The Professor’s Murder by Viacheslav Yatsko	Table of Contents The Murder The Murdered Man Ole Lukoje The Night Odyssey Olga Is Released The Murder Solved The Murderer Unmasked
Chapter 2: The Murdered Man

I was driving my Ford C-Max along a busy road populated with Toyotas, Nissans, Mazdas, Chevrolets, Hyundais. The unhappy owners of Russian Ladas, which only twenty years ago had been sweet dreams of Soviet citizens, constituted a timid minority. The vehicles bustled about in Brownian motion, violating all laws of nature, to say nothing of traffic rules.

It was due to a car accident that I got to know Olga Smirnova about a year ago. She pulled an illegal U-turn and was deprived of her driving license. Somebody among her acquaintances recommended me as a lawyer, and before I could bat an eye I found her between my sheets.

As she explained later, she wanted to encourage me do my best at the trial. Her efforts were not in vain: I managed to prove that the road markings rubbed away and were not visible and after I oiled appropriate palms she got her license back.

The state machinery in this country was corrupt to backbone. Sporadic attempts of government representatives to launch struggle against corruption were doomed to failure from the start. Just after the current President declared war on corruption the average cost of a bribe more than doubled, reaching a lump sum of 23,000 rubles. Actually, bribe-taking and bribe-giving became a way of life for all decent people in Russia.

The corruptive schemes didn’t boil down to primitive bribe-taking; they were as numerous as insect species. Several years ago I entered into such a scheme with Mikhail Rogov, an officer at the Police Headquarters. Rogov leaked me the results of police investigations of the persons whom I was defending so that I could use this information at the trial, and I shared my fee with him.

Now I was making my way to the Vacuum Restaurant, where I had a meeting with Rogov.

The signboard above the door of the restaurant read: VACUUM: TONNES OF ATTRACTION. The owner was a fan of the famous band whose harmonious music created a peculiarly relaxed atmosphere that I liked.

Two years before, at this cozy place, I had a tooth broken in a fight with a certain Ivan Voronin. At a trial I managed to prove the innocence of my defendant, and it just so happened that the evidence of his innocence were at the same time evidence of Voronin’s guilt. He was sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. Later, by coincidental misfortune we found ourselves at the same place and at the same time. The fight with Voronin cost me a broken tooth and him, another two years in jail.

On entering the restaurant I carefully looked about. At this time of day it fitted its name: only several tables were occupied and at one of them sat Rogov, who was enthusiastically consuming a big roast beef.

I sat at his table and ordered a cup of tea. Rogov opened the conversation with a bromide: “Well, Alex, I have good news and bad news for you. Which do you want first?”

I responded with a commonplace cliché: “The good news.”

“Today at an international conference Kudrin, the federal Minister of Finance, declared that the struggle against corruption is the chief evil!”

“I have always thought him to be an honest person, but not to that degree.” I raised my left eyebrow in surprise. “And what was the audience’s response? A storm of applause?”

“They burst out laughing, of course.”

“With pleasure, I guess. Everybody was thinking about the opportunity of legalizing a greater part of his business.”

“There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip,” said Rogov, taking a big cup of cappuccino. “After a few minutes, Kudrin admitted he had made a mistake.”

“You are disappointing me! I had just begun feeling I was a pillar of society. Is that your bad news?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions. The bad news is that Voronin is out on parole and has turned up in this city. Thanks to you, he twice went to the slam and now, as I’ve been informed, he is plotting revenge. Take it seriously: this time you won’t get off with a broken tooth, and I will regret losing such a reliable partner.” Rogov looked at me steadily to see if the news had produced its proper effect. He seemed satisfied with my white face and frightened look and poured a glass of white wine. I sipped my tea.

“And now, about Smirnov’s case,” continued he having taken a hearty gulp. “When you phoned, you said you had some questions.”

I took my drawing out of my pocket and handed it to him.

“Looks like a helicopter’s rotor,” he grumbled. “I will try to dig up all information about Smirnov’s first wife and the daughter. As for the colleagues, the fellows from the Homicide Department questioned them after the body had been found. It turns out all of them held a grudge against the Professor and would have been happy to wring his neck.

“He was famous for his peevishness and haughtiness. At a meeting of University’s Scientific Board he called the Vice President of the University ‘a silly cow’ because she suggested reducing financial support of his projects. Can you fancy that?

“And he beat one of his postgraduates with his own hands! The boy wanted to report it to the police, but the scandal was hushed up. These two persons are under suspicion, but I have a gut feeling that they had nothing to do with the murder. They knew he would soon emigrate to the USA and they would have been rid of him anyway.”

“That’s where the problem is,” I cut in. “Do you know Smirnov held strong anti-American attitudes? He had a Website where he published papers denouncing American politics and making fun of American political leaders.”

“I’ve heard about the Website but haven’t read it. If you summarize its contents I’ll owe you a bottle of vodka. The more we know about the murdered man, the easier is to find the murderer. This is an axiom of a criminal investigation,” pontificated Mike.

“In a word,” I replied, “he had the whole conception about differences between American and Russian cultures and cultural values. Americans are crazy about their democracy, while Russia has always been a totalitarian state; Americans are law-abiding, while Russians are lawless; homosexuality is a norm in America and a universally despised perversion in Russia; bribe- giving and taking are serious crimes there and are a way of life here; adultery is a bad sin there and a norm here.”

Rogov produced a broad grin and looked at me meaningfully.

I pretended not to notice his cheerful mug and went on with my story. “His conclusion was that American and Russian cultures are antagonistic in nature, and the struggle between them governs the development of the whole contemporary world.”

“Rather interesting but too far-fetched,” remarked Rogov. “If there is such a struggle, America is sure in the lead.”

“So far. Smirnov was sure Russia will win in the end since it represents a less civilized culture. In the same way as, for example, the Huns defeated the Roman Empire.”

I made a pause and Rogov fell into a reverie sipping wine from his glass. “I understand what you are driving at,” he announced two minutes later. “Smirnov despised America and nevertheless decided to emigrate there. He must have had serious reasons for the decision.”

I nodded in appreciation of my friend’s good brainwork.

“What reasons?” Mike reflected aloud. “Threats on his life?” He looked at me questioningly.

“Or threats on his scientific carrier,” I responded. “Don’t forget that his life was completely devoted to science. I think as soon as you find motives for his emigration to the USA, you will find the murderer.”

Rogov nodded with a wise air. “Thanks for the idea. But now, as an uncivilized Russian, I will go back to the adultery question.” He looked expectantly at me.

“No problem.”

“Does Olga have an alibi?”

“She doesn’t. She says her husband left for his office at half past eight. She stayed home till eleven, when she went to my place. We were at my flat and learned about the murder from a TV broadcast.”

“So she had more than enough time to go to the University and waste the man,” uttered Rogov with true satisfaction.

“And what motive did she have?” I wondered, realizing that Rogov was mocking at me.

“Suppose the old man found out about her affair with you. He phoned her and asked to come to his laboratory, where they had a quarrel and she stabbed him.”

“If Smirnov’s ideas are far-fetched, your inventions are pure fantasy,” I said, smiling gently. “First, Smirnov was aware of this affair; secondly, Olga could have fondled him with a frying pan in a fit of rage but she is not able to commit a cold-blooded murder.”

“Do you mean Smirnov didn’t love his wife? And what about all these expensive presents, jewelry, and a car?”

“You should understand the psychology of the man. He wanted to show he had money. He felt some affection for Olga, but he used her to show how tough he was, having the prettiest woman in town.”

“That is, he just decorated her,” concluded Rogov upon a minute’s reflection.

“That’s quite right. You’ve got it. He decorated her. Like a New Year’s tree.” I looked at him with respect.

“OK, you’ve convinced me.” Rogov mockingly put his hands in the air.

At that instant my LG smartphone began to vibrate producing a melody from Vivaldi’s L’estate. I opened the slider.

“Is this Mr. Anderson?” heard I an unfamiliar hoarse voice.

“Wrong number, this is not Mr. Anderson.”

“Excuse me; this is Captain Murkin from Police Station 11. We have detained a woman who says her name is Ole Lukoje. She has no identification papers with her, and she gave us this telephone number because she says you can certify her identity.”

“I’ll be at your station in fifteen minutes,” I snapped.

Proceed to Chapter 3...

Copyright © 2011 by Viacheslav Yatsko