CHAPTER 1: Beneath Rybnik's Sky
Sunday morning, December 12, 1999.
A blue Škoda Felicia was slicing through the bluish, coal-dust-tinged slush that had once again been dumped across the road between Katowice and Rybnik.
Miroslaw twisted the volume knob on the car radio and listened to the hissing voices of the hosts.
"…Bugging devices have been discovered in the U.S. State Department building, allegedly installed by Russian intelligence officers…"
His fingers switched the station out of habit. From time to time he glanced at the worn-out map spread across the dashboard, covered in handwritten notes.
The sky over Silesia had been sealed for a week by a solid grey shroud that spewed either fine snow pellets or icy rain, causing periodic closures of major roads.
"…Exchange rate of the Silesian Taler is 15.72 to the Euro. Czech Koruna 32.58. And now for the news. Late last night a report came from the city of Rybnik: physicist Professor Stanisłav Kloze has passed away. Investigators have not yet issued comments. Preliminary conclusion—suicide…"
Through the windshield, Miroslaw could already see the gigantic cooling towers of the Rybnik power plant. Just a couple more kilometers remained. Thick steam rose from the reservoir, often spreading fog across the entire area, lending the city a mystical, almost otherworldly appearance.
He mentally assessed the reserves of his young, still-undamaged twenty-seven-year-old body and concluded with mild optimism that one more sleepless night probably wouldn't kill him.
He had to zigzag almost across the entire city before the car finally stopped by the main station of the local police. A heavy socialist-era building with a yellow-and-blue flag of democratic Silesia flapping above it. Climbing out of the car, Miroslaw paused for a moment at the absurdity of the symbol: people joked that the world had turned upside down—yellow earth should be at the bottom, and the blue sky on top. Yet, glancing at the yellowish sky over Rybnik, he briefly wondered if perhaps that was exactly what had inspired the designers.
As he approached the entrance, a sharp gust of wet snow blew down his collar, making him flinch and mutter a curse.
Almost running through the double heavy doors and the small vestibule, Miroslaw stepped into a spacious reception hall with wet footprints and muddy streaks smeared across the tiled floor. Approaching the duty desk, he removed his wet gloves, slid his ID through the window and introduced himself:
"Poruchik Miroslaw Kowolik, inspector of the Central Bureau of Criminal Police."
"Ah, yes, we've been expecting you, comrade poruchik."
The unshaven duty officer tapped a few buttons on the phone, cleared his throat, and a few seconds later reported into the receiver, holding it with his shoulder while scribbling information from the ID.
"Duty officer. The inspector's here, the one from criminal… yeah… understood."
Hanging up, still without lifting his eyes to Miroslaw, he continued speaking and writing quickly:
"Second floor. Office number thirty-two. Here's your pass."
With a sharp clack of a mechanical stamp, he handed the paper slip to Miroslaw.
The second floor was stuffy, smelling of damp mixed with lacquer. Along the corridor were office doors with peeling nameplates, lit by fluorescent tubes that made the eyes ache. Miroslaw found office 32 and read the plaque: "Head of Criminal Division—Major Józef Novak." He knocked and opened the door.
"Permission to enter?"
Three people were inside. One—an older, heavyset major at the chief's desk; the second—a skinny, red-haired poruchik with an exhausted face, propping his cheek with his hand and nearly falling asleep. The third—a middle-aged woman in civilian clothes, apparently a forensic specialist. On the major's desk sat stacks of documents, a cup filled with pens and pencils, a couple of phones, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and another glass of steaming tea in an old metal holder. The woman held a large white mug in her hands. Two more faceted tea glasses were set on the poruchik's side—one presumably prepared for the inspector.
"Come in," the major rumbled.
"Inspector Kowolik," Miroslaw introduced himself. "Here regarding Professor Kloze."
The major nodded, stood, and walked up to him, extending a hand. His handshake was crushing—rigid palm, steel fingers.
"Major Józef Novak. Head of the investigative group. This is poruchik Vladimir Kravec. And this is medical examiner Dr. Elena Dvořák." He pointed at a chair. "Please, have a seat, colleague."
After shaking hands with the others, Miroslaw took off his jacket, hung it on a hook in the corner, sat at the table, pulled a notebook from his inner pocket, and clicked his pen. After the unpleasant hospital-white lights of the corridor, the chief's office, lit in a warm yellow glow, felt almost cozy.
"Report, Vladimir," the major said.
"All right," the poruchik began immediately, suddenly energized. "The deceased is Stanisłav Kloze, fifty-three. Silesian on his mother's side. Born in Berlin, '46. After the establishment of the Silesian Social Democratic Republic, the family moved to Wrocław. He graduated from the Polytechnic University there—faculty of physical chemistry. Trained in the USSR at one of the nuclear plants—classified data. Returned as a Candidate of Sciences. Participated in the construction of the Rybnik Nuclear Power Plant, stayed on afterwards, split his time between the plant and teaching at the University of Katowice.
Body was found by his mother on the evening of the 11th, around nine. She called the ambulance. Apartment building downtown, Saint Joseph Street, fourth floor. Lived alone, divorced for about ten years. Had some girl hanging around—likely a student. But no women's clothes found. Probably didn't live there. According to witnesses her name is Maria; identity unknown. Last seen near Kloze's building on the 10th around 3 p.m. Kloze's car is in the nearby lot. No signs of forced entry, no missing items. Neighbors noticed nothing unusual."
He pulled several photos from a folder and laid them out. A study with a desk and computer, bookshelves, a living room, a chair—and finally, an overweight elderly man on a couch, face frozen in a strange half-smile.
"Found him on the living-room couch. A stool stood beside him with a glass on it. On the floor—an open ampoule of clonidine and a suicide note. All fresh fingerprints in the apartment are his and those of the unidentified woman. On the glass, ampoule, note—only his prints. We collected hair: long blond and long gray strands all over the place—not his. Likely the girlfriend's and the mother's. Doors and windows locked from the inside. No signs of struggle. Everything seems clean. The note says he asks not to blame anyone and admits his failure as a scientist, husband, and father, and that he destroyed all his research so as not to disgrace himself. Also… the professor was definitely an odd one—all the shelves are filled with esoteric books. Buddhism or something."
Miroslaw silently examined the photographs.
"What do you say, Dr. Dvořák?"
Without letting go of her tea mug, the short-haired woman began:
"Postmortem changes correspond to time of death around midday on the tenth. High clonidine concentration in blood. Pathological picture is typical for poisoning by centrally acting antihypertensives—specifically clonidine. Signs of cardiovascular and respiratory failure: pulmonary edema, organ congestion…"
She reminded Miroslaw of one of his academy professors—someone who could describe complex things with lively, almost cheerful clarity.
"…undigested remnants of confectionery," she concluded.
"Anything else? Any anomalies? Something unusual?" the major asked.
"Even though he ingested a toxic dose of clonidine, without alcohol it's not guaranteed to be fatal at his weight. Though individual tolerance varies. His heart wasn't exactly healthy. So you could say he got lucky… or unlucky…"
"Anything else?" the major repeated, now impatient.
"The ampoule is odd. Not a 1 ml one like you'd buy at any pharmacy, but a full 10 ml, meant for subcutaneous injections—I've never seen one like that. Made in Germany."
Major Novak curled his lip and leaned back, lighting a cigarette.
"He was a professor, not a housemaid. Obviously he prepared," he said with mockery. "We have poison, we have a note, we have a religious nutjob. The case screams suicide. What do you think, inspector?" he added, blowing smoke through his nose.
"Still… there's a small chance it was staged," Miroslaw said slowly. "He was a senior specialist at the NPP. We need to check everything thoroughly. What about the computer?"
"It was on when I arrived. There was a floppy disk in the drive. Something in English on the screen… you'll see in the photos," Kravec replied. "The floppy has Kloze's prints. The PC tower's with the experts, but we've only got one of them, so who knows when he'll get to it."
"I need to find that girl Maria. And I need to inspect the place myself."
"Your call," Major Novak shrugged. "Work however you like, Pan Inspector from the capital. Kravec, you're assigned to Inspector Kowolik. For now he'll take over your office," he added, making it clear he was happy to dump the case.
"Yes, Pan Major."
"Inspector Kowolik, you'll stay at the Proletarskaya Hotel. Here are pager numbers, fax lines, everything you need."
Holding a cigarette between his teeth, Novak handed him a laminated sheet.
"And sign here… and here."
Silently, Miroslaw signed. The case was now legally his—and no one else here wanted it. When he looked up, the major was already crushing his cigarette with enough force to crack the ashtray. His eyes said plainly: Get out and don't bother us.
Walking down the corridor, Miroslaw's head buzzed with questions. Why stage a suicide at all? And if it was staged, could a young student girl really pull it off alone?
The lock clicked, revealing another drab office—one of a dozen such rooms Miroslaw had occupied during his short career. This one looked lived-in. An enamel kettle and mugs on the windowsill. A couch with a rumpled plaid blanket. Someone even tended the plants.
"Pan Kravec, what do we know about the victim's mother?" Kowolik began as soon as they entered.
"They took her away in the ambulance soon after I arrived. Pre-infarction condition. As for her background—retired pediatric department head at the hospital. Respected woman in town."
"I see. Where does she live, why did she come, who owns the apartment where the body was found?"
"From the bits she managed to say, she couldn't reach him by phone and came to check. The apartment is registered to him. She lives in a private house. You don't think she did him in, do you?" Kravec scoffed.
"I'll take this desk," Kowolik said, pulling drawers in and out.
"As you wish."
"Good. Then we'll head to the apartment again and talk to the neighbors. We'll need extra hands for canvassing."
"Can't you call an operations team from the capital since he's some important guy?"
"Unfortunately, no. There's political unrest in Wrocław again. And he wasn't that important. Just a scientist."
"I'll talk to the sergeant in patrol, see who can help."
Half an hour later, Kowolik followed his own Škoda Felicia behind an old patrol Fiat heading slowly toward central Rybnik. After unloading near a concrete apartment block radiating socialist gloom, the patrol officers dispersed to search for witnesses, while Kowolik and Kravec went up to the crime scene.
The door was sealed with police tape. Kravec broke the seal and inserted the key.
The stale air of an unventilated room mixed with the scent of death hit them.
Miroslaw stopped in the hallway, pulling on medical gloves from his pocket and surveying the space. In the mirror he caught his own reflection—a fair-haired, lean guy in civilian clothes; a short leather jacket over a high-collared sweater.
"First—the carpet," he muttered, either to Kravec or himself.
In the living room he crouched. The carpet's pile was short. No drag marks.
"Everyone's already trampled around—our guys and the medics. Useless…" Kravec commented.
He walked into the victim's study—bookshelves up to the ceiling, a desk with a monitor, and a bed. On the desk, Miroslaw noticed a book with a bright cover depicting some ancient Asian figure.
"Russian title. Torchinov. Taoism."
"Professor was pumping himself full of the people's opium, no doubt. Maybe he really did go nuts," Kravec said, snapping photos mostly for entertainment.
"Did you confiscate any notes?"
"Yes. Several work folders from the safe with NPP stamps and clearance marks. The safe wasn't locked. The SNSS took them before you arrived."
"Did you photograph the contents?"
"You kidding, Pan inspector?"
Rummaging through the shelves and drawers, Kowolik found no notebook, no journal. Only scattered household notes and a few documents from the university.
"And his personal writings? A diary or something like that?"
"We didn't find anything of the sort. In his note he wrote that he destroyed all his records."
The inspector let out a long breath and calmly looked around. Picking up Torchinov's book, he opened it and began flipping through the pages.
"Maybe he really did destroy them… And what's this?"
Between two pages that had stuck together was a quarter-sheet of printer paper. Poruchik Kravec leaned over Kowolik's shoulder.
"More esoteric nonsense. Was he even doing physics?"
The sheet seemed to be part of a copy of some old book. On the back, written in blue ink: "The element of fire by its nature strives upward, and the element of water downward, but by raising water above fire one obtains a useful vapor, i.e., spirit..."
"Take a proper photo of it — make sure both sides are readable. And attach it to the file. I'm seizing it along with this book."
After digging through the wardrobe and checking the pockets, Inspector Kowolik found several receipts and a note with a phone number.
Across the hall there was a child's room. One bed, a piano, and posters of old music bands. The professor's son had died as a teenager. That was the reason for the divorce. And another reason for suicide?
The kitchen looked clean. In the fridge — half a leftover roulade on a plate. He opened the trash bin under the sink. Inside were the roulade's packaging, candy wrappers, banana peels, apple skins, eggshells — ordinary household waste.
Opening the cupboard with the dinnerware, his eye was drawn to two teacups, each lined with a faint brown patina. They were clearly the ones he used. The rest looked untouched inside, even dusty.
"Write this in the report: I'm seizing the kettle and all drinkware in the kitchen. The entire tea set from the left cupboard. And all the trash together with the bin. And from the fridge — the roulade, plate included."
Kowolik spoke in a detached tone.
"I can already tell you exactly what the major will say: 'Pan Inspector, this isn't the FBI. Do you want to paralyze the entire city's forensics department?'"
"Don't worry, poruchik. If they don't notice anything during collection, I won't insist on a deep analysis. If needed, we'll send the stuff to the capital."
After checking the bathroom, the inspector also seized the towels and dirty laundry, the toothbrushes and combs. Thinking for a moment, he added a few more items from the bedroom and kitchen.
"All right." Miroslaw removed his gloves.
"There's nothing more for us to do here. Poruchik Kravec, make sure everything I listed is seized by forensics and entered into the follow-up inspection report."
Meanwhile, the hunt for witnesses had gone surprisingly well. A woman reported seeing a suspicious man walking through the courtyard with a suitcase around the time the scientist had died.
Outside on Rybnik streets, real winter snow had begun to fall, lightly dusting the frozen mud and giving the city a more tidy, presentable look.
---
In our reality, at the present moment, Silesia does not exist as a sovereign state. The lands of the historic Silesian duchies are divided among Poland, the Czech Republic, and Germany.
In the real Polish city of Rybnik, there is no nuclear power plant — only a coal-fired one.
Poruchik — in Slavic countries, the military rank equivalent to an army lieutenant (not a U.S. police lieutenant).
Pan/Pani — Slavic honorifics in Poland and other Slavic countries.
Candidate of Sciences is a PhD-equivalent academic research degree established by the Soviet Union.
SNSS — the Silesian National Security Service.