Vladimir Savchenko: Self-discovery

He stopped and bit his lip. “No, this is nonsense. It’s hopeless,” he thought.

“Yes, I’m listening. Go on,” the detective said, laughing to himself. The assistant glanced up at him, got more comfortable in his chair, and said with a small smile:

“In short, if you don’t want to hear the theories, then Valentin Vasilyevich Krivoshein — that’s me. You can put that into the official record.”

It was so unexpected and daring that Matvei Apollonovich was stunned for a second. “Should I send him to the psychiatrist?” he thought. But the suspect’s blue eyes looked at him reasonably and there was mockery in their depths. That’s what brought Onisimov out of his suspended animation.

“I see!” He got up. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I haven’t familiarized myself with his file, that I wasn’t present at the scene of the accident, that I don’t remember his face?” He leaned on the desk top. “ If you refuse to identify yourself, it’s only worse for you. We’ll find out anyway. Do you admit your papers are forged?”

“That’s it. We have to stop playing,” Kravets thought, and said:

“No. You still have to prove that. You might as well consider me a forgery while you’re at it!”

The assistant turned to look out the window.

“Don’t clown around with me, citizen!” The detective had raised his voice. “What was your purpose in entering the lab? Answer me! What happened between you and Krivoshein? Answer!”

“I’m not answering anything!”

Matvei Apollonovich scolded himself for losing his temper. He sat down and after a pause started talking in a heartfelt manner:

“Listen, don’t think that I’m trying to pin anything on you. My job is to investigate thoroughly, to fill in the missing blanks, and then the prosecutor’s office evaluates it, and the court makes the decision. But you’re hurting yourself. You don’t understand one thing: if you confess later, under duress as they say, it won’t count as much as making a clean breast of things now. It might not all be so terrible. But for now, everything points against you. Proof of an assault on the body, expert testimony, and other circumstances. And it all boils down to one thing.” He leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “It looks as if you… alleviated the victim’s suffering.”

The suspect lowered his head and rubbed his face. He was seeing the scene again. The skeleton with Krivoshein’s head twitching convulsively in the tank, his own hands holding on to the tank’s edge, the warm, gentle liquid touching them and then — the blow!

“I’m not sure myself, if it’s me or not,” he muttered in a depressed voice. “I can’t understand it.” He looked up. “Listen, I have to get back to the lab!”

Matvei Apollonovich almost jumped up: he hadn’t expected such a rapid victory. “Listen, that can happen too,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “In a state of frenzy from an insult or through overzealous self — defense. Let’s go down to the lab, and you can explain on the scene just what transpired there.” He picked up Monomakh’s Crown from his desk and casually asked: “Was this what you hit him on the chest with? It’s a heavy thing.”

“That’s enough!” The suspect spoke harshly and almost haughtily. He straightened up. “I see no reason to continue this discussion. You’re trying to put me into a corner. By the way, that ‘heavy thing’ costs over five thousand rubles. Be careful with it.”

“Does this mean that you don’t want to tell me anything?” “Yes.”

“I see.” The detective pushed a button. “You’ll have to be held until this is cleared up.”

A gangly policeman with a long face and droopy nose appeared at the door. In the Ukraine, people like him are described as “tall but still bends.”

“Gayevoy?” the detective looked at him uncertainly. “Aren’t any of the guards around?”

‘They’re all out in the field, comrade captain,” he replied. “A lot of them are at the beaches, maintaining law and order.” “Do you have a car?” “A small GAZ.”

“Convey the detained suspect to the city jail. It’s too bad you refuse to help yourself and us, citizen. You’re just making it worse for yourself.”

The lab assistant turned in the doorway. “And it’s too bad that you think Krivoshein is dead.” “One of those characters who likes to make a grand exit. Always have the last word.” Onisimov chuckled. “I’ve seen plenty like him. But he’ll come round after a while.”

Matvei Apollonovich lit a cigarette and drummed his fingers on the desk. At first all the clues (faked papers, medical testimony, circumstances) led him to think that the assistant, if he wasn’t the killer, was at least actively involved in Krivoshein’s death. But this conversation had changed his mind. Not what the suspect had said, but how. He did not sense in him the forethought, the game playing, that fatal game playing that gives away the criminal long before there is any evidence.

“It is looking like an unpremeditated murder. He said himself, 1 don’t know if it was me or not. But what about the skeleton? How did it happen? And did it happen? And what about the attempt to pass himself off as Krivoshein by using a theoretical explanation? Is he faking? And what if the absence of game playing is just the most subtle game of all? No, where would such a young, inexperienced fellow develop that? And then, what motives are there for a premeditated murder? What was going on between them? And what about the forged documents?”

Matvei Apollonovich’s mind hit a dead end. “All right, let’s look into the circumstances.” He stood up and looked out into the hall. Assistant Professor Hilobok was pacing up and down.

“Please come in! I asked you here, comrade Hilobok, to — “

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Hilobok nodded. “Others experience tragedy, and I clean up the messes. People do die of old age, and may God grant us both such ends, Matvei Apollonovich, eh? But Krivoshein never did anything the way everyone else did. No, no, I’m sorry for him. Don’t think… it’s always a pity when a man dies, right? But Valentin Vasilyevich had caused me so many problems in the past. And all because he was a stubborn character, with no respect for anyone, no consideration, diverging from the collective time and time again.”

“I see. But I would like to ascertain what it was Krivoshein was doing in that lab that was under his jurisdiction. Since you are the scientific secretary, I thought — “

“I just knew you’d ask!” Harry Haritonovich smiled happily. “I even brought along a copy of the thematic plans with me, naturally.” He rustled the papers in his briefcase. “Here it is, theme 152, specific goals — research on NIR, title — ‘The self — organization of complex electronic systems with an integral introduction of information/ contents of the work — ‘Research on the possibilities of self — organization of complex system into a more complex one with an integral (not differentiated according to signals and symbols) introduction of varying information by adding a superstructure of its output to the system/ financing — here’s the budget, nature of the work — mathematical, logical, and experimental, director of the project — engineer V. V. Krivoshein, executor, the same — “ “What was the gist of his research?”

‘The gist? Hmmm.” Hilobok’s face grew serious. “The self — organization of systems… so that a machine could build itself, understand? They’re doing intensive work on this in America. Very. In the USA — “

“And what was Krivoshein actually doing?” “Actually…. He proposed a new approach to forming these systems through… integralization. No, self — organization. It’s just not clear if he managed to do anything with it or not.” Harry Haritonovich smiled broadly and winningly. “You know, Matvei Apollonovich, there are so many projects at the institute, and I have to look into all of them. I just can’t keep everything straight in my mind. You would be better off reading the minutes of the academic council’s meeting.” “You mean, he reported on his work to the academic council?” “Of course! All our projects are considered before they are incorporated into the plan. After all, how could we distribute funds without any factual basis?” “What was his basis?”