labeling them as she went.
“I’m sorry to be late, Comrade. We’ve taken on some new responsibilities. I’ve been working all night, I’m afraid.”
Korolev knew better than to ask what new work a forensic pathology department might be given that would involve such long hours. The dead were normally a patient clientele.
“Not to worry; we only finished the pictures a moment before you arrived. So, what do you think of this? Your first impression?”
The doctor turned to look at him and her eyes seemed drained of color. The last time he’d seen her she’d been lively, despite being up to her elbows in a decapitation. Now she seemed ten years older and bone tired with it.
“Nothing surprises me these days,” she said, looking at the blood on the floor. “She didn’t die quickly, I can tell you that much. With the cold weather, it will be difficult to establish exactly when, but I suspect early this morning. Come to the Institute and we’ll examine her immediately. I’ll be able to tell you more then.”
“But you haven’t slept,” Korolev said, looking at the gray pallor of her skin.
“I mightn’t have slept tomorrow either, Comrade. Let’s seize the moment.”
She smiled and they followed the body out to the waiting ambulance, the stretcher swaying stiffly to the rhythm of the attendants’ walk. The same unkempt street children watched as the stretcher was loaded. One of the young vagabonds, a bony-faced redhead dressed in a padded jacket two sizes too big for him, ducked under the Militia rope and ran to the ambulance with his hand outstretched. Korolev reached out his hand and caught a lump of hair and the child came to a squealing halt. He’d meant to catch the jacket, but hair would do, he supposed, even if Dr. Chestnova was looking at him in horror. He dropped his hand to the nape of the boy’s neck and leaned down to him.
“Well, what are you up to?” Korolev asked. The eyes which looked back at him were totally fearless.
“Just wanted to see what she looked like, the lady. They said she was beautiful, like an angel.”
Korolev reached his hand back to cuff the youngster, but caught Chestnova’s glance from the corner of his eye and made do with a none-too-gentle push in the direction of his two friends, who watched with interest but not much emotion. Tough little lads, he thought to himself. So many parents shipped off to the Zone nowadays; there were kids like these on every corner. If they didn’t get rounded up and taken to an orphanage, he wouldn’t bet money on them seeing it through the winter. Not that the orphanages were much better, he thought, and found himself rummaging in his pocket for a few kopeks.
“Here, get yourself some cabbage soup, you rascals.”
The money was taken without thanks, but the redhead gave him an appraising look that made Korolev wonder what other men gave them money and why. He felt ashamed. What was he? Ten years old, perhaps? The same age as his own son, Yuri, yet his eyes were as knowing as someone ten times older.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once the ambulance started to move, Korolev and the photographer found themselves sitting on a bench across from the canvas-swaddled body as the wheels bumped along the cobbled stones of Razin Street. The ambulance had little or no suspension and the two of them were thrown around and against each other as it clattered round corners and rumbled over pot-holes. In the front, Chestnova shouted at the driver to avoid collisions and to pass slow-moving carts. Gueginov, on the other hand, spent most of the journey trying to make himself a cigarette and, what with his spasms and the roller-coaster ride, it was with a great deal of satisfaction that he put the finished product between his lips and lit it. Then he frowned and nodded toward the corpse.
“I huh-hope you ca-catch the fellow. It’s unpleasant, ha-having to phuh-photograph suh-such a thing.” He extended the cigarette in the direction of the corpse.
“I’m sorry to be late, Comrade. We’ve taken on some new responsibilities. I’ve been working all night, I’m afraid.”
Korolev knew better than to ask what new work a forensic pathology department might be given that would involve such long hours. The dead were normally a patient clientele.
“Not to worry; we only finished the pictures a moment before you arrived. So, what do you think of this? Your first impression?”
The doctor turned to look at him and her eyes seemed drained of color. The last time he’d seen her she’d been lively, despite being up to her elbows in a decapitation. Now she seemed ten years older and bone tired with it.
“Nothing surprises me these days,” she said, looking at the blood on the floor. “She didn’t die quickly, I can tell you that much. With the cold weather, it will be difficult to establish exactly when, but I suspect early this morning. Come to the Institute and we’ll examine her immediately. I’ll be able to tell you more then.”
“But you haven’t slept,” Korolev said, looking at the gray pallor of her skin.
“I mightn’t have slept tomorrow either, Comrade. Let’s seize the moment.”
She smiled and they followed the body out to the waiting ambulance, the stretcher swaying stiffly to the rhythm of the attendants’ walk. The same unkempt street children watched as the stretcher was loaded. One of the young vagabonds, a bony-faced redhead dressed in a padded jacket two sizes too big for him, ducked under the Militia rope and ran to the ambulance with his hand outstretched. Korolev reached out his hand and caught a lump of hair and the child came to a squealing halt. He’d meant to catch the jacket, but hair would do, he supposed, even if Dr. Chestnova was looking at him in horror. He dropped his hand to the nape of the boy’s neck and leaned down to him.
“Well, what are you up to?” Korolev asked. The eyes which looked back at him were totally fearless.
“Just wanted to see what she looked like, the lady. They said she was beautiful, like an angel.”
Korolev reached his hand back to cuff the youngster, but caught Chestnova’s glance from the corner of his eye and made do with a none-too-gentle push in the direction of his two friends, who watched with interest but not much emotion. Tough little lads, he thought to himself. So many parents shipped off to the Zone nowadays; there were kids like these on every corner. If they didn’t get rounded up and taken to an orphanage, he wouldn’t bet money on them seeing it through the winter. Not that the orphanages were much better, he thought, and found himself rummaging in his pocket for a few kopeks.
“Here, get yourself some cabbage soup, you rascals.”
The money was taken without thanks, but the redhead gave him an appraising look that made Korolev wonder what other men gave them money and why. He felt ashamed. What was he? Ten years old, perhaps? The same age as his own son, Yuri, yet his eyes were as knowing as someone ten times older.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once the ambulance started to move, Korolev and the photographer found themselves sitting on a bench across from the canvas-swaddled body as the wheels bumped along the cobbled stones of Razin Street. The ambulance had little or no suspension and the two of them were thrown around and against each other as it clattered round corners and rumbled over pot-holes. In the front, Chestnova shouted at the driver to avoid collisions and to pass slow-moving carts. Gueginov, on the other hand, spent most of the journey trying to make himself a cigarette and, what with his spasms and the roller-coaster ride, it was with a great deal of satisfaction that he put the finished product between his lips and lit it. Then he frowned and nodded toward the corpse.
“I huh-hope you ca-catch the fellow. It’s unpleasant, ha-having to phuh-photograph suh-such a thing.” He extended the cigarette in the direction of the corpse.
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