‘Counted out 38 shell casings': Resident of 2 Mass. cities concerned about gunfire in unlikely place
He does not want to be identified, but a tenant at Clarendon Hill Towers said he witnessed a massive shootout around midnight Tuesday -- and he can't believe no one was hurt or killed.
'I was looking out my window and I thought it was a pack of firecrackers going off,' he said. 'But who would do fireworks in February?'
The witness tells Boston 25 News that while he was too far away to identify anyone, he saw one person on foot, fleeing, and a car. The car stopped, he said, and the shooting began.
The witness called 9-1-1.
Police arrived in minutes. And the witness said he helped officers count the number of bullet casings. And the final number was shocking.
'We ended up counting out 38 shell casings,' he said. That's crazy.'
Perhaps crazier, the fact those dozens of bullets fired apparently hit no one.
'We don't have anything on anybody being sent to the hospital,' the witness said, 'But time will tell.'
Clarendon Hill Towers is located in Somerville, where Broadway drains into Alewife Brook Parkway. It's close to Tufts University and residents tell Boston 25 News it has not been, in their experience, a place for gunshots of any kind.
'A lot of people were shocked,' said Abdul Ahmed, another Clarendon Hill Towers resident. 'There are kids here, there's a school here, there's a veteran's shelter here. It doesn't happen here. It's a very quiet neighborhood.'
But the Somerville shooting was preceded ten hours earlier by a similar incident in Cambridge -- again, in an area not known for violent crime.
Cambridge Police said they found evidence of multiple gunshots at the corner of School Street and Bishop Allen Drive -- those shots were fired around 2:15 on Monday afternoon. Again, no one was injured.
It's unknown whether the incidents are connected.
Somerville Mayor Katjana Ballantyne said, in a statement, that the incident is deeply concerning and that she's relieved no one was hurt. She said the Somerville Police Department continues to investigate the shooting.
'Whether or not that investigation ultimately links this to gang activity, we take all incidents of gun violence extremely seriously,' the mayor said.
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When a starry-eyed Olga Tsvyk immigrated to the United States from Ukraine in January 2014, she was 33 years old and ready for something different. She had a university degree, a job in Kyiv at a travel agency, and a tight-knit family she was reluctant to leave behind, but she wanted to try living in America. However, the reality of Tsvyk's life in the U.S. didn't exactly live up to her fantasy. She got a job as a babysitter in a bland town in upstate New York. The exurban milieu left her wanting, and she hated the cold, despite (or perhaps because of) growing up in Ukraine. Soon, a Russian-speaking friend she met on Facebook named Marina encouraged her to move to New York City. There was a lot more action, she said, a touch of glamour, and also a large community of Russian speakers, which was appealing to Tsvyk, who was struggling to master English. Before long, Tsvyk had rented a room in Marina's uncle's house in Forest Hills, Queens. 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By the summer of 2016, Tsvyk had her own good news: She was about to receive her formal work authorization. Nasyrova was thrilled for her—for both of them—that they'd earned the right to stay and make a life in their new home. Courtesy of Olga Tsvyk Olga Tsvyk But, as prosecutors would later argue, Nasyrova wasn't who she said she was. Not only would she not be receiving a green card, she had been on the run in Russia for at least a year, and her U.S. visa was set to expire. By the summer of 2016, she was running out of road. She had one last scheme—and it involved an unsuspecting Tsvyk, the woman who so closely resembled her. According to prosecutors, Nasyrova decided to kill her doppelgänger and steal her life—or at least her immigration status. Her weapon of choice: a slice of cheesecake. On August 27, 2016, Tsvyk's landlord, Alik, called her to say that he had found a friend of hers sitting in the front yard of their building. (This reporting is based on a number of interviews conducted on the record and on background, as well as court reports and other filings.) The friend told him that her phone battery was dead. When Alik handed over his phone, Tsvyk recognized the voice immediately. It was Nasyrova. She told Tsvyk she had an eyelash emergency. Tsvyk rolled her eyes. She didn't do work out of her apartment, and Nasyrova had been at the salon just three days before. Plus, Tsvyk found Nasyrova increasingly pushy; she would drop by the salon to nag her to go partying with her and her boyfriend, almost like she wanted something from her. But Nasyrova pleaded with Tsvyk. She was heading to Mexico—how could she go on vacation with noticeable gaps in her lashes? Tsvyk remembers having a bad feeling in her gut, but wanting to help Nasyrova. She told her she could see her the next day. 'The last slice, Nasyrova insisted—pushing the package toward Tsvyk—was for her. She absolutely had to try it.' Nasyrova was more than two hours late, but when she arrived, she seemed eager to make amends, bringing cheesecake from what she described as a famous Brooklyn bakery. There were three pieces in a square plastic box meant to hold four. Nasyrova explained that the cheesecake was so good, she had eaten a slice on her way over. She asked Tsvyk to make her tea, and while she was preparing it, she ate two more pieces. The last slice, Nasyrova insisted—pushing the package toward Tsvyk—was for her. She absolutely had to try it. Within minutes of tasting the cheesecake, Tsvyk knew something was terribly wrong. She stumbled toward her bedroom and vomited. Nasyrova seemed unfazed, telling Tsvyk that she would clean it up as she went to fetch paper towels. It was the last thing Tsvyk remembers before she blacked out. The following afternoon, Alik found Tsvyk passed out on her bed dressed in racy lingerie. Alik's daughter Svetlana called the police and Marina, who rushed over to find the paramedics taking her friend's vitals. Her normally olive-toned skin was so pale that Marina thought she was dead. When she knelt by her bedside, she couldn't get Tsvyk to open her eyes. There were sounds coming out of her mouth, but no words. After she was loaded into an ambulance and taken to a hospital, Marina was praying for her friend when Nasyrova called. An unsuspecting Marina filled her in on the unfolding disaster. 'Oh my God,' Nasyrova said, sounding shocked. 'I cannot believe it!' When Tsvyk regained consciousness in the hospital, she told Marina about Nasyrova and the cheesecake. She didn't understand why she was found wearing lingerie; she had been wearing sweatpants when Nasyrova arrived. Had Nasyrova changed her clothes? Marina tried to call her, only to find she'd been blocked or Nasyrova's number was disconnected. When Tsvyk's sister, Iryna, heard about what happened, she hopped on a flight from Ukraine. She arrived on September 1, and found Tsvyk so lethargic—'like a vegetable,' Iryna testified—that she could barely move. Tsvyk needed assistance to get to the bathroom and to eat. She couldn't sleep. Courtesy of CBS News Police recovered this plastic container that had held the cheesecake at Tsvyk's apartment. While nursing her sister back to health, Iryna discovered a scatter of small white pills around her bed. She couldn't find Tsvyk's Ukrainian passport, U.S. paperwork, or her purse. As she searched, she realized Tsvyk was also missing a red bag, some clothes, a gold ring, and perfume, plus $3,000 in cash. She opened Tsvyk's wallet: There was just $17 left. It was an enormous loss for Tsvyk, who already felt like she had to hold her breath every month until she made the rent. She had barely recovered, and now she had to get out of bed and drag herself back to work. She was shaky and afraid; she didn't understand why Nasyrova had targeted her. Tsvyk knew something sinister had happened, and she reported what she could remember to the police. They recovered the plastic container that had held the cheesecake. When the tests came back from the lab, it was found to have traces of a sedative called phenazepam. While illegal in the U.S., phenazepam is prevalent and available with a prescription in Russia—and in high doses it can cause nausea, memory loss, loss of consciousness, and even death. Two days after she returned home from the hospital, Tsvyk's phone buzzed. It was Nasyrova, just calling to see what was up, like it was no big deal. 'Olga, I haven't been able to reach you, what happened?' Nasyrova said. Tsvyk figured she was testing her, pretending to care about her while trying to find out what she knew. Tsvyk was furious and bluntly accused Nasyrova of poisoning her and stealing from her, and trying to make it look like a suicide by dressing her up in fancy lingerie and scattering the pills by her bed as if she was some jilted lover. 'Fine,' said Nasyrova, suddenly turning cold. 'Then go to the police.' Tsvyk had already gone to the police, of course. She kept waiting nervously every day for Nasyrova to be arrested. About six months passed before the case took a turn, when a New York City private investigator named Herman Weisberg got a call from a client. She was a wealthy older woman, who often asked Weisberg to do jobs for other women she knew. Maybe the women were having trouble finalizing a divorce or getting shared custody—his client would pay the bill, like a fairy godmother. 'We called her 'the mitzvah lady,' ' Weisberg says. This time, the mitzvah lady introduced Weisberg to Nadezda Ford, a Russian woman who lived in Brooklyn. Ford said she was looking for a dangerous woman who had lived next door to her mother back in Russia. 'It was easy for her to steal. It was easy for her to kill.' A tearful Ford explained that her mother, Alla Alekseenko, had first disappeared and had later been found dead, her body charred beyond recognition. Her apartment had been stripped of cash and valuables, including gold, handbags, perfume, her passport, and even her toothbrush, according to Ford. Weisberg soon discovered that Russian authorities had identified Nasyrova as a person of interest in the Alekseenko investigation, but she had left Russia sometime in 2014 or 2015. Interpol even put out a 'Red Notice,' a worldwide alert, seeking her apprehension, in the summer of 2015. Nasyrova had a motive to assume Tsvyk's identity, prosecutors later argued, because her visa status was set to expire and she needed a plan to avoid capture by Russian authorities. Weisberg got to work, first scanning Nasyrova's social media. She might have been laying low in Brooklyn, but on Facebook, she was selling a life of luxury, wearing fur coats and swanning around casinos in Atlantic City. She was also highly active on Russian dating sites. Weisberg found an address where she appeared to be living in Sheepshead Bay, and put her under surveillance, getting his team to stake out her house at night and in the early morning. He called Homeland Security and Interpol, without much success, so Weisberg tapped some contacts at his local police precinct. They met early one March 2017 morning in front of Nasyrova's home. When the officers knocked on her door, Nasyrova appeared. 'It was very early in the morning, and she didn't look as confused or irate as I would be if somebody dragged me out at 6:30 in the morning and put me in handcuffs,' Weisberg says. In fact, to Weisberg, she seemed defiant, even cocky, walking to the squad car in jeans and a green parka with a strut in her step, like she was making her way down a catwalk. When Tsvyk later identified her in a police lineup, she remembers that Nasyrova was smiling. Gregory P. Mango / Polaris Nasyrova under arrest in Brooklyn on March 19, 2017. During the jury trial, prosecutors argued to the jury that Nasyrova had a pattern of predation and brought up another allegation of how Nasyrova cultivated closeness with an unsuspecting victim and then attacked, mostly for financial gain. In June 2016, prosecutors said, a New York dry cleaner named Ruben had met a woman named Anna on a Russian dating site. She was nice, he said, and extremely attentive. She invited him over to her apartment, telling him that she wanted to make him dinner. Ruben brought Anna flowers, wine, and chocolates; she prepared fish and salad for them to eat. Ruben had only a few bites before he passed out. He awoke three days later, with no memory of what happened to him, in NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital in Queens—the same hospital Tsvyk would be admitted to three months later. He was missing his watch, and he soon discovered fraudulent credit card activity. Ruben would later testify that 'Anna' was in fact Nasyrova. On April 19, 2023, on the eve of National Look-Alike Day, the jury handed down a verdict. Queens District Attorney Melinda Katz called Nasyrova a ruthless and calculating con artist who tried to 'murder her way to personal profit and gain.' In a victim impact statement read aloud to the court, a trembling Tsvyk recounted her ongoing fear that Nasyrova 'would come back and finish what she started.' 'It was [an] easy thing [for her] to gain the trust of another person, and then take everything from that person,' Tsvyk said. 'It was easy for her to steal. It was easy for her to kill.' Tamara Beckwith/NY Post/MEGA Viktoria Nasyrova photographed at New York City's Rikers Island Correctional Facility in April 2017 while she was awaiting trial. Nasyrova was convicted of attempted murder, attempted assault, assault, unlawful imprisonment, and petit larceny. She was sentenced to 21 years, followed by five years of post-release supervision. After her sentence was read, Nasyrova showed her displeasure by yelling 'Fuck you' at the judge. When Tsvyk and I meet almost two years later, on a perfect sunny day in December in West Palm Beach, Florida, she's wearing bright pink lipstick and an oat-colored cashmere T-shirt and sipping on a cappuccino in the shade of a palm tree. She was polite, if a bit wary, when I reached out to her. Since her ordeal, Tsvyk has created an entirely new life for herself, running her own day spa, Tsvyk and I chat for over an hour. She tells me it had taken her a long time to start feeling like herself again. In the years following Nasyrova's attack, Tsvyk navigated her way through the fog of being a victim, of testifying at a criminal trial, of having her face and personal details on TV—'the pictures of me in court were so bad,' she says. When Nasyrova was arrested in 2017, Tsvyk checked herself into a silent meditation retreat. She slept in an austere room and ate only vegetarian food; eye contact wasn't permitted. On day three, Tsvyk saw a woman who looked like Nasyrova, and it all came rushing back. But she pushed through, and by day five, she had regained her calm. 'The universe sent me that woman to get over what happened,' Tsvyk says. She has worked hard to control her thoughts and force Nasyrova out of her head. 'At first, I wanted her to die,' Tsvyk says, nonchalantly. 'Now I feel nothing bad for her at all.' Courtesy of Olga Tsvyk Olga Tsvyk That generosity might be made easier, at least in part, because of Nasyrova's spectacular decline. She's presently incarcerated at the Bedford Hills Correctional Center in Westchester County, New York, where she is reportedly making and selling 3D art to her fellow inmates—and refusing to take court-ordered anger management classes. She had also filed an appeal, arguing that the trial court should not have allowed prosecutors to mention Alekseenko's murder or Ruben's poisoning because she hadn't been charged or convicted of either of those crimes, and that they prejudiced her chances with the jury. The New York Appellate Division disagreed and denied Nasyrova's appeal last fall. She's also been subject to another, perhaps more cosmic form of justice. While awaiting trial, she was injured during her detention at New York City's notorious Rikers Island jail complex, and sued, winning almost $160,000. She entrusted that small fortune to a friend—giving her power of attorney, asking her to handle payments to her lawyer and make disbursements to her family back in Russia. But after paying some of Nasyrova's legal fees, the friend disappeared with around $55,000, according to documents related to the case. The Queens district attorney's office declined to comment on whether they intend to pursue prosecution. This story appears in the Summer 2025 issue of ELLE. More True Crime Sarah Treleaven is a writer and producer and the host of USG Audio's The Followers: Madness of Two podcast. She lives in Nova Scotia, Canada.
