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wisps of gray hair. Two black holes in his chest peeked through, caked with blood. The old man’s face was gray bearded and, like that of the boy, thin. The features were regular, and even in death there was something about him that said, “I’ve been cheated. You, anyone who comes near me, are out only for one thing, to cheat me out of something that is my own.”
    â€œAnd?” said Rostnikov.
    â€œShot,” said Zelach.
    â€œI am surprised.” Rostnikov, sitting on the closed toilet seat, sighed.
    â€œNo, look, the bullet holes are quite evident—” Zelach began. Rostnikov put his head down and almost whispered, “I see, Zelach. I see. I was attempting to engage in a bit of humor. Levity.”
    â€œAh, yes,” said Zelach, anxious to please but not understanding. “Yes, it was amusing.” He either chuckled or began to choke. Rostnikov, taking no chances, leaned over to pat the man’s back, which resulted in Zelach’s bumping into the dangling arm of the corpse, which set off a small chain reaction. The balance of the corpse changed, and Abraham Savitskaya’s body began to sink below the surface of the reddish water.
    â€œWhat should I—?” Zelach said hopelessly.
    Rostnikov didn’t care. He shrugged, and Zelach reached over to grab the corpse’s sparse gray hair. He was pulling the body out by the hair as Officer Drubkova stuck her head in to announce that the evidence truck had arrived. If the sight of the kneeling officer pulling a corpse’s hair revolted, surprised, or shocked her, she gave no indication. She simply made her announcement and backed away to let in a man and a woman, both wearing suits, both carrying small suitcases, both serious. Rostnikov recognized the two of them, Comrades Spinsa and Boritchky, a team who spoke little, worked efficiently, and reminded him of safecrackers in a French movie.
    â€œHe is already dead,” said Boritchky, a small man of about sixty. “You need not redrown him, Zelach.”
    Zelach let go of the corpse’s hair and stood up. The body did, this time, sink under.
    â€œThank you,” said Comrade Spinsa, herself about fifty, very thin with a prominent, pouting underlip. “Now we shall have to drain the tub for even the beginning of an examination.”
    â€œI didn’t—” Zelach began looking over to Rostnikov on the toilet seat for support.
    Rostnikov’s mind was elsewhere. Zelach was not worth saving from embarrassment. Rostnikov had better uses for his energy.
    â€œWe’ll leave you alone,” Rostnikov said, getting up. “Zelach will check with you when you’re done. How long?”
    Boritchky moved the tub, considered how to let the water out without getting his sleeve bloody red, and announced over his shoulder that they would be done in about twenty minutes.
    Officer Drubkova took a step down the hall with Rostnikov and Zelach, but Rostnikov held up a hand to stop her.
    â€œUnder no circumstances,” Rostnikov said, “is anyone not associated with police business to enter that bathroom. You are to remain and see to this.”
    â€œYes, comrade,” she said firmly.
    Having gotten rid of her, Rostnikov limped back to the Savitskaya apartment with Zelach behind, mumbling an apology.
    â€œQuiet,” said Rostnikov as he opened the apartment door.
    â€œOtets?” said Sofiya Savitskaya expectantly.
    â€œYour father is indeed dead,” Rostnikov said.
    Brother and sister were in the same position he had left them. Rostnikov considered bringing them down to Petrovka, but the case really didn’t warrant that attention.
    â€œDid you remember where you have seen the older man who killed your father, and is anything missing?”
    â€œThe candlestick,” said Lev. “They took my grandmother’s brass candlestick.”
    â€œA brass candlestick.” Rostnikov sighed, picking up his coat.