Chernobyl’s Revenge

IV*

Kreves was on his way to the crime scene with thousands of thoughts racing through his mind. He had a feeling that was hard to describe—he was truly convinced there was a clue on the bridge, something only he would understand, a kind of gift from the killer. After all, the killer wanted Kreves to understand him, and there was only one way for that to happen—he needed to recover his memory. Only then could he solve the case.

He carried photos of the victim, studying them carefully. He could see her clearly—her eyes, or rather, the places where her eyes should have been, seemed fixed on something. It was no coincidence that the mask had been misplaced; the killer left it that way for a reason. Kreves felt as if he was connecting with the murderer as if the killer’s goal was for someone to understand the reasons behind such atrocious crimes. And Kreves, possibly one of the few survivors of Pripyat, seemed to be the only one who could.

When he arrived at the scene, the weather was freezing. The clouds blocked the sunlight, giving London a gray, somber look. The city seemed bleak; the streets were deserted. Few people dared to walk outside, and those who did looked frightened. The air was thick with the fear everyone felt. Tiny drops of rain began to fall, signaling an impending downpour. For Kreves, it was as if London’s weather mirrored the grief of the victim’s death. With every loss, the city seemed to suffer, grow darker, and sink deeper into despair.

Kreves stepped out of the car, pulled out a black umbrella, and opened it. From a distance, he saw the police tape cordoning off the area, though its purpose now seemed redundant. The public no longer felt curious about the killer—they only wanted him behind bars. Kreves walked toward the scene, holding the photos of the victim in his left hand. It was essential for him to perfectly recreate in his mind how the body had been found. When he reached the tape, he showed his credentials to the officers guarding the area and was granted access to the crime scene.

He approached the spot where the body had been found, identified by a white outline drawn on the ground. This was where the corpse had been placed. Looking at the photos, he saw the victim’s body seated with her torso pressed against the bridge wall, her head partially turned. Her posture wasn’t natural for a dead person—something had to be holding her head in that position, and Dr. Abbat would surely determine what it was.

He positioned himself against the wall where the body had been found, focusing on the victim’s face to determine what she had been looking at. It appeared she was facing the direction of Parliament, but something didn’t add up. Kreves walked to the section of the bridge with a clear view of Parliament, inspecting the stones and searching for anything loose or a message on the ground. Nothing—there was no sign of disturbance. Frustration built up within him as he sighed; his hunch had been wrong. But there was one place left to check—the water.

Looking down at the river, its murky waters revealed nothing. Still, Kreves had a strong feeling that something lay beneath the surface. He called over the officers securing the area, briefly explained his findings, and insisted they call for reinforcements to search the river. At first, the officers were reluctant; drawing more attention to the scene might attract onlookers. But Kreves managed to convince them. Two hours later, reinforcements arrived. Three divers equipped with gear entered the Thames, while Kreves waited anxiously on the riverbank. He hoped they would find another letter, another coin, or a hidden message. But he never imagined something so vile.

From the depths of the Thames, near the same coordinates where the previous victim had been found, another body was discovered. This one had been tied by the neck to a concrete block to keep it in place. The rest was the same as before: dismembered, disfigured, marked, and with a mask properly placed this time. There was one new detail—the victim’s teeth had all been removed.

After retrieving the body from the river and before it was sent to forensics, Kreves searched the victim’s clothing with gloved hands. The body wore a dirty, tattered wool coat and equally worn pants. It was in the pants’ right pocket that Kreves found what he was looking for—a note. Like the previous one, it was written using newspaper clippings, but this time, it had been sealed in a watertight plastic bag to protect it from the water.

On the outside, it read clearly: “Kreves?” also spelled out with clippings. This was the clue he had been seeking. Though it nauseated him to think the killer had delivered it in such a vile manner, it could be essential to catching him. Kreves hesitated momentarily, unsure if he should open it. But his curiosity won. He opened the note and began to read.

Detective Kreves,

I don’t know if addressing you this way is appropriate. In fact, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about and might even think I’m crazy. However, I assure you, your thoughts couldn’t be further from the truth.

I won’t waste your time, Detective. My masterpiece is already complete, and those who caused so much harm in the past will finally pay for their crimes. I have condemned my soul, but at least I will ensure they can no longer cause harm driven by greed and ambition for power and money.

Still, there’s no guarantee that the mistakes of the past won’t be repeated in the future—that others won’t commit the same crimes, or perhaps even worse ones. So, a legacy must remain; otherwise, all this effort will be in vain, and it will not endure. The problem, Detective, is that no one can understand me—not the people of London, at least. They haven’t felt this kind of pain and probably never will.

That’s why I need you, Detective. Only you are capable of understanding my motives for committing so many murders. But you will only grasp my vision when you remember your lost life. All the memories that were taken from you must return, and I… I can help you. I only ask for one small thing in return: do not judge me before hearing me out.

If you want to remember, you must find me first. To do so, I need you to answer this: if a king kisses a queen and a queen kisses a king, what public building in London does this represent? Solve it, and in three days, I will be waiting for you at that place. Only there, and at that precise moment, will you be able to find me.

Will you seek the truth, or would you rather continue living the lie your uncles created for you? I can reveal everything to you. Now, it’s up to you to decide if you truly want to know who you are.

Good luck, Kreves...

After finishing the letter, Kreves was bewildered. It was far too obvious that this meeting was a trap, but he had no other choice. Although the letter didn’t explicitly state he couldn’t bring someone along, he knew that if he did, the killer wouldn’t show up. Moreover, he needed to know who he truly was, what he had forgotten, in order to understand the importance of those memories in the case. It was clear that the killer had a fascination with Kreves—after all, he might be the only person capable of understanding the killer’s motives, and therefore the only one who could ensure his work would be remembered.

Kreves’ mind was completely disordered; he had no idea what to do. He wanted—no, he had—to find out who he really was. However, there was no guarantee the killer would tell him the truth. In fact, he might deceive him to make Kreves understand his reasons for killing and ensure he wouldn’t be forgotten. Kreves had to be prepared, to have some idea of how to avoid being so easily misled. There was only one plausible place to go to recover his memory: the clinic that had stolen his life from him some time ago.