Where Have All the Young Girls Gone

by Leena Lehtolainen

  “Second disappearance: January twenty-fifth. Sara Amir, Bosnian Muslim, age fourteen, also in the eighth grade, but at Espoo Central. Same story as Aziza’s—parents had not filed a missing person report. The school contacted social services, who requested that the police investigate. The parents say she returned to Bosnia, but there’s no evidence of that. The family has permanent residency, and all of them have applied for Finnish citizenship. I went with social services to interview them. The father, Mikael Amir, didn’t allow the other members of the family to speak. Sara is the family’s only daughter, the middle child of five. The mother looked like she’d been crying, but she didn’t get a chance to say anything. The school picture is from last year. She missed pictures this year due to illness.”

  The girl in this picture still looked like a child. Her face was thin and unsmiling; you could see fear in her eyes. I’d been under the impression that the Bosnian Muslims were a secularized bunch, but Sara’s scarf was pulled around her head so snugly that not a single lock of hair was visible, and it was tied tightly under her chin.

  “I would’ve liked to interview the mother one-on-one, but no dice. Of course, the father promised to notify the police immediately if they received any information about Sara’s whereabouts. We haven’t heard anything.” Koivu adjusted his glasses higher on his nose. He’d been forced to get bifocals just before Christmas.

  “Third disappearance: February fourteenth. Ayan Ali Jussuf, from Sudan, a permanent resident in Finland just like the rest of her family. Eighteen years old, considered an adult by Finnish law and no longer required to attend school. The parents didn’t report her missing, but her friends at the Girls Club got worried when they couldn’t reach her. The parents claim not to know where she is. She hasn’t registered a new address with the state. We have no information about her whereabouts.”

  “And what do they all have in common?” I interjected.

  “None of these young women has exited the country, at least not under her own name, by sea or by air. It is possible that they’ve gone north by car and crossed the Swedish border at Tornio, but since we’re in the Schengen Area, that would be impossible to track. They may also have used false identities.”

  “Didn’t Ruuskanen think these cases were worth investigating? Three teenage Muslim girls living in Espoo disappear without a trace. It wouldn’t take much of a reporter to start connecting the dots. How has the department managed to keep this under wraps?”

  “The families haven’t wanted any publicity, and Ayan’s friends have been afraid that speaking out about it might put her in danger. But Ayan is already an adult, and she could have disappeared voluntarily. Aziza and Sara could have done the same—girls have been known to run away from home before.”

  “Are there any rumors online?” I asked. Koivu seemed to have been taking this seriously, and I suspected he’d been making his own inquiries despite Ruuskanen’s reluctance.

  “There was some discussion of Ayan on the MTV3 message boards, but the administrator deleted the thread because it contained information that violated privacy protections. Apparently, one of Ayan’s friends from the Girls Club started the discussion. Some people suspected the family had sent her out of the country because she had a Finnish boyfriend. But the family denies knowing anything about a boyfriend. Their Ayan only had girlfriends. One of the posters on the discussion board claimed that Ayan’s older brothers killed her, but the messages were deleted after that. I haven’t been able to subpoena the deleted messages because the investigation hasn’t been official.”

  More than ten years of living with Anu Wang-Koivu, who had arrived as a Vietnamese Chinese refugee, had shown Pekka what it was like to be a member of an ethnic minority in Finland. Anu was as Finnish as could be and spoke the language perfectly, without any hint of a foreign accent, but sometimes people still addressed her in English or treated her like she was mentally deficient. Because police officers with immigrant backgrounds still didn’t grow on trees, Anu had been assigned to deal with new Finns, regardless of their race or religion, even though her background was completely different from, say, Somali asylum seekers or Polish cleaning ladies. Through all this, Koivu had developed an allergy to racial categorization.

  Puupponen began to hum a familiar tune, Pete Seeger’s “Where Have All the Flowers Gone.” Where had all these young girls gone? Koivu pushed the plate of donuts closer to Puupponen, who grinned and stopped singing.

  “Hey, guys, isn’t it pretty normal to marry off fourteen-year-olds in Muslim countries? What if their parents just wanted to marry them off to some cousin so they shipped them somewhere our laws don’t apply?” Puupponen turned the donut back and forth, inspecting it, but he didn’t take a bite. The pink frosting was smearing on his fingers.

  “An eighteen-year-old could have gotten married here,” Koivu observed.

  “But against her will? If they dragged her back to Sudan, they could have done anything they wanted. By now she probably has a new name, and her Finnish social security number is only a memory. Someone more paranoid than me might think we were on the trail of a serial killer with a taste for immigrant girls, but it’s going to take more than this to get an old-fashioned realist from the backwoods of Savo to swallow a theory like that. I can understand why Ruuskanen hasn’t taken the case any further. If they were kidnapped for marriages, it would just pour gas on the fire of all the neo-Nazis.”

  “But Finland is governed by the rule of law, and in a state governed by the rule of law, when people disappear, we investigate. Especially when it’s minors who are disappearing. For God’s sake, don’t smear frosting on your shirt!” Koivu snapped at Puupponen, who had just wiped his fingers on his extraordinarily ugly hand-knitted sweater. Its design was evidently meant to depict bears, but it had stretched so much they looked more like pine martens. Maybe the sweater was an expression of Puupponen’s mother’s or sister-in-law’s sense of humor.

  Both of my subordinates stared at me as if I was a referee. The power to start an investigation or leave the case on ice was mine. But I knew Koivu well enough to know that he wouldn’t get so worked up over nothing.

  “We could go and have a talk with the families again. Maybe Sara’s mother would be able to speak one-on-one with another woman. Who made the report about Ayan’s disappearance?”

  “Nelli Vesterinen, the activity coordinator at the Girls Club. Ayan’s girlfriends had asked her what to do.”

  Iida had mentioned Nelli countless times. Nelli wasn’t uptight like the other Girls Club leader; Nelli never got on their case for joking around and even tolerated some horseplay. Anu was going to give a talk at the Girls Club, but she wasn’t my subordinate. I could still tell her to keep her eyes and ears open, though; maybe Ayan’s friends who had made the missing person report would be there. But we needed to interview Nelli Vesterinen as soon as possible.

  “Pekka, you’ve been collecting the personal information and addresses of the lost girls’ relatives, right?”

  “Correctamundo. In a file folder, just like in the old days. The computer system has been acting up recently, so it’s best to keep a hard copy of anything important.”

  “Haven’t you heard of backups?” Puupponen asked.

  “Ville, since you’re such a computer genius, why don’t you get online and see what you can dig up? Start by searching the girls’ names; maybe the discussion about the disappearances has started up again. We’ll send requests for assistance to Europol and INTERPOL. Pekka, you met all of the families personally?”

  “Yeah, Ruuskanen palmed the foreigners off on me because I have an immigrant wife and three slant-eyed kids.”

  “Aren’t we bitter today? I thought you’d be happy now that Maria is back in the department,” Puupponen said, finally biting into his donut in such a way that the topmost pine marten/bear on the sweater received a splat of jelly on the head.

  “It just sticks in my craw how helpless we are with things like this. ‘Just don’t investigat
e. What does it matter if we lose an immigrant or two? Better they leave the country anyway.’ Of course, Ruuskanen didn’t say anything like that, but you can sense the attitude. It almost reminded me of the Pertti Ström days. But let’s get down to business, even though we’re late leaving the starting gate. How about we make our office the case room so the boss lady can have some peace and quiet?”

  Now that Koivu had gotten his way, he was finally smiling.

  “It would be good to get DNA samples for each girl. Hopefully they haven’t thrown away their toothbrushes and hairbrushes. Although the ones who were traveling may have packed them . . . But let’s try anyway. Koivu, you make appointments with the families. All three of us will go so we can talk to people separately. I’ll get in touch with the Girls Club.”

  “Is this another one of these clubs where they don’t allow men?” Puupponen asked.

  “A policeman can go wherever he wants,” Koivu said, grabbing the last donut off the plate and exiting the room. Puupponen remained sitting in the armchair.

  “Have you had a chance to meet Ruuskanen yet?” he asked.

  “We officially met yesterday. I’ve crossed paths with him before, years ago at an officers’ event, but I doubt we’ve ever exchanged more than a few words. But Ruuskanen doesn’t have anything to do with this. We operate as an independent unit, and besides, he’s just a temp. I don’t think we should expect too much trouble from that direction.”

  Puupponen shook his head. There were only a few freckles on his pale skin; the winter sun didn’t exactly lure them out. While their donut habit had expanded Koivu’s midsection, it didn’t seem to have any effect on Puupponen, even though he’d be celebrating his fortieth birthday in the summer. His hair glowed a shade of red that would have been difficult to conjure out of a bottle.

  “I found an interesting link when I was doing some research online. Ruuskanen’s twentysomething son, Miro Ruuskanen, is an active member of an anti-immigrant group called Finnish Heartland. It’s one of these small groups that are disappointed that the True Finns Party doesn’t condemn immigration strongly enough. Of course, the opinions of father and son don’t necessarily have anything to do with each other, but it’d be good for you to be aware. I didn’t dare mention it to Koivu; he’s already got enough conspiracy theories running around in his head.”

  “No point making Ruuskanen’s disinterest out to be more than it is. It’s more likely a question of the lack of resources, which our new unit is meant to address. But go dig around online; I’m going to try to line up our first interview. Shoo!” I waved Puupponen out of my office like a wasp, and it worked. He left, laughing, leaving behind the sugary smell of donuts.

  I spent a moment collecting my thoughts. Unlike Koivu and Puupponen, I suspected that in leaving the disappearances uninvestigated, Ruuskanen had been trying to avoid a racist backlash. It might be that, because of his son, he knew the thought patterns of immigration critics well enough that he guessed they would raise a stink over the girls’ disappearances. In doing so, Ruuskanen had failed to focus on the most likely explanation. The girls had probably just been sent out of the country. There wasn’t any reason to suspect honor killings, because no bodies had been found.

  The Turku Highway hummed its familiar drone outside my window; my new office faced south, and in the summer it would turn into a furnace. I looked up the numbers for the Girls Club and called Nelli Vesterinen’s cell phone. I reached her voice mail and left my contact information. I took care of the rest of the startup routine for my new job, like sending people my work e-mail address and transferring my family phone numbers and other standard contacts onto my work phone. That took a surprisingly long time, and I was just about to go investigate whether the department’s lunch offerings had changed in the last few years when I received an e-mail at my new address. The subject line said “Greetings from Kabul” and the sender was Lauri Vala.

  Hey Kallio,

  It looks like you’ve started a new gig, apparently with a police department instead of at the college. I’m glad. Active duty cops get more respect than academy instructors anyway.

  I’m coming to Finland next week, and we need to meet. I don’t want to say anything more over e-mail. I’ll let you know when I’m in the country.

  Lauri Vala

  Major Vala had been the highest-ranking Finnish military official in the unit that ran security for the civilians participating in the opening ceremonies at the police academy in Afghanistan. His posting was Mazar-i-Sharif, like all the other Finnish units, but he’d been at our disposal during the whole trip. At first, Vala had been cool and businesslike, but on the evening after the IED attack, he’d tried to get better acquainted. After help had arrived and combed the area without finding any more mines, we continued our journey to Kabul. The Germans’ exploded and badly charred jeep was left behind; the ambulance would come later to retrieve the bodies. We didn’t say anything beyond what was absolutely necessary for the rest of the journey. Numminen drove us the rest of the way, and after we reached the city we ended up stuck in traffic, even though it was already late. While in Kabul, Vala was staying in the same carefully guarded hotel as I was, and when we arrived, he asked for my key as well as his at the reception desk and escorted me to my room.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone. I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to get something that we both need. I’ll knock three times, twice. Bap, bap, bap. Don’t open up for anyone else.”

  Vala was used to being in command, and as a police officer, I was used to the chain of command being well defined. At that moment I didn’t have a will of my own. My head was a mess of grief and gratitude. I was alive! I sat down on the bed. The stench of burning flesh clung to my hair, and I was afraid showering might not be enough to wash it out. I took off only my shoes before lying down. Outside someone was shouting the call to prayer in a shrill voice, and then it was lost in the din of traffic. There were dark splotches on the ceiling, like tears.

  I don’t know how much time passed before Vala knocked on the door. Apparently, he’d managed to change into a clean uniform and wash up, since his short, steel-gray hair was still wet. The hotel had a functioning plumbing system, which was still a luxury in Kabul. On the streets you saw women carrying water from the public wells. We’d been strictly warned against drinking anything but bottled water, and on top of that we were supposed to check the seal of the cap.

  I let Vala in, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted company. In his hand Vala had a wooden box that was about sixteen inches square, and about half as tall. He sat on the only chair in the room and set the box on the table. On its cover was a picture of a sailboat.

  Vala opened the box, producing two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. It happened to be my favorite brand, but in that moment I was worried that the taste of peat and smoke would remind me too much of what had happened.

  “I think we could both use a drink. How many fingers?”

  “Can you drink on duty?”

  “Right now, I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Vala filled his glass halfway. “What? Are you in shock?”

  I sat upright. Probably not, since I could still remember the signs of shock. I was just so tired that I felt like I was about to pass out. I asked Vala to pour me a couple of fingers. The Laphroaig was cask strength, 120 proof, and its burn flowed from my throat into my stomach. If I drank everything Vala had poured, nothing would hold back the tears.

  “What on earth are you doing in a war zone? You have two kids. Your youngest isn’t even ten. Why aren’t you at home with them?”

  Up to that point, Vala and I had stuck strictly to business in our conversations. He must have overheard me telling Ulrike about my children. I’d known Ulrike through the European Network of Policewomen before she joined the Afghanistan policewomen’s project. She’d even met Iida and Taneli when they’d visited me in Tampere.

  “I was closely involved with the Afghan academy project and trained the female police officers in Finla
nd. I wanted to come here because I respect their courage.”

  “Do you respect their courage more than your children’s right to a mother?”

  Antti had asked essentially the same thing, as had my mother. Only my father had been silent, letting me do what I felt was right. He would probably be hearing about it from my mother for the rest of his life.

  “My female students, Sayeda, Muna, and Uzuri, can’t choose any other road than the one they’re on, no matter how big a risk it is.”

  “But this is their homeland. You’re a Finn.”

  “So are you. What’s the difference?”

  “My sons are already out on their own, and my wife left me years ago. Listen to me, Kallio. Throughout history men have done the fighting and women have looked after the home and the children. That’s just how it’s meant to be. Both are equally important. Would your children have thought you were a hero if that IED had hit us instead of the Germans? No, they would have thought you were a selfish bitch.”

  The person I’d been before that night probably would have thrown the malt whiskey in Vala’s face. But that person had been left on the road between Kabul and Jalalabad, and the new me wanly drank the peaty, copper-gold liquid.

  “Our safety was supposed to be guaranteed,” I said lamely.

  “This country is in a civil war. Nothing is guaranteed under these conditions. They don’t play by Western rules here. We’re facing off against a pack of men who think completely differently than we do. Their own lives aren’t worth much, and their enemies’ lives aren’t worth anything. It’s easy to be an optimist over in Finland. You saw the prisons here. How soon do you think those conditions are going to change? How long do you think your students are going to stay alive? They’ll be lucky to live past Christmas. To the Taliban, having women work at the police academy is even worse than having it run by Westerners.”

  I could feel the whiskey starting to lift my thoughts. My head felt light. I’d met Lauri Vala before; it wasn’t like a career soldier serving a peacekeeping mission would win any prizes for optimism.