Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘And you didn’t tell me the direction of the wound. Was it upwards? Downwards? What?’ The pathologist swallowed and Danilov doubted the man had properly checked.

‘Across, from right to left: slightly upwards, perhaps.’

‘So the killer could be approximately the same height? Or slightly smaller. If he were taller it would have a downward direction, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘It didn’t come into any contact with bone?’

‘I already told you that.’

‘How difficult is it to thrust a knife into someone and get cleanly between the ribs?’

Novikov considered the question. ‘Someone did it: she’s dead.’

‘Help me!’ demanded Danilov, exasperated. ‘You know the problem! You did the first autopsy!’

Novikov smiled, pleased at the other man’s outburst. ‘There’s usually some bone contact.’

‘There wasn’t last time: there hasn’t been now. So could it be someone who has medical knowledge?’

The pathologist shook his head. ‘I can’t help you. On a darkened street, presumably walking, it would be incredibly difficult for anyone even with medical knowledge to avoid any bone contact.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That missing any bone was a fluke: that you shouldn’t attach undue significance to it.’

Danilov decided he couldn’t ignore it, either. A wash of fatigue, a recurrence of that morning’s tiredness, swept over him. He began to put out his hand, to support himself against the dissecting table upon which the sheeted body lay, but stopped when he realized what he was about to do. ‘When can I have your written report?’

‘A day or two,’ the pathologist dismissed.

Danilov was suddenly furious at the other man’s posturing. ‘What reason did Lapinsk give for wanting the autopsy today?’

‘Just that it was urgent.’

‘She’s an American,’ Danilov disclosed. ‘The niece of an important politician in the United States. People in the White House here and in America are going to be watching this.’

‘Oh,’ said the other man, the obstructive arrogance fading.

‘I want the report by tomorrow,’ demanded Danilov. ‘Two. The Americans will want their own copy.’ He looked at the covered body, then back to Novikov. ‘They’ll see the way you carried out the autopsy when the body is released.’

The pathologist made as if to speak, to argue, but didn’t. Instead, after a pause, he said, dry-throated: ‘I’ll make two copies.’

‘Is there anything you haven’t told me? Something that’s going to be in your written report that I should know now?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Danilov held out his hand. ‘I need her fingerprints.’

Novikov’s throat moved. ‘They’ll come with the report.’

So he hadn’t taken them yet. ‘Don’t forget anything else, will you?’

‘But it’s been almost a fortnight,’ Larissa protested. He’d reached her from a street kiosk.

‘This is different: unusual.’ He hadn’t given her any details, just that it was a murder.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try.’ He thought she might have asked about an unusual murder.

‘You don’t sound very interested.’

‘You know that’s not true! And I don’t want to argue.’

‘I want to see you!’

‘I really will try tomorrow.’

‘Don’t let me down.’

‘I won’t,’ said Danilov. I hope, he thought. Or did he?

There are four psychiatric clinics in Moscow. The best known is the Serbsky Institute for Forensic Psychiatry, in Kropotkinskii Street: during the oppressive, population-controlling era before the second Russian revolution, it was the place in which the KGB detained political dissidents, claiming they suffered paranoid schizophrenia.

Major Yuri Pavin personally led the record-searching team on its first visit, to explain their needs to the white-coated principal. The man was shaking his head before Pavin finished talking.

‘It would need a computer to do a thorough search,’ the psychiatrist protested.

‘Your records aren’t computerized?’

‘No.’

‘How long could a physical search take?’

‘Months, to be completed properly.’

Pavin looked to the other two detectives with him: both were already frowning at the potential task ahead of them. The search wouldn’t be conducted properly, Pavin knew: here or anywhere else.

Power in Washington is layered, and those layers are divided again, between publicly known influence and private, behind-the-scenes importance. Senator Walter Burden, who did not welcome the political cartoonists’ impression of him as a living version of Kentucky Fried Chicken’s Colonel Sanders, although the physical similarity was remarkable, enjoyed both. And expertly used both, to the public and private promotion of Senator Walter Burden. One day — a day of his choosing — he intended to occupy the White House. Which some pundits considered inevitable. And which was why, within twenty-four hours of the alert from Moscow, a conference was convened by Secretary of State Henry Hartz with the Directors of both the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Hartz’s seventh-floor office at the State Department, in that incongruously named part of the city called Foggy Bottom.

Hartz, who but for his German birth, which constitutionally precluded his seeking the office, considered himself a Presidential candidate, stood at the window overlooking the unseen, sunken memorial to the Vietnam war dead, his mind completely occupied by the news from Russia. Even before a moment’s examination of all the implications, it was obviously going to be hell: sheer and utter hell. Which worried him. Denied his presidential aspirations by the mischance of his birthplace, Hartz believed he had achieved the next best thing. His periods as Secretary of State had been times of unmarred diplomatic success, properly acknowledged by the incoming President who had asked him to remain in office, after succeeding the previous White House incumbent. Hartz had seen the request continuing under Burden. Ahead of any discussion of additional information from Moscow, he knew that expectation could be jeopardized if Burden were not handled like the prima donna he was. Hell, Hartz decided again.

The intercom warned him of the arrival of the two Directors and Hartz was at the door when they entered. Richard Holmes, head of the CIA, was a tall, dark-haired man with a sun-bed tan and the attitude of think-twice caution of a Washington survivor. He neither smoked nor drank and had been an intelligence professional all his life. There were outstanding offers, all in excess of $1,000,000, from three New York publishing houses for his memoirs. Holmes was a happy, contented man.

He entered ahead of the FBI chief. Leonard Ross had believed his political ambitions fulfilled the previous year with his appointment to head of the Bureau. But no longer. In just one year he had become first disillusioned and then sickened by the shadow-watching political intrigue of the capital until now he yearned to return to the New York State bench where he had served with distinction as its senior judge.

There were handshakes and greetings and Hartz led the group towards the couches and easy chairs in that corner of the office furthest from the windows and their hotchpotch view. Hartz said: ‘I thought we might benefit from some conversation ahead of Burden getting here.’

‘How’s he taking it?’ asked Holmes. He was pleased with the Agency’s legal advice that there was no way the CIA could become involved. He’d already wired the Moscow station to stay clear.

‘Predictably,’ said Hartz. ‘He’s already phoned our ambassador in Moscow direct. Asked me what the President was doing about it. He’s demanding investigation, from both of you. Actually told me he wants the bastard — his word — who did it brought back for trial in this country.’