They had the first round. Zhuravlev made a toast to fellow officers. A standard holiday toast, the kind spoken that day in offices all over the country.
Then they ate. Zhuravlev ate greedily and fast, as always. Helped himself to a second plate before anyone else was done.
Galimov ate more slowly, neatly. Washed it down with vodka. Savchenko spread butter on bread, chased bites with pickles, mixed his pilaf with sauerkraut.
Kovalenko picked at his food. Drank two shots, ate half a plate. No more.
Around eight, Kovalenko said he didn’t feel well. Assumed it was the vodka. He wasn’t much of a drinker.
He got up from the table. Zhuravlev waved him off. “Go on then, if you’re lightweight. We’ll manage without you.” Kovalenko went to his duty room on the first floor.
Lay down on the cot. That saved him. Not because he left early.
He had already gotten his dose. But because downstairs, on the first floor, there was a phone line. And when an hour and a half later he got much worse—vomiting, leg cramps, convulsions—he managed to pick up the receiver and call the guard room.
He rasped two words: “Help. Headquarters.” Then passed out.
The guard reached him in five minutes. Found Kovalenko on the floor by the phone. Called the duty officer.
The duty officer called the doctor, Kovaleva. She came running with her medical bag, examined Kovalenko. Threadlike pulse.
Dilated pupils. Vomiting. Convulsions.
She gave atropine. Standard treatment for poisoning. Then someone said: what about the men upstairs?
They went up to the second floor. The same warrant officer, Lykov, who found the bodies, opened the office door. Zhuravlev.
Face in the plate. No pulse. Body already cooling.
Galimov on the floor. Curled up. Foam at the mouth.
Dead. Savchenko on the couch. Eyes open, as if surprised.
Dead. On the table, the cauldron half empty. Plates with leftover pilaf.
Three bottles. Two empty, one open. Glasses.
A jar of pickle brine. Kovaleva examined the bodies. Later she admitted she understood right away.
This wasn’t alcohol. Not a heart attack. Not food poisoning.
Foam on Galimov’s lips. Dilated pupils. Bodies twisted by convulsions.
Everything pointed to poison. But out loud she said something else: “Possible food poisoning. Call the investigative team from Karaganda.”
Maybe she wanted to give Zulfiya time. Or maybe she was simply afraid. Afraid of what would begin once the truth came out.
Because along with the truth about the poisoning would come the truth about Thursdays. About what Kovaleva had covered up.
For years. The investigative team arrived from Karaganda around 1 a.m. Two prosecutors’ investigators.
A crime-scene technician. A forensic pathologist. The lead investigator was Captain of Justice Kassym Dzhumabayev. Thirty-six, Kazakh.
An experienced investigator. Before this he had worked homicide cases in Karaganda. Short, thin, tired eyes, and a habit of smoking one cigarette after another.
Dzhumabayev examined the office. The bodies, the table, the food. Ordered: “Everything on the table gets packed, sealed, and sent for testing.”
“The cauldron first.” Then he asked: “Who cooked?” He got the answer immediately.
Everybody knew. The whole prison staff knew who cooked for the administration. Zulfiya Akhmetova. Who else?
At 2 a.m. Dzhumabayev ordered: “Put Akhmetova in isolation. No questioning until morning. Let’s wait for the lab results.”
But there was no need to go looking for Zulfiya. When the guards came to the kitchen, she was there. Sitting on a stool, peeling potatoes for breakfast.
Knife in her right hand, potato in her left, bucket of peels at her feet. Steady, calm, as if nothing had happened. The guard said: “Akhmetova, on your feet. Isolation.”
Zulfiya looked up at him. “Breakfast is almost ready. Can I finish?”
The guard blinked, thrown off. Then shook his head. “No. Let’s go.” Zulfiya set down the knife and the potato.
Stood up. Wiped her hands on her apron. Untied it and hung it on the nail by the wall.
Walked to the door. There she turned once. Looked at the kitchen, the kettles, the stove, the table where for three years she had chopped, stirred, salted.
Then she walked out. She never came back to that kitchen. The first interrogation…
