A Goddamn Moskal

“Ah hell…!”

It had become a common occurrence hearing Kuzma cuss at the state of the roads, their cruiser skid uncontrollably along the road and even the slightest throttle sent them into a swirl. Lesya had a good chuckle to herself whenever Kuzma was behind the wheel. He wasn't a terrible driver, very much the opposite, Lesya would go so far as to claim he excelled at it. But no matter how much he struggled, there was no control with this much ice and snow on the road. Looking on as a bystander, you would be hard pressed to actually believe they'd get to where they were going. But as luck would have it, they did, mostly. They had a full list of excuses they made up stuck on the road between A and B, in that list were examples such as; “We got stuck behind some asshole who stopped in the middle of the road with his indicators on. Turns out he just stopped for a snack.”
Whether or not their superiors or anybody else for that matter actually believed them seemed somewhat irrelevant, considering their authority amidst the force. There were few too curious for silent understanding, and those few were sure to be lectured. Lesya had her ways, Kuzma had understood this very clearly during their time together. She had the capacity for soft tender compassion, and taken out of the usual context, it may have made her look something close to a sociopath should you be so inclined. In actual fact she was stable. Probably more stable than most of her associates. It could easily be mistaken for professionalism, a term so rare it seemed almost profound. In certain sectors even considered a negative quality among officers.
Once they arrived, they did so with wonderful drama. Trying to pull over by the curb, Kuzma instead slid up onto it and nearly collided with the sentry posted just outside the door. He drew his weapon and aimed for Kuzma, who in desperate panic threw his hands up high and threw his face to either side, all the while cursing and swearing. Lesya, quite calm, raised her badge in front of her and motioned the guard to ease and stand down. After some careful explanation, they were inside and, in Kuzma’s case, witnessed the royally decorated interior for the first time. Refurbished following a fire in the early 1900’s, the handywork was that of an italian-american who with much care, designed what would be his magnum opus. A massive oval shaped lobby with a massive dome shaped glass roof, dyed so as to depict Lenin's rise to power. The floor was a mirroring marble finish aligned in ovals with polished silver linings in between. Unable to comment in his admiration and disbelief. He gawked the room, bottom to top, floor to ceiling. The lower part of the walls were golden brass in firm straight lines and wandering grooves. Atop them stood a wall so high it had started to sag into a concave worry. By the center of its curvature, fractures had started appearing from under the blue facade. An eerie reminder of neglect in the ministry, and a constant conversation piece for distraught cultural figures.
Greeting them from across the room, was the receptionist. Hair thrown around as if stylized by a storm, his exterior seemed less than inadequate to present such majesty. Nevertheless he still sounded experienced enough.

“We’re here on official commision.”

Lesya responded, handing the man a stamped document with a firm leatherback which he inspected for authenticity.

“Oh, from the big guy himself, huh?”

“Yup, that's right. Which should tell you something about its importance, huh.”

Kuzma tried his hardest to convey a somewhat threatening posterior, although it failed by principle, Lesya was by proxy a kind of meddling force, weighing him up from just behind.

“Of course, I'm not here to stand in your way, if I could just have your names and social security numbers?”

Even though he worked for it, Kuzma was always weary whenever they, the government, asked for his social security numbers. Some unexplainable paranoia, that's what Lesya called it.
Once past all the formalities, the receptionist, obviously intrigued by their visit, asked the reason for their stay.

“Never you mind your pretty little head.”

Lesya replied. Once through the checkpoint they made their way to the elevators and journeyed down, into the bowels of the ministry.
“You ever think this whole thing is some internal affair, like among the workers? What if he got bullied into it?”

“It's not a schoolyard, Kuzma. Probably just unhappy with life, I've seen it a couple a times now.”

“Bullying doesn't stay in the schoolyard though. I know a friend, if not a couple who have been bullied in adulthood. Heck even I was bullied at university.”

“You got that kind of way about you though, I wanna bully you all the time, lucky for you I restrain myself.”

“Go to hell, you asshole.”

They both chuckled as they stepped out into the damp concrete bunker that was the basement. Laughing came from a nearby room and they walked towards it. Inside sat Putra and the rest of his workmates enjoying what little lunch they had time for. At first glance of the the two leather coats, silence enveloped the room. Most of the workers stared solemnly into their smoking cups, knowing to mind their own business.

“Putra, anybody?” Said Lesya.

Putra slowly raised his hand and leaned back in order to sooth himself before an inevitable questioning.

“Would the rest of you please leave us.”

Lesya ordered and the men stood up in clear disappointment, throwing their plastic cups in the sink and muttering all the way through the door. Both detectives sat down opposite Putra and he took a few deep breaths and avoided both their gazes. Judging by his bloodshot eyes and the bags that hung underneath, Putra was either heavily overworked, or having some major sleeping disorder.

“Do you know why we're here?”

“This is about Anita or Marcus?”

“Who is Anita?”

Putra looked quite honestly surprised, Kuzma very much the same, giving Lesya a confused look as if suspecting her of withholding information from him.
Taking out her notebook and pen she asked Putra;

“Could tell me a little bit about Anita?”

“You don't know much do you? She's the chief around here, I'm just a stand-in.”

“So why isn't she here?”

“She was in a car accident a few blocks from here just a couple of days ago. Figured you should’ve know about this. I went to see her yesterday and she isn't well at the moment, coma. Doctor said she might pull through though. He mentioned something about her spine being broken, I was only half paying attention really. Can't muster the energy at the moment.”

Lesya’s worry instantly grew much worse and she couldn't help but to see a pattern appear. Albeit a very vague one, Kuzma seemed to be on the same page and gave her a conspicuous look. Not sure whether or not to dig deeper into Anita's situation or keep on course, she began with the latter.

“So, Marcus Tolotj, tell us a little about him.”

Putra now seemed confident in his response, this is what he had assumed they would talk about.

“Marcus worked here, he worked the second floor when he was still with us, I think he enjoyed the solitude.”

“Tell us about his personal life, how was he as person?”

“Well, I never managed to talk to him all that much, we usually never spoke during working hours, but he would occasionally join in on our conversations during lunch or breakfast. Can't say I really did much myself to help acclimate the guy, but…”

“Did he ever, in any way appear hostile towards you or your colleagues? Did he have any, enemies, if you will?”

“No no, Marcus wasn’t that kind of guy, only thing I think we ever spoke of was his kid and their plans for the weekend. I mean I can't speak for everybody in his life, but as far as I know, he was about as hostile as a hummingbird.”

Lesya immediately picked up on the mentioning of a kid and continued;

“Did you ever spend any time with him outside of work, or do you know of anybody who might have?”

“I think me and Anita were about the only ones who ever talked to him. If he had any friends outside of work, I wouldn’t have any idea.”

“Okay, Putra, I'm gonna ignore our code of conduct and I urge you to work with us to the best of your ability, because this involves your personal safety and that of your coworkers.”

Putra immediately seized up, he seemed almost frozen where he sat, eyes stuck in a wide stare.

“Marcus was a drug addict, of sorts, he abused antidepressants. He's never had a child. Whether or not his death was self-inflicted, seems questionable as of right now.”

“You suggesting he was murdered?”

“It's not completely out of the question. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary here, or on your way here every day? Any suspicious characters sneaking around?”

“Well, we have this new guy Pavlov, not sure what's wrong with him really. I mean he's a big help when he's here, I mean, jesus he's built like Pavlov's house itself. Never mind he's stronger than any man I've known, but he doesn't say much, kinda like Marcus, but whenever he does he just gets off topic and almost starts questioning you and stuff like that, hasn't done it to me that much but Anita mentioned him doing it.”

“So this, Pavlov, does he have any last name? Is he here now?”

“No he's not here, called in sick last time Anita was here and hasn't been back since. I don't really like ratting people out but, I mean I'm sure he hasn't done anything, so I suppose he'd be fine if you asked him a couple of questions.”

Lesya asked Putra for any documentation on Pavlov and with skepticism he got up and went over to one of the cabinets by the wall, knowing full well he'd be held responsible should something go amiss, flicked through some documents and, after a thorough double take not to confuse it with a previous employee, handed it over to Lesya.

“Pavlov Fyodorovich. No previous experience… there isn’t much information on this guy, is there? Do you have an address at least?”

“That’s all we have on him.”

“How in the world did he even snatch a position here? I thought the ministry was all about strict intake and safety?”

“I've been thinking about that myself, I just figured they saw his brawn and heard his confidence and thought he won't be burnt out that quickly. That's my theory.”

“Doesn't sound terribly unlikely, I suppose. Listen, will you call my office as soon as he shows up again?”

“I guess I would, but the phones here don't work like that. We can only receive calls from outside the office, we can't make any calls except inside the office.”

“Well in that case you make sure to tell your superiors that you have to make an important phonecall.”

“Can't show my face to anyone in the office. For some reason all the hotshots seem to deny the fact that we exist, as if the shit under their feet just vaporizes without any human intervention, it's annoying as shit, we constantly have to rush in and clean in a hurry while that floor or this is off on lunch or whatever.”

“Well can you make domestic phone calls at the very least?”

“Yeah, that should still be a possibility.”

“Well in that case you make sure to call someone with an outgoing line and relay a message to us at the department.”

She wrote down their number on a blank page in her notebook and tore it out and gave it to Putra.

“That’s our number, make sure you keep track of it, put it on the fridge or something, don’t lose it.”
She steadied the pencil in her hand and wrote down Pavlov and started documenting what little they had.
“Now, Pavlov; what does he look like, tell us his defining features.”

“Well, like I told you, he's built like a house. He's completely bald and his chin is covered in a thick black beard. Other than that, I don't know, quite a few scars here and there.”

“Baldness doesn’t tell us much, does it?”
Kuzma chipped in, referring to how common a sight baldness had become in a state where most people worked twelve hours shift. Lesya concurred.
She thought back to the crime scene they had visited just a couple of days prior; the black piece of hair sprung into view. She kept the thought to herself and thanked Putra for his cooperation.

“Don't think about, I just hope this whole ordeal gets resolved, and I wish you all the luck in your work.”

His whole tone and approach had changed since their appearance, Lesya thought, but that's how we work isn't it? Oblivious to all danger until we literally stumble on it, and only then, after much ailment we stand ready to fix it. It's either that or we are too selfish to regard any threats made to somebody else as a peril to ourselves. She herself had an excess of experience in the matter. It had shaped her personality through a rough series of incidents she never spoke of, even though Kuzma often inquired in almost frantic curiosity.

“We’ll check on you in about week if we haven’t heard back from you by then.”

Putra nodded in agreement and sipped his cold coffee with palpable disgust. On their way outside, the rest of the janitorial staff muttered lowly as the two leathercoats passed by without so much as a glance in their direction. They obviously held some kind of grudge these sweaty, sloppily dressed men with their greasy thinning hair slicked back across their scalps. Lesya didn’t even need to see them before she knew of their discontent, hearing their whispering bursting into sound laughter. She stopped, Kuzma just managed to halt himself before colliding with her. He knew very well why she stopped and he tried talking her out of it, promising her he’d buy her a coffee on their way back to the office. She turned around, and even though he felt considerably nervous, Kuzma stood fast in front of her. She didn’t look at him, instead she glared one of the staff who sat laughing a few feet away.

“Let’s just go, I know they’re douchebags, but you don’t need to.”

She met Kuzmas eyes and immediately calmed down. She hadn't always been this easily agitated, at one point she was very much like Kuzma; careful and precarious in all her actions. After her first couple of brawls, and the occasional shootout, she grew increasingly numb and violence came natural. She was grateful for Kuzma, he acted counterweight to her increasingly savage resolve and who even knew how many conflicts he had prevented. She gave him a smile and turned towards the exit with a brisk step, Kuzma following close behind. Upon entering the elevator, and the closing of the door, the snickering came to an abrupt stop, and then there was silence.