Fired. Dead. Forgotten.

The mysterious demise of Roman Starovoit follows a grim pattern of sudden deaths, selective memory, and political deniability in Putin’s Russia.

In most countries, a change of ministers might result in a quiet press release. In Russia, it can lead to a corpse. Roman Starovoit, dismissed as transport minister, was found dead just hours later in his car on the outskirts of Moscow, a bullet wound to his head and a pistol registered in his name beside him. Authorities swiftly labelled the incident a suicide. A criminal probe has been announced. But in Russia, such investigations often end where the Kremlin’s interest begins.

At 52, Starovoit was no stranger to high-stakes governance. Before his brief stint as transport minister, he had served as governor of Kursk, a border region thrust into the limelight by the war in Ukraine. There, he oversaw the hurried construction of defence structures. But when Ukrainian forces mounted a daring cross-border raid - Russia’s largest territorial incursion since the Second World War - his defences crumbled. Hundreds of Russian soldiers were captured, conscripts scattered and Kursk’s vulnerability was laid bare.

The humiliation had long tailwinds. Allegations of corruption in the region’s defence contracts began to swirl earlier this year. Alexei Smirnov, Starovoit’s former deputy and successor in Kursk, is now under investigation for embezzlement. Reports suggest that Smirnov has implicated his former boss in the same misappropriation, casting a long shadow over Starovoit’s abrupt firing and, perhaps, his tragic end.

Starovoit’s ousting coincided with severe disruptions in Russia’s transport networks with nearly 500 flights being cancelled and delays spilling into thousands.

The abruptness of his dismissal, paired with the speed of his death, invites comparison with a well-worn and sinister pattern under Putin’s rule. From defenestrations to poisonings, Russia has developed a macabre lexicon of political mortality. Businessmen and bureaucrats alike have suffered mysterious ends after falling out of favour. Pavel Antov, a sausage magnate turned politician who criticised the war in Ukraine, ‘fell’ from a hotel window in India in 2022. RavilMaganov, head of Lukoil, allegedly ‘fell’ from a Moscow hospital window after his firm questioned the Ukraine invasion. And let us not forget Anatoly Gerashchenko, an aviation scientist who plunged down multiple staircases inside his institute.

Even more notorious was the death of Yevgeny Prigozhin, head of the Wagner mercenary group, whose rebellion last year shook the Kremlin. After a brief rapprochement with Putin, Prigozhin’s private jet exploded in mid-air. Officially, it was a mechanical failure. Unofficially, the timing and the target spoke volumes.

In each case, there is always the narrative of a suicide, a heart attack, an unfortunate accident.

Starovoit’s own demise, though less high-profile than Prigozhin’s, may be no less emblematic. He was a technocrat, not a rebel, yet he died like many who come under suspicion in Putin’s vertically integrated system. The suicide raises questions about the pressures exerted by Russia’s authoritarian bureaucracy on those who fall from grace.

That pressure is compounded by the stakes of the war. As Russia’s invasion of Ukraine drags on, domestic strain mounts. Sanctions have battered logistics and transport infrastructure. Airlines are cannibalising planes for parts. Railways are choking under debt and inflation. The Kremlin needs scapegoats, but not too public, lest the population begin to connect the dots between systemic failure and political decision-making.

This is where men like Starovoit fit in: high enough to take blame, low enough not to cause disruption. Their deaths serve multiple functions – as catharsis for public anger, closure for internal investigations and a deterrent to others. Whether Starovoit pulled the trigger himself may be secondary. In Putin’s Russia, suicide is sometimes the only exit permitted.

The Russian state under Putin runs on fear as much as oil and gas. The machinery of governance is ruthless, and the fates of its fallen are reminders of what happens when trust (however defined) is lost. As for the truth, it will remain locked behind tinted car windows and sanitised press releases, another life expunged from the official memory.