Dangerous Evidence

“How would I know?” Grebenkin snapped. “I didn’t have my stopwatch out!”

“Alright, we’ll come back to that later. Where is her mother at the moment?”

“As soon as Katya graduated, her mom found some Greek guy on the Internet and ran off with him. I guess she reckoned that her parental duties had come to an end.”

“You did the same quite a bit earlier,” the detective couldn’t help needle Grebenkin.

She had decided that she had asked enough questions for their first interview. It would be better to give the witness some time to calm down.

Marat Valeyev emerged from the building’s entrance and noticed the delicate figure of the woman he loved.

“It’s good of you to come, Lena.”

“If this is a suicide, I won’t be much help.”

“Well, listen to this: Exactly forty days ago another woman jumped off that same roof onto this same exact car. That was written off as a suicide, but here we have an identical incident. One and the same. What are the chances? I called you because I know how much you enjoy puzzling cases like this.”

“At the moment, I wish it was cake that I enjoyed so much,” Petelina said pensively, mulling over the unexpected news.

“Sweets are the nemesis of a shapely waist. You know how I love to embrace you there – ”

“Will you cut that out!” Elena slapped away Marat’s impertinent hand. “We’re at a possible crime scene. What did you find out anyway?”

“I went up to the roof. Found a purse up there and a bottle.”

Valeyev held up two evidence bags containing a little black purse and a half-drunk bottle of brandy.

“Have you studied them closely?”

“No.”

“Give them to the Tadpole.”

The senior detective and the operative returned to Misha Ustinov, the forensic expert. The medical technicians had just taken the body away. A glossy puddle of blood remained on the dented hood of the silver car. The color of blood depends on the surface it’s on. On the ground it looks brown. Here, however, it had the same scarlet color that older women, in search of a partner, apply to their lips.

“Find anything, Misha?” asked Petelina.

“Nothing major at the moment, Detective Petelina. I did gather some materials for further tests though.” The Tadpole deposited several evidence bags into his backpack. “I discovered this photo in the pocket of the deceased.”

Elena took the photograph. Incessant reminders of the frailty of life were yet another hidden cost in her line of work. An hour ago this young woman had her entire life ahead of her – and looked like this. An hour later, her tepid broken body lay ensconced in a plastic body bag on its way to the morgue.

The photograph, taken in the winter, showed Katya Grebenkina with her father. The wind had picked up the girl’s hair and she, a prudent smile on her face, was trying to tuck one of the unruly locks back under her knit hat. Igor Grebenkin, whose receding hairline had abandoned parts of his scalp to glint in the sunlight, was half-turned, watching his daughter intently.

“This is for you, Tadpole – a present from the roof.” Marat Valeyev placed the evidence bags containing the purse and the bottle of brandy onto the trunk of the Skoda.

“You went up there without me?” the forensic expert became annoyed. “If you wiped out any shoeprints – ”

“What shoeprints? The roof’s covered in puddles. Anyway, a couple local cops went up there with me and witnessed me gather this evidence.”

Peeking into the purse, Petelina noticed a passport.

“Grebenkina, Ekaterina. Twenty-one years old. Registered resident of the town of Grayvoron in Belgorod Region,” the detective read turning through the passport pages. “At least there’s no question about her identity.”

“No question about our main suspect either.” Misha Ustinov fished out a pack of cigarettes and flashed the warning label with a large bold inscription. “‘SMOKING KILLS!’ Looks like this case is closed, Detective Petelina.”

“What a clown you are,” Valeyev shook his head.

Petelina spied a folded piece of paper tucked inside the passport’s dust jacket. She pulled it out but didn’t find the time to unfold it because, at that very moment, an enraged man began trying to make his way to the car, pushing and squeezing through the throng of police in his way.

“Owner of the car,” clarified Egorov in reply to the detective’s questioning glance.

“Let him through,” Petelina ordered.

“Who’s going to pay for this? I just had her fixed!” the man clamored. “A month ago it was another bitch. They want to drive me into the poorhouse!”

“Calm down please. Have you seen this woman before?”

“I’ve seen this whore here a billion times! They’ve got a whorehouse up there in the fourth unit.”

“What whorehouse? Are you saying the dead girl was a prostitute?”

“Of course! That other one last month was her friend. What do they have against my car?”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare insult my Katya!” Igor Grebenkin began trying to get at the car’s owner. Vanya Mayorov, who was about ready to knock the irate man flat on his back, held him back by his jacket’s hem.

“Ah! So she was yours! You can pay then!”

From personal experience, Elena Petelina knew that men, like children, could be jolted from their tantrums by an abrupt change of topic.

“When is the last time it rained here?” she asked the wranglers in a very serious tone.

“I just got here from Saratov,” Grebenkin remembered after a short pause.

“Rain? It was snowing here a week ago,” mumbled the Skoda’s owner.

“Excellent,” Petelina praised the two stumped men. “Could you recall now please which one of you approached the girl first?”

“I did,” said Grebenkin dully.

“Misha, deal with him. And you, sir plaintiff,” Petelina took the car owner by the elbow, “show us where the girl’s apartment is please.”

“It’s the entrance to the fourth unit over there, apartment number 180. I already tried to get damages from them. Waste of time!” The unhappy man jerked his arm away.

“A police officer will take your statement.”

Petelina handed the auto enthusiast over to Detective Egorov. She and the operatives headed for the fourth entrance. As they were entering the building, she remembered the paper she had found in the passport. She unfolded it. The page, which looked to have been ripped out of a notebook, was covered with uneven lines of the same sentence: “Boris is a jerk. Boris is a jerk. Boris is a jerk…”

A banal suicide caused by unrequited love, flashed through the detective’s mind.