The Rasputin Stain

By W.H. Mefford

Bodies keep turning up dead in Mother Russia... and all the murder victims are direct descendants of the infamous Mad Monk Rasputin, the most vilified man in Russian history. The intricate and dangerous murder case falls squarely in the lap of overwhelmed and underachieving Moscow Militia Investigator Iliya Podipenko, son of a famous Red Army ma

• Language: English
• Publisher: 2020 LITERARY GROUP LLC
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962868150

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The Rasputin Stain

First Edition: 2007

Copyright © 2023 by W.H. Mefford

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-962868-14-3 (Paperback)

978-1-962868-15-0 (eBook)

978-1-962868-13-6 (Hardcover)

I dedicate this book to my family; you know who you are.

Chapter 1

Illya Podipenko was catnapping, stumpy legs out-stretched on top of his desk. His collar of his shirt was unbuttoned, his tie loose.

It was not uncustomary for the Moscow militia investigator to sneak a doze in the afternoons. A vigorous lunch of black bread, gherkin salad, sausage and three beers could do that to a man. That combined with the steady, soporific, buzzing sound of the fluorescent tubes overhead never failed to make his eyelids heavy as metal shutters. On such occasions, Illya Podipenko always explained patiently to his new, young militia partner that his snoozings were called power naps, apparently all the rage in the west.

The investigator’s head was bobbing precariously from his neck; a grunt pushed past his lips leaking saliva. His skin had the sallow texture of old newspaper, and his shoes appeared nothing more than flimsy cardboard, as if he had inadvertently laced up the box the shoes had come in.

The breeze from a cheap fan on the corner of his desk was periodically re-arranging the countable follicles of hair matted across his skull.

Illya Konstantinovich Podipenko was not what many considered a matinee idol—he was barely over five-foot, seven inches tall; middle running to paunch; creased cheeks, and ringed eyes sorrowful as a hound’s. It was a fact that his appearance was not unlike his wearied shoes – unpolished, tread upon, tongue hanging out. In sum, he was a man barely this side of complete anonymity.

But for all of his uninspiring appearance, Illya Podipenko was not a bad man or, for that matter, a bad investigator. In his day, he had managed to nab his share of Moscow criminals—murderers, rapists, the odd state Duma delegate with a penchant for dressing in women’s underwear.

But that was in the past.

It seems that seven years ago when he had ill-advisedly arrested his own militia commissioner’s nephew for selling French ecstasy, his career stinted itself. And, so, after twenty-eight fertile years in the militia, Illya’s days had come to this: chasing down hooligans selling fake bus passes, pestering old babushkas peddling illegal trinkets around Bittsevsky Park, shooing drunks urinating alfresco in the Alexander Garden and threatening Vietnamese vendors selling knock-off Adidas running shoes at the Gorbushka Market.

In the end, Illya accepted his lot fatalistically, the way Russians tend to do, once it became obvious that a promotion to chief investigator, or higher, had been eternally closed to him. Why should he worry, anyway? Worry caused bleeding ulcers and loose stools. He had become a man of low expectations, and rarely exceeded them, living now by the old Russian proverb: yesli khochetsya rabotat’, lyag, pospi, i vsyo proydyot—If you feel an urge to work, take a nap, and it will pass. That his superiors now left him to his beer-filled lunches, his small, empty apartment at night reading Lermontov and Visotsky, and his weekend forays into the forests to pick mushrooms, made him content enough. Life, if not good, was at least endurable. People rarely bothered him.

That was about to change.

*  *  *

When young militia assistant investigator Valeri Costov like a stomping bull came smashing through Illya Podipenko’s office door, the clatter caused the body of the sleeping investigator to suddenly lurch two meters into space. Such was the force of Costov’s entrance that the investigator’s chair pitched backwards, snapping open Podipenko’s eyes like two window shades; his arms flailed at the air above him. He would have cleanly tumbled backwards to the floor had not the young militiaman caught the back of the chair and steadied it against his lean frame.

Investigator! Costov shrieked directly into his superior’s ear, "there’s been a shooting!"

What— The word croaked from the investigator’s throat. His face was barren as the moon; he gave his head a ferocious shake as if to snap himself to consciousness.

A shooting, Investigator! The call just came in. We’ve got the case!

Podipenko gawked, stunned. A shooting—?

Yes, yes, Illya. Hurry, please. Costov leaned over, tying one of Podipenko’s shoelaces for him. He nudged him out of the chair.

A shooting? The investigator blinked his eyes. But why us? Why not Zelski and Ricitov?

They are on another case.

Ryzantev and Bililizov?

On holiday.

Popov and Simoninski, Podipenko pushed

determinedly.

They retired eights weeks ago. The younger man took a deep breath, slapping his hands to his sides. I beg you, Illya Konstantinovich. Let’s hurry before someone else beats us to the punch. At last we are handed the opportunity to investigate our own murder! Costov grabbed his superior’s rumpled hat and greasy zip-up jacket from a wall peg, then, as if pushing a loaded shopping cart, propelled the man out the door and down a dimly lit hallway.

Abramstin and Badov? Podipenko suggested

helpfully.

*  *  *

Three blocks from the Petrovka militia headquarters, the two men turned right into the entranceway of a Khrushchev era five-story concrete block that pitched leeward as if a great weight had been placed upon it. The building not so long ago had been rehabilitated, though already a front fencing was missing its entry gate.

When he walked, the older of the two men, Illya Podipenko, rolled on the outside of shoe soles like a crone with rickets. He marched along with one arm crooked behind his back, the other rubbing at his chin. He appeared to be wrestling with a thought, struggling with something unseen.

Pensolosv? Kozozovnik? he at last blurted out.

For the devil’s sake, Illya Konstantinovich. You know Pensolosv and Kozozovnik. They are at the moment in the basement of the militia building tossing cards into a hat. They spend more time on their butts than quadriplegics. The younger man shook his head side to side. He possessed wholesome ski instructor looks – lean, lanky body, blue eyes, hair blond as Kuban wheat, reminding one less of a Slavic Russian than a Scandinavian, and indeed he had grown up along the coastline just north of Saint Petersburg, on the Bay of Finland. It’s just us, Illya. You and me, he said.

The two men entered the foyer. A single, dim light globe hung from the ceiling; an expanse of checkered tiles showed spidery cracks. An elevator no larger than a phone booth had the universal Russian sign closed for repairs.

Podipenko fearfully eyed the dark, creaking stairs off to his right.

What level? trepidaciously he asked his young companion.

Third. Not so bad.

Not at your age, I suppose, groused the investigator.

His energetic partner had insisted on leaping the uncarpeted steps three at a clip; by the time the older man had clattered up to the third level, he was huffing like a steam pipe in wintertime. He bent at the waist, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. The hallway was dark, narrow. It smelled of cooked cabbage and onions. Valeri Costov already had his 9mm service Makarov out, poised in the air beside him. He was moving meticulously, quietly, back brushing up against the wall on the right. Training at the police academy had not been lost on this one, Illya Podipenko gave obliging credit. Instinctively, he liked his new partner.

Suddenly, from the first doorway on the left, there was a movement. Costov swung around, snapping his automatic in front of him.

A shriek that could have snapped glass followed, causing young Costov to stagger backwards.

Illya Podipenko latched out his weapon.

At that moment, from the doorway, a round head appeared, not vastly higher than the doorknob. It remained there suspended in space as if disembodied, heavily painted red lips falling open. A moment later there followed the rest of the woman. She was pink and plump as a Guinea Hen, perhaps in her fifties, dressed in a charwoman’s bathrobe, a frayed apron cinched high on her belly. Strands of hennaed hair spun web-like around plastic curlers. She was clutching an old couch pillow to her staggering bosom.

For a moment, she gawked at the gun barrel dangling directly in front of her, then fixed a scowl upon the face of the young man across from her. Instantly she narrowed her eyes, pitching her hand upward. She attacked with a viper’s quickness, pillow dust like chimney smoke spewing into the air with each direct whack on the defenseless Valeri Costov. His arms flayed the air in an effort to fend off the blows to his forehead, shoulders, arms and chest.

Trying to scare a woman to death, are you, hooligan! the woman screamed. A well-targeted smack finding Costov’s groin area had the young man yelping like a tail-stomped pup.

Standing there watching, Illya Konstantinovich Podipenko couldn’t help grinning into the collar of his shirt, which he buttoned, officially straightening his tie. He decided to step forward. Please, please, madam, he measured his voice with authority, placing his hands softly on the woman’s shoulders. We are from the militia. You called?

In mid-swing the woman stopped, twisting her gaze toward the voice beside her. At once the pupils of her dark eyes grew large as hen’s eggs, her face flushing to the color of beet soup. Her jaw went so slack she very nearly drooled. She was gaping into the sleepy, wet face of Illya Konstantinovich Podipenko and suddenly she was a toddler again, taking her first steps, swooning backwards. It was as if in that precise moment, in that narrow, sunless hallway, Eros had unquivered a white-hot arrow and plucked it directly into the woman’s left ventricle.

Podipenko grasped at the woman, balancing her with a steady hand.

Madam, are you all right? he inquired, thoughtfully.

What—what? Her eyes seemed to have lost their focus. Her upper lip shone with dots of perspiration.

The militia investigator cleared his throat. Are you Madam Gadina Federovna?

It took a moment. Why, yes, yes I suppose I am. She seemed disoriented; her chest pumped like a concertina.

And you called about a shooting? pushed young

Costov.

Yes, I did. A small hand suddenly rose in front of her, a finger with the roundness of a small sausage pointing to a door across the hallway. My neighbor, in there, she managed to rasp out. I heard a shot.

The two militiamen nodded to one another, eyeing the doorway. They began to step around the woman. She reached out for the older man, clutching at his jacket sleeve.

"Must you go in there?’ she asked, worried eyes scuttling her brow.

Yes, that is our job, sagely answered Illya Podipenko.

The woman’s hand involuntarily sought Podipenko’s shoulder. Please be careful, she offered.

Podipenko smiled weakly and gave her hand a pat. We will be careful, madam, thank you.

Will you come back? she blurted at once, her eyes flashing expectation.

Pardon?

Will you come back to see me?

Pardon?

A fuzzy slipper made lazy circles in the dust on the linoleum floor. "I mean, after you see what happened across the hallway, will you come back to interview me?"

Ah, yes, yes, of course, madam. Standard militia procedure.

This made the woman’s red lips stretch to her ear lobes, her eyes flaring with promise. "I shall make blini!" she shouted out. Then she leapt into her flat with the suddenness of a sprinter hearing a starter’s pistol.

*  *  *

The room was drained of light, curtains drawn. A tainted odor of burnt gunpowder clung to the surface of the air. A fly buzzed.

Young Valeri Costov had entered first, body stiffened, pistol raised as if expecting a demon to fly out of a closet. Illya Podipenko shuffled in behind, hands heedlessly thrust into his pants pockets. He yawned extravagantly.

Nice planking, the older man acknowledged considerately, tapping the pine flooring with one of his shoes. The wooden floor stretched the expanse of the room, covered here and there by not unattractive throw rugs, perhaps of Turkman craftsmanship.

Bereft of frivolous extravagances, the room appeared hygienic, organized, perhaps a bit sterile. A homebody, thought Illya, fastidious. Against the far wall was a fireplace, unlit. This was surrounded by well-mitered bookshelves filled with volumes of all shapes and sizes, many of them appearing ancient but in good condition. A collector? conjectured Illya Podipenko to himself. In the corner was an antique writing desk with ormolu mounts and a television set of unfortunate Russian make. On the screen was a black and white documentary about the Great Patriotic War. There stood the squat Georgian Papa Joe Stalin, imperiously chucking his marching troops directly from Red Square to the front.

Many times watching this very same documentary, recalled Illya Konstantinovich Podipenko, he had fallen into sweet sleep in front of his own TV.

With the barrel of his pistol, the youthful Valeri Costov motioned toward the chair in front of the fireplace, its back toward the two militiamen. The fabric at the top of the chair appeared to be weeping a dark liquid. A man’s arm flayed out sideways. A gun lay provocatively in a puddle of blood on the floor next to the chair.

Typhoo, uttered Valeri Costov. His youthful shoulders seemed to sag right through his armpits.

There is a problem? inquired Investigator Podipenko, ambling around his partner.

Costov slapped at his side with his pistol. It’s a suicide, not a murder, he shook his head; his eyes receded disappointedly into their sockets. "We were called out on a bloody suicide."

Hate when that happens, Illya Podipenko uttered supportively. Removing bent half-moon spectacles, placing them on his nose, the older man turned away from the corpse altogether and began inspecting the empty deep-back chair next to it. A few moments passed, then he said, Aha, and held aloft what appeared to be a tiny white thread.

What is it? Valeri asked despondently.

Locard’s Principle, replied the investigator, as if to himself.

What?

Illya Podipenko dipped his head, peering over the top of his glasses at his young partner. Locard’s Principle, he repeated. Surely they taught you that at the academy? Dr. Edmund Locard, a frenchy, late eighteen-hundreds? Every contact leaves trace evidence. Every contact. From the pocket of his jacket, the investigator withdrew a folded envelope into which he carefully placed the strand of thread. This done, for the first time he faced the corpse directly, saying, Well, now, let’s see what we have here." The body was still semi-limber, just in a beginning stage of rigor, Illya noted. The man’s skin had a cyanotic-blue tint to it. The victim had not been a bad looking gentleman, if one could say that about a man whose body lay slumped across a chair like a splayed fillet. He had an elongated face, Roman-like nose, strong Siberian cheeklines, grayish hair now crusting with red fluids. The top right side of his head wore a hole dissolved into tissue. The skin around the entry hole was blackened from a weapon’s escaping soot and gases, indicating the muzzle of a gun had been held reasonably close to the victim’s head. The bullet had exited the lower left jaw, perhaps taking a tooth with it. A book he had been reading now lay at his feet.

"Nicholas and Alexandra," nodded Illya Podipenko appreciatively, by Massie.

Pardon? Costov was sulking motionlessly, arms folded across his chest.

"Nicholas and Alexandra," repeated Podipenko. Our victim here was a learned man, perhaps a romantic. He favored history. I’m impressed.

Yes, very inspiring. The younger man looked toward the ceiling. Apparently he did not enjoy that particular book as much as you do. He put a bullet through his head.

The older militiaman was squatting. He had removed a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket. With this he began fanning the pages of the old book. "Nicholas and Alexandra is, of course, about the ruling Romanov Dynasty, the final days of Russia’s last Tsar. Very tragic, their ending, the way Lenin’s bloodthirsty Bolsheviks executed the entire royal family, including the future Tsar. Human drama. Our nation’s history. Makes you cry, really. He paused, seeing a page absorbed with purple blood. He was on page one fifty-six," said Podipenko, raising up.

I’ll make note of that in my report, breezily countered Valeri Costov. He pulled a notebook from a pocket. Page one fifty-six, he wrote exaggeratedly, to which Podipenko offered a pinched face. Then the older man was on his knees in front of the slumped body, nostrils flaring as he apparently had taken to sniffing like a Doberman at the fingers on the corpse’s colorless white hand. All of a sudden Podipenko was between the corpse’s knees, his head momentarily disappearing from view, around the arm of the chair, which began rocking as if an earth tremor had suddenly sprung up. A moment later, Illya Podipenko’s pale face, like a wan moon rising, peeked over the arm of the chair.

He dangled in front of him a strip of folded leather. Every try to remove a man’s wallet from his rear pocket when he’s sitting on it, Valeri? Quite an ordeal, let me tell you. Particularly if the man is offering little cooperation since he just happens to be principally dead. Illya Podipenko was chuckling as he hefted off his knees, fingering the wallet. Well, now, he exhaled grandly, let’s see who we have here, eh? He fanned some papers. It appears our deceased friend is one Nikolai Kudrin, age—he paused, toting on his fingers—age forty-three. Oh, look, his worker’s pass says he is on staff of the State Historical Museum. And his ruble notes are still here in his wallet. Most interesting.

Young Valeri Costov merely shrugged his shoulders.

I sensed him to be an educated man, the investigator swept a hand in the air behind him. Look at these many profound books—Gogol, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Turgenev, Pasternak, of course the inevitable Dostoevsky, even Solzehnitsyn. Our friend Nikolai Kudrin had good taste in literature, I’ll give him that. He was a true reader rather than merely a collector, I’ll wager. Illya threaded his fingers behind his back and tilted his head upward. He eyes moved left to right, taking in the wooden shelves filled with great Russian literature. "I once read a quote I rather liked, Valeri: ‘The world of books is the most remarkable creation of man. Nothing else that he builds ever lasts. Monuments fall; nations perish; civilizations grow old and die out.’ But books, my young friend, books live forever!"

Investigator, came a weary voice from behind him, can we go now?

We need to ask some questions of Citizen Kudrin’s neighbor—what was her name again?

Madam Gadina Federovna, Costov consulted his notebook. Is it absolutely necessary, Investigator? He sounded dejected.

She might add some insight on what happened here, evaluated the older man. "Besides, did you forget—she is making blini."

No, I didn’t forget, returned the younger man. With shoulders slumped like bent coat hangers, he turned to leave the room when his superior’s voice stopped him.

Call the medical examiner’s office, if you would be so kind, Valeri, he spoke softly. Alert the good fellows from forensics, pathology and ballistics, too. Let’s request a post-mortem examination, shall we?

Costov’s face slid. For a suicide, Investigator?

Illya stepped around his young associate into the hallway.

Well, better safe than sorry. That’s the old saying, isn’t it, Valeri?

*  *  *

Around an oil cloth-covered table in Madam Federovna’s small kitchen, Investigator Illya Podipenko sat in awe.

No one in the whole of Moscow could possibly have such a spotless flat, he thought to himself. Everything perfect, cheerful, trim as a catalogue showcase. On the table in front of him, warm blini were stacked a meter high, accompanied by plates of sausages and onions, and a freshly brewed pot of coffee. It was as if some maniacal caterer had toiled through the night to compose a buffet just for the investigator and his young associate. Perhaps the most surprising sleight-of hand, however, was the metamorphosis of Madam Federovna herself. Gone were the worn bathrobe, plastic hair curlers and the fuzzy slippers, replaced neatly by black slacks and a white and yellow striped top. Her brown hair was now coiffed primly and evenly as if she had had time to run out to a professional salon. Her face had been meticulously highlighted with a school girl’s care, her eyes lit with a hazel glow through the use of a colored eye shadow…all of this, Illya bewilderedly pondered, had apparently transpired during the few moments he and his young partner had spent in the flat of the recently deceased Citizen Kudrin, across the hallway. Taken together, he noted, Gadina Federovna was not an unattractive woman.

Do you travel a lot? inquired Illya Podipenko, his mouth jammed with food.

Pardon?

I couldn’t help notice all the beautiful posters framed on your walls. The Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Opera House in Sydney, the Vatican in Rome, the big clock tower in London, the water statue in New York.

The Statue of Liberty, Gadina Federovna politely corrected the investigator. She issued forth a grand sigh, sipping at her porcelain cup. No, never been out of Moscow, I’m sorry to say. My work, you see…

I understand. We dedicated workers must serve the state.

Still, the woman insisted, it is a dream of mine, to travel. But one can’t fully experience the wonders of the world by oneself, can they, Investigator? And, you see, I have, at the moment, no one to share such an adventure with me. She sighed once more. So, for now I have my posters.

Uncomfortably, the investigator pressed himself away from the table, leaning back. My dear lady, he said wiping a trifle of sour cream from the corner of his mouth, never has a repast tasted so magnificent. You are a true artisan.

The amble breast of Gadina Federovna swelled prodigiously, making audible response unachievable. Her cheeks flashed warm and rosy as fresh muffins, and she could do no more than gaze at the knot of fingers in her lap.

Illya sat smiling stupidly across the table while his partner took to impatiently tapping his shoes on the floor. Valeri Costov cleared his throat and nudged the older man.

A Russian poet once wrote, Illya continued expansively unabated, "that blini are the symbol of the sun, beautiful days, good harvests, happy marriages and healthy children. You have the gift of life, Madam Federovna."

The fork she had been using presently slipped from her fingers, clattering into the plate in front of her. She didn’t care. Her wide eyes brimmed with the exaltation of a child seeing a new bicycle for the first time. Call me Gadina, if you please, Investigator, she managed breathlessly. Her hand moved toward his, but fell short of the target, as if she had suddenly realized what she was about to do.

Ah, yes, continued Illya as if he hadn’t noticed, "they say good food ends with good talk, Madam Fed— er, Gadina. Would it be presumptuous on my part to make a few inquiries?"

No, not at all, replied the woman. You have my full attention, Investigator.

Illya tucked his thumbs into his expanding pants tops. And I insist on you calling me Illya. Fair enough? The woman’s head bobbed balloon-like. So tell me, Gadina, how long have you occupied this remarkable flat?

Oh, my, she put a hand to her lips, it must be thirty years, give or take.

I see. And what is your occupation?

A nurse.

A nurse? Most admirable. A servant giving succor to mankind.

She grinned shyly. A nurse supervisor, actually. I oversee a staff of eighty at the Central Clinical Hospital on Ulitsa Marshala Timoshenko.

Well, well, gasped Illya Podipenko, the Central Clinical, and a supervisor yet! I must tell you, Gadina, I am most impressed.

The woman showed fetching dimples. Valeri Costov interrupted, businesslike.

Why would your neighbor commit suicide? he pushed.

To this, Investigator Podipenko narrowed a cautionary eye in the direction of his young partner, then turned back toward the woman. If you would be so kind, Gadina, he sighed heavily, tell us about your neighbor.

Gadina Federovna shrugged her shoulders, busying herself with refilling coffee cups. "Nikolai Kudrin was a very nice man, a good neighbor. He was