Stuart Kaminsky: Blood and Rubles

It was after that incident that Rostnikov began lifting weights, first in the hope of building the muscle that a policeman’s life on the street seemed to require and later as a routine he could not and did not wish to break, a meditation of sweat and determination and-he had long ago admitted to himself without benefit of a state psychiatrist-a way to compensate for the nearly useless leg. A few years ago he had quietly entered the annual competition for men and women fifty and over in Sokolniki Recreation Park. He had easily won the competition and a gold-painted aluminum statue, which rested, the gilt already chipping in spite of his care, on a bookshelf in his living room. The June afternoon when he had been presented with the trophy by the great Alexeyev himself had been one of the great memories of Rostnikov’s life.

Long before he was assigned as chief inspector in the Office of Special Investigation, he had earned a variety of nicknames including “the Refrigerator,” “the Kiosk,” and “the Washtub.”

Behind Rostnikov, each body was being uncovered and photographed. Overworked police shouted at one another. The crowd warmed itself with speculation.

“Inspector,” said someone at his side.

Rostnikov nodded, still fascinated by the tattoo.

“Inspector,” Sergeant Popovich repeated, just a touch louder. Popovich had recently been promoted. He was thirty, had a child on the way, and hoped one day for yet another promotion. With a salary of less than ninety thousand rubles a month, about ninety dollars or less at current rates, it would have been impossible to feed his family if he, like most of the 100,000 police officers in Moscow who had the opportunity, did not take bribes ranging from sweet juices from street vendors to serious rubles from gangs large and small.

This time Rostnikov grunted. Popovich took this as a signal to report.

“Five dead. One, the pharmacist, injured. She saw nothing. Just heard guns going off. Appears to be a battle between two mafias.”

“Witnesses?” asked Rostnikov.

“They don’t want to admit it,” said Popovich, “but …”

“Bring a witness over,” said Rostnikov.

Popovich nodded and headed toward a police car whose lights were flashing across the street.

Rostnikov looked away from the upside-down dead man with the tattoo on his head and over at the café whose windows had been blown out by gunfire. Cloth sheets covered the bodies of the man and woman that were still half-supported by the table. A wisp of the dead woman’s hair showed from under the cloth. Rostnikov had recognized the woman. Perhaps he was wrong, but still he put off finding out.

“A witness, Chief Inspector,” Popovich said.

Rostnikov barely heard, so intently was he reexamining the head of the dead man who looked at him upside down with eyes as defiant as they must have been in life.

“Popovich, what is your first name?”

“Vladimir. Vladimir Andreyevich Popovich.”

“Vladimir Andreyevich,” Rostnikov said, shifting his weight slightly to remind his left leg to retain some semblance of life. “Have you ever seen Snegourotchka (The Snow Maiden)?”

“I …” Popovich began in confusion.

“It’s an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov, taken from a children’s story,” said Rostnikov. He looked toward the dead woman in the window of the café. “After finally succeeding, by the last act, in getting her beloved Miskar to fall in love with her, the Snow Maiden steps forward before dawn to receive the blessing of the czar. In her joy and happiness she has forgotten the warning of the fairies, and as the first rays of sun touch her beautiful face, she melts away forever, and Miskar in his anguish throws himself into the lake and drowns.”

Popovich had heard of the chief inspector’s eccentricities, but telling fairy stories to a witness in the midst of this bloody madness went beyond eccentricity.

“You know what we must do, Vladimir?” Rostnikov said, putting his hand on the young policeman’s shoulder.

“I believe I know the proper procedure.”

“We must keep Miskar from drowning himself,” Rostnikov said. He walked around the rear of the Lada and headed for the devastated café. He didn’t bother to avoid stepping on the broken glass, though he did avoid the spatters of blood on the sidewalk in front of the shop.

“Witness,” said Rostnikov, walking through the broken window of the café to the table where the dead man and woman sat under the cloth, their heads down as if they were taking a slight nap.

“I saw it all,” said a man eagerly.

Rostnikov kept looking down at the dead couple.

“I saw it all,” the man repeated eagerly. “I saw it. Lots of them saw it. The guy with the little table, the Napyerstochnik, the thimbler who plays that three-card game with the fools across the street. He saw it. He’s out in the crowd somewhere, I think.”

Rostnikov glanced at the talking man. He was skinny, wild-haired, wearing a coat too long for him and a look on his face of confident madness. He could have been thirty. He could have been fifty. He was certainly crazy.

“What did you see?” asked Rostnikov.

“Nazis,” the man said, looking around to be sure no Nazis were listening. “Nazis,” he repeated. “Dozens. Black pants. Brown shirts. Armbands with swastikas. They shot everyone and shouted, ‘Heil Zhirinovsky, Heil Hitler.’ They put out their hands in a Nazi salute like this, and then they all climbed into their SS armored cars and drove away. They didn’t give a damn if anyone saw them.”

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “I assume Officer Popovich has your address. We will contact you.”

“Just said ‘Heil,’” the man repeated.

A uniformed officer came forward and led the man away.

“Other witnesses?” asked Rostnikov.

“Just getting them together,” said Popovich. “Owner of this shop. Owner of the car on which the bald man is lying. A few people in the crowd who claim to have heard something.”

“All old people,” said Rostnikov, looking at the cloth covering the dead woman.

“Yes,” said Popovich.

“The ones with lives left recognize a mafia killing and run. The old ones seeking attention stay,” said Rostnikov. He pulled back the cloth and looked down at the face of the dead woman. Her eyes were closed. A very slight trickle of blood came from the left corner of her mouth. It was nearly dry. Rostnikov covered her again and closed his eyes for a long time.

Finally the chief inspector opened his eyes and turned to Popovich. “What do you conclude about this event?” he asked, rubbing his eyes as if he had just awakened from a short nap.

“Definitely mafias,” Popovich said with relief now that he was on known territory. “Or perhaps a single mafia in some kind of internal battle.”

“Why this conclusion?” Rostnikov asked, still rubbing his eyes.

“The dead man is covered with tattoos, which means he was probably in prison,” said Popovich. “I don’t know what the tattoos mean, but there is one that appears on both of the dead men. In the case of the man on the car, it is on his head. It is on the buttocks of the other one, the one in the street.”

“You rolled him over and pulled down his pants?” asked Rostnikov, now looking at the sergeant with eyes rubbed red.

“He had fallen dead on his face,” said Popovich. “His pants had slipped down. He had defecated on himself, but I could still see the eagle.”

“What else?” asked Rostnikov.

“Else?”

“The eagle was carrying something in its claws. What was it?”

“It looked like a bomb of some sort.”

“It was a bomb,” Rostnikov said. “Did he have a weapon?”

“The eagle?”