Murder in Ukraine

by Dan Spanton

  “We should rent skis,” Volodney is saying, “in case there’s a downhill pursuit.”

  “Snowboards have more control,” answers Sanya. He leans across me, stretching out a muscular hand to demonstrate edge pressure, and for an instant his face is centimeters from mine. Have I mentioned his eyelashes? At this point I’m going to keep my thoughts to myself until the plane lands.

  There’s a mini bus waiting as we touch down, four others who’ve bought the package deal squeeze in behind us, and we’re all driven over rutted roads of mud churned with fresh snow, where green and blue houses wait behind tall, occluding fences, and here and there bony dogs watch without hope as we pass.

  Soon we’re on a better road, the sort paid for by private enterprise and not government, climbing steeply through spruce and pine.

  The Ibex Hotel in Bukovel is rustic alpine, and by rustic, I mean it was probably built three years ago. There’s a main building with service facilities, surrounded by private lodges at discreet distances, ringed by trees. We check in, then are led along a walkway to an A-frame Swiss-type chalet, where we unpack our bags. It’s been agreed that we’ll need to blend in in order to assess the situation.

  I spend some time changing into my ski slope attire, and when I return to the living area both men are gone, but I find Volodney in the main building scrounging leftover breakfast buffet in the dining room.

  “Pasha Bulychuk’s already on the slopes,” he says.

  “Where’s Mister Zubov?”

  Sanya Zubov comes in, lugging a snow board from rentals, wearing a white and blue ski jacket with trendy trapezoid patterns, goggles strapped to his helmet.

  “Two bodyguards,” reports Sanya.

  I believe we’ve assumed Pasha Bulychuk would have security, but it’s suddenly clear that sitting Pasha down under a dangling light bulb will entail strategizing.

  “We’ll get to him when he hits the john,” suggests Volodney.

  “He’ll deny everything and his bodyguards will alibi him,” I point out.

  “Pasha’s not an easy target,” Zubov agrees. “We need to question his security people. If one of them has a police record, we can twist his arm.”

  “We wait until dark and follow them all from the dining room,” advises Volodney. “We’ll separate one from the pack.”

  Sanya considers. “Not bad, but we can do the same on the slopes.”

  We find all five men in a coffee shop near the chair lifts, where I get a good look at Pasha. You can tell rich men by their teeth, and Pasha has a megawatt smile. He dabbles in the music business with Papa’s money, and wanders in and out of the fashion world, and if I’ve given the impression he’s just a youngster, I apologize. He’s in his thirties, small dark eyes, groomed facial stubble, not very tall, but strong and athletic. Girls looking for someone to put in a good word with a designer or music producer find him useful, so he’s rarely without company. Obviously the ones who read the news are going to steer clear.

  Natalia the tram driver was still alive when her arms were sawed off.

  Going up on the chair lift is breathtaking, mountain ranges to the east and snow-frosted spruce on my right, but I soon realize how close-to-vertical the slopes are. To be truthful, I’m better at cross country than downhill, but it’s past time to bring that up.

  When we reach the top of the run, Pasha and his security detail are ahead of us, waiting on the sidelines for a turn. As soon as they all push off, we follow. I’m last.

  Down we go. I don’t know what Sanya Zubov’s plan is, but fairly soon his stance drops, his snowboard shoots forward into the trailing bodyguard, and both of them disappear into a stand of trees. When Volodney and I catch up, Sanya’s trying to revive the dude, who’s spread-eagled, non-responsive, possible concussed. The other bodyguard hasn’t turn back, he’s got Pasha to protect, and I’m guessing he hasn’t learned uphill skiing.

  Volodney fishes an ID out of the guy’s jacket, and I check police records on my phone. The bodyguard’s ex-army, has traffic tickets, but nothing to twist his arm.

  Zubov’s not giving up. He rubs some snow on the guy’s face, brings him around, and he and Volodney soon have him upright while they pat him on the back and assure him he’ll be fine. Does he remember what day it is? Who’s the president of Ukraine? What about the night Tatty Akkuratney was murdered?

  The guy repeats what is obviously a prepared story, Pasha was with an aspiring transsexual actress named Doronina, all afternoon and evening, she’ll be happy to swear to it.

  Sanya tries an unexpected tact. “Your fought the Russians, in Donbass. You’re an honorable person. Help us out.”

  Maybe the guy is woozy from concussion, maybe the appeal to honor has an effect, maybe he really did fight the Russians, but eventually he admits that Pasha wasn’t with anyone on the night of the murder. He assumes Pasha was in the bubble-fountain penthouse at the time, but Pasha’s given security the slip before, it could have happened that night too.

  Volodney and Zubov exchange grim looks. Pasha Bulychuk lacks an alibi.

  I phone for a rescue, Volodney waits with the bodyguard until they bring up a sled, while Sanya and I ski down the mountain together. Sort of. “Skiing down together” is accurate in the most literal sense, and I’m not amending it.

  Pasha and his remaining bodyguard are waiting near the chairlift, possible debating whether to go back for their missing comrade. Sanya herds them into the coffee shop, assures them their guy is receiving medical attention, and apologizes for the collision. Then we all order cocoa and dumplings.

  After dinner Sanya decides to head back to Kiev, so we wait in a frigid train station below the mountain - toilets without doors, no refreshments - until nearly midnight. No one complains, we’re cops, it’s just another day. When we get back to Kiev dawn is breaking, the snow has stopped, I’m nauseous from coffee, and I’ve lost money at cards.

  PART THREE

  It’s up to Commander Shulikov to decide what happens next, but there is no “next”, the Tatty Akkuratney murder investigation trails off, interest evaporates because Pasha Bulychuk did it for sure, and he’s untouchable. In the weeks that follow I run into Sanya, and then Volodney, and Volodney is pleased to see me, but we quickly run out of conversation. Sanya is polite, but on his way somewhere else, and that’s fine because we’re essentially of different species. Our children would end up in zoos.

  I continue to believe that no girl deserves to be dumped in the trash, so I don’t forget Tatty, even when I’m back on patrol, and one day I run into Philip Deruga again.

  ****

  Street Shoes is a hole in the wall selling popular sneaker brands, plus accessories, and it’s not cheap. I’m looking for a pair of Nikes for my younger brother Jenya, who’s twenty-two and still dresses like a twelve-year-old. It’s not Jenya’s birthday; but I was bossy on the phone, and I’m feeling guilty. Anyway, in comes Philip Deruga.

  Deruga helped popularize Street Shoes on his YouTube channel, and he likely gets discounts if he bothers to ask. The tiny shop is jam-packed after he enters with six of his friends. Philip struggles to squeeze by me at the Converse rack, but I don’t let him.

  “Tell me about Tatty Akkuratney,” I say.

  “Weren’t you in Moscow?”

  I’m surprised he noticed, but he probably has me on video.

  “Somebody made off with my Dynamo jacket,” he complains.

  “One of the gopniks,” I say.

  “You should be looking into that. My jacket.”

  “That’s for the Russian Police,” I tell him. I can’t believe that’s his concern. Oh wait, I believe it. “What about Tatty?” I ask.

  He blinks. “I didn’t strangle her,” he says. “We broke up weeks before.”

  “Before…?

  “Yeah, before.”

  “What else?”

  “She showed up at a fan meeting in Independence Square, we talked and she took off with somebody. I don’t know who.”

 
One of the girls says, “Alexei Keks.” Laughter follows, all the groupies repeat the word “keks”, and there’s more laughter. It’s a popular kids’ word that’s recently emerged, it sounds funny and cool, and means cupcake. I pay for Jenya’s Nikes and leave with an altered mindset, no longer worried about placating my brother.

  I’m looking for Alex Cupcake.

  ****

  The nuclear plant in Zaporizhia is known for storing radioactive waste in the open air, and for all you connoisseurs of urban charm, there’s smokestack industry as well. Frankly I’m not keen to visit, but on the train a retired Zoporizhian gentleman assures me it’s an admirable city; he fishes for pike in the Dnieper River on fair-weather mornings, buys flowers and a rye bun for his wife on return, and he admires Putin. At that point I realize he’s senile, so without being rude I shift my attention to the window view.

  As it turns out, I’m utterly taken by Zoporizhia from the moment I leave the station in a cab; I’m in love, I feel as if I’m returning after a lengthy absence. It’s the combination of the familiar and the strange, it’s Kiev and yet not, it’s full of people who’ve never pissed me off. I dab at my eyes. (I react the same when I go to Lvov.)

  Alex Cupcake is Alex Poporechney, and his last known address is here in Zaporizhia. I’ve watched several of his YouTube videos; they post every few days, but recently there’s been nothing. The blogs didn’t stop on the day Tatty Akkuratney died, if that’s what you’re thinking, but a few weeks previous. He’s a sweet-faced nineteen-year-old, with medium length, light colored hair which he’s constantly running his hand through, and his videos are of two types: meeting friends to chat and drink, or solo in his apartment, where he addresses the camera and updates his subscribers on his personal relationships, and his journey as a videoblogger, and his financial situation, which I gather is dire. (He had a brief stint at MacDonald’s). His following isn’t huge. He’s determinedly optimistic, but there’s an undertone of worry that he may be losing the battle, by which I mean, he may need to abandon his YouTube dream and get a real job.

  The address I have is on Gorky Street just off Lenin Prospect. Lenin Prospect is grand and urban, but once on Gorky we’re practically in the countryside. I ask the driver to wait while I unlatch a gate and follow a pathway between red and yellow tulips. I knock on the door.

  The woman who answers is well-mannered, conservatively dressed, soft voiced. A girl of about three years hangs on her arm.

  I ask for Alexei Poporechney, and she tells me she’s his mother. I’m seriously taken aback, she’s barely older than me, so when she asks me my business I abandon the fiction I’ve prepared and tell her the truth.

  “I’m a constable with the Kiev police department and I’d like to ask Alexei about a fan meeting he attended in Independence Square. He may have witnessed something that could aid us in solving a crime.”

  “What sort of crime?”

  “Homicide.”

  Surprisingly she relaxes. I’m guessing she was prepared for petty larceny, but it’s murder, so it has nothing to do with her Alexei.

  “Mrs. Poporechney, do you know why Alex stopped blogging on YouTube?”

  “He’s busy these days,” she says. She’s pleased, but perhaps hesitant to elaborate to a stranger.

  “He’s working?”

  Maternal pride wins out. “He was hired by the company that manages the shipping locks on the river. If he sticks with it, they’ll help with engineering school.”

  I can tell she’s been wanting to tell someone, to test this information in the real world, and see if others believe it, because she’s not sure.

  “He’s doing well, then. Is he at home?

  “He’s living with a mate from work.”

  “Could I have the address, Mrs. Poporechney?”

  As I leave, I glance back, to see if she’s gone inside to phone. But no, she’s inspecting the flowerbeds, and the daughter trails after.

  ****

  The cab takes me toward the river, we’re not in the countryside anymore, it’s urban decay on every level, rubbish rotting in the gutters, street walls scarred, shops sealed with plywood. No reflection on Zaporizhia, cities all over Ukraine have this sort of neighborhood now. I pay off the cab because my driver has another fare, and then something unexpected happens.

  It turns out Mrs. Poporechney lied.

  The street door is open but the lift is broken, so I walk up to the fifth, tap on the door of apartment 504, and a Muslim woman answers. She’s never heard of Alex. I return to the lobby and find a row of battered mailboxes, but no Poporechney on any of them. I knock on the first floor apartment door which has a view of the street entrance, and intrude on an elderly gentleman’s lunchtime. He shakes his head. No Alexei.

  I’m baffled. I turn to leave when I notice a hallway door, which I assume is a utility closet. I open it, descend a creaking stairway to the basement, arrive at another door. This one doesn’t open although it doesn’t appear to be locked, so I put my shoulder into it.

  “Alexei?”

  I grope for the light switch, pop it up and down.

  “It doesn’t work,” says a low voice.

  “Alexei, I’m Katya Kondrashov with the Kiev police.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I come in?”

  No answer so I shove again and wriggle through. Inside there’s light from a sidewalk-level window, but it’s murky as hell. There’s a figure lying on the stone floor, wrapped in layers of clothing.

  I bump against a stool, and sit down. My eyes adjust. There’s no smell except basement smell; the furnace has been turned off so it’s quiet except for the rattle of plumbing. There’s an empty water canister standing against a wall but no sign of food.

  “What’s going on, Alexei?”

  No answer. “Alexei, when was the last time you ate?”

  The figure shifts slightly but I can’t see a face.

  “Alex I’m not here to harm you. I just want to hear your side of the story.”

  A minute passes. Then a whimper.

  “Why don’t we go out?” I suggest. “It’s a beautiful day, we’ll get Pepsis and sandwiches, my treat.”

  More time passes, I’m starting to wonder what my next ploy will be, and then Alex says in a soft voice, like his mother’s, “Could you wait outside please? I have to pee.”

  “Sure. I’ll wait upstairs.”

  The young man who emerges from the basement and climbs the stairway doesn’t resemble Alex Cupcake. This is a boy who’s wrung every drop of anguish from his guilt, only to learn that guilt replenishes endlessly. The lively energy of the face is gone, the cheerfulness replaced by gape-mouthed desolation, every physical marker of youth and attractiveness has been ravaged. Alexei Poporechney is a zombie.

  He trails after me, we cut across a kids’ playground where young men are pelting each other with empty aluminum cans, and a couple of streets further on we find a sandwich shop. Alexei hangs back, I order for both of us, neither of us speaks until I ask if there’s park in the vicinity. Then he lopes ahead with frantic purpose, leading me between two monstrous apartment towers, down a stairway, through a fringe of young birches, out onto the grassy slopes above the Dneiper.

  From these cliffs men are casting fishing lines into the river. It doesn’t seem to be a park, although perhaps it’s city-owned, because the grass has been mowed.

  I make myself comfortable, Alex lowers himself to his knees close by, rips open the wrapping on the sandwich, wolfs it down, then gulps Pepsi before eyeing my sandwich, which I pass to him.

  I’ve never been good with conversation starters, but “You cut off Tatty’s hands to make it look like Pasha Bulychuk did it,” is my lamest so far. Alexei doesn’t respond, I’m not sure how much of his mind is left, whether he functions normally anymore, and his next revelation confirms my doubts.

  He chews and smiles. “I tried to outrun him,” he tells me finally. “I thought if I ran fast enough I’d leave him behind.” He nods
toward the big island that cleaves the Dneiper- “Over there, I ran for hours.” He chews and smiles.

  I think he was trying to outrun Alex Cupcake, but I don’t know for sure, because Alexei Poporechney has run out of things to say. His smile fades, the chewing slows, and bits of food dribble from his sandwich wrap. Now the gulls swoop in, landing all around us, screaming and flapping.

  I rise, nudge Alexei to his feet: he holds out his hands like a child, and I slip on the cuffs.

  ****

  It’s late before I pull on my woolen bedtime socks the following night, and my cat Masha is waiting to see which side of the bed I’m tending toward, so she can claim it first. I take a moment to think about my experiences.

  It’s all a pity, but I don’t know who to feel sorry for, not Alex who’s in hell, and should be, and not Tatty Akkuratney. Tatty’s lights went out forever when she died, and all the pity in the world won’t help her.

  Finally, I rarely feel sorry for myself, it saves a lot of fuss.

  From below, Klem wails, brother Vanya joins in, and my hands clench as I wait for my sister to comfort them. I realize I feel sorry for all the blameless children who wail in anguish, because they’ve been ignored, or scolded, and everything is too difficult.

  I want to tell them it’ll get better, but I suspect it never does get better, not for some.

  THE END