That was Karpo’s theory. More than fifty people, all killed at night. What if the Maniac could only kill at night because he worked during the day? Karpo had already told this to Porfiry Petrovich, who had not been the least bit surprised.
Paulinin had supplied Rostnikov and Karpo with information about how tall the Maniac was and that he was right-handed and urged his victims to drink Nitin wine while he indulged in guava juice. More would come.
“Where is Porfiry Petrovich?” asked Paulinin, putting his glasses back on.
“In Bitsevsky Park.”
“Searching for more bodies?”
“I believe he is walking the pathways, sitting on the benches, and watching the chess players.”
“In other words, he is working,” said Paulinin.
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“You are going to look for the copycats?”
“Of course.”
“Becker at Moscow University has run their DNA. They do not appear in the files and I doubt if they themselves were homeless.”
Karpo knew the dead men as Numbers 30 and 31. There had been several differences from the other victims of the Maniac and these two. Numbers 30 and 31 had been buried more deeply than the others. While a number of the victims had little or no identification, none appeared to have been robbed and all had something in their pockets, slip of paper, an appointment card, something. These two had been stripped of everything. This had been attributed to nothing more than a slight deviation in pattern for the Maniac. After all, he was mad.
“And?” asked Karpo, sensing that Paulinin had something more to tell.
“Fingerprint,” he said. “In spite of decomposition. In spite of pitiful irreverence for the dead, I managed to retrieve a fingerprint from the jacket of one of the two victims.”
Paulinin reached over on his desk to pick up a thin, square white envelope. He handed it to Karpo, who put it in his jacket pocket.
Before the end of the day, Emil Karpo would identify both of the copycat victims, discover that they had disappeared leaving everything behind, which included not very much, for their niece, the daughter of their long dead sister. The niece, who believed herself very clever, broke down after being interrogated by Karpo in a room at Petrovka.
Thus, two of the murders attributed to the Maniac were solved, leaving only approximately fifty more that were the work of the still-unidentified Maniac.
7
Pavel Petrov met Iris Templeton in the lobby of the office building not far from Red Square. He was a bit heavier than when last she had seen him, but he was still handsome and smiling. His suit, Iris could tell, was Italian and almost certainly custom-made.
“I am very glad you could come,” he said in English, taking her extended right hand and holding it in both of his. “You look as lovely as when last we met at the Trade Congress in Belgrade in 1994.”
“You have been well briefed,” she said.
Petrov shrugged and said, “I confess. Come.”
He led her across the lobby, which included a desk for two uniformed guards and a smattering of well-placed pots with plants sprouting large succulent green leaves. Somewhere a voice, probably in conversation on a telephone, echoed through the lobby and remained with them until the elevator doors closed behind Iris and Petrov.
“Are you enjoying Moscow this visit?”
“I have only been here one day and one night,” she said as the elevator slowly rose.
“And I trust you have been well treated night and day by the members of our incorruptible Office of Special Investigations?”
“Yes,” she said.
He knew. She was certain he knew she had been with Daniel Volkovich before Volkovich was murdered, certain that he knew where Olga Grinkova, otherwise known as Svetlana, was, certain that he knew that Sasha Tkach had spent the night in her room.
“Good,” he said.
The elevator doors slid open and Petrov stepped to one side to allow her to pass onto the highly polished wooden floor.
“This way,” he said, moving to her side and gesturing with his right hand toward an unmarked and unnumbered door. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass window of a reception area they saw where a young man, in a suit not quite as expensive as that worn by Petrov, looked up from behind his desk as Petrov opened the unmarked door.
She followed him into a large but not ostentatious wood-paneled office that carried the scent of forests. The desk was ancient and highly polished mahogany and the chairs a matching wood and hue.
He pointed with a palm to the left of the office, where a dark leather love seat and matching chairs faced a low glass table on which sat a pair of cups and a plate of assorted chocolates.
“I took the liberty,” he said, sitting at the sofa. “I am, I confess, addicted to chocolate. Coffee? I believe you drink coffee and not English tea?”
You not only believe it, you are certain of it, and you want me to know that you know everything about me.
“Coffee is fine,” she said, sitting.
“Black.”
“Black.”
He pressed one of the buttons of the console on his desk and said, “Are the chocolates all of the latest choices?”
He smiled at Iris, pressed another button, and folded his hands on the smooth, shiny brown surface of the desk.
“Now,” he said, smile broad and voice apologetic, “if you will turn off the tape recorder in your briefcase. I will make a statement and try to answer your questions.”
“How will I be able to provide evidence of what you say?” she asked.
“I intend to deal with you honestly, but there is always the chance that I will say something I regret,” he said. “It has happened to me before. Now, the tape recorder please.”
He held out his hand.
“You object to my taking notes?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
His hand remained out, palm up, waiting. Iris took a tape recorder from her purse, pushed the button to turn it off, and sat back.
“Next,” he said after checking to be sure the tape recorder was off and placing it within her reach. “If you will please disengage the listening device hidden somewhere on your person.”
“I don’t have one,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“Then you are a fool, and I do not believe you are a fool. No, I’ve read your work. I do not believe you are a fool. Disengage or you will leave without coffee, chocolates, and conversation, and I assure you the cookies are the best to be found in all of Moscow.”
He watched with a smile as Iris reached down her dress between her breasts and removed a small microphone taped to her skin. She held it out for him to look at, which he did. Then he took it and crushed it easily in the palm of his hand.
The door opened without a knock and Pavel Petrov dropped the microphone fragments into a polished mahogany trash basket. A tall woman in a green knit dress came to the desk and set down a tray with a fresh plate of chocolates, although Iris, on the one hand, had not touched the first plate. Pavel Petrov, on the other hand, had devoured the small confections.
“I did not have time for breakfast,” Petrov said with a nod to the woman in the green dress, who retreated out the door. “I know it is not healthy to have a breakfast of chocolate and coffee, but it is very satisfying. I shall have a generous portion of chicken for lunch to atone for this.”
Petrov held out the plate.
Iris reached for a chocolate with a glazed cherry resting precisely in the middle of its raised circular surface. The chocolate did not melt between her fingers. She placed it in her mouth and bit down, half-expecting to taste a hint of poison.
“Good, eh?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Hmm, you want to begin. All right. We will begin. Whatever answers I give to your questions will not leave this room. If they appear in print, two things will happen. First, I will bring suit against the magazine or newspaper. I will win. I have almost endless resources.”