Daria Desombre: The Sin Collector

Garrulous Dobroslav Ovechkin had once been charged with a misdemeanor and gotten off with a suspended sentence. The trial had been half a mile from here at the District Court. Then there was Julia Tomilina, who testified in court against her ex-lover; Alexander Solyanko, who was a party in the case against his competitor over planted drugs; not to mention Kolyan the drunk, who any police station might have hauled in once or twice. Andrey unfastened the top button on his shirt and opened a window. Then again, what if this was another dead end? What if he was wasting time while poor Masha lay in the clinic, sedated?

But Andrey forced himself to control his yearning to run off somewhere, anywhere, and do something, anything, quickly. He needed to be methodical. In control. He would not look at the clock, just at this dossier, page after page. The architect who got the amnesty. The thief, a repeat offender. Turina and all the countless bribes she took. But wait. Yelnik! The murderer they fished out of the Moskva. What had that hapless kid, that other Andrey, told him back in Yelnik’s village? Andrey froze. He remembered Anyutin’s office, their first conversation about the Sin Collector. And their most recent one.

All at once, Andrey understood everything. He jumped up and grabbed his coat. He needed to see Masha. But before that, he needed to prove his theory beyond a shadow of a doubt. He went down to the reception desk, handed in his key, and signed his name in the book. He asked to see the sign-out sheets for the day Masha’s stepfather died. There was Anyutin’s name, and next to it a brief signature executed with military precision and the time he’d turned in his keys. Andrey ran out of the building. He noticed he had started to breathe again. Now he could go see Masha.

Masha was lying with her face to the wall. She wasn’t asleep, and neither was her mother. But they weren’t talking, either. Natasha’s eyes were swollen from crying, and when Andrey came in and said hello, she gave him a look that made his blood run cold. He put a hand on Masha’s shoulder, and she turned over, slowly, and attempted a smile.

“Any news?” she asked.

Andrey glanced over at Natasha’s bed. Without a word, the older woman stood up and quietly left the room.

“I know who it is, Masha,” Andrey told her, even though he hadn’t been sure, on the drive over, that he wanted to tell her the whole story.

“You know?” Masha sat up a little on her pillows.

“Take it easy. You don’t want to get worked up,” he said, then immediately regretted the cliché.

Masha’s brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sick, Andrey. I can handle it. If you found out who it is, and you’re planning on doing anything without me, I’ll never forgive you. Got it? I have to be there to help you catch him. Because of Katya, and my stepfather”—tears shone in her eyes—“and Kenty.”

“All right,” said Andrey. “Get dressed. We’re getting out of town.”

“Where to?” Masha asked, pulling on her fleece.

“Your friend Katyshev’s dacha.”

Masha frowned. “How did you know Nick-Nick has a—”

“I guessed,” Andrey said, smiling sadly.

“But I don’t know where it is! The last time we went was before Papa died. I remember there’s a little brook, and a forest, but I don’t remember the name of the train station or anything.”

“The village of Narino, off the Kaluga Highway. House number twelve, I think. It is across from the woods, you’re right about that.”

Masha and Andrey turned around. Natasha stood in the doorway, pale as her white nightgown and terry-cloth robe.

“Mama.” Masha sounded unsure.

But Natasha was looking Andrey straight in the eye. “Go. Go right now, before it gets dark.”

They made good time on their way out of Moscow, but Masha said nothing, staring straight ahead.

“Why?” she finally asked, once Andrey had left the city limits.

“Ever since your stepfather died, and ever since Katya, I’ve been asking myself one question: Why you?” Andrey began. “Why was he weaving his web around you, specifically, and why did he seem to be performing for you? As if he were showing off for you or something. Didn’t you ever wonder the same thing?”

“Well,” said Masha, slowly. “I thought it was because I have a sense for how he operates.”

“All that sensing is a load of crap, Masha. It’s metaphysics, fortune-telling.” Andrey sounded angry. “I can’t believe we didn’t see it right after your stepfather died! He knew it was you who had spotted him. Nobody but you had made the connection between those murders. You had teased out his motive, you had connected the crime scenes with Heavenly Jerusalem, you had unearthed St. Theodora’s Journey Through the Tollhouses . You did all that, Masha!”

“Innokenty helped,” she said quietly.

“Stop it!” He slammed one hand against the steering wheel, trying to control himself. He was really angry, but not at Masha.

“Fine,” she said. “So what?”

“So you became extremely interesting to the murderer!”

Masha’s face went pale, and she turned toward the window.

“I’ve known that for a while now. Just yesterday I told you that all this is my fault.”

“You’re such an idiot!” Andrey couldn’t help it. “You’re so smart, but you’re such an idiot! Think! Who knew that you were the one who connected the murders with Heavenly Jerusalem?”

“Lots of people. Please don’t yell.”

Andrey took a couple of deep breaths, and gripped the wheel harder. “I’m sorry. Damn it! The solution was right there in front of us this whole time, and we were stumbling around like blind kittens, distracted by all our fancy theories. Lots of people? Not that many, Masha.” He glanced over at her. Masha was still looking out her window at the parade of country cottages strung along the road. “Remember? Our investigative team didn’t know who first discovered what. Only five people actually knew for sure. You, me—”

“Innokenty, Anyutin… and Nick-Nick.”

“Right, Masha. Your friend Nick-Nick. Chief Prosecutor Katyshev, who took an interest in this case from the very beginning. Katyshev, who straight-out told Anyutin, last time we met, that maybe we should let the killer finish what he started!”

“That’s crazy, Andrey,” Masha objected, her voice hoarse. “He only meant that his own hands are tied, since the justice system—”

“Exactly! Remember our psychological profile. Your profile, again. The killer most likely works in law enforcement, probably served in the military. Katyshev was in the army, wasn’t he?”

Masha nodded without speaking.

“And this sick desire to take justice into his own hands? You told me yourself that’s the hallmark of a maniacal missionary! Who better to judge us all than Mr. Bigshot Prosecutor himself?”

Andrey stopped talking. He took out a cigarette and rolled down his window. He could see Masha out of the corner of his eye, and sensed that she was beginning to believe him.

“And there’s something else. I’ve spent the afternoon going back through all the Sin Collector case files trying to find the link. How does the killer meet his sinners? I still wasn’t sure if it was my boss, Anyutin, or Katyshev. Both of them fit pretty well. Then I realized: all the victims had a run-in with the courts, in one way or another.”

They passed a sign: “Now Entering Narino.”

“Turn right up ahead,” said Masha softly.

Andrey nodded. He made the turn and slowed down.

“Know how I figured out I was on the right track?”