Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

“Zelach, you have that?”

Zelach nodded slightly with a wry smile of understanding, though he had no idea what he was responding to.

“At this point we have only the concern of a possibly disoriented parent,” Rostnikov continued. “Since she came to us, we will make discreet inquiry and”-he tapped the neatly typed report in front of him-“I will begin to process your report for circulation to the proper agencies. That will take, I believe, about three days.”

Karpo nodded almost imperceptibly. He had just been told by Rostnikov to put aside his current investigations and make inquiries into the allegations of Elena Vostoyavek that her son was planning to kidnap Commissar Andrei Morchov. Officially, he knew, they should report the incident immediately to the KGB. He also understood that Rostnikov planned to hold the report for three days so that Karpo could pursue the investigation. It was routine, but Karpo felt the necessity of recording his concern.

“I believe the ramifications of this incident make it essential that we inform the KGB immediately,” Karpo said softly. At that moment Emil Karpo smelled lilacs and knew without putting words to it that he was receiving the first warnings, the aura of a migraine. The odors that came to him were always unbidden, evoking memories he could not quite identify from a childhood he preferred not to remember. Flowers, chicken zatzivi, cleaning fluid.

“And they will be informed,” Rostnikov said. “By me, personally. This report will be in the hands of the KGB by this afternoon. I have the feeling, however, with their current range of interests it will take them a few days to give the situation their full attention.”

Karpo nodded, took a note, and stood erect again. He knew that there were many ways to forward a report to another branch and be sure it was delayed or lost. The sender could present evidence of having forwarded the report, and the receiver would be embarrassed by its failure to follow through on the report. Karpo knew that Rostnikov had recently buried a sensitive report in the middle of a series of overly detailed accounts of forty minor cases of economic violations, ranging from the sale of fruit from an unauthorized stand on October 25th Street to the smuggling of two Canadian tires into Moscow in the van of a Leningrad Symphony cellist. As far as Karpo knew, the KGB had still not discovered the buried report.

“Sasha, you have the information on the missing bus,” Rostnikov went on.

“Bus number forty-three on route seventy-five was reported missing at eleven forty-six this morning,” Tkach said, looking up from his notebook, which lay open on the table in front of him. “The driver has a history of abuse of alcohol, and the assumption of the director of traffic for the sixth district is that he is asleep somewhere in the vehicle. I have issued a directive on the bus and driver to all uniformed and nonuniformed divisions. Other bus, taxi, and trolley drivers have been informed to look for bus forty-three.”

“You believe he is drunk somewhere, Sasha?” Rostnikov asked, looking up from his notepad. “You know how many buses there are in Moscow?”

“There are four thousand, six hundred thirty-four buses in Moscow,” replied Karpo, who resisted the urge to touch the left side of his head, where he knew the throbbing would soon begin. “This is the first time in the forty-six years of recordkeeping that a driver is reported to have taken a vehicle, though there are two reports, one in 1968 and another in 1975, of children attempting to drive away in city buses.”

“You don’t believe the driver took the bus,” Rostnikov went on, looking down at his pad.

“I have drawn no conclusion,” said Karpo. “There is insufficient information for a conclusion. There is only, at this point, history and precedent, both of which suggest that there may be another explanation.”

“When an incident defies the statistics, what do we do with the incident?” Rostnikov asked, looking up.

Zelach turned uneasily in his chair. He was afraid the question had been directed at him.

“We incorporate the incident into the data base and alter our statistics,” replied Karpo. “There is no such thing as a transcendent or deviant incident or crime. All crimes must be part of the total if they are not to be lost.”

Rostnikov nodded and Sasha Tkach looked at his watch. If he got started on the investigation within the hour, checked to see if anyone had yet spotted the bus, perhaps he could wrap up before it got too late and be home in time to intercept his mother, who was going to have dinner with Sasha’s aunt.

“So,” Rostnikov went on, putting the final touches on his drawing of a coupling for a toilet pipeline, “do we have a theory or set of theories of criminal behavior that we apply to reported crimes, or do we gather information on the crimes and hope they tell us something, present a pattern, contain within them a direction or answer?”

Tkach shuffled in his seat. Rostnikov ignored him and waited for an answer.

“You wish me to acknowledge intuition,” Karpo said evenly.

Rostnikov shrugged.

“I wish Tkach and Zelach to investigate the disappearance of a bus,” replied Rostnikov. “I wish to know what they will do if no one reports having seen bus forty-three by the end of this day.”

“It should not be difficult to find a bus,” said Zelach, wanting to participate and thinking that he finally understood something that was being discussed. “A bus is … big.”

“Perhaps we should get started,” Tkach said, standing.

“The American detective Dashiell Hammett once had to find a stolen Ferris wheel,” said Rostnikov. “He found it quickly, though no one reported a Ferris wheel parked on a side street or sitting atop a roof. How do you think he did this, Sasha?”

Tkach, who had taken a step toward the door, paused and ran his hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead.

“Why would anyone steal a Ferris wheel?” Tkach said impatiently.

“Precisely, Sasha. That was the question Hammett asked himself,” said Rostnikov with a smile.

“To use its parts,” said Zelach. “Or as a prank.”

“Who would have the equipment to steal a Ferris wheel?” asked Rostnikov, pushing back from the small desk and reaching down to massage his leg back to life.

“The Ferris wheel was almost certainly stolen by a circus or a carnival,” said Karpo. “They would have the equipment and a reason. They would also have the perfect place to hide it, in plain sight.”

“Yes, Emil,” said Rostnikov, rising. “And where might you find bus forty-three-if it has not been drunkenly absconded with by the driver? Zelach?”

“With other buses?”

Rostnikov nodded his approval.

“Who else has buses besides the bus company?” Rostnikov asked, this time looking down at the drawing.

“We will find out,” said Tkach, putting his notebook in his pocket. Without another word, he was out the door. Zelach stood, paused for a beat to see if he would be asked another question, and, seeing that Rostnikov was occupied with his drawing, left the room behind Tkach.

“Emil,” Rostnikov said as Karpo turned to the door, “do you know what meditation is?”

“There are,” said Karpo, “a variety of definitions, ranging from engagement in concentrated thought on a specified and minimal subject to a relaxation technique that at its religious extreme strives for the absence of thought.”

Rostnikov held up the drawing he had been working on. It looked to Karpo like a pair of rods connected by a bandage with a clamp on it.

“Each day is another layer of weight and complexity. If we are fortunate, we can keep from being crushed, but to do so we must have a portal to temporary peace, a meditation.”