The Sin Collector (Masha Karavai Detective Series)

by Daria Desombre

  “Good afternoon,” Masha said, closing the door quietly behind her. Gluzman turned to face her, and she jumped in fright. The professor’s eyes looked completely empty, and terrifying.

  “Hi!” he said, and smiled ghoulishly, showing his snow-white dentures.

  Masha had to force herself to smile back. Did this transfigured Gluzman even recognize her?

  “Dr. Gluzman,” she began cautiously. “I’m Masha, Innokenty’s friend.” He nodded. “Last time we were here, we talked about Heavenly Jerusalem. Do you remember? You were right. He truly is killing people he thinks are sinners in places connected with the City of Heaven. But I can’t figure out what pattern he’s following. Until I understand his numbering system, we won’t be able to catch him.” She stopped, waiting for the professor’s response.

  Gluzman suddenly leered at her, and he beckoned her closer with one finger. Masha cautiously stepped forward and bent over him. She heard a quiet giggle.

  “I wonder . . .” The professor’s whisper tickled her ear. “What sort of sexual fantasies do you think Inno-centi has about you?”

  Masha jumped back. “Dr. Gluzman, Innokenty and I have been friends since we were little!”

  Gluzman cackled again, leaning back in his wheelchair. “Oh, of course, a childhood friendship! That blameless little flower, which often conceals a monstrosity!” Gluzman’s eyes were no longer empty. Instead there was madness boiling up behind them, gathering force. Masha tried to retreat to the door, but he rolled himself forward, slowly but steadily, still holding her gaze and cackling frightfully.

  “And what sort of fantasies do you have, my lady?” His voice sounded smooth, almost gentle. “Or has your generation suffered a castration of the imagination? No elementary logic, no intellect!” Gluzman’s voice was rising. “I’ve never seen anyone so stupid!” he shouted.

  But Masha was shoving the door open, and there were nurses and aides rushing in—they must have been standing outside at the ready. They probably have security cameras everywhere, Masha thought, feeling at a strange distance from events, as though this were all a bad dream.

  She watched the medical staff restrain Gluzman. A nurse tried to guide a needle into his vein while the professor worked his way up to a howl, never taking his terrible gaze off of her.

  “The Torments!” Gluzman was shouting.

  And Masha, as if awakening from her dream, finally bolted out of the room and ran down the hall.

  “The Torments!” he wailed after her. “Wallow not in fornication, but rather pay the tolls for your sins!”

  Though her hands were shaking badly, Masha managed to unlock the car. She slammed the door and sat there awhile, trying to catch her breath as the first rumblings of thunder heralded rain that soon drummed on her roof and windows. Masha closed her eyes. Gluzman was the second man in twenty-four hours to call her an idiot. That must be some kind of record, she thought. They were probably right. And her boss had called her sick—he was probably right about that, too. But maybe it took a sick person to understand a serial killer. Masha could imagine things that Andrey’s mentally healthy, experienced detective brain simply could not. She could take an excursion down the dark paths of another person’s madness, and search him out there, even if she ended up in the room next to Gluzman’s as a result. She had to do this. She had no choice. Otherwise, all her suffering over Papa’s death would have been in vain.

  Calmer now, Masha pulled her hair into a ponytail and sped off through the driving summer rain. If she had turned around, she would have seen Gluzman silhouetted in the window, swaddled like a baby, sadly watching her go.

  Masha’s turn came, and she handed the reference librarian her request slips.

  “I’d like to see everything you have on medieval Russian literature, especially the source texts themselves.”

  The librarian looked up at her. “The originals have to stay in the reading room.”

  “That’s fine.”

  The librarian nodded. “What about schismatic texts? Do those interest you?”

  “Probably,” said Masha, uncertainly. “Of course, they’re out of date now.”

  “Well, all medieval texts are ‘out of date,’ aren’t they?” noted the librarian. “But before the revolution, those Old Believers made up thirty percent of the population. They’re still around today.”

  Masha lifted her tired eyes. “Really? I always thought they were history.”

  The librarian snorted.

  “I’ll take those, too, please,” Masha said.

  She found a place to sit alongside some scholarly looking women with old-fashioned hairdos, and settled in for a long wait. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and Masha’s head jerked—she’d nodded off. The librarian was stacking a pile of books on the table. Zachariasz Kopysteński’s Book on Faith. A Book of Hours. And there were more . . . Masha signed for them mechanically, and the librarian walked away, shooting her one last pitying look. She must have taken Masha for a beleaguered graduate student. Masha wiped her eyes determinedly and read the title of the first book in the pile.

  Was she still sleeping? The reading room seemed to spin under her feet.

  ANDREY

  Andrey didn’t notice twilight falling over the city after the thunderstorm. Petrovka had gradually emptied out, the telephones were no longer ringing—it was the best time of day for workaholics. There, in the silence, it was easier to think, easier to analyze the lab reports and interview transcripts that had arrived over the course of the day. Andrey sighed, stretched, and opened a window, letting in a gust of rain-cooled air. He put the kettle on. It was already beginning to boil when the preparation of Andrey’s signature brew—a shot of yesterday’s tea in yesterday’s cup, with one cube of sugar—was interrupted by a telephone call.

  “Yakovlev,” he answered, adding fresh water to his not-so-fresh cup.

  “Hello, good evening, Captain,” came Innokenty’s voice, nauseatingly polite. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I’m worried about Masha.”

  Andrey slowly put his cup down on a pile of paperwork. “Oh yeah?”

  “Were you able to reach her?”

  “No,” he said.

  “I called all day, too, but she hasn’t picked up. It’s probably nothing—she’s always leaving her phone somewhere or forgetting to charge it. But as you noted this morning, given what’s been going on . . . And since the anniversary is this week, and I—” Innokenty stopped and cleared his throat. “I mean, we, her family and friends, try not to let her out of our sight for long this time of year.”

  “What anniversary?” Andrey asked, a nasty feeling of dread creeping across the back of his neck.

  Innokenty paused. “Masha probably wouldn’t want me to tell you, but I think you should know. Masha’s father was Karavay, the famous defense attorney. He was murdered when Masha was twelve. She’s the one who found the body.”

  Andrey sat down. “Fuck me,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. I’ve gotta go.” Andrey dropped the phone and stood up quickly, almost knocking over his teacup. He just managed to grab his jacket on his way out the door.

  He could tolerate the feeling of guilt while he was running down the stairs and pulling out of his parking spot. But it became unbearable as soon as he hit the eternal Moscow traffic jam. Once his car was firmly lodged up against the back end of some sort of SUV, Andrey noticed that he was clenching his jaw to keep from roaring in anger as the rage and self-loathing overtook him. His inner masochist was forcing him to relive the details of his drunken outburst and Masha’s silent departure, over and over again. He punched the steering wheel, which responded with a loud honk. The Jeep ahead of him stood stock still, like some sort of monument to the American auto industry. Andrey turned the wheel sharply and pulled out onto the shoulder. There must be a metro station somewhere around here.

  He would take the train to Masha’s place, just to be going somewhere, just to be moving toward his own possible ab
solution.

  MASHA

  The Torments, or St. Theodora’s Journey Through the Tollhouses read the cover. This one was a reprint. The foreword maintained that, thanks to the intervention of a lay monk named Grigory, a ninth-century nun named Theodora had conveyed the story of her own death—a tale of the agonies of hell and the blessings of heaven. But most important of all was this: in her revelation to Grigory, Theodora described how she passed through twenty stations of torment, which she called aerial tollhouses, and was tried for her sins at each one. In Greek and Russian Orthodox literature, The Torments was the most complete and lively description of the transition from temporal life to eternal destiny. And so, Masha read, as everything inside her trembled (she was so close now, she could reach out and touch the killer), after death the human soul, guided by angels, ascends a divine ladder past a series of tollhouses. At each stop, the soul is beset by evil demons called the Torments.

  She remembered Gluzman shouting at her, The Torments! Wallow not in fornication, but rather pay the tolls for your sins!

  She continued to read. At each tollhouse, the Torments put the soul on trial for its sins. The souls of the righteous are saved, but the demons spear the sinners on their flaming lances and carry them into the everlasting darkness. The foreword noted that the poet Batyushkov had called this journey an “epic of death,” designed to terrify the medieval reader. Well, Batyushkov could go to hell, she didn’t have time for him. Masha flipped impatiently through the introduction and started in hungrily on the main text.

  And then came Death, roaring like a lion; its appearance was a terrible sight . . . Masha scanned the pages quickly, feeling like she might be sick. As we rose from the earth to the heights of heaven, we were soon met by the spirits of the first Torment, where souls are tried for the sins of Idle Speech; that is, for speaking without thought or without need, or uttering what is vile and shameless.

  He couldn’t ever shut up, she heard Slava’s girlfriend complain. Not even in bed!

  Masha pulled out her notebook and began sketching a new table. Torment 1: Idle Speech. Who: Slava Ovechkin. Where: Bersenevskaya Waterfront. Connection to Heavenly Jerusalem: Tsar’s Gardens (Garden of Gethsemane).

  She turned back to the book. Thence we ascended and drew near the second tollhouse, where I underwent the Torment of Falsehood. Here I was tried for every false word: failure to keep oaths, the use of God’s name in vain, and false testimony.

  She went for it, all in, said the exhausted mother, the pink stroller swimming before Masha’s eyes. She even testified in court—

  Masha swallowed. We reached then the third tollhouse, the Torment of Denunciation and Slander. She remembered Snegurov’s recorded voice: The packet wasn’t mine . . . But I know someone who could have benefited from making me look bad, who could have tipped off the press, who could have planted the packet, no problem.

  She kept reading. We reached the fourth tollhouse, for Gluttony, and evil spirits immediately rushed forth to meet us. Their faces resembled those of sensuous gluttons and despicable drunkards.

  Kolyan, wrote Masha. Kutafya Tower. Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

  As we conversed, we reached the tollhouse of Sloth, where sinners are tried for all those days and hours they have spent in idleness. Here, too, are detained the parasites who did no work themselves, but rather lived off the labor of others, and men hired to work who took their wages with no regard to the performance of the tasks which they had undertaken.

  Masha had to think about that one. Then she remembered the address: Lenivka Street, which even sounded like “Lazy Street.” The Jaffa Gate, the western gates of Jerusalem. Gebelai! A hired architect who took his wages with no regard to the performance of the tasks which he had undertaken.

  As her chart filled up, it began to take on a horrifying clarity. There was the seventh tollhouse, for Avarice, and the eighth, featuring the Torment for Usury, where there stand accused those who gain riches by the ill use of their neighbors, the bribe collectors, and those who take what belongs to others. The all-powerful governor’s wife could fit either of those. It went on and on. Theft. Murder. Pride. Disrespect for one’s elders. Envy. Masha’s hand shook as she wrote Katya’s name. The Moskva River . . . the Jordan. Lubyansky Drive . . . the Mount of Olives. Masha’s cheeks were burning, and her pen flew over the paper. She was on his trail, and running fast.

  The dark shadow was just up ahead, leading her to a meeting place known only to the Sin Collector himself.

  ANDREY

  Andrey sat outside Masha’s building, looking uneasily between the dark sky and the street where, he hoped, Masha would appear. Her mother, whose dinner he had interrupted an hour ago, had looked him over appraisingly from head to toe and then told him her daughter was out. Judging by the reduced collection of books in her room, she was probably at the library, she’d said. No, she didn’t know which library. Yes, Masha had left her cell phone at home again. Andrey had already called Innokenty to reassure him. He kept his tone very official as he reported that Masha had left her phone at home and was probably just slaving away over some books. But he’d also called to make sure she wasn’t at his place. Innokenty had thanked him for calling. Masha wasn’t there. That news was slightly reassuring.

  Finally, a car drove up, and Intern Karavay climbed out. Andrey hopped off his bench and ran up to her, without any real idea what he was going to say. Masha didn’t seem surprised to see him. She only nodded. Andrey suddenly noticed the dark circles under her eyes, and sympathy won out over the shame that had been eating him up inside the whole day. He wanted to grab her, hold her close, tell her everything would be okay, that they would catch the bad guy. He stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets to stop himself.

  “It’s good that you’re here,” said Masha coldly. “I have something new on our investigation. And I think—”

  “Hang on a second,” Andrey said, feeling the sweat drip down the back of his neck. “I came to tell you I’m sorry. I was rude yesterday, and I didn’t have any reason to be. I mean”—he ran a hand over his buzzed head and laughed sadly—“there is a reason. You really piss me off.”

  Masha’s face went hard, and her eyes dropped. Andrey hurried to explain.

  “I really like you. But probably the pissing-off part is . . . bigger. Because I also like you. You’re out of my league, I know—don’t think I don’t get that. Innokenty would say we’re from different worlds or something—”

  “Stop,” said Masha, her voice quiet.

  “No. Let me finish. I like you. I want—well, everything about you. But there’s nothing between us and there can’t be, can there? That’s why I’m going crazy!”

  Masha broke into a grin. Andrey barely had time to be offended before her arms were around his neck, and she was kissing him, his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, and saying, “God, you’re such a dummy! I’m serious, has there ever been anyone dumber?” He stood there for a moment in shock, then finally took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  The last thing that flashed through Andrey’s mind, before he stopped thinking altogether, was how nice it was, after all, that they were the same height.

  MASHA

  The two of them were perched on a low windowsill in the stairwell of Masha’s building. Her notebook was open on her lap, and she was completely happy.

  Just the day previous, Masha had thought she would never be able to go back to Petrovka, not after that bucket of scorn Andrey had dumped on her in the café. The pain she felt had finally made her understand that she was head over heels in love with this denim-clad detective with the everyday blue eyes.

  But that meant nothing, she had told herself. Her own stupid feelings weren’t important. The only thing that mattered was the killer roaming Moscow, seeing Heavenly Jerusalem everywhere he looked. She had almost managed to convince herself. But then when she’d seen Andrey outside her building, her heart had seemed to beat everywhere in her body at once. And then, when they’d kissed, first st
anding there outside, then sitting on the bench, long enough for their eyes to go cloudy and their lips to be rubbed raw . . . And then when he’d pulled her head gently down onto his shoulder, and they’d sat there side by side . . .

  The downstairs neighbor had finally broken things up when he came out to walk his enormous Newfoundland. The dog adored Masha and had no idea he should be discreet. The abashed neighbor had tried to pull the beast away, purposefully averting his eyes, but Masha had laughed and petted the dog’s shaggy head. Neither of them had felt like talking about the murderer, but they knew they had to, so they’d decided to hold an impromptu work meeting there at the third-floor window.

  “So you like dogs?” Andrey had asked as they’d climbed the stairs.

  “I love them,” Masha said. “Why?”

  “I have one for you to meet. Name of Marilyn Monroe.”

  “A girl?”

  “No, a boy. And cocky, too. You’ll have to take a tough line with him when you, um, come see my place.” And he’d smiled such a bashful, happy smile that Masha had felt like kissing him again, but she’d decided to control herself.

  “So. I figured out the numbers,” she now told him, flipping to the new chart. “And surprise, surprise, it’s totally medieval. It turns out there’s an Orthodox text called The Torments, or St. Theodora’s Journey Through the Tollhouses. Remember how Kenty mentioned that the concept of purgatory was only accepted by Catholics?”

  Andrey rolled his eyes, and Masha poked him in the ribs.

  “Stop it! This is important for understanding the criminal’s mind. It turns out that these tollhouses are the only way for Orthodox Christians to atone for their sins.”

  “How’s that?” asked Andrey.

  “At each tollhouse, the soul is tried for everything it ever did, said, and thought. Finally, it gets sentenced either to heaven or to hell. Here, look.” She handed Andrey the notebook. “It all fits! These Torments are our Sin Collector’s manual, and Moscow is his New Jerusalem, where no sinful souls should be allowed to live! He’s already up to the fifteenth tollhouse. Read this.”