ribs?’
Novikov considered the question. ‘Someone did it: she’s dead.’
‘Help me!’ demanded Danilov, exasperated. ‘You know the problem! You did the first autopsy!’
Novikov smiled, pleased at the other man’s outburst. ‘There’s usually some bone contact.’
‘There wasn’t last time: there hasn’t been now. So could it be someone who has medical knowledge?’
The pathologist shook his head. ‘I can’t help you. On a darkened street, presumably walking, it would be incredibly difficult for anyone even with medical knowledge to avoid any bone contact.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That missing any bone was a fluke: that you shouldn’t attach undue significance to it.’
Danilov decided he couldn’t ignore it, either. A wash of fatigue, a recurrence of that morning’s tiredness, swept over him. He began to put out his hand, to support himself against the dissecting table upon which the sheeted body lay, but stopped when he realized what he was about to do. ‘When can I have your written report?’
‘A day or two,’ the pathologist dismissed.
Danilov was suddenly furious at the other man’s posturing. ‘What reason did Lapinsk give for wanting the autopsy today?’
‘Just that it was urgent.’
‘She’s an American,’ Danilov disclosed. ‘The niece of an important politician in the United States. People in the White House here and in America are going to be watching this.’
‘Oh,’ said the other man, the obstructive arrogance fading.
‘I want the report by tomorrow,’ demanded Danilov. ‘Two. The Americans will want their own copy.’ He looked at the covered body, then back to Novikov. ‘They’ll see the way you carried out the autopsy when the body is released.’
The pathologist made as if to speak, to argue, but didn’t. Instead, after a pause, he said, dry-throated: ‘I’ll make two copies.’
‘Is there anything you haven’t told me? Something that’s going to be in your written report that I should know now?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Danilov held out his hand. ‘I need her fingerprints.’
Novikov’s throat moved. ‘They’ll come with the report.’
So he hadn’t taken them yet. ‘Don’t forget anything else, will you?’
‘But it’s been almost a fortnight,’ Larissa protested. He’d reached her from a street kiosk.
‘This is different: unusual.’ He hadn’t given her any details, just that it was a murder.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I’ll try.’ He thought she might have asked about an unusual murder.
‘You don’t sound very interested.’
‘You know that’s not true! And I don’t want to argue.’
‘I want to see you!’
‘I really will try tomorrow.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
‘I won’t,’ said Danilov. I hope, he thought. Or did he?
There are four psychiatric clinics in Moscow. The best known is the Serbsky Institute for Forensic Psychiatry, in Kropotkinskii Street: during the oppressive, population-controlling era before the second Russian revolution, it was the place in which the KGB detained political dissidents, claiming they suffered paranoid schizophrenia.
Major Yuri Pavin personally led the record-searching team on its first visit, to explain their needs to the white-coated principal. The man was shaking his head before Pavin finished talking.
‘It would need a computer to do a thorough search,’ the psychiatrist protested.
‘Your records aren’t computerized?’
‘No.’
‘How long could a physical search take?’
‘Months, to be completed properly.’
Pavin looked to the other two detectives with him: both were already frowning at the potential task ahead of them. The search wouldn’t be conducted properly, Pavin knew: here or anywhere else.
Chapter Five
Power in Washington is layered, and those layers are divided again, between publicly known influence and private, behind-the-scenes importance. Senator Walter Burden, who did not welcome the political cartoonists’ impression of him as a
Novikov considered the question. ‘Someone did it: she’s dead.’
‘Help me!’ demanded Danilov, exasperated. ‘You know the problem! You did the first autopsy!’
Novikov smiled, pleased at the other man’s outburst. ‘There’s usually some bone contact.’
‘There wasn’t last time: there hasn’t been now. So could it be someone who has medical knowledge?’
The pathologist shook his head. ‘I can’t help you. On a darkened street, presumably walking, it would be incredibly difficult for anyone even with medical knowledge to avoid any bone contact.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That missing any bone was a fluke: that you shouldn’t attach undue significance to it.’
Danilov decided he couldn’t ignore it, either. A wash of fatigue, a recurrence of that morning’s tiredness, swept over him. He began to put out his hand, to support himself against the dissecting table upon which the sheeted body lay, but stopped when he realized what he was about to do. ‘When can I have your written report?’
‘A day or two,’ the pathologist dismissed.
Danilov was suddenly furious at the other man’s posturing. ‘What reason did Lapinsk give for wanting the autopsy today?’
‘Just that it was urgent.’
‘She’s an American,’ Danilov disclosed. ‘The niece of an important politician in the United States. People in the White House here and in America are going to be watching this.’
‘Oh,’ said the other man, the obstructive arrogance fading.
‘I want the report by tomorrow,’ demanded Danilov. ‘Two. The Americans will want their own copy.’ He looked at the covered body, then back to Novikov. ‘They’ll see the way you carried out the autopsy when the body is released.’
The pathologist made as if to speak, to argue, but didn’t. Instead, after a pause, he said, dry-throated: ‘I’ll make two copies.’
‘Is there anything you haven’t told me? Something that’s going to be in your written report that I should know now?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Danilov held out his hand. ‘I need her fingerprints.’
Novikov’s throat moved. ‘They’ll come with the report.’
So he hadn’t taken them yet. ‘Don’t forget anything else, will you?’
‘But it’s been almost a fortnight,’ Larissa protested. He’d reached her from a street kiosk.
‘This is different: unusual.’ He hadn’t given her any details, just that it was a murder.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I’ll try.’ He thought she might have asked about an unusual murder.
‘You don’t sound very interested.’
‘You know that’s not true! And I don’t want to argue.’
‘I want to see you!’
‘I really will try tomorrow.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
‘I won’t,’ said Danilov. I hope, he thought. Or did he?
There are four psychiatric clinics in Moscow. The best known is the Serbsky Institute for Forensic Psychiatry, in Kropotkinskii Street: during the oppressive, population-controlling era before the second Russian revolution, it was the place in which the KGB detained political dissidents, claiming they suffered paranoid schizophrenia.
Major Yuri Pavin personally led the record-searching team on its first visit, to explain their needs to the white-coated principal. The man was shaking his head before Pavin finished talking.
‘It would need a computer to do a thorough search,’ the psychiatrist protested.
‘Your records aren’t computerized?’
‘No.’
‘How long could a physical search take?’
‘Months, to be completed properly.’
Pavin looked to the other two detectives with him: both were already frowning at the potential task ahead of them. The search wouldn’t be conducted properly, Pavin knew: here or anywhere else.
Chapter Five
Power in Washington is layered, and those layers are divided again, between publicly known influence and private, behind-the-scenes importance. Senator Walter Burden, who did not welcome the political cartoonists’ impression of him as a
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