William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“The killer may turn out to be the same person, but I think it’s best to presume there are two of them until we know more. One’s a gunshot to the head, from behind, and the other’s a knife attack, from the front. It suggests different personalities, to me at least.”

“Perhaps,” the Chekist said, but Korolev sensed Dubinkin saw the merit in the approach.

“As for who’s directing things—let’s work in a comradely fashion. Each to our own area of expertise. Although I’ve no doubt there’ll be some matters in which Comrade Dubinkin should take the lead—in fact I’m sure of it.”

Dubinkin smiled his approval and Korolev felt he’d passed a test he hadn’t even been aware he’d been taking.

As no one was using it, and it had a telephone line, they decided Shtange’s apartment would be as good a base as any for their inquiries—and once forensics had been through the study, Korolev and Slivka moved in. With Colonel Rodinov’s agreement, the number of Militia involved in the investigation grew considerably over the following hours. Bukov, the sergeant who’d discovered Shtange’s body, arrived as instructed, and soon four pairs of uniforms were working their way through the apartment building under his direction. The Militiaman who’d been standing guard outside the building when Korolev had arrived—Kuznetsky—had been assigned to answer the apartment’s telephone and relay messages when needed. One short phone call and the mention of Colonel Rodinov’s name had been enough to arrange for Sergeant Belinsky to pick up where he’d left off over at Leadership House. And all the while, the forensics men worked their way methodically through the apartment—removing the carpet from the hallway, dusting, swabbing and sampling.

The information-gathering underway, they began to work through what they already had—sharing Dubinkin’s files between them, reading each one before passing it on to the next person in the circle.

There were few surprises. They’d already known they were dealing with two Party members—now they knew the awards and decorations they’d been given, the positions they’d held, where they’d studied and where they’d taught. It was clear that there were differences between the two men—Azarov was a Party activist and a scientist and nothing else. Shtange had other interests—music, for example. He was a competent pianist who played at dances for the hospitals he worked at. He’d also been a keen amateur pilot in Leningrad, with Osoaviakhim, the voluntary State organization that trained citizens in aviation and chemical defense. Perhaps that accounted for the cigarette case with the engraved propeller Shtange had offered him at the institute.

“I wonder why Shtange’s wife and family didn’t come to Moscow?” Slivka asked.

“You can ask her,” Dubinkin said, looking up from his reading. “Madame Shtange’s staying at the Moskva—waiting for her husband’s body to be released.”

An interesting piece of information, Korolev thought to himself, wondering how many more the lieutenant was keeping up his sleeve.

He returned to his reading and came across another interesting fact—Madame Shtange was French. How had someone married to a foreign citizen ended up working for a secret institute? He considered asking the question and then decided against it. Even if he was temporarily attached to State Security, that sort of thing wasn’t his concern.

Slivka passed him the photographs Chestnova had insisted be taken of the doctor’s body. Shtange’s expression was calm, given the pool of blood that surrounded his body and the torn fabric and skin where he’d been cut at and stabbed. One of his hands, black with blood in the photograph, was held to his neck—as if he’d been trying to stem the flow. The other, thrown back when he’d fallen, was completely clean—the cuff of the shirt a crisp white. He’d been stabbed in the face at least three times—one of the blows shattering the left lens of a pair of what looked like reading glasses. A frenzied attack, it occurred to Korolev. Quite different to the single shot that had brought an end to Professor Azarov’s life.

“He was wearing slippers, do you see?” Korolev said, showing the others the photograph. “And the top three buttons of his shirt are open over his vest. That says to me he wasn’t dressed for company. So whoever it was came to visit him unexpectedly, I’d imagine.”

Not that this deduction helped them much, it occurred to him.

“Let’s talk about what happened when,” Slivka said, shuffling through a few papers she’d been examining. “According to this Militia report, the downstairs neighbor notices a dark, damp mark on his ceiling at eleven a.m.—the blood seeping through the floorboards. Shtange was seen alive by his maid at eight when she made him his breakfast before going to see her son in hospital. So the murder took place within that time period. When Shtange doesn’t respond to the neighbor’s knocking, the neighbor calls for the caretaker, who isn’t immediately available. The neighbor doesn’t notice the blood on the door at first, because it was dark in the hallway, but the caretaker does notice it, at about eleven-twenty. He immediately calls the local Militia station. Bukov and Kuznetsky arrive at eleven-thirty, break in the door, and find the body. The maid returns home at just past twelve.”

“When do we see the maid?” Korolev asked.

“She should be here by now,” Slivka said. “I’ll check.”

When Slivka left the room, Korolev turned to Dubinkin.

“I think we should find out more about this institute, and I’m thinking you and I should pay them a visit. If nothing else I’d like to know what was in this report Shtange and Azarov were arguing about.”

Dubinkin nodded his agreement.

“We also need to look into Professor Azarov’s political activities,” Korolev continued. “It seems he may have denounced a couple by the name of Golovkin over at Leadership House—they were arrested last week. I’d like to know more about that—but there may have been others as well.”

“And you’d like to know who and when, I suppose?”

“It’s an avenue of inquiry. One we can’t ignore.”

“Then I’d best be on my way,” Dubinkin said, standing. “These things are best done in person. We have an extensive but efficient filing system—it shouldn’t take me too long. If they’ve been investigated there will be a file on them.”

He smiled, and the smile told Korolev, in a way he couldn’t explain, that there was a file on him as well, and that Dubinkin had read it.

When Dubinkin left, Korolev put the phone to work, calling Lipski out at Babel’s dacha—no news. Then Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky—no news there either. Finally he’d called Petrovka in case Yasimov had left a message for him—which he hadn’t—and asked the operators to give Yasimov Shtange’s phone number if he called in. When Korolev hung up, he felt a physical urge to run out the door, jump into the nearest car, and drive straight to Peredelkino.

He should be the one out there looking for his son, he knew it. He shouldn’t be relying on friends for something like this. He should also be ringing Zhenia to tell her what had happened—if she was in a position to take his call, that was. He put his head in his hands, feeling tiredness and worry starting to overwhelm him—but Slivka’s voice in the corridor made him pull himself together.

She opened the door, followed by a small round-faced woman wearing a white kerchief that covered her hair.

“This is Citizen Lilova, Chief. Dr. Shtange’s maid. She’s working across the street now.”