usually classified as executions. These, too, left a particular signature. Between a man’s ears at the back of the head was a small knot of bone—the external occipital protuberance. Executioners were taught to press the muzzle of their guns exactly over that place, allowing them to kill with a single shot. Pekkala had seen many such executions, carried out by both sides during the opening stages of the Revolution. The killers left their victims facedown in fields, in ditches, or in banks of snow, hands tied behind their backs, their foreheads blown away by the exiting bullet.
One reason for this method was that executioners did not have to look into the faces of their victims. But whoever killed this woman had stood directly in front of her. Pekkala knew that such a method required a particular coldness of blood.
Already, in his mind, he began to draw a portrait of the killers, assuming there had been more than one. They were almost certainly male. Women were not usually employed in execution teams, although there were exceptions to this. The Reds had made use of women in their death squads, and these particular women had proven to be more bloodthirsty than any of their male counterparts. He recalled the Bolshevik assassin Rosa Schwartz, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of former Tsarist officers. After her killing spree, she was declared a national hero and toured the country as “Red Rosa,” carrying a bunch of roses and wearing a white dress, like a virgin on her wedding day. Another detail which pointed towards these killers being men was the fact that the skulls all bore exit marks, indicating the use of a large-caliber pistol. Women, even those in death squads, tended to use guns of small caliber.
Now Pekkala examined the clothing, bringing the flashlight close to the woman’s body so that he could examine the material of her clothes. The first thing which caught his eyes was the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons on her dress, which must once have been red but now appeared as a blotchy pink. His heart sank. These were the garments of wealthy people. Otherwise those buttons would have been made of bone or wood. Long, clumped strands of hair draped over the clothing.
On the bared arms, he could see where fat deposits had turned into adipocere, the soapy, grayish-yellow substance known as grave wax.
He saw shoes, the leather crimped and twisted, the tiny nails which had once held them together jutting now like little teeth from the soles. Again he felt the weight of growing certainty. This was not the footwear of a laborer, not the type that one would find out in the countryside and far too elegant for the wilds of Siberia.
At that moment, the flashlight shuddered and died.
The darkness that enveloped him was so complete it seemed to him that he had suddenly gone blind. Pekkala’s breathing grew rapid and shallow. He fought against the panic which swirled around him like a living thing.
Swearing, he shook the flashlight and the light popped back on again.
Wiping the sweat from his face, Pekkala returned to his work.
Having examined all he could without disturbing the scene, he now reached out and touched what lay before him.
The tips of his fingers were shaking.
He tried to maintain emotional distance from the corpses, as Dr. Bandelayev had taught him. “Think of them as puzzles, not as people,” the doctor had said.
Working his hands in under the back of the woman, fingers inching between the layers of damp and moldy cloth which separated the corpses, he lifted her body. The weight of it was still significant, unlike the corpse he’d pulled from the chimney, which had felt so light it reminded him of a Japanese lantern.
As he shifted the body to the floor, so that he could lay the corpses side by side, the woman’s skull snapped off the spine. It rolled off the other side of the pile and cracked against the stone floor with a sound like a dropped earthenware pot. He walked around the side of the
One reason for this method was that executioners did not have to look into the faces of their victims. But whoever killed this woman had stood directly in front of her. Pekkala knew that such a method required a particular coldness of blood.
Already, in his mind, he began to draw a portrait of the killers, assuming there had been more than one. They were almost certainly male. Women were not usually employed in execution teams, although there were exceptions to this. The Reds had made use of women in their death squads, and these particular women had proven to be more bloodthirsty than any of their male counterparts. He recalled the Bolshevik assassin Rosa Schwartz, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of former Tsarist officers. After her killing spree, she was declared a national hero and toured the country as “Red Rosa,” carrying a bunch of roses and wearing a white dress, like a virgin on her wedding day. Another detail which pointed towards these killers being men was the fact that the skulls all bore exit marks, indicating the use of a large-caliber pistol. Women, even those in death squads, tended to use guns of small caliber.
Now Pekkala examined the clothing, bringing the flashlight close to the woman’s body so that he could examine the material of her clothes. The first thing which caught his eyes was the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons on her dress, which must once have been red but now appeared as a blotchy pink. His heart sank. These were the garments of wealthy people. Otherwise those buttons would have been made of bone or wood. Long, clumped strands of hair draped over the clothing.
On the bared arms, he could see where fat deposits had turned into adipocere, the soapy, grayish-yellow substance known as grave wax.
He saw shoes, the leather crimped and twisted, the tiny nails which had once held them together jutting now like little teeth from the soles. Again he felt the weight of growing certainty. This was not the footwear of a laborer, not the type that one would find out in the countryside and far too elegant for the wilds of Siberia.
At that moment, the flashlight shuddered and died.
The darkness that enveloped him was so complete it seemed to him that he had suddenly gone blind. Pekkala’s breathing grew rapid and shallow. He fought against the panic which swirled around him like a living thing.
Swearing, he shook the flashlight and the light popped back on again.
Wiping the sweat from his face, Pekkala returned to his work.
Having examined all he could without disturbing the scene, he now reached out and touched what lay before him.
The tips of his fingers were shaking.
He tried to maintain emotional distance from the corpses, as Dr. Bandelayev had taught him. “Think of them as puzzles, not as people,” the doctor had said.
Working his hands in under the back of the woman, fingers inching between the layers of damp and moldy cloth which separated the corpses, he lifted her body. The weight of it was still significant, unlike the corpse he’d pulled from the chimney, which had felt so light it reminded him of a Japanese lantern.
As he shifted the body to the floor, so that he could lay the corpses side by side, the woman’s skull snapped off the spine. It rolled off the other side of the pile and cracked against the stone floor with a sound like a dropped earthenware pot. He walked around the side of the
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