Holy Ceremony

by Harri Nykanen

  “The upstairs neighbor saw two men, one of whom was Laurén, carrying a rolled-up rug from the courtyard into the stairwell. Didn’t recognize the other guy. Middle-aged, beanie, parka. The vehicle was a light-colored van. Female witness, didn’t recognize the make.” Oksanen’s tone was almost disparaging. For him, identifying cars was a fundamental element of cultural literacy.

  “I’m guessing my presence is no longer required,” Vuorio said.

  I sensed that my presence was no longer required either, and so I joined Vuorio and Oksanen in subjecting ourselves to the dispiriting effect of the hazy spring weather. In overly large doses, it brought out self-destructive tendencies. Vuorio climbed into his brand-new steel-blue Benz wagon. Oksanen eyed it a little enviously, as all we had at our disposal was an unmarked police clunker.

  “I can see you have an eye for quality.”

  “A poor man can’t afford to be cheap,” Vuorio replied, stiffly lowering himself behind the wheel.

  Vuorio was anything but poor. There was no way he could be, since his family owned twelve thousand acres of forest, a couple of Helsinki apartment buildings, and stocks and shares of every description.

  “If the case ends up staying in our hands, I’ll come out tomorrow to have a look around,” I said.

  Vuorio nodded and sped off.

  “You mind dropping me off on Mansku?” Oksanen asked.

  I started the car and followed Vuorio. He was already turning north.

  “He’s going way over the speed limit. You wouldn’t think he had it in him,” Oksanen said admiringly. “Where do these nutjobs come from? I’m talking about whoever snatched that body. Wandering around, when they should be locked up in the loony bin. The streets are full of them these days. Carrying a body home: what sense does that make?”

  “Some sort, evidently.”

  “Sense is overrated.”

  I found myself agreeing with what Vuorio had said at the scene: this wasn’t the work of some random lunatic. Everything had a point and a purpose, which was substantiated by the letter.

  Oksanen continued: “I wouldn’t bet on it. I can’t think of any reason why someone would nab a body, except to perv on it, or else he’s just off his rocker… drop me off at that bus stop up there. I need to pick up my car from the garage.”

  It seemed like Oksanen’s car was in the shop more than it was on the road. Not that it was your average set of wheels: it was a six-cylinder Audi with an engine that violated all EU noise limits. It had been tuned, widened, lightened, and souped up. The Eläintarha gas station stayed in business thanks in large part to Oksanen’s fuel purchases.

  “Now?”

  “I promised to be there by four.”

  I glanced at the clock on the dash: 3:22.

  “It’s in Pitäjänmäki. It’s not like we have anything else going today, do we?” In Oksanen-speak, this meant he wouldn’t be coming back into the office.

  I found a spot to pull over. Oksanen popped his door open and said, one foot already out of the car: “Arja and I agreed that she can stay late tonight if you need someone to pull OT.”

  I edged forward to make room for the bus that appeared for Oksanen as if by magic. He waved as he sprinted for its front door.

  I passed the sports hall, and it brought back memories. We used to play there when I was on the Makkabi table tennis team; the Makkabi was the Helsinki Jewish community’s athletic club. I had played seriously for over five years. I didn’t quit until shortly before my military service. I liked table tennis because I was good at it; it was the only sport I was better at than my big brother Eli. Eli remembered this and had recently asked me to head up the team, which had dwindled into nonexistence. Trendier sports had taken its place. The suggestion was appealing, as I’d let myself get out of shape. Maybe I could get some play in again as coach.

  It was so late that I probably would have just headed home if I hadn’t been driving a vehicle signed out from the HQ garage. It was a Ford Focus with shocks that rattled like castanets down Helsinki’s cobblestone streets.

  Our premises at VCU, the Violent Crimes Unit, looked as temporary as they were. The major renovation at HQ was supposed to be finished by fall. One could always hope.

  I popped into Stenman’s office. She had stayed late to do some digging into Laurén’s background. I wanted to get an update on some other things, too. I sat down and waited for her to get off the phone.

  “What’d you find out?”

  “No sign of Laurén yet. Other than that, nothing earth-shattering, but it smells like this could become a time-consuming case. Where do you want me to start?”

  “Just give me the relevant stuff.”

  I had come to trust Stenman’s sense of relevance much more than mine. She was one of the investigators I relied on most, alongside Simolin, who was in Canada at the moment familiarizing himself with the local Indian tribes. North American Indians were a hobby for him the same way cycling or stamp collecting was for someone else, or sponsored motorsports were for Oksanen.

  Stenman had used her time efficiently: “Reijo ‘Reka’ Laurén was born in Vaasa in 1962. Dad was a second-generation pharmacist, in other words the local upper crust, top of the municipal tax lists. Reijo was an only child. Attended boarding schools until college. Then he moved to Helsinki to study at the Sibelius Academy. Applied himself at first, but since the old man was footing the bill, gradually got used to a pretty lax pace. Eventually school fell by the wayside altogether, after he founded a band with some fellow students. Drug use entered the picture, which apparently didn’t suit him, because it wasn’t long before he was in inpatient treatment with psychological problems. After being released from the halfway house, he married a fellow student. They had one child, who’s now seventeen. Divorced after ten years together. Laurén also had a falling-out with the old man when the latter stopped doling out cash. But at that point his aunt conveniently died, and Laurén inherited the apartment, money, and stocks. Convicted on one count of narcotics possession. That’s it.”

  “So you talked with the ex-wife?”

  “Briefly. They’re not in contact anymore. Laurén is paying his child support these days, too, so she has no reason to be nagging him about that. He sees the kid pretty infrequently.”

  “Set up a meeting with her for tomorrow. You don’t just do something like this out of the blue. He must have been brooding about something for years that led to the act itself. I’d be surprised if the wife is completely clueless as to what’s going on. Just the opposite; she may feel like she’s heard all about Laurén’s intentions to the point of boredom. Any friends?”

  “According to the wife, he kept in touch with a couple of buddies from high school, but she never met them and doesn’t remember their names. I get the impression she wasn’t too interested in her husband’s affairs, not then and not now.”

  I reflected that quite a few wives were like that, adding, “Someone probably helped him move the body from the medical examiner’s to the apartment. The neighbor said she saw Laurén carrying a rolled-up rug in the stairwell with another man, roughly the same age.”

  “That’s all I have for now. I can continue tomorrow.”

  “What about the septic tank thing in Kouvola?”

  “Anteroinen was from Kurikka. He attended vocational school and worked a bunch of places around the country as a custodian and a maintenance man, until he finally found the job in Kouvola, at a wholesaler’s warehouse. Unmarried. I printed out the material from the preliminary investigation. Lead investigator was Lieutenant Pohtola, but he’s dead. The detective working the case was Rimpelä, who’s with the Oulu PD these days.” As I reached across to receive the stack of information Stenman had put together, I caught a whiff of her expensive perfume. I had the momentary urge to lower my head into her lap.

  I returned to my office to call Rimpelä. He was already home; I could hear the sounds of a children’s television show in the background. I introduced myself.

 
“Two years back you investigated a case in Kouvola where a maintenance man was drowned in a septic tank.”

  “Yeah, but we never solved it… we had suspicions, but that’s as far as it got. What is it about it that interests you?”

  “Routine check. What suspicions?”

  “Helsinki PD, was that it, and Kafka?”

  “Yeah. Detective Kafka from the VCU,” I said for the second time.

  “I’ve heard your name.”

  “I have the material from the preliminary investigation, but I’d like to talk with you first. You mentioned something about suspicions.”

  “I’m in kind of a rush. I’m supposed to take my boy to swimming lessons.”

  “All I need are the basics. After that I’ll read through the material and get back to you if necessary.”

  “Well, if you don’t need more than a few minutes. What I meant was we actually had some potential motives, but no suspects per se. Didn’t arrest or detain anyone. It was a tricky case all around. Ran into dead ends everywhere we turned. We did what we could. The boys from the Bureau even came in to have a look, but they couldn’t squeeze any more out of it than we could. Left me thinking they’re a little overrated.”

  “What were the motives?”

  “Property crimes. This Anteroinen was a maintenance man at an electronics wholesaler, and it turned out there had been a massive series of thefts, had been going on for years. Hundreds of thousands of euros’ worth of goods had vanished, all told. Apparently he got into an argument with his thief buddies over dividing up the take. There were some pretty hard-boiled guys involved… Some of the stolen goods had turned up at Anteroinen’s cabin, and he was facing charges for them.”

  “But you guys didn’t find any evidence of a connection between the crimes and the murder?”

  “Just a few whispers from the underworld, which all supported the notion that it hadn’t been a settling of scores between thieves. Why would Helsinki be interested in this case?”

  “We’re checking up on a tip. Was there anything unusual about the body?”

  “Plenty. Anteroinen had been roughed up bad. Burn marks on the arms and torso. Some sort of flammable liquid had been poured over him and ignited. We didn’t ever release that to the general public. After that, he was drowned in his own shit. Pretty unpleasant way to die.”

  “Did you notice any signs, drawings?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot. We didn’t tell anyone that, either, for investigative reasons, and we’re not telling anyone now, either. Some sort of arch had been incised into his back, with a cross inside.”

  “Did you guys try to figure out what it meant?”

  “Of course, but we came up empty-handed. We settled on a diversion the perp used to try and get us to believe that it was a ritual murder by some Holy Rollers.”

  “One last thing. Did the name Reijo Laurén come up in any way during the investigation?”

  “Not that I can recall, no. I’m pretty sure about that.”

  Superintendent Huovinen still possessed a certain panache from his youthful days as a male model. His matching blue-and-gray sport coat, striped shirt, and tie fit to a T, as if he were on a catwalk, not in the drab bureaucratic offices at police HQ. For a cop, Huovinen was almost inappropriately stylish, some even thought handsome. A few years after we graduated from the police academy, he and I had been out with our girlfriends at the time, and my companion – I don’t even remember her name – couldn’t take her eyes off him all night. He had some silver at his temples now, but he was one of those guys it worked for. I was almost jealous. My own hair was starting to thin at the crown, with splotches of gray here and there. Because Huovinen was the head of the VCU in addition to being a smooth public speaker, he was a frequent presence on television. No wonder two political parties had asked him to join and put himself forward as a candidate in the upcoming elections. Huovinen’s star was on the rise. He was widely considered a good bet to replace the deputy police chief, who was approaching retirement age.

  I sat in my superior’s bare-bones office, which faced westwards towards the evening sun, reporting on the envelope addressed to me and the theft of the body. He listened attentively. He had always been a good listener.

  “I’ve never heard anything like that before,” he said, nonplussed.

  I conceded that I hadn’t either.

  “And there’s no sign of the perpetrator?”

  “We’re looking for him now. Or rather for Reijo Laurén, the owner of the flat, who’s in all likelihood the perp and the author of the letter.”

  “Do you think he’s also behind the killing in Kouvola?”

  “It’s worth looking into.”

  “Sounds like he considers himself some sort of avenging angel. What was he the adorner of, again?” Huovinen asked.

  “The Adorner of the Sacred Vault.”

  “Sounds like some Freemason title.”

  “It’s not. I googled it.”

  “Plus he’s hinting that his work isn’t finished yet. What work? Killing?”

  “That’s what it seems like. ‘The dragon to be slain’ apparently refers to someone he considers evil. Which would imply that the maintenance man was one of the already-slain evil dragons.”

  “So some sort of secret society. He mentions three angels – in other words, there are three of them – and that they intend on killing at least one more person’.”

  “If you ask me, the one Laurén poses the most danger to is himself.”

  “Does he have any family?”

  “An ex-wife who hasn’t heard a peep from him in at least a year. Laurén lived in a flat he inherited from his aunt. The aunt was his last remaining relative. Arja found out that he had come into a substantial sum of money at the same time, and a nice chunk of stocks. There was plenty for him to live off.”

  “What do you make of the Bible passages?”

  “He might be communicating that he isn’t afraid of anyone and will emerge victorious. From what? Whatever it is, it’s presumably of his own imagining. That also has a paranoid tinge to it.”

  “Or not. Maybe it really was a declaration of war,” said Huovinen.

  “Pretty hard to believe.”

  “He managed to get his hands on the body without getting caught, brought it up to the apartment, and called it in even though he knew that he would put the police on his tail. The fact that he’s crazy doesn’t make him stupid. And the fact that he convinced someone to help him move the body points to careful planning. Maybe there are three of them, after all.”

  Huovinen was such a busy man I was surprised he was prepared to sacrifice his time to this unusual but ultimately pretty insignificant case. Maybe he just wanted a moment’s relief from the tedium of administration. We’d known each other going back to our days at the police academy, so we had no trouble chatting without the usual subordinate–superior stiffness.

  “War is a big word. War against what?” I said.

  “You tell me.”

  “Based on what Arja pulled up, he doesn’t seem like the sort of crazy person who’s living in a delusional world, more like the type for whom this world is too tough and who needs the occasional stint in in-treatment to calm down. Which often points to childhood trauma and…”

  I couldn’t help but think then of my sister Hanna, who committed suicide at the age of 28. Her life been changed irreversibly in the heart of Jerusalem, by a bomb that exploded at an outdoor café. Her friends’ bloodied and mutilated bodies haunted her for the rest of her brief life. In the end, she could only find one way to rid herself of them. But two-cent psychologizing wasn’t my field, so I let it go. I was an amateur, and so was Huovinen.

  “This is a case that doesn’t really belong to anyone, so we could go ahead and take it, seeing as how we’ve already begun. Go through the preliminary investigation material for the Kouvola case, then we can take another look. You go ahead and do it if Laurén wants you to so badly. Apparently something about your backgroun
d appeals to his sick logic. Maybe he’ll get in touch again one way or another and tell you more. And nothing to the papers yet. We have to assume that Laurén is at least partially of unsound mind.”

  I paused for a moment to consider whether I should refuse or be pleased. I leaned towards the latter; I had to admit that, in spite of myself, the case intrigued me.

  Huovinen misinterpreted my hesitation. “Or don’t you want to?”

  “No, I do.”

  3

  Huovinen’s wish to keep the bodysnatching out of the press didn’t come true. It was in the next day’s Ilta-Sanomat. Someone had leaked like a sieve. The article reported that the body of a woman who had committed suicide had been stolen from the medical examiner’s office and transported to an apartment in Töölö. The paper even knew about the light-colored van. Maybe the reporter had chatted up the same neighbor as Oksanen. At least there was no mention of the writing on the body; that meant the leaker wasn’t one of ours. That still left plenty of alternatives: someone from the medical examiner’s staff, a neighbor, a family member…

  On an impulse, I called Jyri Moisio, the crime reporter who had written the story. I had met him once, at the press conference for a different case, but didn’t know him well. I had always tried to keep my distance from reporters.

  “I know you guys have to protect your sources, and I’m not interested in who spilled the story, other than in investigative terms. I think it’s possible that the person who tipped you guys off is the same individual who stole the body.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “We found the body thanks to an anonymous tip, too.”

  I could practically hear Moisio’s crime-reporter brain clicking. “I can tell you this much: your theory isn’t out of the question.”

  “So the information didn’t come from any of the authorities or some similar source?”

  “I guess I can tell you that the caller was anonymous. Of course, we used our own sources to check out the story.”

  The reporter tried to take advantage of the situation and pry further details out of me, but I’d gotten what I wanted and ended the call.