Where Have All the Young Girls Gone

by Leena Lehtolainen

  “Yes. Noor asked Heini and Nelli for help, but they didn’t think the Ezfahanis would listen to them. So, I got in touch with Noor’s mother, who informed me that, in their family, the men made those kinds of decisions. I was forced to defend my position to both Noor’s father and her grandfather, and I believe there were some brothers involved as well.”

  “Was it hard to convince them?”

  “Yes. It took several meetings and consultations with Noor’s guidance counselor and math teacher. At least we didn’t have to call in Child Protective Services. The family calmed down once they understood that university studies don’t cost much of anything in Finland and that there is financial aid available for high school textbooks. The Ezfahanis were most afraid of being sent back to Iran, because that would almost certainly mean death. They’re religiously devout, but they oppose the politics of the current government. So, it pays for them to stay in the good graces of Finnish authorities.”

  “I’d like to talk more about all of this, say, early next week. Will you be in Espoo then?”

  “I may go to Helsinki on Monday, but no farther than that. Have you made any headway in the investigation? The newspapers make it sound like the police are lost.”

  “We can’t tell everything to the media. I’ll be in touch early in the week. Have a good weekend!”

  During the winter there had been political unrest in Iran. Several groups were gunning for power, and secular forces were trying to instigate a revolt against the Islamist government. We could expect to see more refugees soon. My sister Eeva had been enamored with the beautiful empress consort Farah and confused when Finns protested against her during her visit to Finland. That conflict was one of Eeva’s earliest childhood memories. I didn’t remember the whole event, even though I was two years older. Apparently, as a child I hadn’t identified with queens and empresses.

  Puupponen came out of the case room looking like he had something important on his mind and jogged off toward the stairway. I glanced at my phone, but there wasn’t a text about the interview, so Puupponen must have been in a rush for some other reason.

  When I returned to my office, Vala was sitting in the same position I’d left him in. My instinct was to take him by the scruff of the neck and tell him to get lost.

  “I want to see the necklace,” Vala announced. “It has to be checked and taken somewhere safe. When do you get off work?”

  “I have no idea. And the necklace is none of your business. Do you understand? We were both forced to witness Ulrike’s death, but the necklace isn’t connected to that. It’s just a memento.”

  Vala interrupted me. “Why would Ulrike’s mother send it to you so long after her daughter’s death? Why wouldn’t she have given it to you as a Christmas present instead?”

  “Maybe she couldn’t bear to send it earlier! Maybe she didn’t have the address yet! I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, if you hadn’t heard. I have more important things to do than speculate about Ulrike’s necklace. Please leave.”

  Vala rose so quickly that I instinctively drew back, expecting him to lunge at me. But he didn’t. He just looked me in the eyes and bellowed, “What the hell kind of bubble are you living in? First you come waltzing into Afghanistan, needlessly risking your life for some police academy opening ceremonies. You almost ended up being the next obituary in Police and Justice! Anyone could see that the country would be more restless than usual before the first round of presidential elections. Now you’re missing something just as obvious. That necklace isn’t just a necklace—it’s a message!”

  The tanned skin of Vala’s face wrinkled around his eyes. Beads of sweat had appeared along his hairline, the smell of cologne growing stronger as he became agitated. I wasn’t in any danger—the building was full of colleagues who would rush to my aid if necessary, but I couldn’t bear the idea of Vala trying to force his way into my home to look at the necklace.

  “Sure, you’ve trained Afghan police officers, but I don’t think you really get how hopeless that country is. The drug lords and the Taliban live in an unholy alliance, which suits both just fine, and the international drug dealers hope the Western powers never manage to spread peace and democracy. The Finnish military command denies we’re even at war, even though allied troops and civilians are constantly dying. And now you’re turning a blind eye too.”

  “Are you really just on leave, or have you been discharged?”

  “What do you mean? I’m on leave, of course! I’m going back midmonth. I’m not leaving there until all the Finnish troops are demobilized, or until they send me home in a casket. Fuck!” Vala looked at me again, the expression in his eyes like a punch. “It’s useless talking to you. I’ll go now.”

  I couldn’t let Vala go wandering around the halls of the police station, so I set off after him and escorted him down to the lobby. He didn’t say another word, but I had a nasty feeling that he wasn’t going to let this go. My father was still at our house; his party wouldn’t be starting until early evening. I thought about calling and asking him to hide the necklace in the lockable drawer in Antti’s desk, but I didn’t want to get my dad mixed up in Vala’s meltdown. Besides, he would have wanted to know what was going on. He was the one from which I’d inherited my natural curiosity, after all. He was just as likely to meddle in other people’s business as I was.

  Still, my father had never tried to curtail my choice of profession or any of my other decisions, at least not actively. Since the time I was small, he’d encouraged me to pursue paths that were uncommon for women. My mother had worried I was making my life difficult by being different from the other girls, and she had opposed my desire to go to the police academy. Dad had probably just thought I wouldn’t get in.

  I was thirsty, so on my way back to my office I stopped in the restroom to get some water. When I opened the door with a full mug in hand, I almost ran into Puupponen, who was dashing along the hallway toward the case room with an enormous pizza box in his hands.

  “Hot pepperoni pizza straight from the delivery man! I ordered me and Koivu a family size; there’s enough for you too, if you want some.”

  “Which one of you has the hangover?”

  “The only hangover I have is from reading racist websites. It’s not like I started with a very rosy picture of humanity, but some people just seem to keep sinking lower. They’re seriously depraved. But come have some pizza. It’ll take the edge off. All Antti ever feeds you at home is health food. Take a break from the mushrooms and herring!” Puupponen balanced the pizza box with one hand and wrapped his other arm around me tightly enough to make water splash out of my cup onto both of our shoes. I let him lead me into the case room. Koivu was already sitting at the table, swigging Coke straight from the can.

  “I brought the boss too,” Puupponen announced, setting the box down on the table and opening it. The room filled with the scent of pepperoni, slightly singed cheese, and garlic.

  “This is a secret Espoo police torture technique: they’ll confess to anything just to get away from our garlic breath!” Puupponen said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He grabbed a slice with a paper napkin and had it at his lips before he even sat down. I couldn’t deny I was hungry too, so I joined them.

  “Have you found anything in the anti-immigration websites, other than existential nausea?” I asked Puupponen after eating a few pieces of pizza.

  “A few of the discussion boards mentioned that Tuomas Soivio was in police custody yesterday, and they were calling us idiots and raghead lovers. Sara Amir’s name also came up. Someone claimed that she had been killed just like Noor. No one has jumped at that bait yet.”

  “I can’t decide whether it was worse back when we used to get anonymous tips over the phone or now when it’s always some weird online pseudonym.” It was hard to understand Koivu because his mouth was full of pizza. A line of grease ran down the side of his mouth. “I think we should systematically work through all of Ayan’s, Sara’s, and Aziza’s scho
olmates, coworkers, and friends, and try to figure out who’s spreading this stuff online. If they’re doing it there, you can be sure they’re doing it in real life too.”

  “One of the girls who goes to the club said something about a picture on Facebook with Sara and a boy named Tommi from Siuntio holding hands. Can you find it?” I asked.

  “That isn’t much to go on, but I’ll try.” Puupponen opened an energy drink. He grimaced as he gulped it down.

  My phone rang. The screen said “Dad.” Vala hadn’t gone straight to my house, had he? I only lived half a mile from the police station, so he easily could have made it there already by taxi. I swallowed the pizza in my mouth and answered.

  “Hey there.”

  “Hi, it’s Dad. Hope I’m not interrupting, but where on earth do you keep the iron? I’ve looked in every closet, but all I’ve found is the ironing board. I can’t go to my reunion in a wrinkled shirt. It got all crumpled up in my suitcase, even though I packed carefully.”

  “Did you look in Iida’s room? Sometimes she forgets to put it away. Maybe she was ironing patches on her hoodie again.”

  “Wait a second.” I heard my father’s muffled steps. “Here it is, on a pot holder on Iida’s desk.”

  “What time are you supposed to leave?”

  “The party starts at six, so probably just after five. Yesterday Antti and I looked up the bus schedule.”

  “Did you talk about whether he would get home before you left?”

  “No, but the children will be fine . . . And I can find my way to the bus. I did study in Helsinki. I’m not a complete country bumpkin!”

  I laughed. My father had a legendary sense of direction. He never got lost, and you could drop him in the middle of a forest in the dark and he’d still know more or less where he was and which way was north. He’d taught me how to use a compass and read a map, skills that had actually been a lot of help during my police academy entrance examinations.

  “Listen, Dad, if a man about fifty years old, muscular, with short, graying hair, shows up at the door, don’t open it for him. I’ll tell you more later. Have a fun time at the party!”

  “I’ll take a taxi back and try not to wake you all up. Do you have to work tomorrow too?”

  “Possibly.”

  “OK, well, see you in the morning.”

  I ended the call and put the phone in my pocket. Of course, Koivu and Puupponen had been listening. What else could I have expected from them? “What fifty-year-old?” Koivu asked immediately. “Is it that same character who claimed that the last time he ate a jelly donut was at bible camp?”

  “Yep. Major Lauri Vala. He’s a peacekeeper I met in Afghanistan. He was up in arms about the necklace I was wearing last Sunday when we were at your house. He’s just a head case. Koivu, do you want to split that last slice?”

  As I was reaching for the piece of pizza, our cell phones beeped, indicating incoming text messages. Ruuskanen was calling us together at 1:50, in just over an hour. I scarfed down the rest of the pizza and grabbed more water to wash it down before going to my office to call Susanne Jansson and her parents. I got the mother, Ulla Jansson. When I asked whether she’d rather speak Swedish instead of Finnish, she said it was all the same to her.

  “What is there to talk about?” she said when I asked her about Noor Ezfahani and Tuomas Soivio’s relationship. “They were dating. Susanne was a little melancholy sometimes because she didn’t have a boyfriend, but she still liked to invite Noor and Tuomas over to our house.”

  “What evidence do you have that they were dating?”

  “Good Lord, they acted like young people who were dating: they held each other’s hands, they sat next to each other, and they did everything else couples do. Do I have to draw you a picture?”

  “No. It was important to hear you say it, though. Thank you. How is Susanne coping?”

  “Poorly. She’s probably going to have to be away from school for quite some time and finish her classes later. Your solving this quickly would help her a lot. Knowing who killed her dear friend will give her some closure.”

  “Has Susanne ever told you about Noor lying to her family about Tuomas? Specifically, did Noor tell them he was bothering her?”

  “Susanne did say that it was better if Noor’s family didn’t find out about her relationship. My husband and I talked once about getting to know Noor’s family, but we wouldn’t have had very much in common. And I guess their kind generally keeps to themselves. But Noor was very Finnish, very integrated. She was a good example of an immigrant who would have been a benefit to society, not a burden.”

  After the phone conversation, I wrote up a summary of all the people who’d said that Tuomas Soivio was dating Noor. It was a long enough list to indicate that Noor might have been lying to her family. But how did I know she didn’t enjoy lying? Did she see herself and Tuomas as a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, despite the lack of animosity on the part of Romeo’s family? It was probably easier for a family to accept an immigrant daughter-in-law than to accept a son-in-law from another culture. I knew I wouldn’t react terribly well if Iida decided to convert to Islam and start wearing a headscarf because of a boyfriend, but I probably couldn’t stop it either. Back in the day, my mother would have looked down her nose at a boyfriend just for going to trade school instead of being on the college track. Nothing had ever been said directly, but I’d sensed it. Maybe it had been a relief for her when I spent almost all of junior high mooning over Johnny Miettinen, who was already in high school. Now thinking about Johnny just made me snort in amusement.

  At 1:50 p.m. we gathered in the large conference room. Lehtovuori and the investigative secretary set up the video cameras while Ruuskanen gave the interpreter, a thirtysomething Iranian-born woman, a brief rundown of what was going on. She was a sworn translator who had come to fill in while the regular Espoo police Persian interpreter was out sick. She already knew Rahim Ezfahani and, through him, the whole family, because she had acted as their official interpreter a few times at the employment office and the tax bureau, as well as with Rahim and his legal counsel.

  “We’ll use you only when the family members are not able to express themselves in Finnish,” Ruuskanen said. “The primary language for the interview will be Finnish.”

  Ruuskanen would lead the interrogation, but each of us could also present questions if we wished. However, the most important thing was to observe the Ezfahanis’ reactions and responses to any contradictions that might arise. We six police officers would be a sort of human lie detector.

  The Ezfahani family was prompt. All were dressed in black, with the men’s white shirts gleaming under their suit jackets. The mother looked considerably more deflated than before, her dark eyes sunk deeply into her skull. Grandfather Reza immediately got into an animated discussion with the interpreter, who shook her head. The others were clearly disconcerted by the abundance of police officers. They stayed huddled together in a tight group, in the middle of which Noor the elder, frail and a head shorter than the others, looked like she might disappear altogether.

  “They asked when they can bury Noor,” the interpreter translated. “Is there any information about that?”

  “Not yet,” Ruuskanen replied. Puustjärvi hadn’t shown up yet—maybe Noor’s autopsy wasn’t complete. When this was interpreted for the Ezfahanis, a general snorting and shaking of heads began, which the interpreter attempted to calm. In the discussions I’d had with Afghan police officers, I’d learned how seriously autopsies interfered with Islamic funeral arrangements. Their tradition of quick burial was related to climate: in ancient times there hadn’t been morgues with sterile cold storage units for preserving a body. Islamic law did allow for an autopsy in the case of a crime. But Noor’s mother wanted to wash the body as soon as possible. That was part of the custom too. Muna had told me heartbreaking stories of Afghani families searching through the rubble of their bombed-out homes, looking for pieces of their loved ones so they could wash them.
The Ezfahanis came from a place where you couldn’t escape the daily occurrence of death or only think about it as someone else’s problem when watching the evening news. I didn’t know whether that experience with loss would help them bear Noor’s death any better.

  Ruuskanen began to arrange everyone in a semblance of a circle, but where to place the interpreter presented a problem. Finally, she decided to sit in the circle with everyone else, between Reza senior and Rahim. I sat between Rahim and Noor. I tried to focus my senses, to attune to what was going on in the mind of the people sitting next to me.

  Ruuskanen started by asking the family to again describe the events of Tuesday afternoon and evening. Grandfather Reza began, first asking the interpreter to translate what he said. He spoke slowly and clearly, as if that would help us understand his incomprehensible Persian.

  “Rahim, Jalil, and I waited for Farid to come home from work and wash up. Then we went to my eldest son Reza’s family’s home. Reza’s wife had prepared supper, as she always does. We took along rice and tomatoes. In Finland the tomatoes are hard and expensive. We hardly ever get good ones and never in the winter. My daughter-in-law Noor makes a delicious tomato sauce, which was on the menu for the next day, along with chicken with eggplant and rice. My granddaughter Noor set the table. She was bragging about getting the highest grade on her Finnish test, and that she would be able to become a doctor because she knew Finnish so well.”

  Sitting next to me, Noor’s mother sighed, her muscles clenching under her loose black coat. Ruuskanen waited for Reza to continue his monologue, but the older man looked to his eldest son as if asking him to chime in. Reza junior remained silent.

  “Did your daughter do housework willingly?” Ruuskanen directed his question in Finnish to Noor the elder, who was sitting to his left.

  “Willingly? What that mean?”

  The interpreter began to explain to her, and Noor answered bravely in Finnish.