Siren of the Waters: A Jana Matinova Investigation
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Copyright © 2008 by Michael Genelin
All rights reserved.
Published by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
eISBN : 97-8-156-94774-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
tk
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For the two ladies in my life,
SUSY AND NORA,
who manage to keep me together,
and to
NOAH,
who always makes me laugh.
Acknowledgments
My special thanks for their friendship, help, and inspiration go to Miro, Adriana, Dano, Jana, Emilia, Mirjana, and Professor Mathern, to all the judges, procurators, and legislators I worked with in Slovakia; and to those very committed Slovaks involved in building a wonderful country. And a very special acknowledgment to my editor, Laura Hruska. Blame me for the bad parts, thank her for the good ones.
Chapter 1
The cold wind surging down the black ice-covered highway was like a blast from some frozen hell. All Jana could do was plunge her hands deeper into her state-issue winter coat and talk loudly enough through the muffler she had wrapped around her face so that the other bundled officers clustered at the accident scene could hear her. The Traffic Police generally don’t call on the Criminal Police for anything, particularly in Slovakia with its communist-based tradition of compartmentalizing everything; but the number of bodies frightened some Traffic Police supervisor enough for him to make the call to her. Jana cursed him in the same breath that she cursed the sub-zero cold, wishing the request had come on some balmy evening instead of an icy night.
She looked at the Mercedes van that had hydroplaned off the two-lane highway, through snow drifts, smashing into the small cluster of trees. There was no immediate way to check how fast the van had been going: no skid marks on the ice, so there were no telling physical references except the smashed condition of the vehicle, a large van that had nothing left to identify its make except the logo of the circle with the Y on it that protruded above what was left of the hood.
The blaze that the vehicle had become was, surprisingly, still going strong, and the bodies that had been thrown from it were scattered in such disparate locations that they looked like indicators of the time on some fiery sun-dial clock.
A flash went off; one of the police photographers taking pictures of the scene that was dimmed by the falling snow. Even with the flash and high-speed film, there would be a certain amount of blur from the hard-blowing white sleet that stung the uncovered portions of her face. Where the hell had Seges, her new warrant officer, got to? A bad time to bring a novice in on a death investigation, particularly a police officer who had the work habits of a Seges. The man had transferred in from working pickpockets and thought all he ever had to do was to stand around in crowds looking inconspicuous, and the criminals would invariably reveal themselves by sticking their hands in his pockets.
Jana trudged through the snow, circling the wrecked chassis, trying to spot Seges. She went over what she knew of him: He had come with a mixed bag of personnel reports from his past postings, all of his writeups couched in the vague jargon of bureaucratic supervisors who wanted to push the man on to his next assignment and were afraid that bad writeups would saddle them forever with his presence. So they propped the man up and shoved him out, his promotions coming with time. And now, courtesy of departmental rotations, he was here to make Commander Jana Matinova’s life harder.
The anger Jana felt in the pit of her stomach was the only warm spot on her body. She scanned the scene. Still no Seges. The man made mistakes that even newly transferred officers should not make. Securing the scene, for one. Jana had been unsatisfied with the way the danger flares had been set out on the highway so she had told Seges to have the traffic cops reconfigure them. Reluctantly, he’d gone off to comply with the order. That had been twenty-five minutes ago, long enough for the man to take several pees in the snow if he had to. She rather hoped his cock had frozen when he took it out of his pants, then had broken off like an icicle.
She smiled at the thought, than shook herself back to reality. She was his designated training officer. New transfers were supposed to report back to their commander after their assignments were completed. She let herself get slightly annoyed at his failure to follow protocol. Not the thing to do, Jana ruefully reminded herself. She didn’t believe much in rigid rules. They were just another way for authority to limit a police officer’s originality or inventiveness. Rules over results.
Nonetheless, procedure had to be followed now. Time to finish this phase of the investigation. Seven people dead. There would be lots of questions she would have to answer later.
She moved around the bulk of the fire, finally noticing Seges’s pinched shoulders crouching over one of the bodies. Lo and behold, Seges was apparently making notes. Maybe there was some hope for the man. She crossed over to Seges, pulling her six-cell flashlight out, shining it over the body before she knelt next to him. Not good. She knew the face of the dead woman.
“I recognize her.” Jana pulled her scarf down from her face so she wouldn’t have to yell over the wind. Seges did the same. “It’s the Jedlik girl, Marjana. Last I heard, she’d become a prostitute, working one of the houses outside of Bratislava.” No surprise she knew the girl. Everyone knew everyone else or was someone else’s cousin in Slovakia. That’s what you got in a country of less than five and a half million: too much familiarity.
She ran her flashlight over the body again, then back to the face. Everything was at odd angles, broken bones from toe to neck, except the head which did not have a hair out of place. Absurd things happened in auto accidents. She’d once found a man’s head inside the headlight of a truck that had smashed into him. The head was face out, a bizarre
commentary on his failure to see the huge vehicle before he’d run out in front of it.
Seges went back to taking notes, his writing hand bare so that he had to blow on his fingers every few seconds in a futile effort to keep them warm. “Seven bodies: six women, one man. My guess, he was the driver. All thrown from the car, so obviously no one was wearing seat belts.”
She stopped him. His failure to use his eyes combined with his lack of experience was irritating. No, he would not learn easily. She’d probably have to rewrite all the investigation reports herself just to be sure he didn’t screw them up. “Seatbelts wouldn’t have mattered in this wreck. And a woman was the probable driver. One of her high-heeled boots was pinned under the driver’s door when it was torn off. Part of her foot went with it.”
Seges’s face took on the supercilious look of a teacher who was a pedant, irritating Jana even before he spoke: “She could have been anywhere in the jumble of people that was in the car when the vehicle went off-road. The shoe could have flown off on impact and become lodged under the door.”
Jana listened quietly, promising herself she would not get angry, which was not an easy promise to keep with this man. “If you are insistent on our reaching conclusions this early in the process, at least have something, anything, to base your conclusion on. If the powers-that-be question you about it, you will look like you were born a poor Gypsy. Change it!”
She watched as Seges reluctantly crossed out what he had written. With a certain amount of misgiving, she plunged on. “Did the man have a driver’s license among his papers?”
“I haven’t looked, Commander Matinova.”
“Look, Seges!”
Seges finally managed to pull a sheaf of papers from his pocket, the bits and pieces already double rubber-banded so they would not scatter with the wind. Cold fingers are awkward, and his attempt to shift the rubber bands in order to unwrap the papers was fumblingly slow. To fill the waiting time, he began to recite what else he had learned.
“Several half-empty bottles of alcohol were found in the area around the car.”
“What kind of liquor? What proof were they?”
“Slivovitz. 110 proof. What’s the difference?”
She fell into her instructor mode. “Alcohol absorption rates of the bodies. Maybe we will be able to tell when they began drinking? Maybe they weren’t really drinking at all? Maybe they were drinking something else, somewhere else?” Seges was new, but he should have known this. Jana tried not to show her impatience, wondering what other important items he might ignore or misinterpret.
“Always assume you, and anyone else who reads your reports, doesn’t know anything. If you are unsure, write that down. Don’t, and you mislead any officer who reads your report.”
“I will be more careful in the future, Commander Matinova.” He finished thumbing through the papers. “No driver’s license. But the man had two passports.” He passed them over to her. “I don’t like people who carry two passports. They don’t owe allegiance to anyone. You can’t trust them.”
“How many people have you have met, in the course of your duty as a police officer, who you can trust with just one passport?” Jana thumbed through one document, then the other, holding them both side by side open to the primary personal information pages. “These days, it’s not unusual to claim two nationalities. But two different names means he’s a crook.”
In his hurry to keep his fingers out of the cold, Seges had seen that both passport photographs were the same, but had neglected the simple task of comparing the names of the individuals who had been issued the passports. She riffled through both documents again, put one of them in her pocket, and then tossed the other back to Seges, who scrambled to look at the name on the document as if to prove she’d made a mistake. Inside herself, Jana felt anger rising. Incompetence. Too many botched cases because of too many sloppy or lazy officers.
“The dates of birth are the same; same physical description. One gives his place of birth as Kremenchuk, Ukraine, the other as Tirana, Albania. One has a Ukrainian name, the other Albanian. Both passports have tons of visa stamps. He liked to visit lots of countries.”
Jana stood, her muscles anesthetized by the cold, her knees stiff. She began to beat her body with her clenched fists, trying to force the return of circulation. She had given up stamping her feet; they were numb to the bone.
She felt the cold more these days than when she was younger. “Put all the papers together, then leave them on my desk.”
“We have to give them to the coroner.”
“He can wait. I can’t.”
“It’s a simple case, with just a body or two more than usual. Seven people. Drunk. Driving too fast. Ice. Blam!! They are all dead.”
“There is too much ‘blam!’ here.”
He stood. “We’ve both seen it before.”
Jana noticed he had risen without much effort, which made her more irritated. The energy and recovery power of youth is indeed wasted on the young, but particularly on the young and stupid. “Tell me, why the fire?”
“Cars catch fire.”
“Why such a long-lasting blaze?” She pointed at the still-burning car. One of the traffic police was unsuccessfully trying to douse the flames with a hand-held extinguisher. The flames would not die. The cop finally threw the empty extinguisher into the dark.
“Make a note,” Jana murmured, with a half smile at the cop’s frustration. “The officer will have to pay for the extinguisher.” She hadn’t really meant it, but Seges scribbled furiously in his notebook.
Jana looked in the direction of the mountains. “I think it will be light soon. Hopefully it will warm this goddamned place up a little.” She started toward her car, then stopped, sniffing the air. “Smell,” she commanded Seges. “Eyes, ears, nose, the senses. That’s your main toolkit. Learn to use them.” She inhaled in an exaggerated manner. “You can smell it. Gasoline from the car but also not gasoline. Something else. Get one of the arson people on it.”
A fire truck finally arrived. Everything is late in Slovakia; even the men climbing off the truck to douse the blazing vehicle seemed to realize it. They were backseat spectators in this drama. No need for haste, their movements through the snow took on an exaggerated slowness. It was like an odd, primitive dance to the elements, the fire personnel ringing the blazing pieces of the vehicle with their equipment, priapic hoses slowly coming erect, finally spraying their juices over the remnants of a death sacrifice.
Jana watched, noting a salient fact: Even when they finally started to spray the vehicle with a chemical retardant, the flames seemed to resist, insisting on their angry prerogative of burning whatever substance was fueling them. Someone had wanted to make sure this car burned.
When the flames finally died, she walked to her car.
Seges eyed her as she left, nesting his hands under his armpits, trying to warm them back to life. She was like all the rest of his supervisors had been: Short on trust, she ignored his good qualities. Matinova was going to be looking over his shoulder. All she would do with his life as an officer would be to make more work for him.
Chapter 2
The man in whiteface, wearing an imitation Austrian army uniform circa 1800, stood on a small wooden box in the middle of the main square of Old Town, Bratislava. Except for the few passersby, the empty space, with its wind-driven, drifting veils of snow, looked gloomier than it generally did, even in winter. The statue of the armed knight looming over the fountain had been taken down and stored for the winter; the fountain itself had been covered over to prevent ice from forming inside, expanding and then splitting the stone.
The corpse-like leafless trees dotted through the square gave it an air of deep melancholy which even afflicted the clown figure performing on the box. Well, clowns had never made Jana laugh. Too sad or too scary. They had made her dislike going to the circus when she was a child.
Off to the side, Jana had been watching the man for some time, marveling that he was con
tinuing his act even in this miserably cold weather, his only reward the rare coin that a pedestrian threw into his alms box out of pity.
The man was working with two cats, and he had them doing remarkable things, tricks that any household cat lover would tell you were impossible to teach.
He would stand the cats straight up, and they would remain immobile. He’d drape them around his neck, first one and then both of them, like a feather boa. Or he would sit them erect, face to face, and they would hug each other. He would extend his arms out from his body with a cat lying along each arm, and the felines remained absolutely immobile, neither giving any sign of discomfort or fear, each looking like a frozen piece of statuary shaped like a cat.
Jana finally stepped out of the doorway and walked over to the man, stopping in front of him. She looked up at him for a few seconds. The street busker gave her only the slightest indication that he’d seen her, continuing on with his act.
“Come off the box, Jurai,” she finally ordered. “You need to be told something.”
“I’m working,” he hissed at her. “This is what keeps me in bread. I don’t get paid by the state.” He draped the cats like bracelets around both wrists, then transferred both to a single wrist as a double bracelet of cats, then again as a double necklace around his neck.
“Very good, Jurai. Now come down or I will have to kick the box out from under you and bring you down.”
Reluctantly, this time mumbling to his cats, the man climbed off his makeshift stage. “All police are the bearers of bad news. It’s a disease they have.” He sat the cats where he had stood; neither moved from where it was placed. “Patience. I will be back in a moment.” He turned to Jana again. “What is it now?”
Jana stared at his face. Up close, even through the white makeup, she could see the three-inch scar on his forehead. She knew where to look. She had put it there.
The clown watched her eyes, knew she was studying it, and involuntarily touched it with his fingertips. “You marked me for life.”
“Blame it on the communists.”
“You were the one who hit me.”