By Ed Staskus
It was an early autumn day late in September, wet and cold. It was the first anniversary of his wife’s death and Ignas Petrauskas had gotten up early, ordered flowers, eaten breakfast, and drank a cup of strong coffee while skimming through the national newspaper, Echo of Lithuania. When he was done with his second cup he would go to the Rasos Cemetery and lay the flowers at his wife’s grave. The coffee was very good. The newspaper was filled with bad news. He put it aside. He looked out the window at the Vilnia River.
He lived in Uzupis on the east side of the river across from the Old Town of Vilnius. It was a small apartment, but modern, unlike most of the neighborhood, which was bedraggled, although it was slowly being gentrified. In the meantime it was filled with bohemians and artists from the nearby Vilnius Academy of the Arts. A statue of the American musician Frank Zappa was around the corner, erected by local artists proclaiming the spirit of the place.
There was a plaque on nearby Paupio St. that read, “Everyone has the right to hot water, heating in winter, and a tiled roof. A cat is not obliged to love its owner, but must help in time of need. Everyone has the right to be unique.”
Most of the inhabitants of Uzupis, which meant “beyond the river,” lived there because the rent was either affordable or dirt cheap, or they simply squatted somewhere a landlord was non-existent. Ignas wasn’t a bohemian or an artist. He was a police detective assigned to the General Prosecutor’s Office.
He wasn’t bothered by the idiosyncrasies or rough and tumble of Uzupis He had served as a military policeman with the Komendantskaya Sluzhba in Afghanistan in the mid-1980s during the Red Army occupation of the Central Asian country. A yellow letter “K” on a red patch worn on his right sleeve made sure everybody knew what his job was. He had not been able to settle the question during his two-year tour of duty of who was worse, the Mujahadeen or the Soviet Armed Forces. He finally resolved the question by cursing the both of them.
He got married soon after returning to Lithuania, to Birute, a girl from his hometown of Smiltyne on the northern tip of the Curonian Spit. When the Russians were dislodged after more than four decades of occupation, and a new Law on Police was enacted in December 1990, providing a legal basis for a Lithuanian police force, they moved to Vilnius. It was the nation’s capital, at the other end of the country from Smiltyne. He joined the force, making his way up the ladder to the Criminal Police. He briefly worked with the Organized Crime Bureau until being assigned to the General Prosecutor’s Office..
Ignas bought his new apartment after his wife’s death. He sold their house. It had become lonely, full of nothing but memories. No matter how good the memory it was like a toothache. His marriage to Birute had been good. They understood each other. He liked the way she smelled. They liked getting into bed together at night and getting up together in the morning. They went for walks summer weekends to Story Park where there were many wooden sculptures based on folklore and Hill Park where they picnicked at the Hill of Three Crosses. They made each other laugh. Now she was gone forever.
Rasos Cemetery was the oldest graveyard within the city limits of Vilnius, going back to 1801, when the first person, Jonas Muller, the Burgomaster of the city, was buried there. New burials were restricted to family graves, but since one of Birute’s grandfathers was buried there near Jonas Basanavicius, editor of the first Lithuanian-language newspaper and one of the signers of the Act of Independence in 1918, Ignas had been allowed to bury his wife there.
He visited her grave once a month. He lay flowers in front of her tombstone. He swore to her he would deal with whoever had driven onto their sidewalk late one night when she was coming home and struck her. It was a hit and run. It might have been an accident. It might have been deliberate, retaliation by some gangster or his associates. Whatever it was, the driver hadn’t been found, yet. Ignas was prohibited from being involved in the investigation. It was frustrating, but he knew how to be patient. He knew his patience would be rewarded one day. When that day came there would be blood.
Ignas always walked to the cemetery, rain or shine. It was less than a half hour from his apartment. He put on a pair of boots and a leather coat. It was a utility coat with snap closures and front flap pockets. He positioned a hat with aa all-around downwards-sloping brim on his head. When he stepped out the door, however, it started raining harder. It was much windier than he thought it would be. Fat rain drops pelted him all over. He walked across the bridge to the Old Town and caught the No. 89 bus to the cemetery.
Rasos Cemetery was located on two hills with a valley separating the hills. Birute was buried on one of the hills. He took a footpath he knew by heart. By the time he got to Birute’s grave the wind had died down. He pulled his flowers out of the translucent plastic grocery bag he had brought them in. They were rues with bright yellow cup-shaped blooms, tied together with a black ribbon. The flowers were thought to ward off evil. He lay them down.
Ignas stood in front of the headstone for ten minutes, quietly, breathing evenly. He didn’t notice that it had stopped raining. When he was ready to leave he stepped up to the headstone he laid his hand on top of it. He had often rested his off hand on Birute’s thigh when they were together on the sofa in their living room, she sewing and he reading. The memory made him miserable.
He took the same footpath leaving Rasos Cemetery, but since the bad weather had taken a break he walked back to Uzupis. He put his hat, boots, and leather jacket away. He mixed a drink of vodka. honey, and cinnamon in a water glass and sat down. Heavy clouds shortened the afternoon. He watched the rain coming back through the glass door leading to the balcony. He made another drink. It got dark before seven o’clock and he got sleepy. He fell asleep.
Ignas woke up to the sound of the telephone ringing. He was surprised it hadn’t stopped ringing by the time he got to it. It was past nine o’clock. He lifted the receiver, wiping away a soggy spot from the corner of his mouth.
“Labas,” he said.
“Labas,” the voice of his boss in the General Prosecutor’s Office said.
“How is everything?”
“As good as can be expected.”
“Is something going on?”
“Yes, I need you to go to Siauliai.”
“What’s happened?”
“An American has been found dead. From what I’ve been told it wasn’t a natural or accidental death.”
“A murder?”
“I don’t know for sure. The local police aren’t saying much, even though they called to inform us. They seem to be bothered by something.”
“How soon do you need me there?”
“As soon as possible, Go as soon as there’s light.”
Siauliai was two hundred-some kilometers from Vilnius, which meant between two and three hours of driving, as long as the road hadn’t caved in somewhere along the way. Sunrise was at about seven o’clock. If he was on the way by then he would be in Siauliai no later than ten in the morning.
“Am I going alone?”
“For now, yes. If you need help, call me, I’ll send a second man.”
“All right.”
After Ignas’s boss hung up he went to the bathroom, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, and slipped into a pair of pajamas. He got into bed. He lay there unable to fall asleep. He had spent many sleepless nights since Birute’s death. He missed the smell of her and the sound of her breathing. He missed the feel of her pressed up against him. He was lonely in the dark. He got up and sat on the side of the bed.
He took fifty breaths and then another fifty. It was something he had learned to do. He wasn’t going to be any good in the morning if he didn’t get some sleep. There was a framed photograph of Birute on the dresser. He got it and laid it on the other pillow. He got back under the covers and soon fell asleep.
The rain stopped sometime before dawn. On top of the rain windy cold front had blown in from the Baltic Sea. The wind snapped tree branches. When the alarm clock went off Ignas turned it off. He got up, shaved, brushed his teeth again, and put together his two travel bags, one of them toiletries and clothes and the other one his investigation kit. The tools in the kit included measuring tape, a flashlight, magnifying glass, notebooks and pens, a recorder, binoculars, a fingerprint kit with lift tape, tweezers, forceps, glass vials, a scalpel, chalk, evidence bags, and a 35mm camera loaded with color print film.
He checked his Browning Mark III. It was a 9mm pistol with a thirteen round magazine. He packed an extra magazine. When he was working he carried the black pistol in a black hip holster. He attached the holster to his belt. He turned off all the lights and locked the door of his apartment. When he got into his Audi five-door wagon he saw he needed fuel. There was a Statoil station two or three minutes away. He drove to it and filled up with diesel.
He pulled over to the side and unfolded a road map. The A2 would take him to Panevezys. From there he would take the A9 to Siauliai. He would stop along the way for coffee. He wondered what the police in Siauliai had been bothered by, but put it out of his mind. There was no point in getting ahead of himself. It was better to take things as they came.
He had neglected to bring a hat. He would have to buy a new one. He didn’t think the weather was going to get any better anytime soon.
Excerpted from the book A Murder of Crows.
Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”
“Bomb City” by Ed Staskus
“A police procedural when the Rust Belt was a mean street.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books
Cleveland, Ohio 1975. The John Scalish Crime Family and Danny Greene’s Irish Mob are at war. Car bombs are the weapon of choice. Two police detectives are assigned to find the bomb makers. Revenge is always personal. It gets personal.
A Crying of Lot 49 Publication
Lithuanian Journal 