"Miraculous." The word drifted about in his mind like a catchy refrain. His mother, God rest her soul, would likely have called it a true miracle from heaven. She had never faltered in her faith all through the years of religious oppression. But even the lighting of a thousand candles could not have brought her out of the depression she had suffered at the death of her younger son, Anatoli, in a military accident back in 1991. She had died the following year, still grieving, heartbroken that the army had not sent back his remains for a proper Christian burial.
Yuri had felt it best that he not tell her why. The military had informed him that only bits and pieces of his brother's body had been recovered.
"Are you planning to go by militia headquarters?" inquired Omar Khan.
Shumakov was thankful for the interruption. His thoughts were drifting into an area that he had placed off limits, a section of his mind purposely locked and sealed like a room filled with explosive fumes that could only spark more grief.
"No, Kahn," he said happily. "This is your case. Take it and run."
Back at the small, cramped room with its single dusty window, where he worked amidst the clutter of a rickety desk, a filing cabinet and a table piled with newspapers, books and overstuffed folders, Shumakov found a message to call someone identified as Vadim Trishin. The name turned up no flags in his mental cardfile.
When a man's voice answered, he spoke in a weary voice. "Vadim Trishin, please. This is Chief Investigator Shumakov." Had he held down a normal job, like an office worker or a factory hand, he would already have been on his way home. He hoped this call wouldn't open any new can of worms that would require immediate efforts to corral its slippery occupants. He had promised his wife he would be home for dinner this evening, hardly an everyday occurrence.
"Yuri Shumakov?"
"Correct."
"Brother of Captain Anatoli Shumakov?"
He frowned and took a deep breath before replying. "Yes, I am Captain Shumakov's brother."
"I served in Ukraine under your brother," said Trishin. "He was a good officer, tough, but fair."
"I appreciate your comments, Mr. Trishin. How can I be of help?"
"I'm visiting friends here in Minsk. I live in Brest," Trishin explained. "I saw your name in our local newspaper recently and wondered if you were the Yuri Shumakov the captain had mentioned. I have some photographs I thought you might like. I took them the day before he… the day before… the accident." Mentioning it sounded painful to him. "Would it be convenient for me to drop by there in the morning?"
Shumakov hesitated, twisting his face into a frown. He pulled off his glasses and tapped them on the desk. How could you explain to some total stranger that you loved your brother and you felt enormous pride at his achievements as a soldier, but that bringing back memories of Anatoli and his tragic death would be like pouring alcohol on raw flesh? Extremely tormenting. Something he did not need. Of course, he couldn't explain it, and so he said, "Sure. How about nine?"
"Fine. See you then."
Surprisingly, Yuri made it home on time for dinner. The apartment was unusually quiet as his two teenage sons were visiting with their mother's younger brother, a former star center forward who had played in the World Cup tournament not too long ago. The older boy, Petr, had visions of following in his uncle's footsteps. Yuri didn't want to dampen his enthusiasm, but he wasn't sure the youth had made the necessary commitment to reach that level of achievement.
Larisa detected an undercurrent of tension in her husband the moment he arrived home. The excessive demands of his job in recent months had left him moody at times, but tonight he appeared distracted, like his mind was off somewhere in space. He usually stopped to give her a kiss and a smile, though it was often a weary one. Tonight he walked right past her with only a lifeless, "Dinner ready?" As if she were a waitress or some hired babushka who cooked meals. Actually she was a nurse and worked a full day the same as he.
"Why the dark mood?" she asked as they sat down at the fold-out table in the livingroom, which doubled as a bedroom for the boys. Her fondest wish, besides having Yuri at home more often, was for a larger apartment.
"What dark mood?"
"No kiss, no smile. Something unusual must have happened today."
He shrugged. "A drunk murdered his brother-in-law. I wouldn't call that unusual."
He was a hard one to pump for information, she thought. Probably because he was in the business of asking questions, not answering them. Anyway, he was much more introspective. She was the expressive one. "Very well, if you didn't do anything worth talking about, I'll tell you about my day."
He frowned at the beef on his plate. "Please do."
"We had a team of American doctors who explained new developments in laser surgery. It seems they use it for nearly everything over there these days. Everything from eyes to kidney stones to gall bladders. Remember old Viktor Bobrov who lived in that horrid apartment on Surganova? We got to watch them remove his gall bladder." She stopped and looked across at Yuri, frowning. "Am I boring you?"
"No, I love to hear about gall bladders."
Small, childlike and disarmingly frank, Larisa had long, silky, light brown hair that she piled atop her head when in her nurse's uniform. Her soft brown eyes, pert little nose and upturned mouth gave her an angelic look, though she could be tough as a leather boot when the situation required it. She folded her arms primly. "Tell me the cause of this blue funk."
"Blue funk?"
"It's an American expression for the mood you're in. Something else I learned today."
"The problem is… well, I had a call. I'm not looking forward to meeting someone in the morning."
"Who?"
He told her about Vadim Trishin.
"He has pictures of your brother?"
"Made the day before Anatoli died. I'd just as soon not be reminded."
"Don't be silly. I'll bet they show your brother smiling, contented, pleased with himself. Just the way you'd like to remember him."
"That explosion is a part I'd prefer to forget."
"It's been over three years now, Yuri. Don't you think it's time to quit dodging the subject? You've got to accept his death and go on. Just enjoy the memories of how he was when he was alive."
Yuri knew it was sound advice, but he couldn't divorce himself from the mind of a criminal investigator. He found it difficult to accept something that he could not explain. The military had never given him a satisfactory accounting of the terrible accident. Yet accidents didn't just happen. His training and experience told him that everything occurred as the result of cause and effect. Somebody pulled a trigger, somebody died. Somebody falsified records, some enterprise lost its money.
He had pressed the Defense Ministry in Moscow for answers but got only innocuous replies with the feeble declaration that "the matter is under investigation." Then came the breakup of the old union and a period of uncertainty over the status of the military. The new government in Kiev demanded elements of the army on its soil swear allegiance to the Ukrainian state. Yuri was unable to pin down just who was now responsible. After several months, he gave up in disgust. But he wasn't happy about it, never would be until he knew the truth. He didn't believe Larisa would ever understand. She didn't think the same way he did. She had a nurse's compassion, an attitude of forgive and forget.