Snow angels ikv-1

by James Thompson

  Abdi’s Finnish is stilted but excellent. Maybe he doesn’t write it as well as he speaks it.

  “May I have my technician make Sufia ready for you?” Jorma asks.

  Abdi peers at Jorma over fingers like tendrils. “No.”

  Jorma wrings his hands, as if absolving himself of responsibility.

  We walk downstairs to an embalming room in the basement. A machine hums. Sufia is naked, on the same kind of table as the one used during her autopsy. The machine is draining the remainder of her blood. The embalmer is sipping a Pepsi. He looks shocked to see us, like we’ve violated his space. He shuts off the suction machine.

  In silence, we look at Sufia. The torment she suffered, the hurt done to her, both pre- and postmortem, is as clear as if the story were written down. Still, I’ve never seen a body look less human, so devoid of life. I can’t understand why Abdi insisted on this.

  Hudow chokes back a scream. Abdi puts an arm around her. She turns her head and vomits on the floor. When she’s done, she stands upright and tries to salvage what remains of her dignity. She speaks in broken Finnish. “I sorry. I clean up.”

  Jorma folds his hands in front of him. “That’s not necessary.” Abdi looks at me. “Now, in the presence of myself, my daughter and her mother, you will tell me how you intend to prosecute the investigation of our daughter’s murder, and how her murderer will be punished.”

  He wanted to make a point and he’s done it well. Since my first glimpse of the crime scene, this case has held tremendous gravity for me. Now though, I feel like all our lives depend on it. I look at Sufia, then at Abdi and Hudow. Her head is held high. She’s regained her composure and looks like a font of strength and nobility.

  The smell of vomit mingled with chloroform is overwhelming. I try not to react to it. I give Abdi what he wants and start at the beginning, tell him everything that was done to Sufia, everything that has been done to find her murderer, and about Seppo’s arrest.

  When I’m finished, Abdi asks, “How is it possible that you do not know if Sufia was raped?”

  “As I told you, and as you can see, there has been excessive damage to the genital area.”

  Abdi bends over Sufia’s body, looks for himself. “As I hope you realize, Sufia underwent the rite of womanhood as a child. Had she not been raped, she would be intact. It is clear that prior to being assaulted with the bottle, she was not intact. Please do not ask me to be more explicit in the presence of her mother. She is not intact, therefore she was raped.”

  Abdi wanted truth, but now we’re on new and dangerous ground. I can’t find it in myself to tell him what I know about Sufia’s sexual relationships. I’m afraid it might be more than even he can bear. “I can’t discount the possibility that Sufia might have had sexual intercourse of her own volition.”

  Hudow looks down, looks around. The embalmer is cleaning up the floor with paper towels. “I know people say things about daughter,” she says. “Those things not true. We no watch movies, not want see, but Sufia actress. Movies acting. Sufia good girl. Abdi and I no like her be in movies, but we proud for who she was. I proud her. She keep her good even around bad people.”

  “I need not say more,” Abdi says.

  I can’t destroy her beliefs and I wonder if Abdi shares them, or if the scene we’re playing out has been in some measure a charade designed to maintain them. “I will proceed accordingly,” I say.

  “This man, are you certain of his guilt?” Abdi asks.

  I want to be careful here. I don’t want to make a false promise, raise false hopes. “I can’t say with certainty, but the evidence gathered thus far is convincing.”

  “Given your professional expertise in these matters, please express your opinion in terms of a percentage.”

  Abdi inspires truth. “Better than ninety.”

  “How will he be punished?”

  “If convicted, and if no mitigating circumstances weigh in his sentencing, he’ll likely receive life in prison.”

  “Mitigating circumstances?”

  “Incapacity, such as mental illness.”

  “In this instance, how long would his prison term be?”

  “In my experience, five to seven years, perhaps served in prison, perhaps in a mental hospital, the cure of his illness a prerequisite to release.”

  Hudow raises her hands, turns her face upward. A ceiling with a bank of fluorescent lights is above her, but she beseeches the heavens. She wails. “Look my angel. This no justice.”

  Abdi puts a consoling arm around her. “Hush,” he says, “your screams will bring her grief.”

  He turns back to me. “And if there were no mitigating circumstances, how many years would this man serve in prison?”

  “Life means life,” I say, “but in common practice, murderers serve ten to twelve years, after which they receive presidential pardons and are released.”

  “Look at Sufia,” Abdi says. “Do you believe that a sufficient penalty?”

  I don’t need to look. “No.”

  “Inspector Vaara, see to this man’s punishment, pallid though it may be. In the Koran, Surah 5:45 tells us: ‘Life for life, eye for eye, nose for nose, ear for ear, tooth for tooth, and wounds equal for equal.’ In Islam, it is permitted that the closest living relative exact justice in such a matter, but in this country it is not permitted. I abide by the laws of this country, and as such, you must act as my surrogate. I hold you responsible. Now, leave us alone with our daughter, all of you.”

  I leave, feeling like I may be punished if Seppo walks free, like somehow I’m already being punished, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.

  11

  I respect Abdi’s grief, but melodrama won’t solve his daughter’s murder. Routine police procedure will. Seppo’s car is in the police garage. I park next to it, take the cameras out of my fishing-tackle boxes and start snapping photos.

  The BMW is a gorgeous vehicle, graphite with satin chrome exterior trim and star-spoked wheels. I open all the doors, walk around it and look for anything inside that might stand out. This car just says money. The interior is leather trimmed with matte black stainless steel and variegated poplar. It has automatic climate control and a LOGIC7 sound system. To avoid touching anything, I use a flashlight and a mirror to look under the seats. I find no evidence, but see three subwoofers. They give me an idea.

  This kind of work makes me feel confident, in control. I can use this time to be alone, to do my job in peace. A rack under the dash holds around twenty CDs, mostly techno crap. I lift fingerprints from the steering wheel and dashboard, then go back to my car and choose music appropriate for this type of work. I decide on Miles Davis, Kind of Blue. I load it into the LOGIC7. The garage throbs with cool jazz.

  I divide the interior into quadrants and go through the car inch by inch. In the backseat, I find pubic hair, fibers and small semen stains. I don’t find blood, so I use Luminol in the area of the semen, but just a touch. Traces light up. My mood is much improved. I’ve gotten everything I could ask for and more. Now maybe Seppo and I will have something to talk about.

  It occurs to me that I haven’t checked on Kate today. I feel guilty and hit the speed dial on my cell phone.

  “Hi Kari,” she says.

  “Sorry I haven’t called. This investigation is keeping me busy. How are you?”

  “Fine. I was hoping I would hear from you. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for last night.”

  “For what?”

  “For breaking the table.”

  “It was an accident, and anyway, I don’t care about the table.”

  “For behaving like a child over a broken leg.”

  “Jesus Kate, you lay on the side of a mountain worrying about our child-our children-in screaming pain. Anybody would have been traumatized.”

  “Well, I’m not anymore. I’m getting used to the cast and crutches. Mrs. Tervo came by today to check on me. She brought me smoked whitefish and potatoes with cream sauce for lunch. They
were delicious. Thanks for calling her and for moving the bed.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “It’s pretty hard to get around and moving still hurts some. You mentioned finding someone to help with errands.”

  “I’ll take care of it this afternoon.”

  “You’re a love. Hey, didn’t you say you broke the case?”

  I can’t help it, I don’t want to talk to Kate about my ex-wife and her affair with Seppo. She knows the basics, but I’ve never discussed it beyond that. I guess she knows it makes me uncomfortable and so never pressed it. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “You sound like you’re in a hurry.”

  All I want right now is to be with her. “Yeah, I have to go. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “I love you Kari.”

  Finns seldom tell each other they love one another, and we seldom call each other by name without cause. The two in conjunction is so intimate that I’m moved every time she does it. “I love you too Kate.”

  I GO BACK INTO the police station. Valtteri is staring at a computer monitor in the common room. I sit on the edge of his desk. “How are things?”

  He looks up at me. The circles under his eyes are so dark that they look like bruises. “Okay. You?”

  “Good. I processed the BMW. It’s a gold mine. Blood, semen, everything.”

  He looks surprised, smiles. “That’s great.”

  “You check on Seppo lately?” I ask.

  “No. He didn’t say a word while I processed him. I figured I’d let him stew for a while.”

  “I’ll pay him a visit, let him know how the case against him is progressing.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  I guess he’s worried because of what happened earlier. I don’t blame him. “I’m close to a hundred percent certain he killed Sufia. When he threatened Kate, I pictured him doing the same thing to her and I lost it. It won’t happen again.”

  He nods. “Okay.”

  I also guess he’s afraid that I can’t separate this case from what happened years ago, but doesn’t want to broach the subject. I don’t want to either. Still, I open the door in case he feels he needs to. “Do you think I should give up this case?”

  He stares at the desktop, considers it. “No, but some people might think otherwise.”

  Enough said. I change the subject. “Listen, before I forget, Kate’s having a hard time with her broken leg and could use some help at home. Running errands, shopping, a little cleaning. Think one of your kids might be interested in making a little extra spending money?”

  “My boy Heikki can do it. He’s been out of sorts lately, it’ll give him something to do. I’ll call and tell him to go over this afternoon. He was disappointed when we didn’t go hunting. Some extra money might cheer him up.”

  “I appreciate it. Do you know if Antti and Jussi finished processing Seppo’s house?”

  “Antti called about half an hour ago and said they’re done. They’ve got a lot of stuff to be analyzed, but nothing definite.”

  “Then I need to release the house to Heli. Give her a call and tell her to come pick up the keys.”

  We sit in silence for a minute. Valtteri looks thoughtful. “You, Heli, Seppo, this case,” he says. “You shouldn’t give it up. No matter what. It’s the will of God. It has to be.”

  I leave Valtteri, still seeming reflective, thinking that even for him, it seemed like an odd thing to say.

  The detention cells are in the basement. My timing is good. As I walk down the stairs, I hear Seppo screaming, “Hey! Hey! Somebody let me out of here!”

  It took all of three hours to break him. The cell door is steel. I slide open the observation port and look in. His face is pressed against the inside.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  “Please let me out. I can’t stand it in here.”

  “Stick your hands out the window.”

  He looks like he’s afraid I’ll rip them off, but he does it. I hand-cuff him. “Now move away from the door.”

  I unlock it and step inside. He almost falls backing away from me. His piss-stained expensive suit is gone, along with his bravado. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both way too big for him.

  “Where did you get the clothes?” I ask.

  “The sergeant gave them to me. I was expecting an orange prison jumpsuit or something.”

  “You’ve been watching too much American TV.”

  Valtteri’s Christian charity applies even to psychotic murderers. They’re his own clothes. The T-shirt is tucked into the jeans and accents Seppo’s beer belly. His face is red from broken blood vessels. It takes years of hard drinking to acquire that look. I can bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds. Seppo doesn’t look like he could bench-press a vodka bottle.

  “Want a smoke?” I ask.

  “Are you going to hurt me?”

  I sit down on a metal cot bolted to the wall and shake a cigarette out of the pack. “No.”

  He reaches out to take it, his hands tremble. I try to light it for him, but he’s shaking so hard that I have to hold him by the manacles to steady him. He inhales and coughs. The cell is sixteen by twenty-four feet square. Former occupants have scrawled names and dates on the gray concrete walls.

  “Drab surroundings compared to your winter dacha,” I say.

  He sucks on the cigarette like he’ll never get another.

  “Let’s talk about Sufia.”

  He coughs again. “I don’t know any Sufia.”

  “Sufia Elmi, murdered forty-nine hours ago in a snowfield. You were having an affair with her. If you’re going to murder someone, you shouldn’t leave documentation. You gave her money, paid her rent.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I just spent a couple hours collecting evidence from your BMW. I found blood, hair and semen. Are you going to tell me they won’t connect you to Sufia?”

  He purses his lips, like he’s trying to decide something. “Can I talk to you straight, without you hurting me?”

  “If you want to get out of here, that’s the best thing you can do for yourself.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone, and I think you know it.”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent convinced that you did.”

  “There’s been a murder, and you found a way to link me to it. After all this time, you’re getting even with me for my affair with Heli.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He starts to cry. “Can’t I just apologize? I’m truly sorry that Heli and I hurt you. I didn’t know you. All I knew was that I loved Heli.”

  This note rings false. People have affairs all the time and I doubt he cares who he hurts. Seppo is a sack of shit. He’s begging, just spewing whatever he hopes will get him out of this mess. I don’t say anything.

  He sniffles. “And I’m sorry for what I said about your wife. I was trying to be brave.”

  “Ancient history has nothing to do with this murder investigation.”

  “I know what Heli did to you was awful. I didn’t make her do it, I told her to decide for herself who she wanted to be with.”

  “Let’s move forward in time thirteen years and talk about Sufia’s murder.”

  He dries his tears. “I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t think I should discuss it without talking to a lawyer.”

  “You want out of here? Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you something that might change your mind.”

  We go up to the common room. It’s empty. I give him my pack of cigarettes and lighter. “Keep them. Have a seat.”

  He sits and smokes. I douse the lights and start the PowerPoint slide show of the murder scene. He watches Sufia, I watch him. He shakes, then sobs a little. After a couple minutes, he’s weeping like a child. Finally, he holds himself, rocks back and forth, mutters “No, no,” over and over.

  I think he’ll confess now. I freeze the projector on a close-up of Sufia’s ruined face.

  “Please charge me,�
�� he says, “so I can have a lawyer.”

  “Not yet,” I say. “After the DNA samples come back from the lab.”

  “I’d like to go back to my cell now.”

  He wanted out of the cell. I guess he didn’t enjoy his taste of freedom. I take him back downstairs.

  “Thank you for the cigarettes,” he says.

  I slam the steel door shut and the clang echoes through the corridor. “You’re welcome,” I say.

  12

  I go back to my office, write a detailed summary of events and e-mail it to the national chief of police. A photocopy of Sufia’s address book is in a plastic sleeve on my desk. I have coffee and a cigarette and browse through it again. I recognize more names familiar from the tabloids. Sufia must have liked to surround herself with famous people.

  I start dialing numbers. I introduce myself and say I have a few questions concerning Sufia Elmi. The media picked up on the murder through the national crime incident database and word has gotten around. People express shock. The interviews are all the same. No one knew Sufia well. The men say they went out a couple times, had some fun. The women say they hung out in nightclubs, went dancing, had some fun.

  Valtteri comes in. “I called Heli,” he says. “She doesn’t want to see you and asked if I could bring her the keys.”

  “Tell her no. Seppo’s car is a crime scene and she had access to it. I have to talk to her.”

  “She won’t come.”

  “Then arrest her and lock her up.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  He hands me a magazine. “I thought you should see this.” He walks out.

  The front page of Alibi is splashed with the headline: “MURDER! SOMALI SEX GODDESS SLAUGHTERED IN SNOWFIELD!” When I open the magazine, I’m outraged. Two photos side by side occupy a quarter-page each. One is a still from her last movie, a display of her beauty. The other is a photo from the morgue, her corpse on a gurney in an unzipped body bag. She’s nude and ravaged, once again violated. Smaller but no less grisly photos are underneath.