The Twelfth Department (15 page)

Korolev took a deep breath and looked back into the corridor at the outline of the dead man.

“What about the body?”

“Your Dr. Chestnova took him away, but we’ve photographs of the scene as it was found. She insisted.”

“Insisted?” Korolev’s respect for the doctor increased. If he’d been wearing a hat, he’d have taken it off to her.

“And the murder weapon?”

“A knife, presumably.”

“Yes,” Korolev said patiently. “I guessed that. I meant have we found it.”

Before the comment was out of his mouth Korolev regretted it, but Dubinkin only laughed.

“I see. No, not that I’m aware of.”

“Has anyone spoken to the neighbors?” Korolev asked. “And what about the doorman downstairs?”

“I don’t think so. At least, not that they let us know about.”

“Do you mind me asking a question?” Slivka said, her hands buried in the pockets of the thin leather jacket she was wearing.

“Not at all, Comrade.”

“Who are ‘they?’”

“‘They’ are the Twelfth Department. They were handling the case until yesterday.”

“And you, which department are you?”

“I’m with the Fifth Department. I work for Colonel Rodinov.”

Slivka nodded. She’d come across Rodinov before, when they’d handled that business down in Odessa.

“And may I ask another question?”

“Will anything I say stop you?”

That got a smile from Slivka.

“What’s the difference between the two departments? Just so we know where we stand.”

“The Twelfth Department looks after special projects. The Fifth Department looks after counter-intelligence and internal security.”

Slivka frowned. “So does that mean there are foreign spies involved in this?”

Korolev wondered if it was being women that allowed Slivka and Chestnova to venture where he, for one, wouldn’t dare to tread.

“You understand these matters are confidential, Comrade Slivka.”

“I understand we’re being asked to investigate two murders and it’ll be more difficult if we don’t know what is what, and what might be what. That’s what I’m thinking.”

Dubinkin looked pointedly at Korolev as though it would be better if he answered her questions, and so Korolev repeated exactly what Rodinov had told him about what the institute might or might not have been researching and what he knew about the killings. After all, if Rodinov had told him, he surely must be allowed to tell Slivka. When he finished, there was a lengthy pause as Slivka thought through the ramifications. Eventually she shrugged, as if deciding that, having considered them, they were better forgotten about.

“Both of them killed within a day of each other—were they friends outside of work?”

“Far from it,” Korolev said. “In fact, Shtange made it clear to me he didn’t like the professor. Not at all.”

Slivka asked the obvious question: “Where was Shtange on the morning of the professor’s death?”

“At the institute. The guards verified it—but Shtange did tell me he’d had an argument with the professor that same morning. Not that it gets us any further—his alibi is watertight. No one goes in or out of that place without it being logged. Anyway, let’s not jump to conclusions or we’ll end up missing something. It’s possible the murders aren’t connected.”

“That’s true,” Slivka said. “We’re going to have to get uniforms involved, a lot of them. We’ll have to go door to door here, and over at Leadership House as well—and quickly. People’s memories don’t get better over time, just fonder.”

Dubinkin didn’t look happy at the thought of Militiamen flooding the neighborhood.

“If you’re worried about keeping it secret,” Korolev said, “I can tell you for a fact there isn’t a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood who doesn’t know a man was killed here on Tuesday morning. That’s the way Moscow works, Comrade.”

Dubinkin considered this for a moment before shrugging. “Colonel Rodinov will have to approve it. You said it’s possible the murders aren’t connected. Any reason?”

“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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

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.”

“You were quick to move on,” Korolev said, sounding testier than he intended. He gathered himself, making the effort to smile.

“You can’t let the grass grow under your feet these days.”

Lilova sat down—her sharp blue eyes taking in the empty shelves.

“Food costs money, and the dead don’t pay,” she continued. “Not that I’d anything against the late comrade, but it is what it is. What happened to you?”

“I fell out of a window.”

“Two or three times by the look of it.”

“It’s not as bad as it seems. Notice anything different in here?”

“All his books are gone. I saw them taking boxes out of the building yesterday. I wondered what they were up to.”

“We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course. If I can help, I will—he was a good man.”

Korolev glanced up at her—she meant it, was his guess.

“How long did you work for him?”

“Since he arrived from Leningrad. Three months back. I know all the caretakers around here, Semyon Semyonovich downstairs told me the fellow needed someone to look after him, and I needed the work. The last people I looked after—well—they’re not around anymore.”

“What happened to them?”

“Husband to the camps, wife and children to her parents.”

Korolev looked at the maid—she must be at least fifty-five, possibly older. She spoke of her former employer’s arrest as casually as she might have described a queue for bread. It was just something that had happened, nothing to get upset about. Galina Matkina had been the same over at Azarov’s apartment—as far as they were concerned, arrests only happened to the higher-ups.

“Did you live here? When you worked for him?”

“No, I live with my son and his family—two streets away.”

“The son you were visiting in the hospital?”

“No, that’s the youngest—but he lives with us as well.”

Korolev imagined a crowded room—two if they were lucky—in some communal apartment. The Lord knew how many would be crammed in there.

“Dr. Shtange was a nice fellow though—I thought I’d get longer out of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve had two arrested, one killed himself, and one transferred to Vladivostok.” Lilova seemed to think being sent to Vladivostok wasn’t that different to being sent to the Zone—or committing suicide, for that matter. “And now this. It’s not unusual, I suppose. The arrests at least. And transfers aren’t unheard of. But this was a surprise. Once they start getting themselves murdered—well—you begin to wonder. Still, I always say—you can’t get into too much trouble making soup and washing clothes.”

It was a fair point, although the mention of soup made him remember just how hungry he was.

“Did he ever mention Professor Azarov?”