Entanglement. Part 14

She shrugged.

"I was afraid he'd hear me. I was afraid as soon as I went out he'd do something to Zuzia. I was afraid that even if I did call they'd tell me they're not my bodyguards. That has happened before now."

"So what did you do?"

"Nothing. I waited to see what would happen. And then I saw him take a braided leather lead off the clothes rack. We used to have a dog, a sort of mongrelly Alsatian. He was. .h.i.t by a bus a couple of years ago. Somehow I've never had the heart to throw away the lead. I loved that dog. I started shouting that he was to leave her alone now, otherwise I'd call the police and he'd go to prison."

"And what happened then?"

"He said I shouldn't interfere but should remember what he'd said earlier. Then I replied that he should watch out because he wasn't immortal either. Then he let the child go, came up to me and lashed me with the lead. It didn't even hurt, because the hardest blow hit my hair, but the end of the lead wound around my head and cut my lip-" she put her finger to a scab at the corner of her mouth. "Zuzia began to wail of course. Then he went mad, shouting that neither of us would ever forget this day. Then I stood up. He swung the lead, but I raised my hand and it wound around my arm. That upset him terribly. He pushed me onto the work surface, but as we were both still holding the lead, he came flying after me. I was afraid that would be the end of me. I reached out a hand, grabbed the bread knife and stuck it in his side. I wasn't trying to kill him, I just wanted him to stop. He flew at me and lost his balance."

"Why didn't you withdraw the hand holding the knife?"

She licked her lips and looked at him. For a long time. He understood, but he couldn't put it in the report. However, he had to write something down. Without dropping her gaze, she opened her mouth, then gently shook her head. She understood. And instead of what she was probably intending to say, in other words "I didn't want to", she replied: "I wasn't quick enough. It all happened in a flash."

And that was how the earth came to carry one less son of a b.i.t.c.h, he felt like adding as the punchline. But instead of saying anything, he let her finish her story. The inquiry had confirmed that the woman's life was h.e.l.l. Even the victim's own parents had picked him to shreds. Nidziecka's father-in-law was amazed it was him that was dead and not her. "But that's good, very good," he'd kept saying over and over.

A simple case. At least for the police. They'd arrested her, interviewed her, got a confession, the end. The rest of the job was up to the prosecutor and the court. The policeman didn't have to wonder which article in the Penal Code had been contravened, how to cla.s.sify the crime and what penalty to demand. The policeman didn't have a supervisor above him in the shape of the Preparatory Proceedings Department who'd write him letters demanding that he catch criminals in a different way. Szacki often wondered if he wouldn't have been a better policeman than a prosecutor. As it was, he performed lots of tasks that his colleagues had only heard of, never done. He went to incident scenes and autopsies, and sometimes even took the trouble to go and see a witness to interview him on the spot. Rarely, but he did do it. Though on the other hand, as a policeman, often living on the fringes of the underworld, making concessions, occasionally turning a blind eye in exchange for something, he wouldn't have had the satisfaction he got from being part of the legal machine, whose aim was to administer justice - the penalty for breaking the law.

Now, as he wondered about the legal cla.s.sification, he felt as if the merciless machine had got stuck. He knew what was expected of him - that he should charge Nidziecka as severely as possible under Article 148, paragraph 1: "Whoever kills a person is liable to a penalty of imprisonment for a term of no less than eight years." Would that be in accordance with the law? Surely. Szacki was convinced Nidziecka had wanted to kill her husband. And that alone should have interested him. The court would probably have given her a low sentence, a special commutation of the sentence and so on, but still: that would mean Nidziecka was a worse murderer than the merciless thugs responsible for "causing grievous bodily harm resulting in death". He could decide on Article 148, paragraph 4: "Whoever kills a person while in a state of extreme agitation justified by the circ.u.mstances is liable to a penalty of imprisonment of from one to ten years". One year was less than eight.

Szacki pushed the computer keyboard away from him. He had already written the entire indictment, he was just missing the cla.s.sification and the grounds for it in a few sentences. In fact he felt like writing a draft decision to dismiss under the rule of self-defence - the right to repulse an unlawful attack. Without doubt that was what had happened here. But the supervisory board would stamp him into the ground if in such an obvious case he didn't submit an indictment that plainly improved the official statistics.

Finally he wrote down the cla.s.sification from Article 155: "Whoever causes a person's death unintentionally is liable to a penalty of imprisonment for from three months to five years."

"And I'll quit this rotten job sooner than change that," he said aloud to himself.

Half an hour later the indictment was ready. He left it with Chorko's secretary, as the boss had just gone home. It was six p.m. High time to leave this charming place, he thought. He packed up quickly and switched off his computer. Just then the phone rang. He cursed out loud. For an instant he simply wanted to leave, but duty triumphed. As usual.

It was Nawrocki calling. He had located the people from the parallel cla.s.s to Sylwia Boniczka's , including someone repeating the year, as the clairvoyant had said. Some of them had no idea what he was talking about, some seemed truly scared, and the one repeating the year was terrified. He'd trembled all over, and Nawrocki was convinced that if he'd put more pressure on him he'd have cracked. Szacki didn't say it aloud, but he was sorry Nawrocki had interviewed the man. Although the policeman had a brain like a computer, physically he looked like a wimp and wasn't best suited to "putting pressure" on interviewees. Kuzniecow was quite another matter - he only had to appear in the doorway and they all became very talkative in an instant.

"I don't think we could establish a rape case," said Nawrocki. "There's no injured party, no evidence, no proof, no circ.u.mstantial evidence; there's just the clairvoyant and a few potential suspects who are digging in their heels."

"What about the father?"

"Well, yes, I've had an idea that we should interview him jointly."

"How do you mean jointly?"

"I think if he's squeezed a bit he'll tell the truth. But we've only got one chance. If he doesn't admit it the first time, that'll be it. So I suggest a ma.s.sed attack: policeman, prosecutor, the darkest interview room in Mostowski Palace, being brought there by the police, a two-hour wait... Do you see, Prosecutor?"

Theatre, thought Szacki, he's suggesting b.l.o.o.d.y theatre. What should I do now? Go to the costume-hire place and get a bad cop's mask?

"What time?" he asked after a short silence, regretting it before the words had reached Nawrocki.

"What about six tomorrow evening?" suggested the policeman, sounding as if they were off to a nice pub.

"The perfect time," said Szacki emphatically. "Don't forget I only drink lightly chilled red wine, best of all from the Puglia region of Italy. And the table mustn't be too near the window or by the door."

"Sorry?"

"Never mind. Tomorrow at six at your place. I'll call from downstairs."

It was approaching seven as he turned off witokrzyski Bridge onto Szczeciskie Embankment towards the zoo and politely joined the queue in the left lane. The right one ended just past the little bridge at Praga port - you could only turn right from it - which didn't prevent some crafty customers from driving all the way down it, then playing dumb with their indicators on. Szacki never let them in.

He glanced at the ugly river-police building, and thought it was just about the start of the season for bodies in the Vistula. Drunken bathing, rape in the bushes, bets who could swim further. Luckily they rarely found anything in the City Centre section of the brown river. He couldn't bear drowned bodies, those livid, swollen corpses that looked like seals with the fur shaved off. He hoped this season he'd be spared that nightmare. A year ago, when they'd found one right by Gdaski Bridge, he had felt like moving it by hand a few yards further down - then his colleagues from the oliborz district would have had to deal with it. Fortunately the case was simple - the guy turned out to be a suicide who had jumped off Siekierkowski Bridge. Szacki had never understood why he had fully undressed before doing it, but didn't put that in his letter to the wife. The wife claimed he had always been very shy.

At the lanes by the main entrance to the zoo he had to stop to let a man and his daughter cross the road. The man was several years older than him, horribly emaciated, maybe sick. The girl was Helka's age. She was holding a balloon shaped like Piglet. Szacki thought how strange it was that all the cases he was involved in lately featured fathers and daughters. Boniczka, who may have murdered his daughter out of shame and buried her at night in the nursery school playground. Nidziecki, dragging his daughter into her bedroom and explaining that it was harder for him than for her. Telak wanting to commit suicide to follow his daughter into death. But also perhaps in some twisted way guilty of her death. And himself. Desperately wanting change, chasing after a young journalist. Was he prepared to sacrifice his daughter? And what exactly did it mean, "sacrifice"? It was too early for solutions of that kind. But why too early? he wondered, as he waited for the lights to change at the corner of Ratuszowa and Jagielloska Streets. A hopeless junction. If there was traffic, at most two cars could turn left. And that only if the drivers were quick to react. Why too early? Wasn't it better to sort it out at once and have a free hand? Not have to tremble during dates in case his wife called. Not have to deceive either one or the other party.

He parked outside the house.

"What f.u.c.king bulls.h.i.t," he said aloud, putting the radio-control panel in his briefcase. "You're getting worse, Szacki, worse and worse."

6.

Friday, 10th June 2005.

UEFA has decided that Liverpool can after all defend its t.i.tle in the next season of the Champions League, though it shouldn't, because it only took fifth place in the Premiership. The Moscow Prosecutor's Office has ruled that there is nothing wrong with the expression "Jewish aggression as a form of Satanism". The centrist Polish People's Party authorities have decided that Jarosaw Kalinowski will be their party's candidate for President. The candidate wants to hold a debate during the campaign on what Poland should be like. But in the polls Lech Kaczyski gains two points again, leaving independent Zbigniew Religa eight points behind. From other polls it appears that most Poles support Mayor Kaczyski's crusade against gays, but most Varsovians do not. A bomb scare in the capital. Fearing a sarin attack, for three hours in the afternoon the police block off the main junction in the city and suspend the metro. The resulting mega-jam probably exceeds the hoaxer's boldest expectations. Meanwhile at Warsaw Zoo lumps have appeared on Buba the elephant's trunk, probably caused by a virus. She is bearing her treatment bravely and doesn't have to be anaesthetized for it. Maximum temperature - 18 degrees; fairly sunny, no rain.

I.

Dr Jeremiasz Wrobel resembled a cat. His face looked as if it had been drawn with a compa.s.s, pale and freckled, with short, spa.r.s.e red stubble and spa.r.s.e, curly red hair cut very short. On top of that, he had no profile. Although looking at him face on, you did get an impression of some depth, from the side his face was almost flat. It crossed Szacki's mind that as a child he must always have slept on his stomach, and always on the floor. His ears stuck so closely to his head that he didn't seem to have any at all. He looked peculiar, but was, as Szacki had to admit, extremely amiable. His voice was nice and warm, similar to Rudzki's therapist voice, but more velvety. If Szacki had had to choose which one to tell his problems to, he'd undoubtedly have chosen Wrobel. Maybe because he wasn't implicated in a murder.

They soon left the doctor's tiny study at the Inst.i.tute of Psychiatry and Neurology on Sobieski Street and went down a corridor into a conference room, where the doctor could watch the recording of the constellation held at azienkowska Street. They only exchanged a few words. Szacki did most of the talking, describing the inquiry to Wrobel. He also explained why, instead of making a request for a written opinion in the usual manner, he had insisted on a meeting.

"This recording might be the key to the mystery of Telak's murder," he said. "Therefore, I'll also be ordering a written opinion from you for the files, but for now I need to know what you think of it as soon as possible."

"Prosecutor, you stand out among your kind like an erection at an OAPs' club," said the therapist as he switched on the light in the small conference room. There was a hospital odour mixed with the smell of coffee and new carpeting. Szacki was starting to understand why the idea of transcribing a conversation with Wrobel prompted mirth.

"We psychotherapists rarely host representatives of your office. I think each of you should talk to us in person before and after we give an expert opinion. But that is just my view, and I am merely a humble a.s.sistant in the Lord's garden, entrusted with caring for the vegetable bed."

Szacki had it on the tip of his tongue to say the "vegetables" should be treated individually, not as a group, but all he said was that, unless something had changed since yesterday, the Prosecution Service was simply too understaffed to meet with every expert witness.

The therapist watched the recording in silent concentration. Several times he made notes. Then he reached the bit where Kwiatkowska and Kaim went closer to the chairs representing Telak's parents, Jarczyk was in hysterics and Telak himself was staring into s.p.a.ce, his face twisted with pain. He stopped the image.

"Ask your question," he urged, turning to face Szacki.

"Why did you stop it at that moment?"

"First the foreplay, then the climax," said the therapist, shaking his head.

Szacki almost said automatically: "You talk just like my wife", but he stopped himself at the last moment. He was at work.

"First of all, I'd like to know if this therapy was conducted according to the rules of the art."

Wrobel leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head.

"You see, the ars therapeutica is a bit like the ars amandi. There's no single perfect way to bring any woman to o.r.g.a.s.m in three minutes, nor is there any one position that would suit everyone."

"Without wishing to adopt your poetic form of expression," said Szacki, starting to feel annoyed, "nevertheless I will ask: was it s.e.x or was it rape?"

"Definitely not rape," replied Wrobel. "Bold s.e.x, but the kind without any leather costumes or police caps. You see, theoretically in Family Constellation Therapy there should be more people taking part. I can lend you a DVD with a recording of constellations conducted by h.e.l.linger himself. There's a full room, a large audience as well as the patients. There's never a shortage of people to arrange as some distant relative or wife's lover. But what Mr Rudzki did - subst.i.tuting chairs for the patient's parents at a moment when they no longer had a role to play - is acceptable. Sometimes you do in fact do that when there's a lack of representatives."

"Here there were only four people from the start," noted Szacki. "Isn't that too few? Obviously everyone has parents, their own family, grandparents. Isn't it hard to work in such a small group?"

"It could be, but I can see where Rudzki's coming from. I'm not keen on those orgies either - sometimes all that's missing is animals. I like to have my fun in groups of ten best of all. Rudzki has gone even further. OK, you could even call it an interesting experiment. And from what I can see the field is working, and that's not bad at all. You can't deny it."

Szacki didn't.

"Apart from that you must realize that Dr Cezary Rudzki is no novice. He may not be as widely known as Eichelberger or He-Whose-Name-Is-No-Longer-To-Be-Uttered" - Szacki knew he must mean the therapist Andrzej Samson, exposed as a paedophile amid a great public scandal - "but in our field Rudzki's a major figure. More than once he has experimented with therapies that seemed as stable as a sixteen-year-old's s.e.x drive, and often brought off amazing results."

"So in your view he didn't make any mistakes?"

Jeremiasz Wrobel smacked his lips, frowned and scratched behind his ear. Szacki thought that if he were to take his photo now and send it to the organizers of a cat show, he'd be sure to qualify.

"In my view he made one important error," he said at last. "That is, you see, I'd have done it differently. But it may be that friend Rudzki had some other plans. He knew he'd do it all at the end."

"More specifically?"

"Yes, sorry. When the issue with the patient's parents was explained, before bringing his current family into the constellation, in my view he should have introduced some resolving sentences. As that was left in a state of suspension, the continuation must have been incredibly hard for the patient. If order had been brought in the family of origin, if the patient had felt immediate relief thanks to reconciliation with his parents, if from then on he had ceased to feel guilty towards them, he'd have entered the next stage of the therapy feeling stronger. What's more, I'm sure the rest of the partic.i.p.ants would have felt better, and those terrible scenes would not have taken place."

Szacki suddenly felt a complete mental blank. He sat and stared at Wrobel, and could only think about one thing: there was nothing, once again nothing, no progress. It all works, it's all in order, it all makes sense. Just the corpse with a skewer in his eye doesn't quite fit in somehow.

"Do the emotions go on working after the constellation is over?" he asked at last.

"Meaning?" Wrobel didn't understand the question.

"If during the constellation Mrs X represents Mr Y's pa.s.sionate lover, and then runs into him after the session in the hotel lobby, does she go to bed with him?"

The doctor thought for a long while.

"Interesting question. I think that even if those weren't her emotions, she would experience them as if they were. The memory of being fascinated, attracted to Mr Y. Yes, of course she wouldn't start writhing at his feet moaning 'f.u.c.k me', but if they'd started flirting, it wouldn't be so hard for them to decide on s.e.x. That's what I think."

Szacki told him about the voice of the "daughter" recorded on Telak's Dictaphone.

"And are you sure it was the woman representing his daughter?"

"Ninety per cent. We're doing sound tests to be sure."

"Interesting. Does Rudzki know about this?"

"No, he doesn't. And I wouldn't like him to find out from you."

"Yes, of course. You see, it could be significant that the constellation was so brutally interrupted. We usually try to bring it to an end ourselves; interruptions are very rare, sometimes there are breaks lasting several days for the patient to be able to gather information about his family. But it always happens gently, whereas here, at the moment when the field was working strongest, the partic.i.p.ants suddenly parted ways. Could it be that they went back to their rooms 'possessed' by the people they were representing? I don't know. I've never come across such a case before, but, well..."

"It sounds logical?" suggested Szacki.

"Yes. I'd compare it with the situation of a patient under hypnosis. I can bring him out of it, but I can also leave him in it. Eventually the state of hypnosis pa.s.ses into sleep, and after that the patient wakes up as if nothing has happened. Perhaps it was similar here. The constellation was brutally interrupted, and before they'd recovered, for some time yet, the patients were not just themselves, but also the people they represented. Perhaps."

Wrobel stared into s.p.a.ce, exactly like Telak, frozen in the frame on the television screen.

"Are you able to say how long someone could remain in such a state of 'hypnosis'?" asked the prosecutor.

"No, I have no idea. But I can sense where you're heading, and I think it's a blind alley. Like a transvest.i.te's s.e.xual organs. On the surface the prospect might look promising, but take off a few layers and it's disappointing."

"Why?"

"Medical limitations, which are sure to be overcome sooner or later. It's not easy to shape a v.a.g.i.n.a and implant it inside the body. That's why transvest.i.tes limit themselves to clothing that..."

Szacki wasn't listening. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm down.

"Why is my reasoning a blind alley?"

"Oh, sorry." Wrobel didn't look at all embarra.s.sed. He moved his chair closer to the television. "Take a look at the way they're standing," he said, pointing at "the Telak family". "Opposite each other. And that always means disorder. Conflict, longing, unsettled issues. The outcome of a constellation is always a semicircle: the people stand next to each other, they can observe each other, but they have a s.p.a.ce in front of them, they don't have to fight anyone for their place. Please note that here the patient's children are standing next to each other, which means they are in harmony. So too are the patient's parents, represented by the chairs. But apart from that they're all scattered about, and chaos is the dominant feature of the constellation. If the session had lasted longer, we'd have seen on the recording how more people would have been reconciled, and then they'd have taken their places next to each other in a semicircle. This whole therapy works because each of them wants to feel better, not worse. And committing a crime overloads the system in a dreadful way - the most dreadful, the worst of all possible ways. And so I doubt if representing a member of the patient's family was the motive for the murder."

"Are you sure?"

"We're talking about the human psyche, Prosecutor. I'm not sure of anything."

"What about this story that Telak's daughter committed suicide and his son fell ill in order to give him relief? To me that sounds improbable."

Wrobel stood up and started pacing the room. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his doctor's coat. His movements were catlike too. He gave the impression of being about to do something completely unexpected - to start miaowing, for example - which made Szacki feel tense. He turned his head to relax the muscles in his neck. As usual it didn't help at all - he should finally treat himself to a ma.s.sage. It probably wasn't all that expensive.

"In constellations we set ourselves two basic questions. Firstly: who is missing, and who should join the constellation? It's often like an inquiry, digging about in the dirty laundry of family history. Secondly: who should depart? Who should be allowed to do that? The mechanism is always the same. If we don't allow someone to depart - in the sense of 'die' as well as 'go away' - instead of that person, the children leave. It's usually the adults who are guilty, and the children want to help them, so they take the guilt on themselves, and leave instead of the person who ought to leave. That is the order of love. That's why the therapist allies himself with the children rather than the adults."

"But suicide straight away?" Szacki was getting the same feeling he'd had during his conversation with Rudzki. He understood, but he didn't want to believe it.

"Often the cause of suicide is a wish to relieve the pain of a parent who has lost his former partner in tragic circ.u.mstances. I think Rudzki's theory concerning the unexpiated guilt about leaving home that was felt by... What was his name?"

"Telak."

"...felt by Telak holds water. But I wouldn't be at all surprised if his lover or former partner had been killed in a car crash, and he never came to terms with it, maybe in some way felt guilty. To such an extent that his daughter decided to atone for that guilt for him. You should know that if they're allowed to depart, former partners are usually represented by the children."

Jeremiasz Wrobel stopped talking, and Szacki was unable to think of any reasonable question to ask. His mind was a blank. Every day he got new information about this case and every day he failed to move forwards. It made no sense.

"And now perhaps you can tell me why you stopped the tape at that point?" he finally asked.

"Absolutely," replied the psychiatrist, smiling in a way that Szacki found quite obscene. "What do you think - why didn't Telak look at his wife or children once during the constellation, although there was so much going on between them?"