Kozlowsky's notes 16 - Killings that burn hearts

Legends circled around the killings of Ded Moroz.
It was more than 10 years that the first killing saw the daylight. But only after the three successive murders we realized that a series of non-stop killings is ahead of us. 
The nickname Diedushka Moroz was pretty simple to grasp by the press. The murders happened during the Christmas time, in severe winter. Everyone expects nice atmosphere and awaits presents, and Christmas cards but that winter was slightly different. On the same day Ded Moroz was about to kill his prey he sent to them Christmas cards. But don't expect Christmas wishes, instead of it he wrote three simple words in Russian: 'Пришло время умирать' - it's time to die. No signature, no date, just these words on a nice Christmas card. At first everyone thought the cards were chosen at random.  But Ded Moroz made his own selection. 
I was sitting at the militias' archive, browsing through the catalogues of the past investigation and reports on Diedushka. The first murder was that of a banker. The picture of the Christmas card showed plentiful of gifts under the Christmas tree. In the picture a merry family sat around the father who started to hand in presents. In the left corner of the picture, gazing through the window,  however there was a figure of a man, Father Frost, who looked on the happy family with satisfaction. He must have probably given the presents to the father and now he was smiling with delight to see cheerful family together. Though he appeared pleased he also had a sad look in the eyes.
Diedushka killed three bankers, two rich entrepreneurs and an actress. The methods were very sadistic, painful and providing slow death to the victim. The very famous actress Maria Afanasjewna died really terribly. I remember reading it in the news. He stripped her down, tied to the chair and put a metal tube against her belly. One end of the pipe was closed whereas the other was tied close to the stomach. Inside the pipe Diedushka put a rat whose only escape from starving to death was to bite his way through the stomach. In this way her insides were slowly eaten by the rat. I cannot image her torture. She must have begged heavens for a quick death. 
One victim survived, and that is why we have some information about the killer. The survivor was a city council clerk Vasylij Siergiejew. He described his oppressor as a tall man, in his late forties, with white beard. Dressed like a beggar Diedushka didn't catch anyone's attention. He walked with a stick and had a long shattered robe. He had simply all the attributes of Father Frost.
Vasylij hadn't lived long after the unsuccessful hit on him. He chocked with an aspirin pill and smothered himself. Thanks to Vasylij Ded Moroz was soon identified as Kazys Wasylich Aidas of Lithuanian origin. At that time the profile picture and drawing of his face appeared in local newspapers.
I remember one more thing about that murders. The best informed journalist and probably the most engaged in the case pseudo-detective was her husband, Piotr Piotrowicz. The militia consulted with him many aspects of the investigation and even offered him an open position for an investigative researcher. He refused telling them that he cherished more being with his wife than digging the cold graves left by Diedushka. After Piotrowicz abandoned the series of writing about Ded Moroz the militia fell in cul-de-sac of their own. They left the investigation, Diedushka apparently disappeared from the city and everyone forgot about the dead bodies and grief of the families. It was also very interesting that first the press abandoned the subject and then Ded Moroz ceased to exist. It is usually vice versa. 
Now it appears that Ded Moroz has returned to Stavrospol again, years after his last killings. And again in wintertime, seems the coldest ever, now new killings will burn our hearts. 
That old investigation was closed, the case never solved. What Diedushka is doing here again? Is he really the one we are looking for?

Kozlowsky's notes 15 - At the barber's

The barber was on the opposite side of the street and was open from 7 in the morning.
I went straight to him after spending night at her place, sat down on the chair and let him take care of me.
'You rarely come nowadays,' said Anatol, the owner.
'It's becasue my hair fell out from work,' I replied. Anatol started preparing the tools and turned the radio on. The folklore music which I hated sounded from the old wooden radio.
'Any surprising turnovers in the case?' Anatol, like a good barber started the conversation and went straight to the core of it.
'I was expecting you tell me something since I came here and you don't have anything to cut on my head,' I looked at Anatol whose reflection I could see in the mirror.
'Then we can finally shave that beard of yours.' Anatol put some cream on my beard and neck and started to sharpen the metal razor.
'People are not very calm these days,' he continued.
'No, really?' I mocked him.
'Not to say they are very disturbed by these child murders.'
'Tell me something I don't know'.
'People keep talking and talking, wondering about the possible murderer.'
"Can it be my boss?' I kept mocking Anatol while he started to shave my beard with the sharp razor.
'There are many thugs who could kill for a bunch of pocketmoney. There are several suspects, however, who could kill with such an elegance...'.
'What do you know?'
'Do you remember my brother?'
'I do.'
'Will you help him out of the troubles?'
'He's a trotzki. It will be hard... but not that hard once I got the murderer.'
Anatol pondered for a while and continued talking.
'A few days ago there came a petty thief, you know the one who usually hasn't gotten to a fortune and never will but has daily money from stealing or robbing old grandmas. That disgusting pezzo di novanta started to boast how lucky he was not to have robbed a peculiar person. The youngster almost thank God for that, as if he had omitted death.'
'And...'
'He recognized the guy as the old school assassin who returned to the city for bounty killings. It must have been the legend and I can only presume it was...'
'Ded Moroz?'
Anatol stood still as if old memories came back to him.
'The thief didn't tell the name but from his description it must have been Ded Moroz.'
'Did he tell you where he saw Diedushka?'
'No, but I know where that pezzo di novanta usually meets with his son-of-a-bitch-colleagues.' Anatol was using Biely Jelen after shave on my freshly shaven beard.
'Good. Now, where we can find that pezzo di novanta?' I asked slowly standing up from the chair also starting to remember the cruelty of the so called Ded Moroz.

picture was taken from:
http://brzoza77.deviantart.com/art/Ded-Moroz-190902149

Kozlowsky's notes 14 - Sirjoznyj Kolhoz

I rememeber when I met Gonczarov at Sirjoznyj Kolhoz. It was during my night shift, ordinary night made extraordinary by a sudden visit.
At 2AM I took a break and went from Sovnarkom hq to the militia-friendly pub Sirjoznyj Kolhoz. I wanted relax a bit and have a game of bar billiards. At this time, the pub was full of militiamen who kept returning from city's actions or preparing to go for the night patrol. I ordered double vodka, took the cue and started to arrange the billiard balls. I noticed someone approaching me. I wanted to play alone so I was prepared to get rid of the wanna-be billiards player.
It was Gonczarov who approached me. He came closer to me and for a while we looked each other face to face. Before he even opened his mouth and spoke to me I noticed something disturbing in his appearnace, a pinch of insanity in his eyes. His lunatic look reminded me of my Czech colleague, Bratislav, who finally finished at the mental asylum. I studied philosophy with Bratislav back to our university days. He prepared his master's thesis about the origins of madness in society. He became so involved in it that eventually they took him in a straitjacket to the mental hospital. Since then I saw him only once. His eyes were absent, he slept almost all the day, most of his time being on strong medicaments. His body was not responsive, he had no longer that struggle to live and was now only an empty shell thrown out on the ocean of sharks. He was lost to his friends, family, closed in his mind, hung in the abyss somewhere among the brain neurons. 
Gonczarov had similar look and it wasn't long for me to have realized that I have to take precautions speaking to him.
'Playing billiards?' He started the conversation, as if trying to gather accurate words.
'That's right, no better way to relax for a while.' I answered and hit the green ball into the left corner.
'So, what have you been doing lately?'
'This and that, nothing special...'
'...still working on that murder case, aren't you?'
'Still.' I tried to cut the conversation. 
'You are quiet good at developing it. Must have good informants in the city.' Gonczarov smiled and looked at me waiting to get his answer. I hit another ball but said nothing. 
'I wonder who helps you. Must be someone really close to you.'
'You know that I cannot tell anyone about my insidemen.' I told it and at the same time regretted telling it to him.
'So, you are not denying that you have someone?' Gonczarov was excited to learn something from me. I revealed something that I shouldn't have. It was like she said once. Involuntarily I can reveal some information just talking carelessly to people who can squeeze some important facts out of  me and use them against me. Whatever, I thought, I hit the black ball into the right corner.
'Hey, you hit the black ball as the last one, you still have some on the table. You just hit the wrong ball' Gonczarov all the time was supervising my game.
'No, Gonczarov, I hit the right one.' I replied. I lifted the black ball from the corner in my hand and put it into his hand. 'It is the right one.' I looked at his absent eyes and left Sirjoznyj Kolhoz.

Kozlowsky's notes - 13 Death and beyond

I have never realized that Death can be so sudden.
He creeps and lurkes in every corner of our life. He follows your shadow, sits down by your side when you drink coffe, jumps into the tram with you, when you rush and try to catch the wagon. He offers you the job position which takes away your life, it renumerates you with sorrow and tears once you settle down and let you build your family, only to allow you to see them dying in you hands.
Just for one moment I wanted to forget that thought. Forget that He will catch me someday. But more than this I was afraid of the fact that He will come first for my beloved ones. He will take them before me, He will destroy my earthly life by taking away the ones I have protected and cherished. And if he does it He will no longer have to wait to take me. My life without my love would be the contradiction of
my existence.
If someone told me how I died I wouldn't be at all surprised. The only thing that could have left me in anger would have been the fact of not finishing the things that I wanted to do. I reckon that almost all people die like this-not having finished their own work, their opus magnum or at least not seeing their children having their own children. On the other side, what can be more irritating than thinking what you have still to do and not finishing it? Well, this is how I ended. I got killed before I solved that mystery. 

Or maybe there wasn't any mystery only my mind wanted to find one? We all search for something like if that urge to find things were our modus operandi. We all want something, desire things or people. We hold to these cravings like idiots dancing among each other in the ballroom. I wanted to know the truth behind the investigation though the truth was something that I imagined to find in the place where there were no answers. I followed the white rabbit straight to the hole but the hole was fake. It all started to disappear once I entered it. It melted and vapoured away. It was like black magic-full of deceptive appearances. But man makes life complicated and tries to find solution where there are none. Or better said, there are solutions but they are not permanent, only temporary, they change and adapt according to the person and world we live in.
Tawarisz Gonczarov. It was Gonczarov who finally got me.
On Saturday's night I left Bielila Gviezda and headed towards my flat. I partied with my office colleagues which I shouldn't have done. They must have arranged my assassination. They informed the guys who waited in front of the bar to whack me. Drunk but still keeping my sense of control of things I strolled down Novosybirskaja ulica. 

Of course they chose a dark corner to attact me. Three rookies circled me and took out knives. 

'Let's have some fun, boys,' I dared to speak to them but knew I had no chance to get out from that alive. 4 knives against my feeble, unarmed body. They were young boys, in their twenties but agile to use the blade. The first wanted to stab me in the stomach. I jumped to the side, managed to take control of his right arm and directed the knife to his head. With a swift move, I slit his throat and a gush of blood dispersed on the street. The first assaulter was down. Right after this two boys simultaneously attacked me from both sides. I didn't manage to hold against one of them and saw how he reached me with his sharp blade right under my left rib. The blade went smoothly into the coat, pierced through it and entered into my body, like a knife slits into butter that my grandmother used to smear on sandwiches that once she had made especially for me. I still remembered the taste of fresh bread baked by her in the oven. Now, blood started to fill in my mouth. I smiled on that nice thought about the freshly baked bread. It is funny how a man remembers those tiny parts from life facing Him. 

The third hitman was few inches from me and already started to sting me with his pocketknife. One sting, secondandthirdandfourth and stopped to take a breath and again onetwothreefourfivesix stabs in my body. After the first three stabs I didn't even feel that strong pain. It just passed by. I was slowly losing consciousness. I didn't remember how but I broke one of the hitmen's arm. I remembered him screaming in pain. The third boy was really stubborn and wanted to make a Swiss cheese out of me. He kept stabbing me until I lost my patience, took the knife away and thrust it into his eyeball. Again scream and again pain and again blood. I fell to my knees bleeding. 

I knew there were rickshaws' stand round the corner. If I got to one of them so it could take me to her. I wanted to go to her place, becasue it was hers and because I could feel good with her, because I wanted to die beside her. I knew they might wait for me at the hospital once I would manage to get out of that mess. But I wanted to see her and to be taken care of her. I knew she could help me. She was the only person I could rely on. I trusted her. 

If only I reached that rickshaw. I had to get out of that dark street and shout for the rickshaw boy. I could see the him waiting for the customer, smoking tobacco. I tried to shout but he couldn't hear me, I was too feeble to shout again. I stretched my hand as if trying to reach him, wanted him to help me, to see me bleeding in the street.
Then I saw the figure coming out from the pararell street. Gonczarov. I was too naive to have thought that I could manage to see her before I die. Too naive to think that I can get out of it like this. Survive? I laughed at my naivety. Gonczarov approached me and took out his pistol. He aimed at me and fired two shots in my head. Thank you Gonczarov, you relieved me from my naivety, but mostly you saved me from seeing my loved ones dying in front of me. On my hands, in my heart. I am too weak to see them dying and you Gonczarov, you made me happy this way. You killed me before noble Death took them. I appreciate it. Thank you.

Sisyphus

Sisyphus
est l'histoire d'un homme qui se met au travers d'une tempete de neige dans la veine tentative d'atteindre une destination qu'il n'a pas l'espoir de pouvoir jamais rejoindre, mais toujours il essaye...

He returned again. Tightly gripping a mug in his hand, he opened the door. There was a strong blizzard outside. His way led through the whirlwind of snow. And that cold. It was the lowest temperature ever. Frost could be smelled, for his nose hardly took icy air into the lungs. He was not warm dressed for the journey but he was good dressed. A long, black coat that is rather worn in autumn and a cap with ear-protectors, a Siberian type. The leather on his boots was cracking and he could feel that his feet were freezing. One would observe that his trousers looked as if made of fragile material. If touched, they would crumble and shatter into small pieces. Dry snow screech under the sole.

He put the cup on the fridge and reached for a bag of tea. Then he poured some boiling water into the cup (smiling Piglet was walking around the cup) and squeezed a lemon, just a bit. Just for the taste. When Piglet was steaming with hot tea, he lighted a Chesterton, took a deep breath inhaling the smoke and produced a puff with a sigh of relief. His face resembled an arctic iceberg, the one mountaineers have after having experienced hard routes on the Arctic Circle. Frost on his beard gave a tinge of nobility. His face was so rigid because of cold that the only facial expression he got was but a smile. He could not change it due to freezing wind he fought with outside.

When he was finished with the duality of his standard procedures, he uttered:

‘And I’m off!’

and a blast of icy wind got through the threshold as he opened the door. With the cup of tea and a lighted Chesterton, he set off on his journey toward the Nord. He knew that the less he inhaled, the farther point he would reach. He also bore in mind that the cup of tea had its finite content and the fewer gulps he took, the less he would have to inhale and the fewer puffs, the fewer gulps. And the fewer puffs and gulps, the nearer it is to the aim of the journey. And the aim was always at the hand. When the point was close, he would feel it. But the closer he was, the more he doubted. ‘Will I get to the point this time? Will my fuel suffice? How long do I still have to go?’

The wind was almost blowing off his face. The frozen drops of water hit his cheeks, puncturing and cutting his jubilant visage. Many miles have passed, his muscles began to get tired and the body suffered. His step slowed demanding a force he no longer possessed. But his bare hands still held Piglet cup and a glowing Chesterton. He watched out not to let the tea freeze in the cup and to keep his smouldering cigarette going.

When the place was within his reach (he could feel it), he suddenly enlivened himself. Though the blizzard was severe and it was hard to see anything, the power and energy filled his organic system. The goal was near, he could almost touch the place. A few steps and he’s there. Joy struck his heart. He was almost there!

But it was a short-term happiness. He looked at his cup and saw it empty. He wanted to take a puff but the Chesterton was now only a fag-end. He was smiling due to the incapability of changing his facial expression but in the heart he cried. Once again he failed. The way he had walked ended in a downfall. He held his expired Chesterton and could see the bottom of the cup. He had to go to the base. Once again.

On the way back, as usual, he reconsidered the plan. Fewer puffs, fewer gulps. One puff a minute, no, one puff per three minutes. He pondered about the ideal solution.

‘Three gulps per five minutes or maybe one and a half per six minutes?’ – he wondered being not sure whether this was his last decision or the fifth before the last one. The spirit of the challenge pushed him forward, so he headed for another cup of tea and a next Chesterton. And when he reached the base, once again he collected the two necessary items and tried again to finish his journey, though the journey was never to be finished.

‘This time I’m gonna make it. This time be my success’ – he repeated. ‘And I’m off!’

He closed the door and went off heading the Nord, heading the night.