Death Spiral

by Leena Lehtolainen

  I looked at Noora. The muscles at her torso were slack in death, and she wasn’t bony but also wasn’t pudgy by any means. Her pert round breasts would probably have sagged more if she weren’t such an athlete, but heavy training had removed all the extra fat. No doctor would have prescribed weight-loss medication for a normal-weight sixteen-year-old girl, would they? And why on earth would Noora endanger her career by doping? Maybe she didn’t know what she was being fed. Had one of her coaches given her the phentermine?

  “Anything else strange?”

  “Not really. She probably wasn’t a virgin, but you know kids these days . . .” Kervinen blushed. I had noticed before that anything having to do with sexuality was somehow foreign to him. That seemed odd, given that he studied bodies for a living.

  “I imagine you already knew there weren’t any signs of sexual assault. The only obvious clue we found about the attacker was the piece of fingernail caught in her hair, and that indicates a female.”

  Instantly my mouth went dry, and it took me a few seconds before I could get any sound out.

  “A fingernail? What? I hadn’t heard anything about that.”

  “It was in the report. But of course you haven’t read that yet. Anyway, in the girl’s hair on the left side, we found a piece of fingernail with dark-red nail polish. The color was close to the same as dried blood, which is why we didn’t notice it immediately. The nail is at the lab,” Kervinen continued.

  He probably realized from my expression that I had already identified its owner. Ulrika Weissenberg would have some explaining to do.

  “The girl’s own nails were unfortunately short, so we didn’t get much from under them,” Kervinen complained. “It was almost like she didn’t get a real chance to defend herself. But everyone responds instinctively if someone starts hitting them.”

  I thought of the rage that must have been behind the blows directed at Noora, and fury flared in my own mind too. What right did this killer have to shatter the dreams of Noora and so many others? My eyes began to water from the sheer anger. Kervinen noticed.

  “This isn’t nice to look at,” he said, embarrassed. “And you’re in a tender state anyway.”

  “Pregnancy is a good excuse for acting like a human for once,” I said testily. “Otherwise cops aren’t allowed to cry, right?”

  “Come on. We’d never get anywhere if we started bawling over every carcass.”

  “Carcass? Is that what you have to call them to stand what you do? Just be careful not to end up as dead inside as those carcasses of yours, you bastard!” I yelled. Kervinen’s distressed expression told me I was venting something at him that wasn’t his fault. I needed to get out of there.

  I looked at Noora one more time, her skin the color of raw bread dough, sliced by dry wounds; her whole eye; and her calves and their short, black stubble. Gently I brushed her leg as if in farewell and then I left without a word.

  Somehow I made it back to work. Of course Kervinen was right. No one could survive half a lifetime in a morgue if they let emotion take over. I too had developed my own self-defense mechanisms over the years that helped me deal with my job and all the pain and violence it involved. Usually I just barreled forward without thinking about what I was doing. Last winter an escaped convict had abducted one of my colleagues, Palo, and they had both died in the siege. I could have just as easily ended up being the one kidnapped, since it had been Palo and I who had sent the kidnapper to prison. That case had made me consider my chances of survival in this job. Because I was also a lawyer, I could just as easily have gone looking for something to do that involved reading books and shuffling paper instead of dodging psychopaths. But that wasn’t me. Maternity leave would be enough of a break from police work. I was sure that after a few months, I would be raring to get back to work. I guess I was even a little afraid of stopping. In a way, it was good that I didn’t have any experience with babies. This would thrust me into a new world where hopefully there wouldn’t be too much extra time to brood on past sorrows.

  The sun showed part of its face through a break in the clouds but took fright at what it saw and went back into hiding. Making a call down to the evidence room, I learned that Noora’s bag and clothes had come back from the lab, as had Janne’s car. I went to have a look at the bag and the skates, which apparently had five different sets of fingerprints on them. Someone would have to return Janne’s car, so I thought about doing it myself.

  At the door to the evidence room, I ran into Ström, whose acne-scarred face was redder than normal. I guessed he must have spent the previous night hunched over a glass somewhere. I didn’t have the impression that alcohol was a problem for Ström. He got good and drunk maybe once a month, but otherwise he just had the occasional beer. I asked whether something had happened over the weekend that I hadn’t heard about, and Ström grunted before replying.

  “Another attack on a little girl. This time farther west. Tried to make her perform oral sex on him, but a passerby caught him in the act. He got away again. There’s a big headline in one of the tabloids about how useless we are.”

  “This molester has gotten awfully active. Any description?”

  “The sketch artist is going to be doing a picture this afternoon based on what the passerby saw. The girl was in shock and can’t remember anything. The bastard dropped a glove, but I went and looked and it’s worthless.”

  Ström was clearly irritated. This molester had become an obsession for him. Maybe he thought that catching him would guarantee him the promotion.

  Playing magnanimous, I said, “If you get a good drawing, you could have it printed in the local papers and maybe have it shown on Police TV. Since he’s been so active lately, maybe he’s getting cocky and will make a slip. Was the MO the same as before?”

  The molester had asked the little girls whether they had seen his missing puppy and described the dog in detail, sometimes even showing a picture of a cute little collie. When the girl got excited about the dog, the man attacked her.

  “We haven’t been able to interview the girl yet. Koivu can handle it, though. We’ll just have to line up a social worker again. I can’t deal with these blubbering little girls any more,” Ström said irritably. He had a ten-year-old daughter, Jenna, who lived with her mother. The Ströms had divorced a few years earlier. I was certain he thought of his own daughter every time he interviewed one of these victims. I didn’t say that out loud, though. Ström would just deny it anyway. He thought cops were better off feeling nothing, and if you did have any inklings of human emotion, it was best to keep them to yourself.

  I was happy when Ström moved on and I could get back to work. Even though he constantly complained about how busy he was, he seemed to have a surprising amount of time to meddle in my cases or just come and stand in my door making wisecracks, usually under the guise of inquiring after the expecting mother’s health. I generally got rid of him by complaining about having to go to the bathroom every ten minutes, which wasn’t even true.

  “Can I take this upstairs? It’s easier to take notes in my office,” I asked the officer covering the evidence room, who was so engrossed in his betting tip sheets that he barely noticed me enter. When no answer came, I took the bag of clothing and the big sack that had Noora’s equipment bag inside and headed for my office. I wanted to be alone with Noora’s belongings, so I turned on the red light outside my door, grinned at the photo of Hugh Grant in the collage on my wall, and started inspecting Noora’s clothes.

  The underwear was gray heathered cotton. The pants were undamaged but smeared with dirt, the bra torn and bloody. The blow that hit between her breasts must have been a hard one. Noora had been wearing a violet cotton pullover and an orange anorak, which were now tattered. I found it odd that there weren’t any rips in the backs of the arms. If Noora had lifted her hands to defend herself, that was where the blows would have landed.

  The anorak was the same style you saw on every third kid these days. I had an olive-green version
myself, but I hadn’t been wearing it this spring because pulling it over my belly was nearly impossible. The back of the orange coat was smeared with dirt and stiff with dried blood. Blood had also spread onto the faded purple jeans and thick-soled ankle boots. Noora’s clothes were typical for a girl her age. Around her neck she had been wearing a silver Kalevala Jewelry confirmation cross.

  The contents of the sports bag still smelled of blood and dried sweat. I opened the report from the forensic expert who had inspected the bag. The bloody skates had been on top; under them was a wet towel, which was also smeared with blood. The towel also had Noora’s hair on it, as if the killer had tried to wipe the blood off her.

  The rest of the bag was full of more training equipment: a sweater, thick tights, thin cotton socks and sports bra, all carefully folded and ready for the washing machine. The contents of the makeup bag included shower gel and moisturizer, both organic cosmetics not tested on animals. I remembered what Ström had been saying about his child molester who enticed little girls with pictures of a puppy. Although in many ways Noora handled her life like an adult, she still could have fallen for that trick. Maybe I shouldn’t completely rule out the child molester theory.

  Noora’s wallet contained a debit card, sixty marks in cash, a health insurance card with a picture from a couple of years ago showing a very thin-faced and somber-eyed version of her, a library card, a bus pass, and various photographs. The only familiar people in the pictures were Silja and Janne. If this hadn’t been official evidence, I might have nicked the picture of Silja and given it to Koivu. The picture was taken in half profile, her clean features and brilliant smile like a movie star. Janne looked straight at the camera as in a passport picture, his expression serious. But in another, a crumpled newspaper image shoved in a plastic protector, Janne smiled a smile I had never seen on him even after a successful skating performance. Who had that smile been directed at? Janne sort of looked to the side, past the camera. He was the only person with two pictures in Noora’s wallet. She didn’t carry her parents’ photos with her.

  In the bag there was also a calendar, a couple of schoolbooks, and then on the bottom what I’d most been hoping to see: Noora’s sixteenth diary, this one covered in blue fabric with an oriental pattern. Opening it at random, I came across blank pages—Noora had only filled it halfway. I flipped back toward the beginning until a string of capital letters on one page caught my eye.

  I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT HAVING SOMEONE TO LOVE ME!

  Reading on through the normal-sized text, I learned of Noora’s pain that Janne didn’t think of her as anything more than a skating partner. Noora felt alone everywhere except when she was skating with Janne. Skating kept her alive. Skating and Janne gave her life meaning. But Noora would have been ready to give up skating if only Janne . . . but no, it was not to be. Even so, Noora loved Janne and proclaimed it over and over in capital letters.

  It is so easy to dismiss overwrought teenagers, to belittle their concerns, which seem so small from an adult perspective: low test scores, acne, unrequited infatuations. These problems will pass, we adults say, forgotten in a matter of weeks. I had spent a lot of time learning not to dismiss my own emotions as a teenager—the feeling of strangeness in my own body and with my family and my hometown, my unrequited first love, my distress over my inability to act like a typical girl. Now I could read my old diaries without any shame, and sometimes I wished I could pull the fourteen-year-old who scribbled them into my arms and assure her that life would be good someday. I had probably written just like Noora, in almost identical words:

  If only there were someone who accepted me for who I am. Who would let me cry when I want to cry and laugh when I want to laugh, instead of criticizing my clothes and hair like Mom and Dad, and nagging me about a few extra points like Rami, that stupid bastard. I can’t stand listening to the girls at school. All they ever talk about is makeup. Maybe they should, you know, read a book someday. I feel so DIFFERENT everywhere I go. If only I had some kindred spirit I could confide in. Back when Mom and Dad were maybe getting divorced I thought Janne could be that for me, but I was wrong. He’s so handsome and so nice when he wants to be, but he doesn’t care about me.

  IF ONLY SOMEBODY LOVED ME!

  The narrow lines written in black felt-tipped pen began trembling and tangling together. The words turned unrecognizable as tears blurred my eyes. It was so damn unfair that Noora was never given the opportunity to live out that dream. I didn’t even try not to cry, although I felt I’d done little else the past few days. I was glad I was hidden in my office behind that red light. I didn’t want any more comments about the “delicate condition” all the men in the department thought I was in.

  Once I had cried myself out, I picked up the plastic bag containing the skates. Near the toe picks the boot leather was splattered with blood, which reminded me of Snow White’s mother pricking her finger at the windowsill. The skates obviously hadn’t been used much yet, because the uppers of the boots were still smooth without any spots worn from rubbing. The blades were black with blood, even though the forensic lab technicians had tried to scrape off most of it.

  According to the report, they had also found hair, skin, pieces of bone, mud, and grass on the blades. The last two, along with the dirt and chips of rock found embedded in her skull, indicated that the crime had occurred somewhere outdoors. I continued reading the report. The fibers and dust vacuumed from the clothes were still being analyzed, and we would have those results in a few days. In one of the lace hooks of her boots, the technicians had found a scrap of black plastic, the kind used for garbage bags. If she was transported wrapped in plastic, tracking down the vehicle might be difficult. But why hadn’t the murderer left Noora in the garbage bag? Why had they gone to the trouble of ripping it off when they shoved Noora in the trunk of Kati Järvenperä’s car? Could there have been some sort of symbol on the garbage bag that would have revealed the murderer’s identity?

  And that dark-red fingernail . . . I wanted Ulrika Weissenberg at the station pronto. I wasn’t going to settle for playing the uninvited guest at her posh house again. Now I would be the one with the home court advantage.

  “Hi. This is Sergeant Maria Kallio from the Espoo Police. I’d like to meet with you at the main police station as soon as possible.”

  “And why is that?” Weissenberg asked. “I assume it has something to do with Noora’s murder.”

  “Exactly. Would two o’clock work?”

  I was surprised when Ulrika Weissenberg agreed. I considered the fingernail. Asking for a sample for comparison would require strong evidence. I also wanted Ulrika Weissenberg’s fingerprints. In my mind I listed all the people who could have touched Noora’s new skates. In addition to the salesperson and Janne, there were both of the coaches, Rami and Elena; Silja; Noora’s family; and maybe Ulrika. We would have to get prints from all of them. Pihko could work with Forensics on that, since he probably had the most tact of all of us. Although surely Koivu would want to go along to collect Silja Taskinen’s fingerprints.

  I was just going to give Pihko a buzz when my phone rang.

  “Hello, this is Kauko Nieminen. How is my daughter’s murder investigation progressing?”

  “It’s progressing. The forensic laboratory is currently analyzing material found on the body,” I said stiffly. The word “body” felt strange, but what else could I have said? Deceased?

  “My wife is extremely upset you set Teräsvuori free. She’s afraid he’ll do something to our son, Sami, next.”

  “Teräsvuori happens to have an extremely good alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “You don’t know that man! He’s a snake who can get people to say anything for him!”

  What did Kauko Nieminen really think about Vesku Teräsvuori and his wife’s affair? Did he still blame Hanna, and did he actually think she was indirectly responsible for Noora’s death?

  “Has Teräsvuori been in contact with you over the past few days?” I as
ked.

  “He had the nerve to send flowers, a really pricy bouquet of carnations. I don’t understand where he gets money for things like that. He’s always sending Hanna expensive jewelry and things too. He can’t be making very much doing his karaoke thing.”

  “What was the message with the flowers?”

  “Just your usual sappy condolences. ‘My dearest Hanna and her family.’” There was genuine loathing in Kauko Nieminen’s voice, which was justified. First Teräsvuori had seduced his wife and then stolen his family’s peace of mind. Maybe Nieminen loved his wife deeply. How were any of us to know? Maybe Hanna’s romance with Teräsvuori had been a real tragedy for Kauko.

  “So if it’s not Teräsvuori, you still don’t know who killed our Noora? What about her funeral? Ulrika wanted to reserve the Espoo Cathedral, but we have to know when because I guess the summer wedding season is about to start.”

  “The autopsy and other tests are already complete. We can probably release the body to you immediately. I also have Noora’s things she had with her that night. Clothes, wallet, and such. Do you want them back? We’ll have to keep the skates, though.”

  “I never want to see those again!” Nieminen spat, sorrow welling up under his facade of self-control.

  “I can have someone bring over the rest of her belongings,” I said quickly, then explained I also needed the family’s fingerprints.

  “Were you the one who interrogated Teräsvuori?” Nieminen asked as I was ending the call. When I confirmed that I was, he said pointedly, “He’s quite the Casanova, isn’t he? Maybe you should put a man on the job.”

  Nieminen could not have said more clearly that he didn’t trust my abilities as a police investigator. The beginnings of sympathy I had momentarily felt were instantly snuffed out, and I barely managed to keep myself from slamming the phone down in his ear. People said all kinds of things when they were mourning. If the officer investigating Noora’s death had been a man, Kauko Nieminen would have just found some other fault in him. But it still riled me, this surprisingly ingrained assumption that women didn’t have any business in this line of work, other than as secretaries and social workers. My own group of friends was mostly made up of people for whom gender was not a person’s defining characteristic, so prejudice surprised and irritated me.