Just completed, The Dog Who Bit The Policeman, the best I’ve yet read in series. My 1st read according to my Kindle library, which contains 6 in the series? This obviously is ignoring a distinct recollection of having read at least one in paperback form- sometime in the prior century. Chief Inspector Rostnikov is certainly memorable. His humanity struck a cord, and a hard to forget recollection with me. This particular story takes place 1990, as Russia struggles with its democracy experiment— crime, corruption and degradation soars.
I am a long-time fan of the police procedural. American noir tends more to the private eyes, and the bad guys, see Parker, Bosch being a notable exception. European noir however leans most heavily on the police inspectors and Commissario — see Maigret, Wallander, Dailgliesh, Montalbano, Brunetti, Ricciardi, Rebus, Banks, etc. And Kaminsky’s highly acclaimed long running police procedural series —Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, a Moscow police inspector (spanning 1981-2010) certainly is a must for readers of the police procedural. Next up for me A Cold Red Sunrise, 1989 Edgar Award winner for best novel. I find Rostnikov to be quite unique in the genre -both endearing and enduring. His quixotic views amidst corruption and decay, on both life and homeland, is noble and uplifting to those he encounters, be it gangsters, women and children, or dogs. The inspector’s soul sings out mother Russia. Kaminsky does a remarkable job depicting Russian character and heart through his oddball creation. To the story…
Moscow. “the number of registered weapons in Moscow, whose population hovers at nine million, was over three hundred thousand. Adding in the nonregistered weapons, the police estimated that there was one gun for every three Moscow residents, including babies and babushkas. [not quite up to US #’s I suspect] Also gone to the dogs— “ It was inevitable that enterprising criminals would find a way to reap profits from the wild dogs. First, some small-time dealers in stolen goods had captured the fiercest of the wild dogs and had organized dogfights —The newly rich, government bureaucrats, and a rabid assortment of bored tourists and Muscovites came to the illegal fights and wagered huge sums. The Armenian Mafia took over the original enterprise after persuading the four leading arrangers of such fights to sell out for a very reasonable price. selling out to a group of Muscovites reported to be heavily financed by international investors.”
Police Response. “No one in the Office of Special Investigation had any idea of why the Yak, Director Igor Yaklovev, had taken on the dogfight problem. Sasha Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva had been assigned to track down those who were running the illegal fights. They had dutifully taken on the identities of Kolk and Lyuba, and for several days Sasha had enjoyed the rich life and the four-hundred-dollar-a-night room. Elena would have preferred her own identity. —This pit bull is named Tchaikovsky. He was shipped to Kiev and then shipped here to me. You should have come to see him.” “I prefer cats,” said Elena. “You have the address where they told me to come,” he said, adjusting his hair. “If I am not back by morning …”
Subplot. “Elena was being pursued by Iosef Rostnikov, Inspector Rostnikov’s son — Iosef was smart, handsome, and, in spite of being considered Jewish, looking toward a promising future. Iosef had proposed several times to her — she did not want to come home each night to anything but the emotions she had earned during the day. Still, Iosef was wearing her down…”
Elsewhere. “The naked, rather hairy body of a large man floated facedown in the Moscow River. His massive buttocks rose and bobbed like twin pale balloons. The body was corpse white and bore a tattoo on the left arm which, like the right, drifted outward from the dead man.” The River. “It had grown worse with the fall of the Soviet Union and the chaos that had overrun the city. “Others do it. So, I do it too,” was the often-spoken excuse of those who lived near enough to the river to defile it. There were those who said the river had taken on a new and not pleasant smell. “It has the stink of freedom,” Lydia Tkach had said. —The boat was on the northern bank of the meandering river, directly across from the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski Moskau. -on the other side of the hotel was St. Basil’s Cathedral, Red Square, and the Kremlin. — “How did you get here, huh?” asked Rostnikov. “Well, my father …” “No, Igor. I was talking to our floating friend.” “He is dead,” “I was told once by a Inuit shaman in Siberia that it is a comfort to the souls of the dead to talk to them before they are taken by the spirits.” “I don’t believe either, but I find it helpful to speak to the dead even if they don’t answer. “What are you doing here? What happened to your clothes? Who are you?” A small undulation raised the body slightly. “Well, I’m sure you’ll talk to Paulinin,” said Rostnikov. “I’m comfortable talking to the dead, but he gets answers.” -Detective Emil Karpo known as “the Vampire” or “the Tatar” by criminals and law-enforcement officers. Karpo had been a completely dedicated Communist who had not overlooked the political system’s many shortcomings but who believed that eventually the system would succeed. The sudden transition from corrupt Communism to corrupt democracy had been difficult for Karpo, Emil Karpo spent all of his waking hours relentlessly pursuing criminals from both the past and the present. The man at his side, Paulinin, was shorter, disheveled, clad in a stained white laboratory coat, and decidedly uncomfortable.” Identification. “Tatar Mafia. The tattoo is theirs.” “A start,” said Rostnikov. “Paulinin?” My guess? He died last night. But …” —“We must turn him over,” said Paulinin. The dead man easily weighed two hundred fifty pounds. Rostnikov managed to grab the dead man under each arm. He took a deep breath and lifted the naked corpse from the water. “Yes,” said Paulinin, touching the man’s chest. “He is talking to me already. He will tell me much more in my laboratory.”
Sasha. “found myself in a big, high-ceilinged room with a wire-fenced square in the middle surrounded by about forty people, all men, standing. Two dogs were inside the wire fence. “‘You know dogs?’ asked Boris. “‘A bit,’ I said. “‘What do you say about these two?’ Two fresh dogs were led into the fenced square. One, tall, black and brown, a Doberman —The second dog, smaller than the Doberman, was, by his look, part terrier, part wolfhound, an odd-looking creature neither thirsting for blood nor afraid. He showed dignity. “‘I’ll take that one,’ I said, pointing at the part wolfhound. “‘Two hundred American dollars,’ “You bet two hundred dollars?” Elena said incredulously. “You needn’t worry. I wound up six hundred dollars ahead for the night.” “I told Boris and his friends that I had a dog I was interested in having fight in Moscow. I told him I had other dogs, all great fighters, in Kiev and that I could send for them. Perhaps we could arrange a cooperative venture.”
Rostnikov meets mafia chief and imparts an instructional tale on importance. “ ‘What do you see?’ asked the god. “‘Beetles,’ said the emperor. “‘Each of these beetles was once an emperor even more powerful than you,’ said the god.” “Is life so meaningless?” “It’s just a myth,” said Shatalov. “Policeman, you are mad.” “I suddenly felt relieved. That I might be insignificant is not to be feared but embraced. It frees us in this life. It demands that we make our own meaning, that we are not above the morality that we must create if life is to have any meaning.” — “Dream,” said Rostnikov, “of miles of twisting pipes in dark walls, or millions of beetles walking slowly on marble floors, their tiny legs scratching in unison. Good morning.”
Karpo. “Humor has no function for me. I was fortunate to be born without the ability to see humor in anything. I recognize irony, as I have just done with your joke, but it does not amuse me. It does not distract me.” “That is unfortunate,” said Rostnikov. “Distraction is my solace.”
A child’s fascination. “Can I touch your leg?” Pulcharia asked. “You may knock upon it if it pleases you.” He looked down at her as she was about to rap at his leg. “The other one,” he said. She nodded and tapped at the leg with her tiny fist. “Is it strong?” she said. “Very. A dog bit it yesterday. He was very disappointed.” Pulcharia laughed.”
Yak clarifies. “our work follows a simple principle. We take one step forward and one step back. We are always in the same place we started. Our hope for success is to plan carefully, taking what we might be able to use, as we step forward and back in a simple two-step.”
Rostnikov’s new acquaintance. “I would value your opinion, dog. What were you before? Who were you before? I doubt if one remembers when one is reincarnated. Rostnikov looked down at the dog who was looking back up at him, his head cocked to the left. No one had ever spoken to him this way before. “The truth is that I don’t believe in reincarnation. Atheism when taught from an early age is a difficult religion from which to escape. Perhaps we’ll talk again, dog.”
And such are the methods of Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov… I encourage you to read the book.