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 the coach?”
Viktor Morokov 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. They all had blood-shot eyes from tears shed with the bad news. Kunst stiffened slightly as the coach got closer, something in his eyes disturbed Grange. It had a strange effect on his face making Grange raise an eyebrow.
“Do we have a private office or room, Grange?”
“Yes, sir, this way,” he replied, turning to their right.
“Come this way, Coach Morokov,” Kunst gritted his teeth, his jaw twitching. An officer took up the rear of their procession. They rounded a corner and entered an office. A table had been set up for brief interviews. Kunst would determine who he wanted to do a more intensive interview at the station later. Unfortunately, the games were to begin soon and the entire team and crew balked at the inconvenience.
“Of course, it is quite distressing for us, this tragedy, but we are busy,” the coach sat down 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.”
“We will be brief with each one of you, ja,” Kunst replied, smoothing his grey gaberdine trousers after sitting. “Only two or three questions.”
“Very well,” he said, leaning back against the upholstered chair. He crossed his legs and intertwined his fingers while he waited for the first question.
An uncomfortable silence settled on them. They both looked uncomfortable, for different reasons.
“I am sorry for your loss,” 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 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. “And, can you explain your relationship with the victim?”
The coach’s eyes shot up at Kunst, wide, in disbelief. “What do you mean by ‘relationship’, please?”
“Exactly as you think it means,” Kunst said. He leaned forward in the chair. The coach’s face became red. The detective watched every move he made, even the tiniest detail. He filed everything away into his brain.
“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.
Kunst excused the coach with a wave of his hand. The coach withdrew, cursing in Russian. Kunst gritted his teeth harder, his jaw working as if to suppress emotion. Grange had been used to his stoic manner, but this was beyond his usual behavior. The team members and support team filed in one after the other. 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, a dark cloud hovered over him.
Grange waited for Kunst to mentally come back into the room.
“So, I noticed something interesting,” he began, “not with their behavior, but in yours.”
“Hmmm,” Kunst 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 got up. He headed to the window, crossed his arms firmly and looked out into the white lumps of snow. “It is nothing,” he replied. “I…am ready to go. Let’s get back to the precinct. Arrange this list of people to come for more questioning. I have included those who were not here today as well. I do believe there was a love interest from her past. I need to speak with them as well.”
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, hunting down the boyfriend on the list, but with no luck. He was MIA according to his ex-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, Charlie, 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?” Charlie 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 ski lift, obviously killed somewhere else, considering the amount of blood, or the lack of blood really. 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. He can’t find the rumored boyfriend either.” He let out another sigh while he scratched Charle’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. “I am trying to get my head around staging the body that way. Is there a purpose? Or, just because the murderer wanted to divert suspicion. That would take away the crime of passion, and bring in something planned.”
His wife nodded as she listened and placed the leftovers on the plate.
“There is another issue I am having that is clouding my judgement, something that I think you only know bits and pieces about, dealing with family 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 history.”
“True, and I am sorry about that, but it haunts us.”
“Sounds serious.”
He looked at her with a sheepish expression, his cheeks turning red. “I pride myself on being non-judgemental and try to look at things based on facts, but…as soon as I heard that we were dealing with the Russian team, it all flooded in on me.”
The ding of the microwave sounded and she took out the plate.
“What does Russia have to do with anything?”
“It is a family…trauma I guess you can call it, ja. A prejudice on both the German and Russian sides cropped up, reminding me of 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.”
“Ja, then, once upon a time,…”
