Stalin’s Ghost Read Online Free PDF

underclothes sat at the kitchen table, his head resting on his forearm, a cleaver standing in the back of his neck. One forensic technician videotaped the scene while another peeled the dead man’s hand from a water glass. Vodka was still in it, Isakov told Arkady. A tech poured half the dead man’s glass into a vial to test later for rat poison, which would show premeditation. Crusted dishes, pickle bottles and glittering empties of vodka were piled in a corner to make room on the drain board for open packages of sugar and yeast, and in the sink for a pressure cooker, rubber hoses and plastic tubing. Alcohol formed at the end of a tube, hung and dripped into a jar. Otherwise, the kitchen was decorated with a mounted wolf head and bushy tail, a tapestry with a hunting motif and a photograph of the dead man and a woman as two people younger and happier. The refrigerator hummed, speckled with blood. Snow fidgeted with a loose windowpane. For the moment no one smoked, despite the flatulent stink of death. According to a cuckoo clock it was 4:55.
    Arkady waited at the door with Nikolai Isakov and Marat Urman. Arkady had imagined Isakov so many times that the real man was smaller than expected. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but his blue eyes suggested coolness under fire and his forehead bore interesting scars. His leather jacket was scuffed from wear and his voice was almost whispery. Arkady’s father had always said that the ability to command was innate; men would either follow you or not. Whatever the quality was, Isakov had it. His partner Urman was a Tatar built round and hard, with the broad smile of a successful pillager. A raspberry red leather jacket and a gold tooth revealed a taste for flash.
    “It seems to be a case of cabin fever,” Isakov said. “The wife says they hadn’t left the house since it started snowing.”
    “Started like a honeymoon.” Urman grinned.
    Isakov said, “It appears that they could drink vodka faster than they could make it.”
    “At the end they were fighting over the last drop of alcohol in the house. Both so drunk they can barely stand. He starts hitting her…”
    “Apparently one thing led to another.”
    “She slices him between the sixth and seventh vertebrae and right through the spinal cord. Instantaneous!”
    The cleaver had been dusted with gray powder and the ghostly print of a palm and fingers was wrapped around the handle.
    “Does he have a name?” Arkady asked.
    “Kuznetsov,” said Isakov. Selecting a professional tone, he commiserated with Arkady. “So you got stuck with Stalin’s ghost.”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Chasing a phantom through the Metro? Urman and I prefer ordinary cases with real bodies.”
    “Well, I envy you.” Which hardly told the whole story, but Arkady thought he was controlling his bitterness fairly well. He stole a glance at the clock: 4:56. His watch said 5:05. “I had a question about the phantom, as you put it. I was wondering, did either of you search the subway platform?”
    “No.”
    “Open any maintenance gates or doors?”
    “No.”
    “Why did you let the platform conductor leave the station?” It came out more brusquely than Arkady had intended.
    “That’s more than one question. Because the conductor didn’t see anything.” Isakov was patient. “People who weren’t crazy, we let go.”
    “What else, besides seeing Stalin, did they say or do that was crazy?”
    Urman said, “Seeing Stalin, that’s crazy enough.”
    “Did you get the number of the car?”
    “Number?”
    “Every car in the Metro has a four-digit number. I’d like to see that car. Did you get the name of the driver of the train?”
    Isakov was categorical. “We were ordered to ride the last car, whatever its number was, and observe. We were not told what to watch for or at which station or to get the driver’s name. When we pulled into the Chistye Prudy stop we saw nothing and heard nothing unusual until people started to shout. I