A Grain of Truth (14 page)

Experience had taught Szacki that with every hour that passes from the moment when a corpse is found the case becomes more obscure, and the chances of finding the culprit diminish. He was just about to react sharply, but he told himself that a few hours didn’t really matter.

“All right, let’s meet tomorrow.”

“At what time should I appear at the prosecutor’s office?”

“I’ll be at your house at three p.m.” Szacki had no idea why he answered like that; it was sheer impulse, his investigator’s sixth sense at work.

“Of course. In that case, see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” replied Szacki and hung up, wondering why Szyller had ended with a question. Was it that good manners wouldn’t let him end a conversation which he hadn’t started? Or was he letting himself have the thought that they might not see each other after all?

Just then, the boss’s secretary put her head round the door.

IV

Prosecutor Teodor Szacki was an enlightened man who knew the basics of psychology, and was aware that negative identity formation is a blind alley. That a person should define himself in terms of
positive emotions, in terms of what he likes, what makes him happy and brings him joy. That constructing his identity on what annoys and infuriates him is the start of the slippery slope towards embitterment, down which he descends ever faster until he finally becomes a malcontent seething with hatred.

He knew that, and always tried his best to fight against it, but there were moments when it was quite simply impossible. This was one of those moments. In his immaculate suit and matching tie, with his distinguished white hair and his stern expression, standing straight behind the improvised speakers’ table, Prosecutor Teodor Szacki looked like the embodiment of the legal authorities. As he looked at the group of about a dozen journalists gathered on the other side of it, he concentrated on his breathing, and on restraining the disdainful scowls that were trying to appear on his face and that might get caught on camera.

Yes, the brave defender of Justice with the snow-white hair sincerely loathed the media. For lots of different reasons. Definitely because they were horribly, acutely, gut-churningly boring and predictable. Definitely because they made things up and told bare-faced lies depending on the needs of the moment, juggling the facts to make them fit their presupposed theories. Definitely because they produced a warped image of the world, giving every marginal extreme the features of the norm or a trend, because only then did that extreme gain a significance that justified harping on about something utterly irrelevant for twenty-four hours a day.

But all this would have been bearable if only the media were firmly placed in the same drawer as entertainment for the emotionally disturbed. One guy likes to watch football matches, another likes porn films involving animals, and another likes the TVN24 rolling news channel – different strokes for different folks. And if Teodor Szacki hadn’t been a prosecutor, he’d probably have categorized journalists alongside people who enjoy satisfying Labradors, and then forgotten about them. Unfortunately, so many times had morons shouting about the citizen’s right to information caused trouble in his investigations, so many times had they confused the witnesses by inflating the most
sensational and gory aspects of the case, so many times, despite being asked and begged not to, had they published facts which set the inquiry back for weeks or months – that if the good Lord had turned to Szacki and asked which professional group should vanish into thin air on the instant, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.

And now, if you please, it turned out that even if the circus wasn’t his, the monkeys most certainly were.

“Have you already singled out someone to accuse?”

“So far an inquiry is being conducted into the case, not against anyone. That means we are investigating various leads and interviewing various individuals, but we have not charged anybody,” Misia replied smoothly, without removing the motherly smile from her face for a second. This was already the umpteenth stupid, incompetent question in a row, and Szacki noted to his horror that the hacks in the provinces were even stupider than the ones in Warsaw.

“How would you comment on the fact that the victim was brutally murdered with a knife used for ritual kosher butchery?”

Silence fell in the auditorium. On both sides of the table. Szacki was just about to open his mouth, when Sobieraj’s resonant, pleasantly high-pitched voice rang out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately it sounds as if someone is trying to encumber the investigation by spreading false rumours, and you are trotting after them like lambs to the slaughter, not necessarily the ritual kind. It is a fact that the victim’s life was taken by cutting her jugular artery, in a very unpleasant way. It is a fact that a very sharp instrument was used for this purpose. But we are not aware of any ritual butchery. Neither kosher, nor halal, nor any other kind.”

“So in the end are we talking about Jewish or Arab ritual?”

“Sir,” put in Szacki, “we’re not talking about any ritual at all. I repeat: none at all. Where on earth do you get these ideas from? Is there something I’ve failed to notice? Is there a fashion among you lot these days for calling homicide ritual murder? A tragedy has occurred, a woman’s life has been taken, and we’re pulling out all the stops to get the case solved and identify the perpetrator. The circumstances of this murder are in no way more unusual than dozens of the homicides
I have dealt with in the past, and I spent fifteen years with the city-centre prosecution service in Warsaw. And believe me, I’ve seen a lot.”

Miszczyk glanced at him respectfully, for once without maternal approval. An ugly female journalist in a green top stood up, without introducing herself of course – probably everyone was meant to recognize her.

“Was the victim a Jew?”

“That’s of no relevance to the inquiry,” replied Szacki.

“So am I to understand that if the victim had been a homosexual, for example, that would be of no relevance to you either?” For some reason the ugly journalist seemed to be offended.

“It would have just as much relevance as the fact that she played chess or went fishing…”

“So you regard sexual orientation as a sort of hobby?”

There was a salvo of laughter. Szacki waited for it to pass.

“Everything that concerns both victim and suspects is of relevance to an inquiry, and everything is investigated. But experience shows that the motives for murder rarely lie in religious or other preferences.”

“So where do they lie?” shouted someone from the back of the auditorium.

“Alcohol. Money. Family relations.”

“But surely an anti-Semitic stunt of this kind deserves special treatment?” the ugly journalist nagged on. “Especially in a city of pogroms, in a country where anti-Semitism still thrives and where it reaches a point of xenophobic disturbances?”

“If you know of any anti-Semitic stunts, please report them to the police. I am not aware of anything of the kind, and the inquiry into the case of Elżbieta B. certainly has nothing to do with it.”

“I simply want to write the truth. The Poles deserve the truth about themselves, not just whitewashed heroics.”

A few people clapped, and Szacki was reminded of the way the journalists had applauded the extremely reactionary populist politician Andrzej Lepper when he had cackled and asked out loud: “How can you rape a prostitute?” Yes, that scene epitomized the truth about the Polish media. In fact he agreed with the ugly journalist’s last
comment, but nevertheless he had a growing feeling that all this was a pointless waste of time. He glanced at Miszczyk and Sobieraj, who were sitting motionless in front of the cameras, as if this lark were going to last all day.

“All right, please write the truth,” he said; unfortunately he failed to conceal his disdain, he could see that on her face. “Maybe you’ll blaze a trail for your colleagues. Last question, then we’ve got to get back to work.”

“Are you an anti-Semite, Prosecutor?”

“If you’re a Jew, then yes, I’m an anti-Semite.”

V

He was furious. After the press conference he fled to his office to avoid talking to Miszczyk. He exchanged a few words with Sobieraj and called Wilczur to check on progress with the inquiry, but there wasn’t any. No witnesses had appeared, no traces of blood had been found, reviewing the recordings from other security cameras hadn’t produced any results and Budnik was sitting at home. Interviewing Elżbieta Budnik’s other friends had merely confirmed that she was a wonderful person, a cheerful social benefactress, full of life. Not everyone had a high opinion of her marriage, but everyone said that “at least they were friends”. The fatter the files grew, the more saintly Elżbieta Budnik became, the more no motive whatsoever was apparent, and the more frustrated Szacki felt. He had a hard time stopping himself from getting in the car and driving off to meet Szyller, to interview him at the Statoil petrol station in Kozienice, to do anything, discover anything at all just to push the case forwards.

In search of fresh ideas and fresh air he left the prosecutor’s office, went past the stadium, where there was still a fuss going on in defence of the potato stalls, and started walking along Staromiejska Street towards Saint Paul’s church, passing the villas of the Sandomierz elite and the modern Piszczele Park, established in the gorge of the same name. Szacki hadn’t seen this place before it was done up, but apparently
it had been a typical back alley dedicated to the patron saint of cheap plonk, where at any time of day you could lose your virginity against your own will. Szacki walked fast, briskly. It was warm enough for him to unbutton his coat, and the drizzle settled on the fabric of his clothes, cladding him in ethereal shining armour.

He reached the church and the graveyard picturesquely situated next to it; the clouds had dispersed enough to reveal a lovely view of Sandomierz Old Town up on the hill, from which Szacki was now separated by the gentle gorge. From here the city looked like a ship drifting across the common land, which was turning green by now. The soaring cathedral bell tower marked the prow, the tenement houses looked like containers standing on the deck, the town-hall tower rose like a mast right in the middle of the ship, and at the stern stood the solid figure of the Opatowska Gate. From here Szacki could clearly see the characteristic, stocky shape of the synagogue and the bushes extending below it, where the corpse had been found.

He started to walk downhill, towards the city, mentally multiplying the various possible scenarios. Each one began with the key assumption that either Budnik was the killer, or Budnik was not. Each one was just as senseless and improbable. His frustration rising, he walked faster and faster, went past the castle, and when at last he stopped outside the cathedral, he was terribly out of breath.

The cathedral was so-so, neither beautiful nor ugly, a pretty large Gothic red-brick block with baroque elements stuck onto the façade. Certainly every guidebook poured honey and icing onto this church, going on at length about its ancient history, but the building made no particular impression on Szacki, especially since he had found out that its finest feature, in other words the soaring bell tower, was the result of neo-Gothic reconstruction in the late nineteenth century. He walked up to the side entrance where there was a freshly written sign that must have been hung up there that day, saying: “Absolutely no filming or photography!!!” Clearly the media had already made their presence known to the clerics.

He went inside.

For the Easter season, the cathedral was surprisingly empty. One person who looked like a tourist was wandering around the interior, but there was no one in the pews. Near the organ gallery a man and a woman were washing the stone floor with identical movements. Szacki breathed in the unique, unmistakeable smell of an old church, waited a moment until his eyes got used to the semi-darkness, and looked around. It was the first time he had been in here. He had been expecting monumental Gothic austerity, something like Saint John’s cathedral in Warsaw, but in fact the Sandomierz basilica was not overwhelmingly stately. Szacki liked the fact that the architectural skeleton – the columns and ribs of the vault – was not made of red brick, but of white stone, which gave the interior elegance. At the slow pace that he always switched on automatically in churches, he walked between the pews and stopped in the middle of the central nave, beneath an imposing crystal chandelier. On one side he had the organ gallery, topped by the crown of the organ, and on the other the high altar and the presbytery – all in lavish baroque style. The marble font on a barrel-shaped pedestal, the gold framework in the side altars, each curling ornament, the chubby cherubs and dark oil paintings shouted to the spectator: hello there, we were made in the eighteenth century.

He zigzagged his way between the columns, looking without much interest at the sculptures and paintings of saints, and stopped for a while at the presbytery, which some local Giotto had actually quite successfully adorned with scenes from the New Testament. There Szacki saw the Last Supper, the Raising of Lazarus, Pontius Pilate, Judas and Thomas, a whole set of immortal images that apparently give two billion people a sense of security, peace and the awareness that they can do what they want because ultimately it’s the prodigal sons that God loves best anyway. Yet another misguided hobby for the deranged, sod the lot of you. Szacki rubbed his face with his hands; he felt dead tired.

Abruptly he turned away from the altar – after all, he hadn’t come to the cathedral to admire second-rate European art. He started walking rapidly down the central nave, between the pews, towards the organ gallery. Beneath the chandelier he tried to get past the man,
who was robotically washing the floor, steadily wielding his mop like a metronome.

“Not on the wet,” the man warned.

Szacki stopped. The man broke off what he was doing and looked him in the eyes. He had a sallow complexion, a sad expression and a black shirt buttoned up to the neck. A bit of a zombie, a bit of a tramp – a genuine Catholic, full of gladness and joy since God had laid before him a shining path straight to heaven. In silence, Szacki took a step back and walked along the very edge of the dry floor to the side nave. His steps drowned out the steady swishing of the mop, which had resumed its activity.