CHAPTER 2: Investigation
Tuesday evening, June 22, 1999.
The church was cool and quiet. Water dripping from the leaky roof into a metal basin broke the silence like the ticking of a metronome. Stanisłav Kloze stood by a pew, fidgeting with his hat and glancing first at the serene face of the crucified Jesus, then at the carved fish with the inscription ΙΧΘΥΣ. At last, mustering his resolve, he approached the confessional and stepped inside.
"Glory to Jesus Christ."
"Forever and ever, amen," came a calm voice from behind the grate.
"May God dwell in your heart, so that, humbled in spirit, you may confess your sins," the priest continued.
"Amen," Kloze replied, crossing himself.
"I'm listening, my son."
"Forgive my sins, father," Kloze began automatically, "it's been a while since my last confession. Six months… I think, since Christmas."
"Six," Father Wojciech repeated, without a trace of reproach. "Very well. Please, begin."
Kloze spoke reluctantly. He admitted he'd been losing his temper more often, snapping at colleagues and students; that he had been praying less and less, though he tried; he mentioned his relationship with a graduate student.
The priest listened in silence. Then he said quietly,
"Sometimes the Lord is silent so that a man can hear himself. Don't expect thunder from the heavens — start small. An evening prayer, five minutes a day. As for irritability… well, everyone has colleagues. Try counting to ten before you respond."
They fell silent. The professor fidgeted; his hands kept twisting the hat.
"Try," Wojciech added, "not to run from the silence. Let it show you what your soul needs."
Kloze nodded.
"I'll try, father."
After the absolution was read, Kloze was about to leave when the priest suddenly coughed, as if remembering something.
"Wait. I have something for you."
There was the rustle of paper, and then a small plastic sleeve with a disk slid toward him through the grate.
"A friend sent me an old manuscript in Latin. You still dabble in alchemy, don't you?"
Kloze raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"I do… Didn't think you'd take an interest too, father."
"Oh, hardly," the priest chuckled. "But maybe it'll distract you a little. If you learn how to turn lead into gold, I hope you would help the church fix the roof."
Kloze smiled faintly.
"You think that's possible?"
"Fixing the roof — certainly. As for turning lead into gold… I don't know. But if something in it catches your interest, tell me. I don't have the brains for deciphering these manuscripts."
The professor accepted the sleeve, thanked him, and stepped out of the confessional.
Outside the church, the evening summer rain had already faded, and only a fine mist of droplets touched his face, cooling the skin.
---
Monday morning, December 13, 1999.
Kowolik stood over the gutted computer tower in the laboratory of the Rybnik police's young computer expert — Second Lieutenant Aleksander Wisniewski. It looked as though technocrat-vivisectionists had dissected the case. The walls were lined with the dismantled remains of other electronic victims. The investigator listened to the report.
"Inspector, there's not much to say. It's all in the file. The hard drive's wiped clean. Seven passes — nothing can be recovered."
"Kloze could've done it himself?"
"Theoretically, yeah. They found the computer powered on. If he inserted a floppy, booted from it, and launched the utility, it would handle everything automatically. The user could sip tea, or something stronger…" The expert shrugged.
"Anything else unusual?"
"Well… here's the thing. They didn't find any floppies on him except the one in the drive. Doesn't strike me he as the type who uses tools like this. I can't put this in the report, but personally? I think it's bizarre. Some old professor finds the latest data-wiping utility, writes it onto a floppy specifically to erase everything before death? Regular folk, you know how they do it? A couple of whacks with a hammer — end of story. If they're savvy, maybe they drill holes in the platter. But this? This is spy stuff, honestly. But they say he was an eccentric, so… who knows what went through his head."
"Spy stuff, you say…" Kowolik murmured, still reading the report. "What about the floppy itself?"
"Just a standard disk. Label says it was manufactured in Silesia last year. Thousands of these are sold everywhere."
"As I understand, the computer tower was brought from Germany as a complete unit?"
"Correct. Seals intact, all component markings match West German-market hardware. It's a brand-name tower in original 1998 configuration. He could've bought it in Germany, or second-hand."
A beeping pager on the poruchik's belt interrupted him. He unclipped it and glanced at the tiny screen.
"Meeting at 11 Novak."
After visiting several more offices, Kowolik sat across from Major Novak in his usual environment — an office so smoky it stung the eyes.
"Well, Inspector, any news? When will you close the case?" Novak leaned back in his chair, hands resting on his stomach.
"It's too early to say. Nothing is clear yet. As for news — Maria still hasn't shown up, even though it's been a day and everyone knows the professor is dead. I sent a request to Katowice police to help question his university department and track down a likely lover named Maria. Also, we have a witness who saw a suspicious man with a suitcase walking in the courtyard around the time of death. And the way the data was wiped — it was done professionally. I still haven't spoken with his colleagues at the plant and university. And I'm waiting on forensics for the latest evidence."
"Inspector, listen. You think we're the FBI here? Let's tone it down a bit. You're not the only one who needs lab work. We have real murders happening, for God's sake."
"I understand. I'm not insisting on meticulous analysis. Anything that needs deeper examination I'll send to the capital."
"Good. That's better."
"About the note… I spoke with your handwriting expert. His conclusion is inconclusive."
"Handwriting analysis is vague by nature. You're not going to take this to the prosecutor, are you? It's a whole letter, for heaven's sake. People don't forge suicide notes like that. Even a signature is hard to fake."
"Ordinary people don't."
"Oh? So now we're dealing with extraordinary people?"
"There are indications of espionage."
"Oh, come on. What espionage? If this were nuclear espionage, we'd have half a dozen security men crawling all over the place, not just you. The SNSS took the documents already. They're aware. If they're not reacting, it means everything's fine."
"With respect, Major, that doesn't mean anything. Maybe they don't want to spook foreign assets. Either way — if this is a murder and I close it as a suicide, it could hurt my career later. I need certainty. And right now, I don't have it."
His pager beeped again. Kowolik lifted it to his eyes:
"lover aspirant Maria Neumann details by fax"
"A message from Katowice. Now I know who his lover was."
"Well, excellent. The case is wrapping up," the Major said cheerfully, tapping an unlit cigarette on the desk.
When Miroslaw Kowolik stepped out of the police building and headed toward his car, a woman's voice called out:
"Inspector Kowolik! Wait!"
He turned and saw a striking red-haired young woman in a cream coat hurrying toward him. His lips briefly twitched upward.
"I'm Diana Zlotovska. Beacon of Silesia."
The smile vanished. Kowolik spun around and quickened his pace.
"Speak to the press office."
"I know who Kloze's lover was. If you agree to help me with a feature, I'll tell you."
"That's extortion, Pani. Besides, I already know."
"Oh? And who is it?"
"As if I'd tell you. Go on — say a name. If it matches, I'll consider it."
His hand closed on the car door handle.
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then you'll have to convince me you didn't make her up."
"How do I know you won't lie?"
"I have the pager message. I'll show it to you."
"Fine. Maria Neumann."
Kowolik showed her the pager. The journalist frowned, pursing her lips.
"All right, I'm busy. Give me your number — I'll call and arrange a meeting if I feel like it," Miroslaw said lazily.
Diana flashed a theatrical smile, rummaged in her purse, and handed him a business card.
"I'll be waiting!" she waved cheerfully as Kowolik started the engine.
The inspector's car headed toward the western side of the city — toward the looming towers of the power plant.
The midday sun, breaking through thinning clouds, was melting the snow that had fallen overnight, turning the road back into a slurry of mud. Ahead, like citadels of a forgotten civilization, rose the bulging cooling towers, the thin meteorological masts, and the red-striped ventilation chimneys. In addition to the massive coal-fired plant, the USSR had built a single fast-neutron reactor unit here — the BN-800. Behind layers of barbed wire and in the haze of rising steam, one could make out the razor-straight geometry of the reactor hall.
The concrete road ended at the first checkpoint. Entering the coal plant was easy enough — a police ID was all it took. But beyond that, the barriers became increasingly formidable. After passing through a portal radiation monitor, Kowolik stopped the car near the main nuclear plant checkpoint — a concrete post that looked like a military pillbox. Powerful floodlights lit the approaches, despite the midday sun. An armed guard in a helmet and black balaclava mask, silent as the concrete wall behind him, stepped forward.
Kowolik lowered the window and wordlessly handed over his police ID. The soldier took it without looking, passed it to the officer in the booth. Another soldier with a dog circled the car. A third inspected the undercarriage with a mirror on a long pole. For two minutes the only sound was the hiss of radio static. Then the shift supervisor emerged from the booth.
"Poruchik Kowolik. Approved. You need the first administrative building. Hand over your driver's license."
He took the license and returned the police ID along with a temporary pass.
"You'll get it back when you leave. Drive to the next checkpoint, follow the signs. Your escort will meet you at the parking lot. No photography, and don't move around the site on your own."
The barrier lifted, and the metal gate slid aside. Another hundred meters in, Kowolik parked in the designated space. A young man in blue plastic helmet and a white lab coat over his work clothes was already waiting.
"Inspector Kowolik? I'm Peter, shift engineer. I'll be escorting you. Before entering the building, please step through the radiation control gate."
He pointed to an arch resembling an airport metal detector, only heavier. Passing through it and receiving a nod from the operator, Kowolik followed the engineer toward the doors, feeling the invisible yet undeniable weight of total control.
---
Aspirant is a title for doctoral education candidates in German and other European universities. In post-Soviet states, this educational step leads to a scientific degree called Candidate of Sciences.