like a madman is at work in the capital. If we in State Security can be of any assistance, please inform me at once.”

“Thank you, Colonel. As a matter of fact, I was wondering whether I could postpone the lecture tomorrow. For a day or two, perhaps?”

“I understand, Comrade. You’re keen to catch the killer: it’s commendable. But you must remember that the security of the State takes priority over everything else in these dangerous times. We’re surrounded by enemies, both internal and external, and the young Comrades you will lecture tomorrow are needed in the front line of the struggle against them. Comrade Popov will appreciate the need for your presence for an hour or two, even with such an important case.”

Korolev thought about arguing but he knew it would be pointless.

“Of course, Comrade Colonel. But, in the circumstances, if I could keep the lecture to an hour, I’d be grateful. Would that be acceptable?”

There was a pause and Korolev found himself drumming a pencil on the table. Yasimov, the only other person in the room with him, looked up and shook his head. Korolev smiled in apology and the pencil was still. Gregorin’s tinny voice broke the resulting silence.

“An hour should be enough if you’re concise, Comrade. After all, it’s a useful insight from a Militia colleague, not part of their course work. Yes, an hour will do. Tomorrow morning at nine, then. I’ll attend myself.”

“Thank you, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev said and then found his pencil was tapping the table once again. “Actually there is something more practical that State Security could assist me with. Did your colleague mention that the victim had been tortured?”

Yasimov’s head jerked up as if he’d been stuck with a pin. Korolev turned away, so as to avoid his colleague’s shocked stare and waited for the colonel to answer.

Gregorin’s voice sounded guarded. “He mentioned she was mutilated. Tortured you say? The poor woman, I only hope you catch the killer quickly. A madman by the sound of it.”

“Well, Comrade Colonel, it wasn’t pretty. Not pretty at all. He used electricity to burn her-I’ve never come across that before. I wondered whether it was a method State Security had ever encountered.”

Korolev’s question hung in the air like an artillery shell at the top of its flight and Korolev didn’t have to look at Yasimov to know he’d now gone deathly pale.

Gregorin, however, after a long pause merely sighed. “Comrade Korolev, you’ll be well aware that torture is prohibited by the Soviet Criminal Code as a means of interrogation. You aren’t suggesting that the NKVD would ever flout that prohibition, are you?”

“Of course not, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev felt sweat dampen the underarms of his shirt, “I only wondered whether your colleagues might have come across something similar. In their investigations of terrorist organizations? Or foreign spies, perhaps? At least, if they haven’t, it might allow me to rule out that line of inquiry. I hope you understand no other suggestion was intended.”