Yuri’s grandfather emerged with a small wooden box and a board tucked under his arm.
Without a word, Yuri’s mother got up and touched her son’s cheek. She looked so tired. Yuri touched her hand and smiled.
“You set up,” his grandfather said, placing the chessboard on the table.
Olga Platkov moved across the room and through the door to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Yuri opened the wooden box and placed the chess pieces in the center of each box.
“You have white. You open,” his grandfather said. “You want tea?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I will heat the water. You get the tea.”
The two prepared the tea side by side.
“You have white,” Yuri’s grandfather said. “I have black.”
It was the same thing he said before every one of their games of chess. He had said it since Yuri was five years old. The truth was that Yuri looked forward to these games, to chess with his grandfather, who ceased ranting as soon as the game began.
“School is good?”
“Yes,” said Yuri, reaching for the pawn directly in front of the King’s knight.
In the six years they had been playing, Yuri had not won once. This did not seem to bother either him or his grandfather. Yuri knew he would soon start winning.
He changed his mind and moved the knight over the line of pawns.
“A new gambit,” his grandfather said, reaching into his shirt pocket to pull out a cigarette and put it between his teeth. He would not light it. He never did when he was inside the apartment. “Well, let us test your mettle.”
Maybe this would be the game Yuri finally won.
“Now for the reports,” said Paulinin to the couple at his table, the woman next to him, the man just beyond.
The problem and the particular value of Paulinin’s reports was that they were meticulous and detailed, written with a dark, ultra-thin-point pen. There were thirty-two identical fine-point black gel pens in the drawer of his desk right next to the two small jars of pain pills. Paulinin always wrote in clear, small letters. He wanted no mistakes or distortions. When he finished each report, he carefully transferred his notes to the computer.
Before beginning his report, he had turned off the CD of Beethoven’s Fidelio. It was Beethoven’s only opera and the only opera that the scientist really liked. There was an inevitable melancholy to the overture, an echo from the pit in the cell. Most of Paulinin’s guests appreciated the opera.
He had already examined and written reports on five of the victims of the Bitsevsky Maniac and on the latest corpse, that of one Daniel Volkovich, which Inspector Iosef had sent him. Paulinin was not at all sure that the simple case required his special forensic skills. Oh, he was pleased that the son of the Chief Inspector thought highly enough of Paulinin’s skill to bring him this guest. However, the visitors were piling up. Six were in the refrigerator one flight up, and two were before him in the laboratory.
He looked down at the quite pretty woman with her eyes closed and began, “Lena-”
A lightbulb crackled. He began again.
Before writing the reports on his own form and not that of the government, he spoke to both the tape recorder and the two corpses.
“Lena Medivkin and Fedot Babinski were murdered by. .”
“. . two different people,” said Iosef, who had received the report from Paulinin confirming what he had thought.
Iosef and Akardy had remained in the musky gymnasium, neither sitting. Handcuffed, Ivan the Giant stood between the two policemen. Across from them stood Klaus Agrinkov, the manager, and at his side stood a bewildered middleweight with a completely smashed nose. A towel was draped over the shoulders of the middleweight, whose name was Osip. He had no idea what was going on. The only thought in his mind was of getting home and telling Maria that he had met Ivan Medivkin, who was as big as his myth.
“Different people?” said Agrinkov.
Ivan did not appear to have heard. His mind was focused on escape.
“So our expert tells us,” said Iosef. “Both of the victims were beaten to death. However, the blows to Lena Medivkin were short, hard, much more powerful with a right hand than the left. And Fedot Babinski was killed by crushing straight punches to the face, neck, and stomach with a left hand, which suggests. .?”
“Two assailants in the room,” said Agrinkov, nodding his head.
“But not necessarily at the same time,” said Iosef. “Our laboratory has not yet fully established how far apart they were killed, but it appears the woman was killed first.”
“Ivan,” said Iosef. “Both your wife and Babinski were dead when you entered the hotel room?”
“Yes. Who killed Lena?”
“We know Fedot Babinski killed your wife,” said Iosef. “What we do not know is who killed Fedot Babinski.”
Knock at the door.
Tyrone was close to calling Elena Timofeyeva. There were only a few more passages, bits of dialogue that needed work to restore them to the point at which they could be heard clearly. It was late, closing in on midnight. He had her office phone number and he had hacked into her unlisted home phone. She had not answered, but at eight o’clock he left messages on the machines telling her that he was running late, very late, but he had good news. He would bring the tape and perhaps somehow she would show her gratitude.
Knock at the door.
He smiled. Elena the voluptuous policewoman had heard his message and could not wait for him to bring the good news.
Tyrone had been moving slowly to the door, chewing on a caramel, which he could not resist and would certainly contribute to the destruction of his teeth.
Knock at the door.
Only when he was standing before the door did he wonder who besides the policewoman might be knocking at this hour. Had his mother come home a day early and forgotten her keys? Was PoPo Ivanovich here to report on some newly discovered treasure trove of information he had hacked into? No, it had to be the policewoman. Tyrone swallowed his caramel and ran his tongue over his teeth.
Knock at the door. He opened it.
Two men stepped forward. One was thin, not as thin as Tyrone, and wore a suit that fit him reasonably well. He was about fifty, with white hair and blue eyes. His teeth, Tyrone noted, were perfect and seemed to be his own as he spoke.
“You know why we have come,” the man said.
At his side was a considerably larger man wearing brown denim pants, a black T-shirt, and a smile Tyrone definitely did not like.
Tyrone knew, but he said, “Tell me so that I make no mistake.”
“The tape,” said the white-haired man.
The man’s hands were folded in front of him. The larger man in the black T-shirt had his considerable hands at his sides.
Tyrone considered asking, Which tape? but he appreciated the possible consequences of such a question.
“I have given it to the police,” he said.
“You restored it?” asked the white-haired man.
“I did, at least most of it, but I paid no attention to what was being said.”
The two men who had entered his life suddenly now looked at each other and considered.
“Even if I did hear something,” Tyrone added quickly, “I could not testify to what I heard. No court would believe me, not with my background.”
The larger of the two men stepped forward and pushed Tyrone. Tyrone staggered back and almost fell.
“To which policeman did you give the restored tape?” asked the man with white hair.
“His name is Sasha Tkach,” said Tyrone.
The white-haired man nodded. Tyrone felt just a bit safer.
“And you made copies,” said the white-haired man.