My First Murder (15 page)

“Yeah, sure, but on one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“That we not talk about the case. We can talk about anything else—music, politics, books, even reindeer herding—but not my work. I’m just going to get more and more mixed up if I keep churning this over in my mind all the time.”

“Are you mixed up? You poor dear,” Tuulia said with a grin. “Well, hey, so am I. It’ll probably do us both good to think about something other than Tommi for a while.”

I washed the makeup off my face, applied a fresh coat, let my hair down, and was suddenly very thirsty. Thirsty for beer, thirsty for laughter, thirsty for friendship. I didn’t have the energy or the desire to think about professional ethics. Maybe going drinking with Tuulia was wrong for me the cop, but it was definitely right for me the person.

And we had fun. Tuulia was in rare form and regaled me with stories about all her escapades and mishaps. Her cheerful, anarchistic approach to life sometimes made me feel like I was already dead and in the grave. Tuulia’s tales of summer hitchhiking trips, screwing around at rock festivals with sixteen-year-old boys who suffered from virgin complexes, and swimming in the Tapiola fountain pond in downtown Espoo made me envious. Some might have said that Tuulia didn’t want to grow up, but I thought it was more like she didn’t want to dry up.

“I don’t want to be on any set track: graduate—buy an apartment—pay a mortgage—get a husband—make babies. Be respectable. I want to be irresponsible and do exactly what I feel like for my whole life,” she explained and then tipped half a glass of beer down her throat so that part of it ran down her jaw
onto her neck. She laughed and wiped it off with the back of her hand. Her open-neck blouse emphasized her clavicles, and her neck rose high and proud from between them. She wore gold half-moons in her ears, and a similar ring with sparkling gems adorned her finger. Pretty kitsch.

“What are you thinking about, Maria?”

“How much fun it is to talk to a sensible woman. I’m surrounded by way too many men at work. For some reason the only women I can really understand are the vagabonds, I mean the kinds of women who haven’t settled into any traditional roles.”

“You seem pretty lonely. Jaana said sometimes that you were kind of a hermit.”

“I just can’t stand putting myself out there. People are OK, even men, but playing the dating game just makes me gag.”

“Do you have someone special? I mean a man?”

“No. I’ve had a few who’ve hung around for a while. Pete drank all my money away. The second one, the bird guy, was a total emotional cripple, and then the most recent was this one study partner in law school who couldn’t stand that I got better grades than he did. That’s it in a nutshell. And I don’t have it in me to just go in search of some man because I’m supposed to have one. I’m too interested in my own comfort to put up with just anyone. I don’t think that all men are idiots, but there haven’t been many bright spots lately. Do you have somebody?”

“Not for ages. Tommi was...” Tuulia bit her lip, and I suddenly remembered Antti’s appeal in his letter not to hurt Tuulia. “Sorry for mentioning the taboo subject, but Tommi was...special in a way. A kindred spirit. Fucking infuriating sometimes.” She paused. “Barkeep! More of the same! You want another one too, don’t you, Maria?”

“I wouldn’t mind a third.” I noticed that Tuulia was choking back tears, and I started to talk about the latest Aki Kaurismäki film, which I had seen the previous week. From there, we started debating men’s and women’s roles, criticizing the government, and laughing until our sides ached. A couple of smug-looking guys tried to join us, but Tuulia wrapped her arm around my shoulder and said crossly that our own company was quite enough. We chuckled at the abrupt change in their expressions.

As we stood at the tram stop, I realized I was drunk. Tuulia said that she couldn’t walk to the railway station to catch her bus, so I had promised to wait for the tram with her. The evening air was cool, and Tuulia pulled her hands up into the overly long sleeves of her sweatshirt.

“I have really bad circulation; my hands are always cold.”

“Do you remember playing clapping games to stay warm at recess when you were a kid? How about we try that?” We started slapping hands, slowly and stiffly at first, but then the old knack came back and we were clapping hands faster and faster, ignoring people’s quizzical looks and giggling like ten-year-olds.

“You have really warm hands,” Tuulia said. “Warm hands, cold heart. Is it true?”

“According to that logic, you have a warm heart. Is that true?” I tossed back.

We hugged each other before the streetcar carried Tuulia away. As I walked home, I thought about when I had last touched a person like that, in a way that brought me pleasure.

Drifting on the tide, along this endless road we glide
No man, not one, may know

I was tied up with the Malmi stabbings for the rest of the week. One more victim came in on Friday when the youngest son of one of the Roma families stabbed a first cousin of the other family. I was trying to understand their perspective on things, but that would have required a better understanding of Roma culture than I had, and I simply didn’t have time to delve into it right then.

I tried to contact Hopponen, the choir director, several times and finally reached him on Monday.

“I’m still on summer vacation. I only came back to the city to rehearse for the funeral, and I’m in a bit of a rush. I have a lot to get done before tonight,” Hopponen explained.

“This is a murder investigation,” I said, trying to force some authority into my voice.

“Yes, of course I want to help. Could you maybe come to the student association tonight when we take our rehearsal break? Around seven thirty?”

That was fine with me. It would give me a chance to meet some of the other members of the choir and ask them about Tommi.

Martti Mäki had called me on Thursday. After a moment of hesitation, he had told me that he hadn’t been home at all on the night of the murder. When I asked whether anyone could corroborate that, he was flummoxed.

“Well, see...I don’t know the woman’s name.” She had been a chance acquaintance he made at the Kaivohuone Club in the park. Mäki had spent the entire night with her at Hotel Vaakuna. I arranged to meet him immediately after he returned to Finland on Tuesday. Perhaps I was naive to trust him, but I didn’t have any choice. Why would Mäki have bothered hiding the ax under the sauna? While Koivu was doing his rounds of the downtown nightclubs, he might as well stop by the Kaivohuone Club with a photograph of Mäki.

I left Pasila a little before seven. The previous night I had been up until midnight interrogating one of the assailants in the knifings. I was tired, and my head felt empty. I wished I had someone waiting for me at home with a hot bath drawn and a cold beer. Or even just a purring cat. I hoped that my meeting with Hopponen at the rehearsal wouldn’t take long. I needed to clean up, do some laundry, and sleep more than six hours.

As I rode the tram downtown, I thought about Koivu’s experience at the Hesperia Club. At first the bartender on shift had said he remembered Tommi well, but then he suddenly claimed that he hadn’t had time to pay attention to what he was up to. Koivu said that chatting up the women had been even more difficult. None of them had been willing to admit to knowing Tommi, though Koivu easily detected the recognition that flashed in some of their eyes when he showed them Tommi’s photograph. Maybe Koivu had been too soft.

The choir practiced in the Eastern Finland Student Association’s space on Liisankatu. Their singing carried from
an open window all the way down to the street. I recognized Kuula’s tune: “Drifting on the Tide.” That was what they had been rehearsing at Vuosaari too. Did EFSAS intend to perform that at Tommi’s funeral?

The elevator was out of service, so I had to climb the stairs to the fifth floor. The singing was even louder in the hallway, breaking off from time to time, and then starting over from the beginning. Didn’t the neighbors ever get upset?

The door was locked, so I rang the bell. After a long wait, Mira came to open the door. She did a double take when she saw me.

“Hello. I came to meet your choir director,” I explained.

“Our break is in about ten minutes,” Mira replied and then marched back into the practice room. I was a little early, and Hopponen didn’t seem to be in any hurry to stop for their break, so I had a chance to observe the rehearsal for close to half an hour. I had an excellent vantage point from the side door of the large room and could see not only the whole choir but also their conductor sweating it out in front of them.

The choir’s autumn season had not begun yet, so only a couple dozen singers were present. There were decidedly fewer men than women, and only one tenor aside from Riku and Timo. Despite the relatively small number in the group, the hall felt crowded. Even with one of the windows open, the air was stifling.

Hopponen, or Hopeless as they called him, led the choir from a platform that stood about a foot above the ground. He was short, fat, and bald, with the exception of a few long wisps of hair around the sides and back of his head, and he had a white goatee that waggled when he moved. Hopponen’s baton work was strange to say the least—at least to my untrained eye, it
was impossible to tell what time the song was in, let alone what was the downbeat. As he conducted, he hummed various parts, seemingly at random, like Glenn Gould. His shirt was too short and kept coming untucked from his loose jeans. Every now and then, he pushed it back in with one hand. Apparently, the ladies in the choir made a habit of checking to make sure Hopponen’s hair was combed, that his tuning fork was in his pocket, and that his fly was zipped before performances. I wondered whether perhaps he was trying to use absentmindedness to bolster his image as an artist.

“Shut it, tenors!” Hopponen suddenly bellowed. “Can’t you read music? That’s the bass solo!”

I saw Timo’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. Riku stood next to him grinning maliciously.

“Take it from the top; there was a lot of sloppiness all through there. Sopranos and altos, clear break between the dotted eighth notes and triplets at the beginning of the second page. And basses, don’t lag! From the beginning! Second soprano, may I have that D?”

Hopponen received at least two different versions of the requested note. The other voices sighed in exasperation. The same spectacle had obviously played out all too often before.

“The higher version is correct,” Hopponen observed dryly before motioning to the second sopranos to begin. At first there wasn’t a peep. Then someone began, very uncertainly, and a voice rose from the alto row to back up the second sopranos. General chaos ensued.

“Be quiet, Mira, you’re just messing it up!” Pia shouted, surprisingly sternly.

“What exactly is so hard about this beginning?” Hopponen asked, scratching his bald head.

“We don’t dare start when everyone is just waiting for us to screw up,” explained a plump, harried-looking redhead next to Pia.

“I can sing with them until the second alto starts,” Mira suggested and received several furious complaints in reply. It took awhile for Hopponen to get the situation under control.

“It sounds stupid if you sing with the second sopranos from over there on the other side. Tuulia, could you sing the first measure with them?” Hopponen finally suggested.

This solution seemed to work, and the song finally gained momentum. As I really started listening, I realized that the piece was truly touching, almost like it was written for Tommi’s funeral: “Drifting on the tide, along this endless road we glide, no man, not one, its length may know.”

The choir began to improve. I was standing closest to the altos, and Mira’s voice often overpowered the others. Tuulia’s soloist story was probably more than simple malice. Mira just charged on through the song, singing in the same unhesitating
forte
throughout. I wondered whether the person singing next to Mira was deaf in one ear. Closer to the middle of the alto row, Sirkku swayed in time to the music as she sang, which made her look idiotic.

Behind the altos sat the tenors. Timo sang with his nose in his sheet music and never even glanced at Hopponen. Riku’s expression was one of concentration. When he sang, he looked less childlike than usual. My eyes moved along the back row to Antti, who was just belting out in his low bass, “All, all shall fade away.” For a moment I thought I could detect tears in his eyes.

“Thank you!” Hopponen yelled midline. “Thank you means shut your trap!” he continued, when some of the group failed to stop singing. “All shall fade away, page three, line three. There are two Fs there. What might that mean?”

I could see many irritated looks in the ranks. This scene had also obviously been repeated often.

“
Fortissimo
,” came a general muttering.

“If you know what it means, then why isn’t anyone but the second altos doing it?”

“But they always sing
fortissimo
,” I heard Tuulia huff. She grinned at me as she said it, and I couldn’t help but grin back. The smile warmed me, making me forget the claustrophobic atmosphere.