William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“A report? What kind of a report?”

The colonel seemed to consider how to respond—and if the report contained half of what Anna Shtange thought it might, then Korolev understood why. After all, Zaitsev was the man in ultimate charge of the institute—and that meant he would be responsible for any of its failures.

“I haven’t read the report myself, Korolev. But I understand it is critical of Professor Azarov—serious allegations that I want to investigate thoroughly, without interference. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

“There may be more than one copy. I know Azarov had one, but there may be others. Shtange may have kept one for himself. I need all the copies.”

“I’ll do my best, Comrade Colonel. Believe it.”

“Do better than that, Korolev. I think if you put your mind to it, you’ll find them for me.”

“But—” Korolev began.

“But nothing, Korolev.”

The colonel reached inside his trouser pocket and produced a small pearl-handled pocket knife. A familiar pocket knife. The colonel handed it to him. It felt warm, as if it still held the warmth of Yuri’s hand. Korolev closed his fingers around it, remembering the boy whittling at his stick as they’d walked down to the river.

“Yes, Korolev, it belongs to him. Last night he volunteered to assist the State with an important matter, so I know you won’t object. Of course, there are risks that come with this task, but like any good Pioneer, he knows that duty comes first. Now, I want you to think about that. I understand you don’t like dead bodies—that they make you ill. How would you feel if you were standing over your own son’s corpse, Korolev? Can you imagine what that would be like?”

Korolev said nothing—he couldn’t say anything.

Zaitsev nodded. “So you’ll close this investigation and you’ll find me those reports, won’t you?”

“What happened here? In your own words.” Korolev spoke dispassionately. His calm came, strangely, from ice-cold fury. He hadn’t wanted any part of this but they’d dragged him into it all the same—and now they’d taken his son. Why shouldn’t he be angry?

They’d gone through Priudski’s story once already—how he’d opened the door to the Azarovs’ apartment for the doctor, heard the sounds of an argument and the pop, pop of a small revolver. How he’d been horrified by the murder, how Shtange had told him he wanted to spring a surprise on Azarov, nothing more than that. And then, to make matters worse, Shtange had refused to pay up—leaving him with a dead tenant and a guilty conscience. He’d described, step by step, his journey across town to have it out with the murderer, and the meeting’s fatal result—for the doctor at least. From time to time, Slivka had looked more than a little puzzled—unsurprisingly. The story still had plenty of holes in it and, to complicate matters, Zaitsev had sent along his pet boxer, Blanter, who had spent most of the interview cracking his knuckles, one by one—all the while staring at Korolev with what seemed to be intense hatred. The man looked as though he hadn’t slept in a couple of days, his eyes red-rimmed and his stubble a sweaty gray shadow. Perhaps he blamed Korolev. In any event, it wasn’t the ideal atmosphere in which to conduct an interrogation.

Now Priudski stood, in the hallway where Shtange had been killed, looking confused.

“Here?” Priudski asked, looking around him. “You want to know what happened here?”

The carpet had been taken away and the walls cleaned, so that the only sign of the doctor’s murder was a dark stain on the floorboards—a stain which could have been caused by anything. Still, Priudski knew this was the doctor’s apartment and this was the hallway so he must know this was where the murder had been committed—he’d already told them as much in the study. And yet it seemed he didn’t.

“Where are we exactly?” Priudski asked, speaking slowly, as if not wanting to commit himself.

“You’re in an apartment building on Chistye Prudy,” Korolev said, casting a wary glance in Slivka’s direction. Even if this might all be complete nonsense, it was important he persuade Slivka to play along, even if only temporarily—and for that he needed Priudski to play his part just a little better.

“Chistye Prudy?” Priudski scratched his head, dropping his gaze to the floor as if there might be a clue there—but Shtange’s maid had done a good job of making sure that particular clue wasn’t as obvious as it had been the day before.

“What did the doctor say to you when he opened the door?” Korolev asked, deciding to give him a clue. Fortunately the word “doctor” seemed to have the desired effect.

“He didn’t say anything at first,” the doorman said, looking to Blanter who, Korolev noticed, gave him a small nod. “He just looked at me as if I was dirt. But I wasn’t having that—I’d come for my money and told him so. He said we were both going to a camp in Kolyma if I squealed, so why should he pay me anything. Then he threatened to kick me down the stairs. So I pulled out the knife and told him to pay me what I owed, or else I’d go to Kolyma with him on my conscience. And what do you think he said to that?”

“Tell me,” Korolev said.

“He called me an old fool and told me I was too old to play with knives. So I lost my temper.” Priudski stopped, and did a passable imitation of regret. “I didn’t mean to kill him but—it just happened that way.”

The Shtange Priudski described bore little relationship to the Shtange Korolev had met but, then again, neither did this Priudski bear much relationship to the doorman he’d encountered just four days before. Either Zaitsev had Priudski’s son in his care as well as Yuri, or something else was going on. Maybe the professor’s research had been more successful than Dr. Shtange had given him credit for.

“How many times did you stab him?”

“A great many. I was angry as hell. There was blood all over the place—that much I can tell you. All over the place.”

“What about you? Did you get covered in blood? When it was going all over the place?”

“A bit,” he replied, looking uncertain—as if he were trying to remember. “I must have, mustn’t I?”

“I would have thought so,” Korolev said in a neutral voice. “Did you clean yourself up?”

“I did.” The doorman seemed uncertain once again. “In the sink.”

“Come with me, Citizen Priudski.”

Korolev led the former doorman back into Shtange’s study, where he placed a photograph of the dead man on the desk—Korolev saw no recognition in the doorman’s face. And even though Blanter was glaring at him once again, Korolev couldn’t help it. He had to ask questions—Slivka would expect him to.

“You recognize him, don’t you?” Korolev asked, and Priudski seemed to take the hint once again.

“It’s Dr. Shtange,” he said.

“Very good.” Korolev pulled photographs of the dead man’s blood-drenched body from an envelope. He laid them on the desk one by one. Priudski picked up each one and examined it with a dreamy expression on his face. He lifted the first of the autopsy photographs, then placed it carefully back down, before beginning to touch a finger to each of the dead man’s wounds, one after another.

“I stabbed him here, and here, and here…”

He spoke quietly, as if to himself.

“What kind of weapon did you use?”

“A knife, what else?” Priudski said, his finger still moving from wound to wound, his focus still on the photograph.

“And what did you do with it? This knife of yours?”

“I threw it into the Moskva—at night, off the bridge. Near where I work.”