Daria Desombre: The Sin Collector

There was something else, too. It seemed to Masha that Fyodor Karavay’s last cases had dug deep, not just into personal injustice, but societal injustice, injustice mixed up with the more villainous aspects of human existence. She knew it was slowly wearing him down, although they never discussed it. But a couple of times Masha walked into the apartment and caught her father loitering in the dark hallway, staring into the brightly lit kitchen, where Mama, sitting across from Nick-Nick, tilted her head and giggled, as carefree as a little girl. In her father’s face, Masha saw exhaustion rather than love. Having a charming, girlish wife was all well and good, up to a point. After that, a man wants a wife who is his peer, someone he can really talk to after the bedtime stories have been read and the door to the child’s bedroom has been shut tight.

But there was no way to transform a charming pixie into a sober confidant. And in the end, Fyodor himself had shaped a world around Natasha in which she could remain his beloved little pet and never grow up. So it was his own fault. If her father had lived, maybe Masha would have grown into the role of intellectual partner, leaving Natasha free to live out her life as the spoiled little girl.

But Papa had died, their paradise had disappeared, and Mama did her best to make the leap out of the persona she had grown so used to. Because even if they were like sisters, Natasha was, nevertheless, supposed to be the responsible one.

Masha woke up a few short hours later to the optimistic swing tune blaring from her alarm clock. She listened for a second, just in case there were any suspicious sounds coming from the other side of the wall, and then jumped out of bed and headed for the shower, taking her work clothes with her. She didn’t like walking around in a bathrobe in front of her stepfather, and so twenty minutes later she emerged from the bathroom in her usual uniform: black pants, a clean black T-shirt, and a dark-blue, high-necked sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a smooth ponytail.

“I’ve always hated that notebook,” Masha heard her mother say from the kitchen, and she froze in her tracks. “No child should have murder on her mind, constantly, from the age of twelve! Crimes! Serial killers! I don’t want that to be her career, her life!”

“Natashenka,” came Belov’s voice, calm and composed as ever. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about that. Masha has made her choice, and—”

“I know, I know, I’m the one who let her go to law school! I thought that she’d find something else to be interested in, something other than psychopaths! I thought she could have her own law office, maybe. But instead she’s still obsessing about dead bodies—in Petrovka now, no less! I’m going to call Katyshev and tell him to find her a different internship.”

“Look at it from another point of view,” Masha’s stepfather said. “She’s doing something she’s crazy about, and there’s a good chance she’ll be very successful.”

“But I don’t want—”

Masha pushed through the kitchen door. “Good morning!”

“Good morning.” Only one of them returned her greeting, choking a little on his coffee. Natasha just nodded, standing there with her back to her daughter. When she did turn around, Masha saw that her eyes were red.

Embarrassed, Masha spoke up cheerfully. “What’s for breakfast?”

Her mother handed her a plate of pancakes and, probably also wanting to change the subject, asked, “All black again?”

Masha’s wardrobe was one of their most frequent topics of breakfast conversation. It came up as regularly as the weather. She had her usual retorts ready. When her mother asked whether any other colors existed in nature, Masha said they did, but you had to work hard to match them up. Black eliminated all the problems of good taste and wasted time. Black made her look too serious and washed her out? Sure, but she had this post-adolescent syndrome, see, and she wore black because it matched her mood. And on and on. In her head, Masha’s responses were different. No, Mama, these aren’t mourning clothes, more than ten years later! No, Mama, this isn’t a symptom of depression. No, I’m not trying to push people away.

Her stepfather wisely maintained neutrality through these debates.

Once today’s was finished, Mama sighed and offered Masha the car keys.

“That’s okay,” said Masha, giving her mother a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll take the metro today. It’s faster.”

On her way out, Masha caught a glimpse of her mother straightening her stepfather’s tie in a very maternal gesture, and she smiled sadly. There were so many ways a man could change a woman, inside and out. It occurred to Masha that her mother could have become a pixie again, with Nick-Nick. But she hadn’t wanted to play that game with anyone except Papa.

Masha was lucky. She got a seat on the train, so she pulled her notebook out and started to sketch. Seeing things drawn out always helped her think more clearly.

So. Three of them. Masha methodically drew the semicircle of chairs and the three figures, two male, one female.

The young man next to her shot Masha a curious glance. He seemed to be the rare artistic type who found beauty in Masha’s profile, Masha’s thin fingers, Masha’s bare lips.

1. Special knots, wrote Masha next to her picture.

2. Numbers.

3. Why were their tongues cut differently?

The artistic type, reading over her shoulder and probably hoping to find some interesting way to start a conversation, recoiled at that last sentence.

Masha smirked at the man (nothing to see here!), calmly slipped the notebook back into her bag, and headed for the door.

She’d already been at her desk for at least an hour when Captain Yakovlev walked in. She couldn’t help but notice, with a twinge of pity, that he was dressed the same as yesterday. The same jeans, the same ripped denim jacket. And unless her revulsion at his personality was making her imagine things, he smelled faintly of dog. He said hello to the room without meeting anyone’s eye, especially not Masha’s. Better that way, Masha thought. She had been worried he’d have something snarky to say about her encounter with Nick-Nick the night before. But Yakovlev just shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair as he reached for the phone.

“Shagin? Hi. It’s Andrey Yakovlev. Listen, I have a question for your underworld expert. Which of the lowlifes out there have started shaving the backs of their necks in fancy ways? You know, fancy, like, creative, shaving out numbers, for instance.”

Masha suddenly focused on his voice. Numbers?

“Oh yeah? Well, it’s a new trend. Okay. Write it down for your book on criminal folklore. Guy I saw had a fourteen. Seven plus seven? Double the symbol for good luck? Huh, never would have thought of that. Thanks. Talk to you later.” Yakovlev hung up the phone, meeting Masha’s eye without meaning to.

Numerology! Masha’s heart sped up. The symbolism in numbers! She shuffled through the files on her desk again. One, two, and three were the first victims, at the Bersenevskaya waterfront. There had been a number four on the arm of the drunk they had found dead a year ago at Kutafya Tower. Then a six, on the dismembered arm on Red Square almost six months ago. Now there was a fourteen. Could they all be victims of the same perpetrator? Or was Masha’s mania for maniacs driving her insane? She looked over at Yakovlev again and decided to take a risk.

“Excuse me?”

The captain unhappily lifted his eyes from his papers.