Murder in Ukraine by Dan Spanton

 
     
    MURDER IN UKRAINE
    Dan Spanton
                 
    PART I
    I’m enjoying kasha and burnt sausage for breakfast, when I catch the first report of Tatty Akkuratney’s murder on my kitchen TV.  I don’t recognize the victim’s name, but it turns out she’s a moderately well-known YouTube blogger. A frail old babushka discovered the body as she was taking out her tiny sack of trash, and the camera pans to a dumpster and a cracked toilet beneath a leafless tree.
                  The crime is especially pitiful since the girl’s hands were chopped off.
    While I’m listening for details, my cat Masha takes scurrilous advantage and leaps onto the table to snag my sausage.  What can I do?  She’s barely out of kitten-hood and totally amoral.  If anyone knows how to discipline a cat, please write me – Constable Katya Kondrashov, Police Department, Kiev, Ukraine. 
    Well, that’s the end of Tatty Akkuratney, but it turns out it isn’t, because when I reach work I’m called into Commander Shulikov’s office.  He doesn’t ask me to close the door so I relax a bit.  Shulikov says he wants to pull me off patrol duty and loan me to a detective team, and he acts as if it’s completely routine, which if you know anything about the Kiev police department, it’s not. 
    A pair of detectives need assistance with phones and possible travel arrangements, and according to Shulikov I’m available for desk duty. I’m strictly an outdoor type, you can imagine my panic, until I learn that one of the detectives is Sanya Zubov, who has beautiful grey eyes, and shoulders like a shot-putter. (Don’t worry, I’m not delusional, I’m aware I don’t stand a chance with a handsome boy like Sanya.) 
    The other detective is Misha Volodney, whom I’ve seen around.
    Guess what?   They’re investigating the murder of videoblogger Tatty Akkuratney, and when I report for duty Mister Volodney says they’ve been deluged with phone tips.  Then he adds that we’re heading out, grab a set of keys from car pool, you’re driving.
    “I’m baby-sitting the phones,” I say glumly.
    Volodney grins.  “Keys, Constable.”  I brighten up.  Who am I to argue with a superior officer?
    Volodney gives me an address near Olympic Stadium, and while I’m chauffeuring him there, I ask why we’re not sifting the crime scene for clues.
    “We haven’t got a crime scene,” replies Volodney. “Not yet.”  He explains that although the body was dumped under a tree, the victim was murdered elsewhere. Possibly by Pasha Bulychuk, who was put on trial last year for raping and strangling a tram driver by the name of Natalia Bulgarin, and removing her arms with a hacksaw, not necessarily in that order. Pasha is the son of Deputy Bulychuk, of the Ukrainian parliament, which, we are told, had nothing to do with Pasha’s subsequent acquittal on all charges. 
    “Where’s Mister Zubov?” is my next question, referring to good-looking Sanya.  “Investigating,” says Volodney as he tosses a cigarette butt out the window. I’m guessing Volodney’s closing in on forty, I note with approval that his suit is clean and freshly ironed.
    ****
    I’ve never visited a Deputy of Parliament’s home, but as soon as we’re inside I can tell that this Deputy is divorced. It’s a single male’s playpen, twenty stories up, with a glass-top bar and rows of floor- standing, dancing-bubble fountains.  There’s gold plated plumbing on the sinks and the fridge holds rows of bottled Perrier, and the freezer is stocked with vodka and cheesecake. Volodney and I are poking around after the concierge lets us in.  No sign of the Deputy, nor of Pasha the acquitted hand hacker.
    A knock, I open the door and admit Detective Sanya Zubov.
    Let me stipulate that Zubov’s dual shades of brown hair, like two quality chocolates –a light Bavarian chocolate, melted and poured over a dark, Russian Babaevsky, and then swirled but not blended - have