Lucifer's Tears (10 page)

I stroke her round belly. “Me, neither. I guess so much time has passed that all three of you have changed. Maybe you have to get to know them again.”

“You don’t like them, do you?” she asks.

There’s no point in lying. “I’m trying to like them, for your sake.”

“Mary never laughs,” she says. “And for John, everything is one big joke. When we were kids, it was the opposite. I don’t know what happened.”

She doesn’t mention how much John drank. I don’t mention his drug use.

“You were a little tough on them,” she says.

“I had a hard day.”

I tell Kate about Vesa Legion Korhonen, that I was a jerk to Torsten, that Filippov seems thrilled his wife was murdered. “My tolerance level for people is zero right now,” I say, “and I’m overreacting to things.”

She snuggles her face deeper into the crook of my neck. “I’m worried about you. Being short-tempered with people is something that happens, but making a boy drink a bottle of vodka is mean.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like you. Is it because of the headaches?”

“That’s part of it anyway. My nerves are bad.”

“You’re moodier than you used to be. You’re always sweet to me, but with other people, you can be short-tempered. You’re more unpredictable than before.”

She pauses. I wait.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t have the scar on your face fixed. Police department insurance would have paid for plastic surgery. It’s not that it bothers me as far as your appearance goes, I just can’t help but feel that all these things are related.”

“It’s just the headaches. I’ll see Jari. Everything will be fine.”

I wait for her to say more, but within a minute or two, her breathing goes deep and regular. She’s asleep. My mind turns circles. I think about the skin sliding off Rauha Anttila’s corpse. Baby wasps swarming out of her mouth. Blood spray from Iisa Filippov’s riding-crop beating. But mostly about Ukki. About eating ice cream and sitting in his lap. He tickled me and made me laugh. He taught me children’s rhymes. He taught me to dum-dum bullets. The last time I look at the clock, it’s five thirty. It occurs to me that my behavior is unpredictable because I haven’t really slept in months now.

After being awake for better than thirty hours, I manage some fitful slumber and wake up early. The others are still asleep, for which I’m grateful. At eight thirty, I wake Kate up enough to kiss her good-bye and head off for work. It’s warmed up to around ten below. The snow has stopped. Helsinki is white. I couldn’t ask for more.

I find Milo in his office. Forensics sent him the crime-scene photos and the report of initial findings. They’re spread out on his desk. He peruses them, intent. Only a brief nod acknowledges my presence. I look over his shoulder.

“You see anything we didn’t notice before?” I ask.

“No. These only confirm my previous conclusions. Cause of death was asphyxiation.”

I note his choice of pronoun. My. He appears to think I play little part in the investigation. “Let’s take this stuff and show it to Saska,” I say.

He bridles. “You don’t trust my assessment?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This boy’s ego is bigger than the planet Jupiter. “Blood spatter will play a key role when this case goes to trial,” I say. “Saska is usually called upon as an expert witness in these situations. It makes sense to get his opinion now rather than later.”

Milo shoves the papers and photos into a messy pile and scoops it up. “Fine,” he says.

We find Saska in his office. Trophies and awards attest to his achievements, but unlike Milo, whose office bears none of these things, his ego seems in check. A radio plays low. He whistles along to iskelma -Finnish tango-and types on his keyboard. “Hi, guys, what’s up?”

I joke. “Murder most foul.”

He chuckles. “As opposed to murder most virtuous?”

“It’s a blood-spatter case,” I say. “Mind looking at some evidence for us?”

“Sure.”

Milo flops the documentation onto Saska’s desk. I spell out the background. “A wealthy married woman had an affair with her riding instructor. He claims she waited for him in his apartment, that he arrived and was struck with a blunt instrument. A bloody iron skillet corroborates this. He never saw the attacker. The woman was restrained in his bed, also beaten with the pan, beaten with a riding crop, burned with cigarettes and suffocated. He says he woke up beside her and found her dead. The question is whether she hit him with the pan and then he killed her, or if he’s telling the truth.”

Saska skims the report and examines the photos. Milo stands near the door and glowers. I sit and wait.

Saska turns to me. “They haven’t fed the blood-spatter patterns into a computer to determine flight paths, angles and velocities yet?”

“We’re still waiting on it,” I say.

“Offhand, I’d say this was a torture scene. The killer hit her more than a hundred times, whipped her in the same spots again and again to inflict maximum pain.”

“Milo thought a hundred and twenty-six lashes. Anything you can add?”

He flips through the photos again and thinks about it. “This riding instructor had on a white shirt with a collar. If he did the whipping, when he swung the riding crop, the top of the swing arc was behind him, and blood droplets would have flown from the riding crop’s tip in that direction. Check the shoulders and collar of the shirt at the back of the neck. You should find blood spatter there.”

Milo forces out a curt thank-you and exits Saska’s office.

“What’s his problem?” Saska asks.

“He’s a smart kid, but not as smart as he thinks he is. Whenever someone questions the greatness that is his, he gets a vitutus ”-a dick grows out of his forehead.

Saska laughs.

“I have to work with him,” I say. “How do you think I should handle him?”

“You’re right, he overestimates himself. For instance, it’s not possible to determine if the victim was struck exactly a hundred and twenty-six times. If I were you, I’d just wait. Sooner or later he’ll make a king-sized fuckup. When he does, he’ll feel his big big brain deflate. He might be a good cop after that.”

“Good advice. Thanks.”

I shuffle our documentation into a sheaf and go back to Milo’s office. He folds his arms and stares at me. “Saska confirmed everything I said. Maybe now you won’t treat me like a fucking punk.”

The headache is creeping back. It makes me caustic. “Milo, are you saying we’re not friends? My feelings are hurt.”

He pauses, uncertain if I’m teasing him or not.

I raise my voice. “Milo, you’re right. We’re not fucking friends. In fact, I don’t have any fucking friends, I don’t want any fucking friends, and if I had a fucking friend, it wouldn’t be you.”

He cringes, twitches, stares nervous at the floor. Then he smiles, then giggles, then looks at me and laughs. “Damn, you’re a real fucking hard-ass. You know that?”

I ignore the commentary, don’t clue him in to whether I was kidding or serious. “We needed Saska’s opinion. You didn’t find everything. In fact, we fucked up. We didn’t check the back of Rein Saar’s shirt for blood spatter. We have to get it done now.”

He ignores the criticism, waits while I call forensics and ask them to look at the shirt.

I finish the call and Milo says, “Think about it. Rein Saar and Iisa Filippov had an affair going back a couple years. Ivan Filippov claims he knew nothing about it. He can’t be that stupid. He lied.”

“But consider the logistics,” I say. “How would Filippov know for certain when his wife would be with Rein Saar, and when she would be in a location where he could have the opportunity to kill her?”

Milo’s smile reflects glee. “I have an idea about the hows and whys.”

“Please share.”

“He’s fucking his secretary Linda and wants his wife out of the way.”

“I saw them together at Kamp last night,” I say. “You’re right about the fucking part.”

“Iisa kept Saar’s work schedule in her purse. Filippov knew it. He could monitor their possible tryst schedules, and it makes sense that he would check her cell phone for text messages, too. He sees the text asking Iisa to meet Saar and her message agreeing. She has a key to Saar’s place. Filippov had a copy made and waited for his opportunity. He specializes in toxic waste disposal. He’s got waterproof, disposable coated-paper suits, rubber and vinyl masks and gloves, all the gear necessary to cover him head to foot and keep DNA evidence off him. He puts the stuff on, hits Saar in the head and frames him, tortures his wife and kills her, then gets rid of the bloody gear. It’s simple and practical.”

Milo’s theory begins to intrigue me. “It’s possible.”

“It’s more than possible,” Milo says, “it’s what happened.”

I think it through. “How about if we wait to find out about the blood on Saar’s shirt? If we don’t find blood spatter to match the crime, we take a closer look at Filippov.”

Milo nods.

“Did you look at Filippov Construction’s security tape?” I ask.

“Yeah, they arrived at the times they stated.”

“I expected that. Do you know when Iisa’s autopsy is scheduled?”

“Eleven thirty this morning.”

“I have another investigation going on,” I say. “It’s going to take up a big part of my day. Let’s do it like this. Skip the autopsy. You go back to Saar’s apartment. Now that forensics is done, you can really give it a thorough search.”

“This other investigation of yours must have something to do with your late-night visit from the chief. Want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Now he’s both impressed and slavering for details. “It’s that top-secret?”

“I didn’t say it was secret. I’m choosing not to discuss it with you.”

He purses his lips. “You’re a real prick today.”

“Yep. When you search Saar’s apartment, I mean search it. You look between the pages of every book, go through pockets of all his clothing. No stone goes unturned. Tear the place apart. Meet me back here at four thirty and we’ll reinterview Saar. Can you work that fast?”

He scowls and salutes. “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

I leave him alone with his ego.

I stop at a fast-food place and intend to wolf down some lunch, think better of it and grab a coffee instead. While I sit and drink it, I get a text message from Jyri Ivalo: “I read the Filippov murder initial report. Charge Saar. Open and shut. Interview Arvid Lahtinen and report.”

I ignore the text and call Jari.

“Hello, little brother,” he says. “How are things?” I’m forty-one. Jari is four years older than me.

“They’ve been better. Can I see you?”

“You’ve been in Helsinki for the better part of a year. I wondered when you’d want to get together.”

“Actually, I’ve got a headache problem, and I need to see a neurologist.”

“Oh.” I hear disappointment in his voice.

I don’t know why I haven’t seen him. I guess being around him makes me think about our childhoods, something I try to avoid. “I’ve been meaning to call, it’s just… you know how things are. The new job. And I guess you heard Kate is pregnant. She’s expecting soon, and I’ve been spending every free moment with her.”

“I understand,” he says.

He doesn’t understand. “Tell me about your headaches,” he says.

“It’s not headaches. It’s one long headache. I’ve had problems for about a year, but this particular migraine has lasted about three weeks now.”

“Constantly?”

“Yeah, no breaks.”

“Your nerves must be shot.”

“They’ve been better.”

“You shouldn’t have waited so long to see me. Come to the polyclinic at Meilahti at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then.”

He rings off without further chat. I guess I really hurt his feelings.

I’ve debated how to approach Winter War hero Arvid Lahtinen. The polite and respectful way would be to call, introduce myself and arrange an interview. This strikes me as a possible mistake. Whether he’s a war criminal or not, I want Arvid to tell me the truth about Ukki, and I don’t want to give him time to prepare fabrications. He lives in Porvoo, a town on the Porvoo River that dates from the fourteenth century. In this weather, it’s about an hour’s drive from Helsinki.

It’s still minus ten degrees, but snowing a little harder now. The trip is pleasant, much of it through wooded areas. But my migraine gets worse. It’s like a wolverine thrashing around in my head. I try to ignore it.

The old section of Porvoo is mostly made up of wooden houses. In the late eighteenth century, when Finland was a province of Sweden, the houses of the lower classes were painted red, and those of higher classes yellow, to impress the visiting Swedish king. Many of those houses still stand, and by tradition remain painted those colors.

I find Arvid’s house. It’s red and sits on the river among a group of similar buildings that were once warehouses. He has an old-fashioned door knocker. I bang it against its metal plate. He opens the door. He’s ninety years old. I expected someone decrepit, but he’s far from it. He’s short and thin, his white hair thick. If I didn’t know his age, I would think him a vigorous man in his seventies. I’ve broken a personal rule of police work. Never anticipate, it clouds judgment.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I introduce myself, show my police card and ask for a few minutes of his time. He ushers me in. I look around while I take off my boots. The downstairs is one large room. A settee and three armchairs surround a coffee table. Against the wall to the left of it, an antique bookcase with deep shelves and glass doors serves as a well-stocked liquor cabinet. To the right is a fireplace with a crackling blaze. Deeper into the room, a dark oak dining-room table seats eight. Behind it, a soapstone stove stands floor-to-ceiling. It breaks my view of the kitchen, but the part I see, a big stove and hanging pots and pans, tells me that the people who live here like to cook, and the smell wafting out confirms it.