Child 44 (25 page)

Leo reached the area where the snow had been trodden down. There were criss-crossing boot tracks in all directions. He entered the forest, walking for a couple of minutes, arriving at roughly the area where he supposed the body must have laid. He crouched down. Aleksandr caught up with him. Leo looked up.

—You know what happened here?

—I was the one who saw Ilinaya running to the station. She was badly beaten up, shaking–she couldn’t speak for a while. I called the militia.

—Ilinaya?

—She found the body, stumbled across it. Her and the man she was with.

The couple in the forest–Leo had known there was something wrong.

—Why was she beaten up?

Aleksandr looked nervous.

—She’s a prostitute. The man she was with that night is an important Party official. Please, don’t ask me any more.

Leo understood. This official wanted his name kept out of all the paperwork. But could he be a suspect in the murder of the young girl? Leo nodded at the young man, trying to reassure him.

—I won’t mention you, I promise.

Leo’s hand pushed through the thin sheet of snow.

—The girl’s mouth was filled with soil, loose soil. Imagine I was struggling with you, right here, and I reached out to grab something to stuff into your mouth because I’m afraid you’re going to scream, I’m afraid someone’s going to hear you.

Leo’s fingers hit the ground. It was hard, like the surface of a stone. He tried another place, then another and another. There was no loose soil. The ground was frozen solid.

18 March

Standing outside Hospital 379, Leo reread the autopsy report, the main points of which he’d copied longhand from the original:

Multiple stab wounds

Blade indeterminate length

Extensive damage to the torso and internal organs

Raped either before or after death

Mouth was full of soil but she did not suffocate, her nasal passage

was clear. The soil was to some other purpose–to silence her?

Leo had circled the last point. Since the ground was frozen the killer must have brought the soil with him. He must have planned the murder. There was intention, preparation. But why bring soil at all? It was a cumbersome means to silence someone, a rag, or cloth or even a hand would have been far easier. With no answers Leo had decided to belatedly take Fyodor’s advice. He was going to see the body for himself.

When he’d asked where her body was being kept he’d been told to go to Hospital 379. Leo hadn’t expected forensic laboratories, pathologists or a dedicated morgue. He knew there was no specialized apparatus for dealing with wrongful death. How could there be when there was no wrongful death? In the hospital the militia were forced to canvass for a doctor’s spare moment, such as a meal break or ten minutes before surgery. These doctors, with no training beyond their own medical qualifications, would take an educated guess at what might have happened to the victim. The autopsy report Leo had read was based on notes taken during one of these snatched sessions with a doctor. The notes would have been typed up several days later by a different person altogether. There could be little doubt that much of the truth had been lost along the way.

379 was one of the most famous hospitals in the country and reportedly one of the finest free-to-all hospitals in the world. Situated at the end of Chkalova Street, the hospital was spread over several hectares with landscaped grounds stretching into the forest. Leo was impressed. This was no mere propaganda project. Plenty of money had been invested in these facilities and he could understand why dignitaries reportedly travelled many kilometres to recuperate in the picturesque surroundings. He presumed that the lavish funding was primarily intended to ensure that the Volga’s workforce was kept healthy and productive.

At reception he asked if he could speak to a doctor, explaining that he needed help with the examination of a murder victim, a young girl they had in their morgue. The receptionist seemed uncomfortable with the request, asking if it was urgent and wondering if he couldn’t come back at a less busy time. Leo understood: this man wanted nothing to do with the case.

—It’s urgent.

The man reluctantly moved off to see who was available.

Leo’s fingers tapped against the front desk. He was uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance. His visit was unauthorized, independent. What did he hope to achieve? His job was to find evidence confirming a suspect’s guilt, not question the guilt itself. Though he’d been exiled from the prestigious world of political crime to the dirty secret of conventional crime, the process was much the same. He’d dismissed the death of Fyodor’s little boy as an accident not because of any evidence but because the Party line necessitated a dismissal. He’d made arrests based upon a list of names given to him, names drawn up behind closed doors. That had been his method. Leo wasn’t naive enough to think that he could change the direction of the investigation. He had no authority. Even if he’d been the top-ranking officer he couldn’t reverse the proceedings. A course had been set, a suspect chosen. It was inevitable that Babinich was going to be found guilty and inevitable that he was going to die. The system didn’t allow for deviation or admissions of fallibility. Apparent efficiency was far more important than the truth.

And what did it have to do with him, anyway? This wasn’t his town. These weren’t his people. He hadn’t pledged to the girl’s parents that he’d find the killer. He hadn’t known the girl or been touched by the story of her life. What’s more, the suspect was a danger to society–he’d taken a baby. These were excellent reasons for doing nothing and there was one more reason besides:

What difference can I make?

The receptionist returned with a man in his early forties, Dr Tyapkin, who agreed to show Leo down to the morgue as long as it didn’t involve any paperwork and on the condition that his name didn’t show up on any documents.

As they walked the doctor expressed doubts as to whether the girl’s body was still there.

—We don’t keep them for long unless we’re asked to. We were under the impression the militia had all the information they required.

—Did you carry out the initial examination?

—No. But I’ve heard about the murder. I thought you’d already caught the man responsible.

—Yes, it’s possible.

—I hope you don’t mind me asking but I haven’t seen you before.

—I arrived recently.

—Where are you from?

—Moscow.

—Transferred here?

—Yes.

—I was sent here three years ago, also from Moscow. No doubt you’re disappointed to be here?

Leo remained silent.

—Yes, don’t answer. At the time I was disappointed. I had a reputation, acquaintances, family. I was good friends with Professor Vovsi. I felt coming here was a demotion. Of course, it turned out to be a blessing.

Leo recognized the name–Professor Vovsi was one of many leading Jewish doctors arrested. His arrest and the arrest of his colleagues had marked the acceleration of a Jewish purge driven by Stalin. Plans had been drawn up. Leo had seen the papers. The removal of key Jewish figures within influential spheres was to be followed by wider purge, targeting any Jewish citizens whether they were prominent or not, plans cut short by Stalin’s death.

Unaware of his companion’s train of thought, Tyapkin blithely continued.

—I was worried I was being sent to some rural health clinic. But 379 has become the envy of the region. If anything it’s a little too successful. Many of the mill-workers prefer a night in our clean beds with inside toilets and running water to their own homes. We got wise to the fact that not everyone was as ill as they claimed. Some of them went as far as cutting off part of a finger in order to guarantee a week in here. The only solution was to have
MGB
officers police the wards. It wasn’t that we didn’t sympathize with the mill-workers. We’ve all seen their homes. But if overall productivity fell due to illness then we’d be accused of neglect. Keeping people healthy has become a matter of life and death not just for the patients but for us doctors as well.

—I understand.

—Were you a member of the Moscow militia?

Should Leo admit to being a member of the
MGB
or lie and pretend he was merely a member of the militia? A lie would be easier. He didn’t want to ruin the doctor’s talkative mood.

—Yes, I was.

The morgue was in the basement, built deep into ground that was frozen throughout the long winter. As a result the corridors were naturally cold. Tyapkin led Leo to a large room with a tiled floor and a low ceiling. On one side there was a rectangular vat, shaped like a small swimming pool. On the far side of the room there was a steel door which led through to the morgue itself.

—Unless relatives can make arrangements we incinerate bodies within twelve hours. The TB victims are incinerated within an hour. We don’t have much need for storage. Wait here, I’ll be back.

The doctor unlocked the steel door and entered the morgue. Waiting, Leo approached the vat, peering over the edge. It was filled with a dark, gelatinous liquid. He was unable to see anything except his own reflection. The surface was still, black, although from the stains on the concrete sides he could see it was in fact dark orange. On the side there was a hook, a long metal pole with a barbed prong on the end. He picked it up, tentatively prodding the surface. Like syrup, it broke and then re-formed, becoming smooth once again. Leo sunk the hook deeper, this time feeling something move–something heavy. He pushed down harder. A naked body rose to the surface, slowly rotating one hundred and eighty degrees, before sinking again. Tyapkin emerged from the morgue pushing a gurney.

—Those bodies are going to be packed in ice and shipped to Sverdlovsk for dissection. They have a medical college there. I’ve found your girl.

Larisa Petrova lay on her back. Her skin was pale, criss-crossed with blue veins as thin as spider’s web. Her hair was blonde. A large part of the fringe had been unevenly cut off: the part Varlam had taken. Her mouth was no longer stuffed with soil–that had been removed–but her jaw was still open, locked in the same position. Her teeth and tongue were dirty, stained brown with the remnants of earth that had been forced in.

—There was soil in her mouth.

—Was there? I’m sorry, this is the first time I’ve seen her body.

—Her mouth was stuffed with soil.

—Perhaps the doctor washed it out in order to examine her throat.

—It hasn’t been kept?

—I would think it very unlikely.

The girl’s eyes were open. They were blue. Perhaps her mother had been transferred from a town near the Finnish border, from one of the Baltic regions. Recalling the superstition that the face of a murderer was captured on the surface of a victim’s eye Leo leaned closer, studying the pale blue eyes. Suddenly embarrassed, he stood up straight. Tyapkin smiled.

—We all check–doctors and detectives alike. It doesn’t matter if our brains tell us that there’ll be nothing there, we all want to make sure. Of course it would make your job a whole lot easier if it was true.

—If it was true then murderers would always cut out their victims’ eyes.

Having never studied a dead body before, at least with any forensic interest, Leo was unsure how to proceed. To his mind the mutilation was so frenzied it could only be the work of someone insane. Her torso had been ripped apart. He’d seen enough. Varlam Babinich fitted the bill. He must have brought the soil for his own incomprehensible reasons.

Leo was ready to leave but Tyapkin, having come all the way down to the basement, seemed to be in no hurry. He leaned closer, staring at what appeared to be nothing more than a savaged mess of flesh and tissue. Using the tip of his pen he probed into the mangled midriff, examining the wounds.

—Can you tell me what the report said?

Leo took out his notes and read them aloud. Tyapkin continued his examination.

—That fails to mention her stomach is missing. It’s been cut out, severed from the oesophagus.

—How precise, I mean in terms of…

—You mean did a doctor do this?

The doctor smiled, remarking:

—Possibly but the cuts are ragged, not surgical. Not skilled. Although I would be surprised if this was the first time they’d handled a knife, at least to cut flesh. The cuts aren’t skilful but they are confident. They’re targeted, not random.

—This might not be the first child that he’s killed?

—I’d be surprised.

Leo touched his forehead and found that despite the cold he was sweating. How could the two deaths–Fyodor’s little boy and this girl–have anything to do with each other?

—How large would her stomach have been?

Above the girl’s torso Tyapkin indicated a rough outline of a stomach’s shape with his pen tip. He asked:

—Was it not found nearby?

—No.

It was either missed in the search which seemed unlikely or it had been taken away by the killer.

Leo remained silent for a moment then asked:

—Was she raped?

Tyapkin examined the girl’s vagina.

—She wasn’t a virgin.

—But that doesn’t mean she was raped.

—She’d had previous sexual encounters?

—That’s what I’m told.

—There’s no trauma to her genitals. No bruising, no incisions. Also notice that the injuries weren’t targeted at her sexual organs. There are no cuts to the breasts or to her face. The man who did this was interested in a narrow band below her ribcage and above her vagina, her guts–her digestive organs. It looks savage but actually it’s quite controlled.