Day of Wrath

Helen pressed further. “Were there any signs of urine? Any evidence that he lost control over his bladder at the same time?”

“No.” Rachinsky shook his head. “But the two things do not always occur together. Usually, but not always.”

“Usually …” Helen repeated. She let that sink in before going on.

Maybe the inconsistency meant nothing, but she wanted to make absolutely certain. “Then I would like you to examine that area again, Doctor — more thoroughly this time.”

“I will do no such thing!” Rachinsky said flatly. “Nothing in the facts of this case warrants such an absurd. even ghoulish.

reexamination. I’ve given you my medical finding, and that should be enough!”

“No, Doctor.” Koniev moved closer to the coroner, his mouth tight with barely suppressed anger. “Your finding is not sufficient.

Not in this case. Not when it is now clear that your initial examination was incomplete.” He stabbed a finger repeatedly into at Rachinsky’s chest, emphasizing each point. “You will do as Special Agent Gray requests. Is that clear?”

The militia doctor stepped back-away from the MVD officer’s prodding finger. He licked his lips nervously, glanced briefly at the three grim faces in front of him, and then shrugged. “Very well, Major. If it will convince you of the perfectly obvious — so be it.”

“Rachinsky picked up a scalpel and moved slowly down the autopsy table to stand poised over Grushtin’s pelvic cavity.

Helen was sure she heard him mutter something about “a crazy, sex-starved American bitch” in Russian before he started cutting, but she chose to ignore it.

After making several short, swift incisions, the coroner leaned forward to take a closer look at his handiwork. Suddenly, he turned deathly pale. “Mother of God!”

“What is it, Doctor?” Helen asked sharply.

Rachinsky stared up at her, still horror-stricken. “There are massive burns and major scarring inside this man’s urethra. It’s completely obstructed.”

Helen fought down a sudden sense of triumph. Her instincts had been on target. “What might cause injuries like that?”

The militia doctor shook his head slowly in dismay. “I have not seen such things for a long time.” He stopped, and quickly checked the overhead mike to make sure it was still switched off before going on.

“Not since the Chekists … you understand?”

Helen nodded, knowing Rachinsky was making a coy reference to KGB torture during the Soviet era. Russia had still not come to terms with the atrocities routinely committed under its abolished communist government. Too many of the same people were still employed by the KGB’s successor agencies. “We need specifics, Doctor.”

The coroner nodded rapidly, now apparently eager to make up for his earlier intransigence. “Of course.” He flipped on the mike again, dictating his new findings onto tape. “Upon closer scrutiny, it is now clear that the subject, Nikolai Grushtin, was tortured for a prolonged period of time. Perhaps by means of severe electrical shocks applied to the inside of his genitals. Or possibly by a superheated wire inserted into the same region.”

Helen winced at the gruesome images evoked by Rachinsky’s dry, matter-of-fact evaluation. Grushtin’s involvement in the downing of the An-32 certainly warranted punishment, and probably even the death penalty. But no one deserved the kind of agony the Russian Air Force captain had apparently suffered before dying.

Moving with more energy and interest than he’d shown before, the coroner examined Groshtin’s legs and arms more carefully, turning them first one way and then another under the bright lights. He reddened.

“Find anything else, Doctor?” Koniev asked dryly.

“Perhaps,” Rachinsky admitted reluctantly. “It is difficult to tell with the postmortem lividity, the pooled blood, but there may be faint traces of bruising around the wrists and ankles. Very faint. As though whoever bound him took great pains to avoid leaving evidence.”

Helen motioned Peter and Koniev off into the corner, leaving the now thoroughly embarrassed militia coroner to continue his work. She lowered her voice. “Well, now we know why Captain Grushtin wrote and signed that suicide note.”

Koniev nodded grimly. “Somebody is covering their tracks.

Somebody capable of great evil. Somebody with enormous resources.

Somebody who found out we were interested in Grushtin almost as soon as we knew ourselves.”

“But is that somebody here in Moscow? Or back at Kandalaksha?” Helen asked.

Koniev’s mouth turned downward. “Who can say? All we know now is that this affair is far more than a murderous quarrel between two heroin smugglers.” His shoulders slumped.

“Grushtin was our only solid suspect. Even now that we know he was murdered, I don’t know where to begin looking. There are more than two hundred Mafiya syndicates in Moscow alone — any one of which might be involved in this matter.”

“Kandalaksha,” Peter said suddenly.

“Kandalaksha?” The MVD officer looked curiously at him.

“You seem very certain. Explain that, please, Colonel.”