Yevgeny Afanasyevich Bokov

1986, USSR, Moscow.

The morning in one of Moscow's police departments began not with coffee, but with yet another scandal, started, of course, by Bokov.

Evgeny drove her crazy, or so the young prosecutor of the RSFSR thought. Even in her notebook his number was written down not as "Bokov" or even "Evgeny Afanasyevich", but as "Asshole". Because in relation to her he really was an asshole.

The investigator who came from Rostov apparently imagined himself to be the head of their small investigative group (although this was true) and decided, in addition to himself, to wipe out the Muscovites as well. Including her.

She was tired of counting the times he had belittled her just because she was a woman. Everyone at the station already knew that there was a strong and irreconcilable enmity between them. Even hatred. But, nevertheless, in their own way, they hated each other.

Sometimes it happened that they would start a squabble, someone would say something unnecessary, and they would rush at each other like fighting dogs. Bokov knew from his own experience that this woman was not at all fragile or stupid. But, apparently out of stubbornness, he continued to provoke the one who could tear him to pieces just as he could do to her.

• Evgeny Afanasyevich... - the woman again tried to convey her version of the Fisher case to the Rostovite, but he just waved her off, lighting a cigarette for the fourth or third time that day. - Why do you think we caught the serial killer? We have no evidence of Makurin's guilt.

Bokov held the cigarette between two fingers. “And who do you think we caught, my sunshine?” He smiled indulgently, although his gaze was disparaging and perhaps a little irritated.

• None, a feathered wonder, more amateurism. I'll remove you from the case if you kick, we don't want to lose a suspect because of you, like last time, do we? - He exhaled ghostly smoke into the woman's face, who visibly clenched her jaw.