Stepan’s throat tightened. It was a calculation. A cold-blooded, cynical calculation. Artem knew how to melt a father’s heart—promise to name a grandson after him. And Stepan had almost believed it. Almost.
The recording continued to play. When the words about the other victims, about Olga, about Svetlana, were spoken, Nadezhda stood up and left the kitchen. Stepan heard her vomiting in the bathroom. She had always been sensitive. She believed in people, in goodness, in justice. Now her faith was crumbling along with her daughter’s world.
When the recording ended, a silence fell over the house. A terrible, dead silence. The kind that follows an explosion, when everything has been destroyed, and only the echo of the catastrophe remains.
Daria slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were red, swollen, but there was something new in them, something hard as steel. Stepan recognized that look; he saw it in the mirror every morning for thirty years.
“How many were there?” she asked quietly. “How many women did he kill?”
“I counted at least three. Maybe more.”
“And he’s walking free?”
“Until today, yes.”
Daria stood up. She was no longer crying. The tears had dried, leaving salty tracks on her cheeks.
“Call the police,” she said. “Now. Immediately. I want to be there for his arrest. I want to see his face.”
Stepan nodded and took out his phone. Twenty minutes later, two patrol cars stopped in front of their house. A man Stepan had known for many years, Major Igor Saveliev, his former partner, got out of the first car.
“Stepa,” Saveliev shook his hand. “What’s up? The duty officer said it was urgent.”
“Igor, I need your help. Personal. And professional.”
Stepan handed him a flash drive with the recording.
“Listen to this. And tell me if it’s enough for an arrest.”
Major Saveliev listened to the recording in his car, wearing headphones. Stepan stood nearby, watching his face. He saw the expression change: from skepticism to surprise, from surprise to horror. When the recording finished, Saveliev took off the headphones and was silent for a long time. Then he looked at Stepan.
“You realize this won’t hold up in court, right? An illegal recording, without a warrant, private surveillance.”
“I realize that. Any lawyer will tear it to shreds. I know, Igor. But there are three dead bodies. At least three. Kira, Olga, Svetlana. If we dig, we’ll find more.”
Saveliev rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Let’s say I pull up the old cases. Let’s say I find a connection. But without direct evidence…”
“Then we need direct evidence.”
“How do you imagine that?”
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