“Three. Artem Krylov was the first. Then Andrei Kovalchuk. Then Alexei Karpenko.”
“And you didn’t ask why he needed so many identities?”
Zhanna took a drag from her cigarette.
“I asked. He said it was for security. So his ex couldn’t find him. I believed him. I wanted to believe him.”
“When did you find out the truth?”
Zhanna was silent for a long time. Then she went to a cabinet, took out a half-empty bottle of vodka and a glass. She poured, drank it down in one gulp.
“After Olga.” Her voice trembled. “We were… we were together then. Not as a couple, I’m too old for him. But we… saw each other sometimes. He said he valued me. That I was the only one who understood him.” She poured another. “That day he came to me. Excited, cheerful. Said the problem was solved. I asked, what problem? He laughed and said, ‘Olga won’t be asking any more unnecessary questions.’ I didn’t understand. The next day I read in the news: a woman slipped in the bathroom, hit her head.”
Stepan felt his heart clench.
“And you didn’t go to the police?”
“No.” Zhanna finished her vodka and set the glass aside. “I was scared. Not for myself, I stopped being scared for myself a long time ago. I was scared of him. Of what I saw in his eyes when he talked about Olga. He was smiling. Do you understand? Smiling. As if he were telling a funny joke.”
Saveliev exchanged a look with Stepan.
“That was four years ago?”
“Yes. Olga—four years ago. And then there was Kira. A year and a half after Olga.”
“Kira Melnikova?” Stepan clarified. “The one who fell from the balcony?”
“Yes. She started suspecting something. Went through his phone, found our messages. Wanted to go to the police.” Zhanna shuddered. “He came to me in a rage then. Said she would ruin everything, that he had to act fast. A week later—an accident.”
“And Svetlana?”
“Svetlana was the last one. A year and a half ago, on March 14th. She was more difficult. She had a brother who didn’t trust Artem from the beginning. Suspected something. Artem was nervous. Said he had to act fast. He…” Zhanna fell silent.
“What did he do?”
“He put sleeping pills in her drink. A lot. A whole lot. Then he called an ambulance, pretended to be distraught. The doctors didn’t make it in time. The autopsy showed an overdose. Everyone thought she did it herself. Depression, relationship problems.” Zhanna gave a bitter smile. “He knows how to create the right picture. He knows how to be convincing.”
“And the brother?”
“The brother didn’t believe it. Tried to prove something. But there was no evidence. Artem is clean, he’s always clean. Six months later, Svetlana’s brother died in a car crash.”
Stepan turned sharply.
“Was that him too?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Artem never talked about it. But the coincidence…” She didn’t finish.
Saveliev was writing down every word.
“How many victims were there in total, Zhanna? How many women did he kill?”
“The ones I know of—three. Olga, Kira, Svetlana. But there were others. Before me. He once mentioned that he started when he was young. That the first one was an accident, he hadn’t planned it. But then he realized how simple it was. How easy it was to get rid of someone and remain unpunished.”
“Who was the first one?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t name names. Only said he was 23 at the time.”
“And since then?”
Zhanna swallowed.
“Since then, he realized that people are a resource. One that can be used. And thrown away when it’s no longer needed.”
Stepan felt nauseous. Nine years. This man had been killing for nine years. Maybe longer.
“Why are you telling us this now?” Saveliev asked. “You realize this is a confession of complicity.”
Zhanna looked at him with tired eyes…
