Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

He had treated Petr Yakovlevich Yezhov for an undefined paranoia, although certainly there were elements of persecution. He did not consider the breast fetish, indicated by the crimes for which Yezhov had been detained, to be part of that persecution, however. Yezhov’s faculties were impaired — it was difficult to estimate, but he wouldn’t put the man’s mental age above thirteen, probably less — and the breast fixation could be associated with rejection as a young child by a disappointed mother. Tarasov seemed doubtful of the American opinion that the buttons could be associated with a nipple obsession, although he was aware of such discussion and even theses in international psychiatric journals. He had personally recommended Yezhov’s release, believing the man’s mental stability adequate for him to live outside a restricted community: being restricted had always caused him great, sometimes self-harming, distress. It was always possible that Yezhov had regressed since his release. It was even more possible, from the man’s case history, that the violence already manifested could worsen even to the point of murder. He was, of course, quite willing to sit in on any interrogation: he understood that was why he had been summoned. It was a good idea for the mother to be present: she’d always been a strong, if debatable, influence.

They assembled in the same large room as Valentina Yezhov, who hunched uncertainly at the table, hands clasped around her empty cup, suspecting the worst but still not fully informed as to why she had been brought to the station or why her son was being held there. The crying had worsened, river marks of tears down her face, her eyes red. She recognized Tarasov and instantly invested the psychiatrist, someone whom she knew, with superior authority and demanded to know where her son was and what — exactly — he had done. She repeated the same word, exactly , several times, like a courtroom lawyer.

‘He’s been bad again,’ announced Tarasov. ‘Like before. Worse.’

‘No!’ It wasn’t an outburst, like her son’s cell-room reaction. It was the sad, unquestioning acceptance of some horror that had always lurked close at hand.

Danilov was unhappy at the number of people there were crowded into the room. It was necessary for Cowley to be there, maintaining everything on an equal basis. And for Pavin’s presence, to record every exchange. It had been his idea to include the mother and the psychiatrist. Which left Kosov as the only intruder. The number had to stay as it was. To Valentina, he said: ‘I want to talk to Petr Yakovlevich. You must tell him it has to be the truth.’

‘Why?’ She was hollowed out. She didn’t know — couldn’t think — where she could go from Bronnaja Boulevard but knew she’d have to move on somewhere . She’d be a pariah now, someone who’d spawned a monster.

‘I want him to tell me.’

Danilov was at the table, facing the woman. Tarasov was beside him. Everyone else, by unspoken agreement, withdrew to the edges of the room. Cowley shifted where he stood, against the wall, disconcerted by this preliminary scene, as he had been disconcerted by a lot of other things since this day had begun, when it hadn’t been day at all but the middle of the night.

Valentina gave a listless shrug of acceptance, They were authority, official: she’d learned always to defer to authority. It was safer: you didn’t get into trouble if you deferred to authority.

A sound, a bitten-back sob, burst from her when Petr Yakovlevich was brought into the room. His hands were manacled in front of him. There was a towering Militia man on either side and another behind, holding a metal chain looped to the manacles in front: if Yezhov had tried to lash out, as he had in the cell, the following guard could have flipped him off his feet simply by yanking on the lead chain. The bruise on Yezhov’s cheek was deepening, purple and brown now. Blood, from the head graze when he had been kneed back by Kosov, blackly matted his clumped hair. His face was twitching, nerves alive beneath his skin. His eyes rolled, in terror.

Danilov half turned, furious, seeking and failing to find Kosov. Bastard! he thought. Bullying, posturing bastard.

Jesus, thought Cowley, against the wall.

‘Take the chains off!’ said Danilov.

‘No.’ It was Kosov’s voice.

‘Take the chains off!’

The impasse was silent. The chained man focused on his mother. He didn’t smile. His eyes still rolled. Flat voice, with no meaning, he said to her: ‘No.’

The officer at the rear, the one holding the restraining chain, had been attached to the station when Danilov had controlled it, although he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Danilov rose from the table, going to them: he held out his hand towards the one he recognized and said: ‘Give me the key.’ It came from another man, the one to the right. Danilov unfastened the manacles himself and held Yezhov’s arm, taking him to sit next to his mother. As he resumed his own seat, Kosov said: ‘Your decision.’

Valentina hesitated, then reached out for Yezhov’s hand: it was the one on which the blood had dried, from the graze. Danilov saw for the first time that there was a heavy, silver-metalled ring on the man’s little finger and remembered the chin bruising — and the suggested American cause — on every victim.

‘Tell him he has to answer me truthfully,’ ordered Danilov.

Valentina did. ‘Everything you’re asked,’ she insisted. They’d be kind, if she did what they told her.

Yezhov nodded.

‘You go walking, at night?’ Danilov began.

Slowly, frightened, Yezhov came around to face Danilov. ‘Yes.’

‘Where? Ulitza Gercena?’

‘I think so.’

‘Ulitza Stolesnikov?’

‘Don’t know.’ Yezhov smiled hopefully sideways, towards his mother. She smiled back.

‘Granovskaya?’

‘I think so.’ Yezhov smiled more proudly, like a child doing well in a test.

‘Uspenskii Prospekt?’

‘Don’t know Uspenskii Prospekt.’

‘What do you do, when you walk?’

‘Just walk.’

‘Why do you have a knife?’

‘Knife?’

‘You had a knife tonight.’

‘Like it.’

‘Why?’

‘Safe.’

‘When you …’ began Danilov but stopped, at the movement beside him as the psychiatrist came into the interrogation.

‘Remember me, Petr Yakovlevich?’

‘Yes.’

‘You made me a promise, in the hospital? The same promise, a lot of times? About girls. It was a promise about girls.’

‘Don’t remember.’

‘Have you forgotten what you promised me in hospital? What you said you wouldn’t do any more?’

‘Haven’t hurt anybody.’

‘Do you know people have been hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Have you looked for women, for girls, when you’ve been out at night?’ asked Danilov, re-entering the questioning.

‘Not allowed.’

‘Did you hurt anyone with the knife, Petr Yakovlevich?’ asked the psychiatrist.

‘No.’

‘Why were you carrying buttons?’ asked Danilov. ‘And why did you hide buttons in your room?’

‘Wanted to.’

‘Do you think of buttons as something else?’ persisted Tarasov, conscious of the American assessment of their significance.

‘No.’

‘What are they then?’

‘Buttons.’ Yezhov suddenly frowned, as if he were recognizing the psychiatrist for the first time. ‘No jacket. I don’t want to wear the jacket.’

Danilov detected the sound of shuffling behind him, from the people grouped along the wall. He sighed to himself. ‘You stuck your knife into people, didn’t you? Into women, when you were walking?’

There was the faintest sound, a gasping intake of breath, from Valentina but it was loud enough to distract her son, who looked towards her. He smiled, forever hopeful of her approval.