Deadline in Athens kj-1

by Petros Markaris

  "A light stand," he said, and his camera flashed four times in quick succession. He altered the angle and there were four more flashes.

  When I'd gone in, I'd had a quick look around, but I'd focused my attention on Karayoryi. Now I looked around again. It was a big room. Along the length of the wall beside the door they'd fixed a bench, just like those you find in government offices or doctors' waiting rooms, except that the officials' desks were missing. In their place was a long, rectangular mirror covering the whole wall. Three chairs had been placed in a row in front of the bench. Still sitting in the first one was Karayoryi, awaiting the coroner. The other two were empty. Karayoryi's was facing the mirror. The second, however, was turned toward Karayoryi. If it hadn't been moved by whoever discovered the body, then that might be a clue. Someone had been sitting beside Karayoryi, perhaps talking to her. If it was her murderer, this meant that she knew him and had had dealings with him.

  Piled in the opposite corner of the room were projectors and spotlights and various lights still attached to their stands. Some spare stands were propped against the wall. He hadn't come to kill her, I thought; he'd come to talk to her. Something must have upset him; he'd picked up one of the stands and run her through with it. But what was it that had upset him? Passion? Professional jealousy? Revenge by someone she'd exposed? I reminded myself not to be in too much of a hurry, it was still early days. But at least I had something to go on. If it indeed turned out that the chair had been in that position.

  "Are you done, here?" I asked Dimitris, the other technician from records.

  "We're done, all right. We're packing up."

  There was a closed cupboard on the adjoining wall. I opened it. Men's suits and women's dresses; the kind that fashion companies supply the newscasters with in order to get their names in the credits and so get some free advertising. I'd worn a tie for the first time when I'd entered the academy. It came with the uniform. And I'd acquired a suit when I graduated. From Kappa-Maroussis's "almost-ready-towear department." They brought me a brown suit, covered in stitching, that was big enough for a second Haritos. "Don't worry," the assistant had said. "That's why you choose it `almost-ready.' Once we tailor it precisely to your size it'll fit you like a glove." Two days later, the ready-to-wear was as baggy on me as the almost-ready-to-wear. "It's just your imagination," the assistant had snapped at me. "You've still not worn it in, that's why." Meanwhile, Kappa-Maroussis burned down, whereas I moved up in the world and started going to Vardas, which also makes its money on tailored suits.

  I looked swiftly through the clothes, but found nothing. The women's dresses had no pockets, the men's suits had empty pockets.

  I went back to the bench, beside Yanna Karayoryi, who'd had the rod removed from her. Markidis was bent over her, poking around. I picked up her handbag and emptied it out onto the bench. Lipstick, powder, eyeliner, exactly what she had on. No one was going to take it off now; she'd go to the grave with her makeup. A packet of Ro-1 cigarettes and a silver Dynon lighter, very expensive. A key ring with car keys and what must have been the keys to her house. And her purse. It contained three five-thousand notes, four one-thousand notes, a bank card, and a Diner's Club card. In the photograph on her identity card, she couldn't have been much more than fifteen, with long hair and a stern expression. I looked at the year of birth, 1953. So she was forty, and she hadn't looked it at all. I kept the keys and put everything else back in the bag for forensics.

  Markidis was done and came up to me. He was short, bald, with thick-rimmed glasses, and had been wearing the same suit for two decades. Either it never got dirty or he'd found a way of sending it to the dry cleaners on Sundays. He invariably had the expression of a whipped dog, whether as a result of the force or of his wife, I can't say. Anyway, it always got on my nerves.

  "I'm fed up with seeing corpses," he said. "There are days when I see as many as three and four. I knew I should have become a microbiologist."

  "It's not my fault that you chose corpses instead of urine," I said. "Come on, let's have it quick. I might still get an hour's sleep."

  "The rod entered beneath the left thorax at an angle of approximately fifteeen degrees. It pierced the heart and came out through her shoulder. The murderer was standing behind her."

  "Why behind her?"

  "From the front he wouldn't have been able to run her through with such force without knocking over the chair." He went and got one of the metal stands. "He must have killed her something like this." He held it in both hands just above the middle, raised it, and brought it down with force. "He must have been quite tall and muscular."

  "How do you figure?"

  "If he was short, either the wound would have been higher, or he wouldn't have been able to run her through at all because he would have lost some of his strength when leaning over."

  He may have seemed grumpy and dispirited, but he knew his job. "What can you tell me about the time?"

  "Two or three hours. No more than three, but no less than two. I might be able to be more exact after the autopsy."

  He left without saying good-bye. "Sir," said Sotiris, whom I'd notified and who had meanwhile arrived. "There are a lot of reporters outside asking to see you. And Mr. Sperantzas, the newscaster, is annoyed that you're making him wait."

  "I don't give a shit! First, I want to see whoever it was who found the body. Have him brought here."

  "It wasn't a he, it was a she. A girl from the production team."

  "Just get her here!"

  How on earth could the murderer have come up to Karayoryi from behind, with the stand in his hands, without her having seen him in the mirror? She must have seen him, but not thought anything bad because she'd known him. So we were looking for a tall, well-built acquaintance of Yanna Karayoryi's who at the time of the murder, obviously, was at the studios.

  The girl who came in couldn't have been more than twenty-two and was pretty nondescript. At most she was five one, or maybe five two. She was wearing jeans, a shirt, and boots. She was still shaking from the shock, and her eyes were swollen from crying. Sotiris stood her before me, holding her by the arm, so she couldn't get away from him, like the thoroughbred police officer that he was, instead of sit ting her down on a chair so she might feel relaxed and we could get to the bottom of things.

  "Have a seat," I said to her gently, and I had her sit in the third chair, which was the only one available. She sat with her legs drawn in, her hands clamped on her knees, and she stared at me silently.

  "What's your name?"

  "Dimitra ... Dimitra Zoumadaki ..."

  "Listen, Dimitra, there's nothing to be afraid of. Just tell me what you know, in your own time. If you forget anything, don't worry, you can add it later."

  She remained silent for a while to collect her thoughts. It wasn't easy for her. She unclamped her hands and began rubbing them on her jeans. "We were about to move on to the news bulletin when we suddenly saw that a spotlight had burnt out, and so Mr. Manisalis sent me to get another one-"

  "Who is Mr. Manisalis?"

  "The director ... I'm his assistant ..."

  "Okay ... go on ..:'

  "I came running in here, and I didn't notice her. I was in a hurry to replace the spotlight. But when I turned around to leave, I suddenly saw-" she covered her face with her hands as if wanting to block out the memory.

  "You saw the metal rod sticking out of her back," I said coaxingly, to help her. She nodded emphatically and began sobbing.

  "Open your eyes," I told her, but she kept them shut. "Open your eyes. There's nothing to be afraid of." She opened them and looked, first at me, then, hesitantly, all around her. The room had been emptied. The corpse was in an ambulance on its way to the mortuary, and the forensics boys had left. There was only Sotiris, who was standing discreetly outside her line of vision.

  "Try to remember, Dimitra. Was this chair here, as it is now, or was it turned toward the mirror?"

  She stared at the chair and thought for a momen
t.

  "It must have been like that because I didn't touch anything, I'm sure of that. I screamed and ran outside. And Mr. Manisalis, who came back with me afterward, didn't enter the room at all. He looked in from the door and went at once to the phone."

  "When you were coming to get the spotlight, did you see anyone outside in the corridor? Anyone coming out of the room or leaving?"

  "I didn't see anyone, but I heard something."

  "What did you hear?"

  "Footsteps. Someone was running. But I didn't pay any attention, because there's always someone running in here. We're all run off our feet."

  "That's my girl, you reeled it off like an expert. I'll let you know when to come to make an official statement, but there's no urgency. Tomorrow, the day after, when you've got over the shock. Go on home now and have some rest. But find someone to take you, don't go on your own.

  She smiled at me, relieved. As soon as she opened the door to go out, they all poured in, pushing her back inside. I'd put an officer on guard outside, but he got caught up in the bedlam too and ended up inside the room. At their head was Sotiropoulos, leader in the Taking of the Bastille.

  "What happened is tragic," he announced to me sorrowfully. That's to say, only the tone of his voice was sorrowful, because his expression revealed nothing, unshaven as he was, and as for his eyes, these looked, behind his round glasses, like two tiny beads that reacted only to intense light.

  "Yanna Karayoryi was the personification of the honest and conscientious journalist, who went fearlessly and determinedly in search of the truth. She will be sorely missed."

  I listened to this worthless spiel in silence. He raised the tone of his voice-not because I said nothing. He would have done it anyway, he'd rehearsed it. "And while the journalistic world is in turmoil, the police provocatively keep silent and have made no statement. We demand, Inspector, that you tell us what you know about the heinous murder of our colleague Yanna Karayoryi. 11

  "I have no intention whatsoever of telling you anything, Mr. Sotiropoulos." He was at a loss as to how to react to the officiousness of my manner.

  "That's unacceptable, Inspector," he said, in an equally officious tone. "You cannot treat us in this way when we give our lives for the truth."

  "I can't make any statement, or reveal any aspect of the investigation, before questioning every one of you."

  "Question us?" A brouhaha consisting of three ingredients rose up from them: bewilderment, alarm, and protest. Two cups of water, four cups of flour, and half a cup of sugar, as Adriani says when she gives the recipe for her famous cake, which-just between us-is inedible.

  "There is evidence that the victim knew the murderer. And you were all colleagues or friends of Karayoryi. It's perfectly obvious that we would want to question you."

  "Are we regarded as suspects?"

  "I can reveal no part of the investigation to you before questioning you. That's all. Tomorrow morning, I want every one of you in my office, and that's not because I intend to make a statement. Sotiris, take all their names before you show them out."

  "Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. That's a fundamental rule of law, or perhaps they didn't teach you that in the academy."

  "That's what the lawyers say. In the eyes of the police, everyone is guilty until proven innocent." I pushed through the crowd and went out into the corridor.

  Behind me swirls of protest and indignation rose and fell, but I was content. Of course, the next day Ghikas would give me a chewing out for ruining his good relations with the media, but I'd been through far worse.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sperantzas was sitting where he sits when he reads the news, behind the oval table. He was alone because on the late-night news, he appears without any entourage. He wasn't the one with the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket to wipe away the tears; he was the other one, the one who shouted the news as if he were selling watermelons in the market. He looked at me as I came in and couldn't decide whether he should lead with displeasure at being kept waiting or distress at the murder of his colleague. In the end, he settled for a deep sigh that covered both. I went and sat next to him in the seat of the girl who presents the sports news.

  "How did they all find out?" I asked, referring to the reporters in the corridor, who were making so much noise that they could be heard even from where we were.

  "They must have heard about it on the news."

  I couldn't believe my ears. "You mean you reported Karayoryi's murder on the news, before you'd even informed us?"

  "The whole of Greece was shocked," he replied passionately. "That kind of breaking news report has never happened before. The phone lines just about caught fire. I'd just begun to present the news about the new economic measures when they took me off the air and went into a commercial break. Before I'd had time to ask what was happening, Manisalis, the director, came charging in and told me that Yanna had been murdered. I shouted to them to keep on with the commercials and I sent a camera to the makeup room. When I went on the air again, I was grief-stricken. `Ladies and gentlemen,' I said, `at this moment in our own studios a tragedy has taken place. Our crime reporter, Yanna Karayoryi-the sleuth, as she was known to her colleagues-is lying dead in the next room, murdered. We don't know who the perpetrator of this heinous crime is. Sadly, the truth has many enemies. Nevertheless, Hellas Channel, the channel renowned for its exclusive reports, the leading channel for up-to-theminute news, has an obligation to inform you, its viewers, before anyone else. Ladies and gentlemen, you are hearing about the tragic end of Yanna Karayoryi at almost the same time that the fatal incident occurred, even before the police have been informed: And right on cue I showed the scene in the makeup room, with Yanna exactly as you found her. I mean, we're talking documentary art here. We have the video. You can see it if you want."

  Why didn't I chew him out? Why didn't I smack him in the face? Why didn't I set up two chairs and tie him between them, remove his socks and shoes, and subject him to an hour of bastinado? The police officer who abandons the rough stuff is like a smoker who's quit cigarettes. Even though, logically, you know you were right to give it up, inside you're dying to let fly, just like an ex-smoker who deep down longs for a drag.

  "Do you know what I should do to you?" I said to him. "I should frog-march you down to the station, lock you up in a cell with murderers, thugs, and pushers, and let them pin you down and shoot craps on your ass!" Words, shouting, empty threats. I'd given up cigarettes, and I was deceiving myself with chewing gum.

  "How dare you talk to me like that? Who gave you the right? We will protest in the strongest possible terms to your superiors, and publicly too. You're living in the past, it seems." His voice was trembling as if he were shivering.

  "First of all, it's against the law to publicize a murder before informing the police. We're the ones who decide when to make it known to the public and what evidence to reveal. Secondly, when you make known at what time the body was found, you may be helping the murderer to escape and so, albeit unwittingly, become his accomplice. If you protest, all that will happen is that I will be severely criticized for not arresting you.,,

  "I'm a journalist and I did my duty. If Yanna were alive, she'd salute me."

  She'd not only have saluted him, she'd have rubbed her hands in glee because he'd put one over on us. That much I knew to be true, so I said nothing.

  "Why was Karayoryi due to appear on the late-night news? So far as I know, there was nothing new on the crime report."

  "She was about to make a startling revelation."

  "What kind of revelation?"

  "I don't know. She didn't tell me."

  I became irate again. "You'd better not be hiding anything from me, Sperantzas, just so you can reveal whatever it is and get all the credit. Because if you are, I'll have you hopping like a Muslim in Bosnia."

  "I'm not hiding anything. I'm telling you the truth."

  "And just what is the truth? That she came and announced t
o you she was about to make a startling revelation, without telling you what it was she was about to reveal and without asking permission from anyone? Are you saying that anyone can appear on your channel and say what they like, is that it?"

  "Not anyone. Yanna Karayoryi," he replied under his breath, at the same time looking over to where the cameras were, as though afraid he might be being filmed.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He hesitated before answering. He found it hard to get the words out. "Yanna made her own decisions. She answered to no one." He bent forward and lowered his voice. "Listen. Don't expect to get it all from me. I can't tell you any more."

  Hiding beneath the tailored suit was a frightened and insecure little man. I was surprised to feel a sudden liking for him, and lost all desire to push him any further.

  "When did she tell you about this revelation?"

  "I was in the newsroom, having a final look at the bulletin. About half an hour before I was due to go on the air."

  "What time did you go on the air? Twelve?"

  "Three minutes past twelve. The program on before the news was running three minutes late, and we decided not to interrupt it. We let it go on."

  "Was she alone?"

  "Of course," he said. "Who would she be with?"

  "That's what I'd like to know." I got to my feet.

  "Where's the newsroom?"

  "Next to makeup."

  "Inspector." I was almost at the door, and I turned around. "There aren't too many in here who'll shed any tears for Karayoryi. Talk to Martha Kostarakou. She does the medical reports. She knows plenty."

  That said, he began rapidly to gather the papers on the desk, avoiding my gaze.

  "Come with me to the newsroom."

  "I've told you what I know. If you need me for anything else, I'm always here at the studio. But right now I'm going home because I'm beat."

  "Come with me." From his expression, it was obvious that he wanted to tear me off a strip, but he controlled himself. He picked up his papers and went with me.