A Blind Eye: Book 1 in the Adam Kaminski Mystery Series (23 page)

Sneaking out of the hospital in the scrubs took time, precious time. It would have been obvious to anyone who saw him that the old man in a cast and multiple bandages didn’t belong in scrubs and didn’t belong out of the hospital. He was an adult, he could check himself out if he wanted to, he reminded himself as he stuck his head out into the hospital’s main entrance area one more time to see if the guards had looked away yet.

He just didn’t have time to wait until the morning, then deal with all the paperwork he knew would be required of him to leave. The hospital bureaucrats could chase him down tomorrow for his paperwork. Tonight, he had more important things to do.

As soon as the guard headed back up the hallway, Łukasz dashed across the lobby — as much as he could dash while holding his bruised ribs with his broken arm, shuffling slightly to keep from tearing the stitches in his right thigh.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to move. Just until he was outside. Just until he had flagged down a taxi. Just until he was sitting, painfully, in the lobby of the newspaper building.

Then he breathed. Then he cried a little.

Eventually, the pain subsided, as physical pain always did. He was onto something, though, he had a story in his grasp, and his familiar drive kicked in, lifting him up off the bench, dragging him to the elevator and down, back to the newspaper archives.

He breathed a light sigh of relief, knowing the articles he was looking for were all from within the past five years and available on the computer. He didn’t have to lift any boxes this time. He sat at the closest machine, waiting for it to come to life, then started reading.

About murder. About shootings. About stabbings. About brutal robberies and accidental deaths. He skipped over all the emotions, all the pain, all the blood, looking for the detail that mattered to him now.

Finally, after going through more than three years’ worth of violence and gore, he found it. A stabbing. The killer had been found to be left handed. And a very bright doctor had identified a clue as to the killer’s identity: when he stabbed, he shifted his hand just a fraction as the knife hit the deepest point, causing the blade to twist. Ever so slightly.

Another doctor might have missed it, but not this one. Not only did he see it, he knew what caused it. An injury to the wrist, he had explained to the police. The killer did not have full motion in his left wrist. Look for a killer with an injured wrist.

Not the perfect identification the police might have hoped for, but it was something. The article Łukasz was reading went no further. The killer had not been found, nor any suspects identified. Now Łukasz was on the trail, he knew there was more. He kept reading.

A year later, another stabbing. Another left-handed killer, another slight twist in the stab. This time, the doctor hadn’t identified the cause of the twist, and apparently the police hadn’t made the connection with the stabbing the year before. Łukasz did. And this time there was a suspect — Stefan Wilenek. He had known the victim slightly, the friend of a neighbor.

Or perhaps the enemy of a neighbor.

Wilenek had not been charged. Not enough evidence pointed to his guilt, no motive, no trace evidence found at the scene. He had only been questioned because someone had seen him in the area at the time. The police had questioned a few more people, some as witnesses, some as suspects, but no arrests were made.

Łukasz kept reading. Two more years’ worth of murder and violence. Then another stabbing. Then another. In each case, no arrest had been made. In each case, someone was suspected, someone found to have a motive, but no evidence existed to place that person at the scene of the crime. Sometimes the suspect had an unbreakable alibi. Sometimes there was simply no proof he or she had been in the area at all.

A hired killer, Łukasz knew. That’s how they could kill from a distance. Why there was no evidence putting them at the scene. Łukasz smiled wryly. A left-handed hired killer with a bad wrist. Stefan Wilenek’s name came up only once more, but once was enough for Łukasz. He knew what he was looking for, and Wilenek fit the bill.

Łukasz changed tracks. Leaving the archives behind him, he took the elevator back up to his office. Once there, he went straight to his desk and pulled out a pill bottle. It was half-empty. Grimacing, he shook two out into his hand and swallowed them. He limped down the hall to wash them down at the water cooler.

Back in his office, wearing the change of clothes he kept handy for those occasions he needed to work through the night, Łukasz stood in front of his bookshelf. Histories of Poland, writing style guides, biographies of American presidents next to psychoanalyses of serial killers, his books were in no order and seemed to fit no pattern. Łukasz read widely, based on whatever story he was working on at the time.

This time, he was looking for a book on recent Polish history.

“Aha,” he said aloud as he pulled the thick volume from the shelf.
Miller’s History
. The book was bound in cloth, published in someone’s basement, not a publishing house. It was a story that would never make it in a commercial sale, but it served as a bible of sorts for Łukasz. It was a first-hand account of life under the Polish secret police during the communist regime.

Łukasz had known Thaddeus Miller for only a few years, when Łukasz was at the height of his profession and Miller was just starting out, a young student eager to find a big story. Łukasz had helped him; he was happy to nurture such talent and enthusiasm. And in return, Miller had helped him. Miller had given him the book.

Compiled over a period of ten years, the book had many authors. Individuals who had written down for Miller what they knew, whether it was long, flowing details or just a few short sentences.

Miller had fit the pieces together. Descriptions cobbled together from different sources eventually yielded clear pictures. Pictures of corruption among the communist leadership in Poland. Pictures of men and women who were willing to share information, to sell out their colleagues just to save themselves. And pictures of the men and women who paid for that information.

Stefan Wilenek was one of those men. There was no photograph available, but as Łukasz read the description Miller had compiled, he once again saw those hard black eyes staring at him through the windshield, aiming not to hurt but to kill.

Wilenek had worked for the
Służba Bezpieczeństwa,
the Polish secret police. He had followed people, lied to people, tricked them into giving him information, sometimes paid them to give him information. Łukasz knew no informant ever really benefited.

The information they provided was used to arrest, torture, even kill the ones they knew, the ones they loved. Half the suicides in Poland in the late 1980s were the end result, people who couldn’t handle it when the reality of what they had done sank in, when they saw the true cost.

Wilenek was one of those men. And he was back in Poland now, a killer for hire.

Łukasz looked at the clock. This wasn’t proof that Adam was innocent, but it was certainly enough to make the police look closely at Wilenek and ask some hard questions. Łukasz knew better than to run to the police with this. There was a more powerful way to get this information to them. The power of the pen.

S
unlight glinted
off the large storefront window. Adam squinted against the glare. He kept his head tucked low into his collar, moving every so often so as not to attract too much attention to himself.

The night in the shelter had been uncomfortable, to say the least. The nuns working there had been welcoming, though, even offering Adam a hot meal. They had spoken no English, and if they wondered why an American was living rough on the streets of Warsaw, he hadn’t understood their questions. But the church shelter was there to help those who needed it, and God knew he needed help last night.

The police seemed to be everywhere. He knew better than to try to gain access to his hotel room, but his approach to Sylvia’s apartment last night had been equally unsuccessful. He had approached from the river, walking up
Ulica Długa
, past the cafes, school and small shops that dotted the cobblestoned street. From a block away, behind the protruding facade of the Polish Army Field Cathedral, he could see Sylvia’s window.

The curtains were pushed open, and every so often Sylvia’s form passed in front of the window. Even from this distance, Adam knew it was her. The tension in his back lessened as he let his breath out. She was safe. Thank God.

As he watched, she paced back and forth in the small apartment. She kept her hand to her head, and Adam guessed she was on the phone. Looking for him, perhaps? If only he could go to her. Tell her that he was safe. And innocent.

From where he hid, he could also see the uniformed officer, waiting, watching guard over her home. They knew about his connection to Sylvia, knew he might turn to her for help. He couldn’t approach without getting arrested.

Despite his inability to contact Sylvia directly, he was glad to see the police there. Whoever had framed him might still be after her. At least this way she’d be safe. He hoped.

So he had spent the night in the church shelter. And while a hot shower and change of clothes would have been heaven just then, Adam was only grateful that he hadn’t had to spend the night outdoors, exposed to the freezing temperatures. He might not have survived that.

He put his hand out again to block the glare, but kept his eyes on the drive that led out of the
Sejm
. Sylvia would have to come out eventually, and hopefully she could help him find out how Łukasz was doing. If he was even alive.

He was just stepping away, moving to stare into a different shop window, when a familiar figure caught his eye leaving the drive, walking toward the stretch of restaurants and cafes that ran along the street.

Changing his mind, Adam strolled in the same direction, stepping into the small cafe a few minutes after his quarry.

Kapral almost jumped out of his chair as Adam’s hand fell on his shoulder.

“Sit. Stay,” Adam commanded, sliding into the seat next to him at the small table.

Kapral replaced his espresso cup into its saucer with a shaking hand. “You are wanted for murder,
Pan
Kaminski. You cannot keep me here, I will simply call for the police.”

“I know about Laurienty.” Adam didn’t have many options, and he was willing to take a gamble.

Kapral eyed him carefully, but didn’t crumble. “Really? You think you know?”

Adam considered the man before him. “Here’s what I know. I know I didn’t kill that man. I know whoever did also killed Basia Kaminski and Jared White and tried to kill Łukasz Kaminski. And I know whoever did that has a secret. A secret he’s willing to kill to protect.”

“Ah, secrets. Yes.” Kapral nodded, finishing his coffee with a final sip. He raised a finger to catch the attention of the barista, and Adam heard the familiar sounds of the grinder, the water passing through the freshly ground beans. The heady aroma followed the tiny cup to the table, and Adam waited until Kapral brought the cup first to his nose, then to his lips, before he spoke.

“You have secrets, minister. Secrets you want kept hidden. Secrets Basia Kaminski found.”

“She had no right.” Kapral’s words were sharp, bitten off by his effort to control his rage. He closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, and continued. “She didn’t know what she was doing, what she was looking for. It was not her concern. She should not have become involved.”

“But she did. And she found the truth.” Adam spoke quietly, hoping to encourage Kapral to continue.

“She was helping me, she told me, you know.” He smiled mirthlessly at the table. “She apologized. She came to me and said she thought she was helping.”

“You didn’t want her help.”

“I wanted my privacy. I wanted her not to get involved.” Kapral shrugged. “But she did. There was nothing more I could do.”

He looked at Adam. “I did not kill her. I was angry at her for prying, but I did not kill her.” His voice held a note of disbelief that rang true.

Adam watched him, waiting, saying nothing.

Finally Kapral continued. “She thought Laurienty was blackmailing me. Hah! She couldn’t understand why I had hired him when there were others so obviously more qualified. So she decided it was blackmail. As if Laurienty would have the brains to do something like that.”

“She came to you when she found the truth.”

“Of course she did.” Kapral’s pride reemerged, his chest puffed out. “I am a leader in the
Sejm
, she came to me to seek answers from me and to tell me my secret was safe with her.” His eyes wavered and the look he gave Adam was drowning in doubt. “And then she died. And I thought… I thought, what did I say to her? Was I too harsh? Did I drive her to kill herself?”

“She didn’t kill herself, sir. She was murdered. Was it because of what she found about you?”

“That is not possible.” Kapral smiled again. “I would not kill, not for this or any other reason, and Laurienty… well” — Kapral raised his eyebrows — “Laurienty, I am ashamed to say, wouldn’t have the brains to kill anyone, either.”

“Ashamed?” Adam asked.

“Ashamed,
Pan
Kaminski, because Laurienty is my son.”

Adam thought back to the information Pete had found on Kapral. He was married, had been for twenty-eight years. His wife served on the board of the school their daughters had attended. His daughters were both in university now, doing well and making their father proud. His two daughters. There had been no mention of a son.

“I see you are surprised,
Pan
Kaminski. So no, you did not know about Laurienty. Perhaps you thought the same thing Basia believed. That I had committed some horrible act in the past, and Laurienty was using it against me, blackmailing me to hire him?” Kapral laughed under his breath.

“In a way, that is true,” he continued. “Not a horrible act, perhaps, but an indiscretion. An affair,
Pan
Kaminski, nothing worse. Simply an affair.”

Adam nodded. Affairs had brought down politicians before Kapral, Adam knew. Some men could carry them off, their loving wives standing by their side, telling the world she forgave him. For other men, the scandal meant the end of their career, the end of the people’s trust.

“My wife would not have forgiven me, had she found out,” Kapral said, as if reading Adam’s mind. “It was over almost as soon as it had started. A secretary, of all things. How cliché of me. After only a few nights, I knew I had made a mistake. I recommended her for another position — a promotion — and she went. And that was it. Or so I thought.”

He pushed his espresso cup away on the table, resting his hands on the polished wood surface, playing with his napkin.

“I had no idea there was a child. She never told me, and I didn’t keep track of her or her career. Then Laurienty showed up.” He looked over at Adam. “And what was I to do? Send him away? Deny that he was mine?”

“So you simply accepted his word that he was your son?” Adam asked with disbelief.

“Bah, no, of course not. Don’t be absurd. I required that we have tests done. I could not believe it at first. I was sure he was lying. Then his mother contacted me as well, and I thought perhaps it was true. So we did the tests, and I was his father.” Kapral nodded, remembering.

“And you hired him because you wanted to help him. Because you felt you owed him, after all these years?”

“That is true.” Kapral frowned, nodding. “I did owe him.” He looked out over the coffee shop, filled with the midmorning coffee crowd from the neighboring offices and stores. The hum of conversation filled Adam’s ears as he thought about what Kapral had told him.

“You were also afraid. You were afraid that if you didn’t help him, he — or his mother — would tell your wife. And the scandal could ruin you.”

“Of course it would ruin me,” Kapral hissed, glaring at Adam. “How do you think that would look? Not only had I cheated and lied, I had fathered a child out of wedlock. Then abandoned him.” Kapral grunted. “No one would care about the truth. That I didn’t know about Laurienty. Politics is not about truth,
Pan
Kaminski, it is about appearances. Reputations. And I had to protect mine.”

“Better to look like you’re willing to give a chance to a struggling young man than to look like an adulterer,” Adam agreed.

“It was nobody’s business but my own. When Basia Kaminski came to me, I was furious. What had she done? She had stolen the records showing the other applicants for Laurienty’s position. She had lied to the clinic where we had the test done and succeeded in getting a copy of the results.
Kurwa,
” Kapral cursed softly, “she had no right. No right.”

“What did you do, minister?”

“What could I do? I lost my temper. I yelled at her. I swore that if she ever told anyone, I would see to it that her career was ruined. Finished. No matter how long it took, I would make sure she never worked in politics again.” He looked at Adam. “I told her to leave my office, and I never spoke to her again. That was it. I swear.”

Adam nodded, looking down at the table. This was a motive, a strong one. Would Kapral have admitted it if he really had Basia killed?

“You must believe me,
Pan
Kaminski,” Kapral said again, “I did not kill her.” He frowned, thinking for a moment. “When we last met, you asked me for access to the national archives. Do you still want that access? Do you still believe you can find the answer to who killed Basia in those records?”

Adam looked up at Kapral, surprised. “Perhaps. I know Łukasz was looking there just before he was attacked the first time. I know somebody was worried about what he found there. And now someone has tried to kill him again, and I don’t even know if he survived.”

Adam rubbed his hands over his face, the exhaustion and worry finally catching up to him as the adrenaline of confronting Kapral faded.

“Let me help you.” Kapral reached into his briefcase. “Your cousin is alive,
Pan
Kaminski. I happen to know he was back at work this morning, at his newspaper. I spoke to his editor only this morning on another matter, and he mentioned it. Do not worry about him. Do the investigation you need to do at the national archives. If you can find the truth there, you will know I am telling you the truth when I say I did not kill her. Here.”

Pulling out a sheet of his letterhead, Kapral wrote out a quick letter. Signing and dating it, he handed it to Adam. “This will get you into the archives, and it will give you free access to review whatever materials you want. You will not need to request documents or make an appointment.”

Adam took the letter, still wondering about Kapral’s motives. “Thank you, this will help.” His eyes as he looked at Kapral grew dark. “I will find the truth, sir. I have no choice now. I need to find the truth to prove my own innocence.”

“Then you know how I feel,
Pan
Kaminski. We both need the truth to come out.”