by Alina Adams
"We see this at every place we go. Even in the United States. Here we all come, descending on some luxury hotel or arena, dragging our stuffed suitcases full of clothes, complaining of actual starvation when room service is more than twenty minutes coming, dissolving into hysterics over a judge's mark or a slipped edge. As if any of this actually matters. As if anyone outside of the arena even cares what went on inside it. As if any of this were actually life or death."
That, Bex thought, was an opening if she ever heard one.
They'd made a left and were now walking away from the frozen, metaphor-rich street vendors, and towards a corner dotted with various stores. Electronics, magazines, groceries, a butcher shop. It all looked perfectly normal and perfectly Western. That is, until a heavy-set woman exited the butcher shop, dressed in the white coat and chef-like hat of an employee, grunted loudly and bent over at the edge of the sidewalk. In her hand was a blood-stained butcher knife. With practiced speed, she scraped first one side of the knife, then the other, against the ground; either cleaning it or sharpening it, Bex couldn't be sure. Bits of animal fat plopped into the puddle, floating amidst the ice chips and lost leaves. The woman looked at her knife, grimly satisfied, and marched back inside.
Bex said, "Wow..." Her mind temporarily going blank.
Luckily, Gary remembered the purpose of her seemingly innocent tag-along, even when Bex did not. He guessed: "You wished to speak to me about Igor."
Yes. Yes, she had. It had been Bex's only reason for stepping outside. And now, thanks to the butcher-woman and her dirty or dull knife, she had actually forgotten for a minute. Clearly, Bex was having a life-changing cultural experience.
But she could always have one of those later.
Cross-examining a witness came first.
"You had a motive for killing Igor," Bex said simply. She figured that trying to outsmart someone who was obviously smarter than she was would be the definition of stupid. So she might as well play stupid in the hope that it would prove the wiser option. In case anyone ever wondered, yes, Bex could make her own head hurt simply by thinking.
Gary, on the other hand, appeared utterly nonplussed. Head upright, gloved hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes peering out from beneath his furry hat, he didn't even break stride as he agreed, "Of course, I did, that much is obvious."
"Did you kill him?"
"Don't be absurd."
"You hated him."
"No. No, I did not."
"He won the National title you thought was yours."
"It was mine. The title is Senior Men's Champion of the United States. What logic is it to have the winner be a non-United States citizen? It's default by definition."
Gary stopped by a wooden booth the color of limes, the size of an outhouse. It stood in the middle of the street and, as far as Bex could tell, served no purpose. But then, Gary fished around in his pocket, pulled out a dull gold three-kopek piece and dropped it in a slot by Bex's ear. He pushed a button and, from a bread-box-sized window over on his side of the presumed outhouse, coughed an intermittent stream of urine-colored water. It fired several blasts into a film-coated glass, culminating with a rim of foam.
Gary reached for the glass, tilted it in Bex's direction so she could see the inside, and, after informing her, "It's sugared syrup water," proceeded to drink the dubious concoction down in a single gulp. "Three kopeks for the syrup. It's the best deal on the continent!" Gary wiped his lips by daintily pressing his right thumb and pointer-finger along the edges of his mouth. He replaced the community glass back onto its perch, and, once again without missing a stroke, educated Bex: "Being permitted to compete at the U.S. Nationals was not Igor's fault. The USFSA allowed him to do it. My remonstration was never with him. It was with the association."
Well. That was a detail no one had bothered to share with Bex. "And your taking your medal off on the stand..."
"The association handed the medals out. I was protesting their actions. Perfectly legitimate political protest."
"I heard you wouldn't talk to Igor during press conferences."
"Why should I speak to Igor during press conferences? At a press conference, the media asks the questions and the athletes answer them. Igor was never a member of the media, what reason did I have to address him?"
"So you didn't hate him?"
"I did not like him," Gary offered. "But I also did not kill him."
"Do you have any idea who might have?"
"The Russians." There wasn't a second of hesitation in Gary's voice. "Have you investigated the Russians?"
"Actually, I have. I spoke to Valeri Konstantin. He said that Igor's defection was so long ago; no one still carries a grudge."
"Igor's defection happened almost exactly as many years ago as his usurpation of the National title. If my motive is still valid, why would their motive not be?"
See? Bex knew the man was smarter than she was. Leave it to Gary Gold to take her play-stupid strategy and make her feel... stupid.
"How much do you know about Russian history, Miss Levy?"
Okay, now he's just showing off.
"Not much," Bex admitted.
"There once was a Georgian fellow by the name of Josef Stalin. He joined the Social Democratic Party in 1899. He switched to the Bolsheviks in 1903. He was arrested and exiled to Siberia numerous times, the final incarceration lasting from 1913 until 1917 and the October Revolution. He became the general secretary of the party in 1922. In 1927, he deported various political opponents. In 1929, he deported even more people, entire communities of Poles, Chechens, Tatars, and the like. From 1934 to 1939, he moved on to the mass murder of anyone who didn't agree with him or anyone he thought might challenge his power. By the time he died in 1953, he was making plans to deport the Soviet Union's Jews ..."
Bex nodded sagely while completely missing his point.
"Over fifty years, Miss Levy. Fifty years, and he still was not done massacring the country to fit his own needs. He did not do it quickly. He understood that if you try to move too quickly, you have a revolt on your hands. He did it gradually. A man, a group, a race at a time. These people know how to wait. It's what they're best at. They waited out the Mongols, they waited out the Czars, they waited out the Communists. Dozens of years of waiting. Hundreds of years of waiting. Igor Marchenko betrayed his country less than thirty years ago. That's not a very long wait, at all."
Well, sure, not when you put it that way...
Bex wished she had something pithy and relevant to add to his lecture, but, as she did not, she went with the banal: "How did you learn so much about Russian history?"
"Don't you know?"
"Know what?"
"It wasn't in your research?"
She could see that he was mocking her now (again), and she could see that he was getting a kick out of it. The only thing Bex couldn't see, was his point. "I'm sorry, Gary, I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do not know that I am Brittany Monroe?"
The overwhelming image of Gary dressed up in Brittany's fluffy kitty sweater rendered Bex effectively speechless. Which seemed to have been Gary's goal.
He went on, "Well, I could have been, anyway. Technically, I am more Russian that she is. My mother was born in Kiev. It was the U.S.S.R., then, so I could have claimed citizenship. Is it not ironic? I would have had a more legitimate case to enter the Soviet Nationals than Igor did to compete in the United States."
"Why didn't you?" Bex asked flippantly. "Might have taught Igor a lesson!"
But Gary failed to see the humor in her query. Without a word to Bex, he turned on his heel and began walking back towards to the arena.
"Wait!" She had to trot to keep up with him. "I'm sorry!"
She had no idea for what, but she really was sorry.
Mostly because she'd spent the past half-hour in the freezing cold talking about every issue under the sun except the one she really needed addressed.
Gary kept walking. But, without looking at
Bex, he snapped, "I have no use for the Soviet Union. No use for the Russians, for the Ukrainians. My mother was a little girl when the war began. World War Two. The Nazis came, her neighbors tripped over each other telling the Germans where they could find their Jews. Her family was taken away and shot. She only survived because a neighbor grabbed her by the back of her dress when she was running into the courtyard after her parents, grabbed her by the back of her dress and pulled her, kicking and crying, into their apartment. They hid her under the bed until the Nazis left the courtyard. And then they turned her out into the street to fend for herself. But they saved her life. It was something."
He slowed his pace. Bex caught up to him. They walked in silence for a few moments. The arena was already in sight when Gary asked, "You genuinely think that I killed Igor?"
Choosing her words with great care, Bex said, "Igor was killed by a homeopathic poison in his gloves. The poison was probably liquid. Whoever poured it into Igor's gloves also had to dry them, so Igor wouldn't notice until it was too late. Shura, he's the arena manager, he said he saw you putting Igor's gloves on the heater while Igor was by the ice, coaching Jordan."
"I might have done it," Gary said.
For a moment, Bex thought he was confessing. But then, she realized he simply meant...
"I might have put Igor's gloves on the heater," Gary continued. "I absolutely cannot stand slatternly behavior. Children, today... they have no respect. It is bad enough when, at their own rinks, they throw their belongings on the floor, willy-nilly, waiting for Mummy to come clean up after them. But when we are all guests in someone else's country, I absolutely will not stand for flinging your belongings about like common riffraff. I have made it a habit to pick up such objects and restore some semblance of order. Considering the level of respect that Igor held for his country of birth, I have no difficulty believing that he treated the arena like his own personal garbage bin.”
"If that was the case, it's quite conceivable that I picked up his gloves and, if I found them wet, laid them on the heater to dry. After all, I would have no way of knowing whose gloves they were. And, even if I did, I doubt that would have altered my instincts."
"Is it possible it wasn't Igor, but the killer who dropped his gloves on the floor?" Bex asked. "Like, maybe he didn't want to get any of the poison on himself, so he didn't want to hold them any longer than he absolutely had to?"
"It's a valid theory," Gary replied. "Not one I have anything to contribute to, but it is valid."
Was he actually complimenting her intelligence? Her logic? Bex couldn't tell. All she knew was, suddenly, Gary wasn't looking at her as if 24/7's only researcher was coated in a shell of stupid. And, coming from him, that was a major victory.
Bex wished she could take a minute to bask in the praiselike emotion. But, alas, a researcher's work was never done.
Especially since, as Gary and Bex approached the arena's main doors, both saw an ambulance loading a pair of bodies onto stretchers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bex ran towards the ambulance, temporarily forgetting her latest potential murder suspect and cursing her bad luck. How dare someone get hurt while Bex was away from the arena? Gil would have Bex's head for this! It was bad enough they probably had no footage of the accident (Gil could never understand why Bex didn't psychically predict these things and have a crew set to tape any sort of tumble before it happened), but now, Bex wouldn't be able to do her first-hand-account write-up for Gil and have it on his desk ten minutes ago! This was a calamity. A true tragedy.
And, oh, yeah, it looked like someone had gotten hurt, too.
Bex reached the ambulance as the second stretcher was being loaded up. She'd been too far away before to see who was on it, and now, a paramedic blocked her way. Bex craned her neck for a peek, but all she saw was two pairs of seemingly female feet. Bex knew they were skater appendages thanks to the bleeding calluses on the toes of one, and the protruding bone spurs on the arches of another.
And then, like a miracle, Sasha appeared in front of Bex.
"It is alright." Sasha grabbed Bex by both elbows so that she was looking at him, head-on. "I saw this what happened. I write everything down for you."
She wanted to kiss him. She could have, too. They were facing each other at just the right angle. His head was directly above hers, his arms were more or less in the proper position, and, best of all, he came bearing news that made Bex awesomely and deliriously happy. All the stars were perfectly aligned and might never be so again. Bex could have kissed him, and it wouldn't have even seemed that inappropriate.
Except that, in that moment, curiosity won out over all other instincts. She turned her head away, scattering the aforementioned stars out of their possibly once-in-a-lifetime alignment to excitedly ask, "Who is it?"
"Galina Semenova and Brittany Monroe."
Darn. Bex had been hoping for at least one American. The U.S. public preferred the spilled blood to gush from someone they might bump into on the street one day. Well, maybe they could make do with promoting Brittany's injury, if they spun it carefully.
"What happened?"
"Brittany and Galina, they to have a collision on each other."
"Accidental or deliberate?" Most elite skaters were pretty good at practicing their programs while peering over to keep from crashing into another athlete. But, collisions did still happen. Especially when one—or both—parties really wanted them to.
"Deliberate, I believe."
"Really?" This could be good. The U.S. viewing public might be made to care about non-American blood-spilling if they were also told it had been a deliberate grudge match. Bex could already see her tag line: "This time, it's personal."
She asked, "Who crashed in to whom?"
"Galina's hand hits Brittany's face and makes blood."
Even better! A split lip was much more cinematic than a bruised shin. Much more visceral. And this was beginning to sound like a good old-fashioned smack-down!
"And Galina was hurt, too? I saw two stretchers outside."
"Yes. Brittany, she hits Galina in the stomach with her knee."
"Accidentally or on purpose?"
"Definitely with purpose."
"This is great!" Bex could no longer contain her enthusiasm. "Do you know if one of our 24/7 cameramen was shooting the practice? If we've got footage of this, my life is made!"
"Oh, no," Sasha said. "I do not believe so. The collision, you see, it did not take the place on the ice. The collision, it to takes place in front of ladies' changing room."
"Galina just went off and smacked Brittany?" Bex clarified in the taxi on their way to the hospital Sasha described as "best in the city—they are very lucky to be taken there."
"Galina just walked up and hit Brittany across the face?"
"Yes. This is what happened. And then Brittany to hit her back. And Galina, she push Brittany hard, and Brittany swing her skate bag at Galina's head and then—"
"Do you have any idea why?"
"Galina, she is screaming to Brittany about her skates. She says, 'You take my skates from me, you female dog!'"
Ah. Yes. That would do the trick.
Bex filled Sasha in on her earlier encounter with the footwear-napper. Then, returning to the story Gil expected to be the centerpiece of their coverage, she said, "You know, when I hear about Brittany and Galina going at it, I don't find it hard at all to imagine that Gary hated Igor enough to kill him."
"Can you to prove this?" Sasha asked.
Bex was wondering the same thing herself
They got out of the cab in front of the Central Hospital's main entrance. While Sasha sprinkled the necessary Russian words—and bribes—to get them inside, Bex stood out of the way, and studied the ambiance. She wasn't surprised to see that the admission area was painted in mosaic chips of gray, offered no windows, and stood illuminated by a single, low-wattage lamp atop a pile of books next to the black, rotary phone. She wasn't surprised to see the medical staff outfitt
ed exactly like the butcher-woman had been, in a white coat and matching chefs hat. What did startle Bex somewhat was the spectacle of an orange tabby cat strolling out from the swinging doors that, Bex presumed, led to the actual wards. Kitty casually strolled over to the admission desk where, Bex just noticed, there stood a dark blue metal saucer, half filled with what might have been a chewed-up sardine. Or the last remnants of a patient. It wasn't bright enough inside the waiting area to make out the exact details clearly. After Bex had watched Kitty take a few bites of the concoction, lazily lick her paw, then head back towards the wards, she could only hope it was the former.
"We have permission." Sasha took Bex by the elbow. "Let us go in now." He led her in the same direction as the cat.
They walked down a hallway smelling of gauze, camphor, and disinfectant. The floor had been recently washed. Bex noticed the streaks, as well as the dirty buckets and mops still standing in the corner.
"This is the best hospital in the city?" she whispered to Sasha.
He nodded fervently, and looked surprised that she'd asked the question.
Brittany, however, did not appear to share Sasha's lofty opinion. Or so they were led to deduce based on her screams ricocheting down the hall.
"If you think I'm letting you near me with that needle, you're insane!" Russia's potential sweetheart howled in Ohio-English. "I'm not staying in this disgusting snake pit for another minute! I'm an American. You get it? An American? Get your leeches away from me!"
By the time Bex and Sasha got there, Brittany was standing by the examining room door, her back towards the hallway, holding a wooden stool nearly half her size and waving it in front a befuddled, white-clad nurse, who was clutching a syringe in her right hand. Except for the handprint-shaped bruise running from the tip of her lips to just under her left eye, Brittany certainly appeared none the worse for wear.
She caught sight of Sasha and commanded, 'Tell her I am not getting any kind of shot from this place. I know what goes on inside Russian hospitals, don't think I don't. I read all about how they use disposable needles here over and over again until everybody gets AIDS or worse. She's not touching me. Nobody here is."
