Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

He slipped it around the wounded animal’s neck and led Rado to his cage.

Untouched and without noose or command, Bronson returned to his cage, to the applause and cheers of the crowd.

“They should have let Bronson kill him,” a man behind Elena said.

They had witnessed the last fight of the evening. Illya drove them back to the Arbat and waited for Sasha and Boris to get the pit bull back into his cage in the garage. There was no conversation in the car while they were gone, but Elena could see Illya looking at her in the rearview mirror. One of the girls was fighting sleep.

The other put her arm around the tired girl. Elena thought their night might not yet be over.

Back at the hotel Elena congratulated Sasha on his performance.

He waved a weary hand of acknowledgment in her direction. When they got to the room, Sasha said one word, “Sleep.” He headed for the bed and, still dressed, flung himself down on his stomach. He was very gently snoring in seconds. Elena was still slightly ill and wondered if she would have to go the next night for the fight between Tchaikovsky and Bronson. Maybe she could provide some excuse to stay away.

She changed into her pajamas, took the pillows on the bed, and went to sleep on the sofa.

Then, in the morning, with Sasha still asleep, Elena had gone out for a walk to clear away her headache and nausea. The man following her today was neither of those from the day before. This one was very young and very inexperienced. She had stopped for a roll and coffee and was now crossing the nearly empty lobby. The images of the night before would not go away, and she knew she had suddenly developed a fear of dogs, all dogs.

Her bag slung over her shoulder, she pressed the button for her floor and stood back against the wall, trying not to remember what she had seen.

What happened next came so fast that Elena had no time to think or react. A dog came through the closing doors. It was moving with great speed and it leapt at Elena, sinking its teeth into her left shoulder. The pain was searing, and Elena had a flashing vision of herself sinking to the floor of the elevator with the dog ripping at her flesh and going for her face or neck the way the animals had done to each other the night before.

She wanted to scream out for help but she couldn’t.

The elevator door was almost closed. She punched the determined dog’s snout with her fist and leaned over to sink her teeth into the neck of the animal. Pain drew her head back. She was vaguely aware that someone was forcing the door back open, someone was entering the elevator, the door of which slid shut as the figure entered.

Elena fought off the urge to pass out. As she sank down along the wall with the dog still tearing at her shoulder, she turned her head, opened her mouth, and leaned painfully toward the thick furry neck of her attacker.

“I will have to take the body back to my laboratory,” said Paulinin, gloves on his hands, kneeling on a bath towel which had been brought to him.

Iosef, Zelach, and two uniformed policemen stood watching the wild-haired man poke, prod, and examine the badly burned body.

“I can tell you several things, however. First, I may be able to salvage a few of the photographs and maybe usable pieces of tape.

Second, this is not Yevgeny Pleshkov. I have seen newspaper photographs of Pleshkov smiling. In spite of his fame and following, Pleshkov has Russian teeth, uneven, a few twisting, and certainly with a filling or more made of inferior material. This man has perfect teeth, all capped, almost certainly by a dentist in or from a Western country.”

Iosef was taking notes.

“Further, this man was younger and not as heavy as Pleshkov. I will need to examine him carefully in my laboratory, but it appears this man was murdered and then burned. The skull is recently scarred and several splinters of burned wood are embedded here.”

He pointed to the blackened skull.

“Also,” Paulinin said, “there are splinters in the neck wound and one of the ribs has a fracture, a hairline fracture. I would guess with confidence that he was stabbed in the neck with a splinter of wood and beaten by something heavy, also wood.”

“A stake. Like a vampire,” said Zelach. “Maybe whoever killed him thought he was a vampire?”

It was one of the longest statements and one of the few observations Akardy Zelach had made since Iosef met him. Iosef was reluctant to simply dismiss the question.

“It is a possibility worth exploring,” said Iosef. “You believe in vampires, Zelach?”

“My mother does,” he said, looking at the body. “She says she has seen them. I. . I don’t know.”

Paulinin shook his head, considered saying something to Zelach, and decided instead to continue his search. “Ah, some hairs.”

He took one of the half-gallon Ziploc bags from his right jacket pocket. There were also smaller plastic bags, which Paulinin seldom used.

“Why,” the scientist said, finally rising, “is Emil Karpo not on this case?”

“He is on another important assignment,” Iosef said.

Paulinin’s face showed great irritation. “I’ll carry these pieces of evidence myself. You carefully get this body and anything else that may be of interest to my laboratory. Where is Emil Karpo or Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov when I need them? They would know what I would be interested in seeing. Don’t answer. I’m leaving before it rains.”

The sky was indeed dark. Iosef ordered the two policemen to call for a police ambulance to take the body to Paulinin’s laboratory. Paulinin left and so did the two policemen.

Zelach and Iosef stood looking down at the burnt debris and the body.

“I wonder how easy it is to get out of here without being seen,”

said Iosef. “Service doors, emergency exits. How did Pleshkov get out past the doorman, who claims he did not leave?”

Iosef had asked himself the question, but Zelach answered.

“Maybe he didn’t get out,” said Zelach.

“We looked everywhere,” said Iosef patiently. “We have had every corner, every apartment searched.”

“No,” said Zelach.

“No? Where didn’t we look?”

“Yulia Yalutshkin’s bedroom,” Zelach said, slouching forward, his eyes fixed on the body.

Iosef looked at him with new respect. Zelach may very well be right. In which case, Iosef would look like a fool when he explained to his father that they had not checked the bedroom. If Zelach was right, Yulia had performed magnificently. Iosef dashed for the door to the roof, with Zelach right behind. If Pleshkov had been in the bedroom, he might still be there. He had to be there. There was an armed guard at the door of Yulia Yalutshkin’s apartment.

What troubled Iosef even more than the likelihood that Pleshkov had eluded him was the very real possibility that the distinguished member of the congress, probably the next president of Russia, may well have been involved in or even committed a brutal murder. What led Iosef to this conclusion was the distinct possibility that the burned body was that of Jurgen, Yulia’s German lover and protector, who probably had good Western teeth.

Paulinin would find out if Iosef was correct. Meanwhile, Iosef had to find Yevgeny Pleshkov.

The jaws of the dog opened and Elena felt the animal’s weight lift from her. Her own teeth had been about to sink into the animal’s neck and she had tasted fur when the weight was lifted. She could feel the elevator slowly going up. She opened her eyes, sat up as best she could, and saw Porfiry Petrovich holding the dog by the neck. The dog was writhing and growling, snapping at air with blood on his teeth, Elena’s blood.

“Be calm, dog,” said Rostnikov, placing the animal on the floor but maintaining his grip. “I have no wish to hurt you. Neither do I have a wish to take you home as a pet.”