Detective Kunst took a long look at the body, lost in thought, the arrow still piercing the flesh, the ashen face, eyes clouded but wide open like she was shocked, finding death a surprise. He thought the skis didn’t look right, neither did the jacket that had been only half zipped. Kunst kept his observations to himself while he absorbed every inch of the scene. There were very few things he missed when it came to murder.
The wind picked up. “Let’s head back down and get inside,” Kunst told Grange, “we need to question the coach first.”
The detective nodded, taking the lead toward the snow mobiles.
The circular chalet featured tall windows that went from floor to the vaulted ceiling. The one hundred, eighty degree fenestration gave a dynamic view of the nature outside, tall evergreens dotted with white and naked birches, the occasional deer or white fox could be enjoyed by anyone lucky enough. A fire raged in the fireplace. Groups of people in colorful sweaters with flag emblems, snow pants and boots were scattered through the room, drinking hot drinks of a variety of types. Officers were posted to keep them company as they waited for the detectives.
Every head turned as they entered with a swish of the doors.
“Good morning, everyone,” Kunst said. The room seemed to have held its breath. “Where is Coach Morozov?”
Viktor Morozov stood a head taller than most. A past professional skier himself, his retirement came early from an injury. He was lean, but powerful, his hair dark, but streaked with gray, eyes a pale-blue that were sharp and observant. A prominent scar went from his left ear toward his jaw, slicing his cheek in two. He excused himself through the team members who surrounded him. The group either sniffed back tears or looked smug at the detectives. Kunst stiffened slightly as the coach got closer. Grange watched him grow angry and try to hide it.
“Come with us, this way,” Grange said. They all followed him to a small conference room on the second floor of the lodge. It decorated in contemporary lodge style, simple but rustic. Through the glass door was a balcony that went half the length of the one wing of the building.
“Coach Morokov,” Kunst said through gritted teeth, his jaw twitching, “We are very sorry for your loss.” An officer stood guard outside. Management had the table set up and ready for them as requested. Grange heard irritation in the voice, but for a moment. He reminded him of the severe tragedy that occurred and of course they wanted to figure out what happened to the poor victim.
“Of course, it is quite distressing for us, this tragedy, but we are busy,” Morozov sat down opposite to Kunst and gave him a look of impatience. “There is no one on this team who would do such a thing. You must look to someone else.”
“Ja, we will be brief with each one of you,” Kunst replied, smoothing his grey gaberdine trousers after sitting. “I will have additional questions when we have gathered the evidence, of course.”
“Very well, of course, we’d only be happy to cooperate in this matter,” he said, leaning back against the upholstered chair. He crossed his legs and placed his intertwined his fingers on his lap while he waited for the first question.
An uncomfortable silence settled on them. Grange studied Kunst’s face. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was going on with his boss.
“Thank you for your understanding,” Kunst started. “It will be difficult for you now, with your star athlete no longer alive.” His tone had become harsh. Grange stirred nervously in his seat. He gripped his pen, his finger became white.
“Yes,” he replied, “she was my star athlete. The whole team is strong this year though. The others will focus on winning, for Ekaterina.” His voice became low, melancholic.
“Of course,” Kunst sat back casually against his chair, his eyes narrowing, gazing at the man across from him. “Was there any arguments that you may have heard between the victim and someone else, either recently or perhaps past?”
”No, nothing like that,” he started, “but, you know how temperamental people can be and the stress of the competition, and, of course, everyone is tired, from travel and training.”
”Of course,” Kunst said, jotting down some notes into his notebook. “What about correspondence, anyone threatening the victim that way?”
”No,” he replied sharply.
Kunst made more notes.
“Did she have any boyfriends?” Grange chimed in.
”Ach, Ja, boyfriends…or girlfriends?” Kunst looked at Morozov.
”Of course, she had ex boyfriends, but no one threatening her that I’d know of. You must ask her team mates, they will know.”
”We will,” Kunst said. He cleared his throat, biding his time for his last question, “And, what about your relationship with her? Was it strictly professional or..”
The coach’s eyes shot up at Kunst, wide, in disbelief and didn’t let him finish his question, “What do you mean by ‘relationship’, please? What are you saying?”
“Exactly as you think it means,” Kunst said. He leaned forward in the chair. The coach’s face became red. Detective Kunst watched him as he grew agitated. Grange stared at Kunst, then moved his gaze to Morozov’s. Their eyes met and Grange looked down at his notebook.
“There was no ‘relationship’ other than professional. I want you to know, detective, that those ladies are off limits, to everyone, especially while we are training and competing. There is no time for camaraderie, no time for nonsense,” he voice was as a shard of flint, it cut through the room and made its point.
“Thank you for your candor, Coach Morozov,” Kunst waved his hand to him and wrote more into his notebook. Morozov got up in a huff, the chair came close to falling over and he left them cursing in Russian. Kunst gritted his teeth harder. Grange had been used to his stoic manner, but this was beyond his usual behavior. “Let’s move on to…Irina Volkova.”
Grange got up and told the officer outside to get the next person. There was no such drama. Kunst and Grange asked their questions and moved on. Kunst examined each person, with some he was gruff, others, indifferent. They finished and the detectives sat alone in the room, reviewing notes. Kunst had his fingers pressed together sitting back in his chair. The dark cloud remained over him. His nose flaring, German words came out that didn’t sound so nice to Grange.
Grange waited for Kunst to mentally come back into the room.
“So, I noticed something interesting,” he began, swinging back and forth in his chair, “not with their behavior, but in yours.”
“Hmmm,” Kunst laid his pen on the notebook and crossed his arms against his chest, “what do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “you’ve been out of sorts and the questions seem…well,…unusually harsh for them just losing their teammate. What’s up with you?”
Kunst looked over at him and pushed himself up from the chair. He headed to the window, crossed his arms firmly and looked out over the white terrain outside. Clouds had shrouded the sun and their appearance meant more snow. “It is nothing,” he replied. “I…am ready to go. Oh, we forgot someone on the list.. Paval Chernov, the equipment manager. I saw him, but he didn’t come in.”
”I think he had been sent for some supplies,” Grange replied. “We can question him later.”
They went back to the city, snow began to fall in tiny balls which turned into light rain as the zigzagged through the hills. Kunst spoke to no one as he entered the precinct. As soon as he got to his office, he shut the door, hung his coat up on the rack in the corner, and sat down at his immaculately clean desk. Kunst had precision and a tense relationship with orderliness that drove Grange crazy.
Detective Grange had intermittently looked at him through the open blinds of his office windows. He had taken a few calls and sat reading files in between. He tapped his pen against his notebook, made multiple phone calls trying to track down the ex-boyfriend, Nikolai Vetrov, but without luck. He was MIA according to his roommate. He left the night before and he hadn’t heard from him since. All his clothes were gone. Grange told him to call if he heard from him and left him with his cell number. Grange knocked on the glass before opening the door to let Kunst know, only a grunt came as his reply.
“Keep on top of it, Grange.”
“Can do, sir.” He saluted and shut the door.
Kunst opened the front door of his house with a sigh, his wife deep in the cushions of the sofa, reading a book, their cat, Charley, curled up next to her. She looked up as he flopped next to her.
“That good a day, I see,” she replied, turning a page and placing a marker between the pages. “What happened?” Charley stretched its black feet and curled on its head, waiting for a pet on her stomach.
“A murder of one of the olympic skiers,” he replied. He pushed each shoe off with the other foot and stretched out, sliding his hand on the silky fur between them. She stretched and turned, purring with each stroke. “She was found on the chair of the old ski lift, maybe killed somewhere else, considering the amount of blood, or the lack of blood really, but that could have been covered with snow. The trajectory of the wound was straight on, not from below or above. We need to find the scene of the murder, that is what I left Grange to do. There is an ex-boyfriend, according to her best mate, Anya Moroza.” He let out another sigh while he scratched Charley’s head.
“What’s your experience telling you?” She had placed her book to the side and leaned closer to him, her head against the thick back cushion.
“Lover’s quarrel gone wrong, jealousy, or something in between, or maybe both. Meaning I am still not sure. I have too many questions and I need to find where she was shot with the arrow…”
“She was shot with an arrow? Yikes,” she exclaimed. “That’s pretty grim. On that note, not to change the subject, but are you hungry?”
“Ja, starved,” he replied.
“I have some leftovers,” she got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. He followed her.
He followed. “I am trying to figure out the motive and why the ski lift. Is there a purpose? There are so many questions that whirl in my brain, you know how I am, schatz.”
“I do,” his wife nodded as she placed the leftovers on the plate and put it in the microwave.
“There is another issue I am having something that is clouding my judgement, something that I think you only know bits and pieces about, my family’s history. We don’t really talk about it much.”
“Is that right? Believe me, I noticed your family is pretty much closed-lipped about family things, especially histories.”
“True, and I am sorry about that. It haunts us like a persistent specter. It came all rushing back to me as soon as I heard the coach speaking in Russian.”
“Why would that be,” she looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “It’s just another language.”
He looked at her with a sheepish expression, his cheeks turning red. “You know I pride myself on being non-judgemental and try to look at things based on facts, but…as soon as I heard…him speak… well, it all flooded in on me.”
The ding of the microwave sounded and she took out the plate.
“Okay, so I am confused. What does Russia have to do with anything?”
“Russia has EVERYTHING to do with it. It is a family…trauma I guess you can call it. A prejudice of sorts, but from something that happened a long time ago, with my great-grandmother and the story my father told me. It became like – a legacy of dislike…and I am a bit ashamed of my bias, to be honest.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I am gonna need a little bit more information, please.”
“Ja, of course, once upon a time,…”
Copyright © Rachel D. Knepp.
