Holy Ceremony

by Harri Nykanen

  8

  I was getting the sense that the case was gradually opening up. Information was accumulating. One good clue could produce a rich harvest, lead down many new paths. The worst was treading water, blind.

  I looked at Oksanen, who was staring at his notebook. Stenman was sipping tea from a fire-engine-red mug.

  “Didn’t get much, just like I figured,” Oksanen began. “The lead investigator on the Sandberg case hadn’t ever heard of Anteroinen or Laurén. I asked about possible motives, but according to him they never came up with one. Sandberg wasn’t some shady character; he was an upstanding citizen. He lived by himself in his seaside house and didn’t have any beef with anyone. Neighbors spoke well of him. Didn’t host rowdy barbecues or play his stereo too loud, didn’t test his Black & Decker in the middle of the night, didn’t own a leaf blower, and observed Sunday silence. They eventually arrived at the conclusion that it was a random act of violence. He’d told a neighbor that he was headed out to the skerry to go jig-fishing for perch. According to the neighbor, he used to spend a lot of time fishing alone. The boat was discovered where it was supposed to be, the man four kilometers away in the water. They never found any eyewitnesses to what happened.”

  I expressed disbelief at the randomness theory. “He was abducted, bound, driven a few miles in a boat, and thrown alive into the sea with weights on. Someone went to a lot of trouble. Plus there’s the connection to the Anteroinen case. He was thrown into the septic tank alive, too.”

  “Either way, random victim is where the local investigators ended up.”

  “What about the investigator in the Anteroinen case?”

  “Didn’t seem to care for my Helsinki accent… Claimed he told you everything he knew and then some,” Oksanen said.

  “That’s all you have?”

  “I did some more checking of my own. I found out one pretty interesting thing about that foundation. It went to court with the founder’s only son over the money. And for good reason, too. There was almost thirty million in cash alone. This was back in the markka days, of course. The son was paid a few hundred thousand for his pain and suffering. Works as a fireman these days. He’s out of town. I left him a message and told him to call.”

  “Where did you come by this information?”

  “A reporter I know at the Helsingin Sanomat found an article on him in the archives. It was Sandberg who handled the estate on behalf of the foundation.”

  I was disappointed in the material Oksanen had gathered. “So you didn’t find any links between the cases?”

  “No, but Anteroinen’s former co-worker said Anteroinen had worked somewhere in Häme for a few years in the late ’70s and that he’d run into some sort of trouble out there. According to his colleague, they were supposed to go on a company trip to Hämeenlinna to tour some other company, but Anteroinen refused. Said he hated the place, had bad memories of it, but wouldn’t say what.”

  “Worked where?”

  “The colleague didn’t know. Apparently as custodian or maintenance man, though, just like everywhere else.”

  “Were any of the employers listed in Anteroinen’s pension records in Häme?” I asked Stenman.

  “Not that I recall, no.”

  “What was the name of that academy where Laurén went to boarding school?”

  “The Daybreak Academy,” Stenman said. I googled it.

  The website for the Church of the Redemption appeared at the top of the list of results. I went to the site and clicked Contact.

  “It’s near Forssa,” Stenman said.

  “Call Daybreak and check if Anteroinen worked there as a custodian in the 1970s,” I ordered Oksanen.

  “Now?”

  “Now. And then come straight back here. I need to talk to you.” I was unable to filter the annoyance out of my voice.

  Oksanen left the room.

  Stenman sensed my irritation and didn’t say anything. I continued as if nothing had happened: “So at least we know that the Sacred Vault really existed and wasn’t just some delusion of Laurén’s. Seeing as how he’s dragged it into his crusade for vengeance, I’m thinking we’ll find the motive in the same place as the Sacred Vault.”

  “You mean we’ll find the motive at Daybreak?”

  “Maybe ‘place’ is the wrong word, so not necessarily at Daybreak. It might also be the time period, events that took place then. Set up a meeting with Sotamaa. You’d think a bandmate would be close enough you’d tell him stuff you wouldn’t tell other people. Bands drink, smoke pot, and talk shit, at least when they’re on tour.”

  Stenman rose to leave.

  “And feel free to offer any good suggestions.”

  I tried to call Laurén’s number, but it was still out of service. A stack of papers waiting to be reviewed stood on my desk, but I was having a hard time concentrating. It was a little after eleven, and at one o’clock a case I’d been lead on and that had made the front page of the papers would be tried in the Helsinki Court of Appeal. The defendant was a woman who had taken out a hit on her husband and hired an Estonian hitman. The guy had carried out the commission, which we found evidence of when he turned up in Tarto.

  Oksanen rushed in just as I was checking the time the trial would start. “Nada. I told you. This is a waste of time; it’s not like we don’t have plenty of real work to be doing.”

  “What’s a waste of time?”

  “No one by the name of Leo Anteroinen worked for the Church of the Redemption in the 1970s or any other point. The administrative assistant started working there in 1978.”

  “Good thing we checked.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Sit.”

  I pulled out a copy of Saimi Vartiainen’s letter from my drawer and passed it across the desk to Oksanen.

  He accepted it, looking a little perplexed. The further he read, the darker his face grew.

  “This is bullshit,” he snapped, flinging the letter down on my desk. “I know this old trout. For some reason she’s always been a bitch to me.”

  “So you’ve had dealings with the company?”

  “A few times, as representative of the rally club. The owner, Berg, is a nice guy who’s into motorsports. That’s how I know him. It’s completely natural for me to drop in and say hi when I’m there getting stuff for the club. It would be rude not to.”

  “So you haven’t received the perks Vartiainen mentions?”

  “What constitutes a perk? The club is a big customer. Of course we get parts and supplies for a better price than some jerk off the street. Besides, Berg told me he’d be happy to do a little sponsoring. In return, his company’s logo appears in the club paper and on our cars. There’s nothing weird about that. What would be weird would be us being put in a worse position than everyone else because of our profession—”

  “The profession of police officer is not just any profession. Taking them to the cleaners for thousands of euros’ worth of perks—”

  “If I were you, as a kike, I wouldn’t talk about taking anyone to the cleaners and—” Oksanen realized what he’d said and stopped as if he’d hit a brick wall. “If you have any questions, check with Commissioner Kalliola at the ministry. He knows everything about the sponsorship arrangement and the club’s purchases. They were approved by him, every single one.”

  “As a kike, I’m asking you directly, because I’m your direct superior. I received the letter from Huovinen and he ordered me to do some preliminary checking into the matter.”

  “That bargain-basement male model. I’ve said everything I have to say.” Oksanen left brusquely.

  I looked at my screensaver, but didn’t see it. There was as much prejudice and anti-Semitism on the force as there was among the public at large, maybe more. The profession was one of a kind when it came to feeding prejudices. Still, none of my co-workers had ever called me a kike before, not even during the final beer-soused moments of a long night together at the sauna.r />
  The profession hardened you, and I’d always thought of myself as thick-skinned, callused. Still, it felt like I had just been slapped across the face. It stung, and it pissed me off, all at the same time.

  9

  Looking around at the editorial room at Ilta-Sanomat, I was reminded of the old saying: those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Apparently crime reporter Jyri Moisio had never heard of it. He was chucking rocks like there was no tomorrow.

  “Let’s go into the conference room. The editor-in-chief will join us in a minute.”

  Moisio was big and had an unforthcoming air about him. His short hair was gelled straight up. Somewhere between the range of thirty and forty. I caught a glimpse of a showy Rolex peeking out from under his Gant sweater. It definitely hadn’t been bought from a street vendor in Thailand.

  I had no trouble interpreting the reporter’s body language. It spoke of reluctance. Translated into words, the message would have been: go ahead and say what you’re going to say, but don’t think for a minute it’s going to make a lick of difference.

  Through the glass partition wall, I saw a man with the demeanor of an editor-in-chief approach, along with the familiar briefcase-wielding suit. The editor-in-chief’s belt was cinched so tightly that his constricted stomach flesh bulged over it.

  “You don’t mind, do you? I asked our legal counsel, Markku Pyysalo, to join us. Perhaps you know each other?”

  I had run into Pyysalo at the courthouse, but I couldn’t claim to know him. He generally handled white-collar clients, criminal cases less frequently.

  “We’ve met,” Pyysalo said. “And I also know your brother Eli through work. We even have some clients in common. I have a lot of respect for your brother.”

  The editor-in-chief felt like it was his responsibility to open up the meeting. “Of course I know what brings you here, Ariel – if I may call you Ariel – but Pyysalo and I just reviewed the case from top to bottom, and we couldn’t find any legal issues.

  “The only possible fit is criminal incitement, or else the provocation clause, but that’s not relevant here. Our reporter headed to the scene after receiving a tip, which falls under the rubric of completely normal journalistic practices. He didn’t know what he would find there, and he had no opportunity to prevent the incident.”

  “There’s been a misunderstanding. Who said we were accusing you of having committed any crimes?”

  The editor-in-chief and Pyysalo exchanged glances.

  I felt some glee at having successfully surprised them. Threatening a reporter would have been stupid. That would just further distort their notion of their own importance.

  “Then why are we here?” Pyysalo asked.

  “We’re proposing cooperation so we can find the individual who stole the body and burned it. Cooperation that will also benefit you.”

  “How?”

  “If you help us, we can agree that you’ll be the first to get any information on the investigation.”

  “In addition to our responsibility to protect our sources, we’re also bound by confidentiality,” the editor-in-chief reminded me, trying to look as if it meant anything to him.

  “We call that bound to secrecy, so we’re even.”

  “What could we do to help the police?”

  “By telling us what you know about the perpetrator, why he contacted your reporter specifically – and twice, for that matter. That indicates that he might contact you in the future as well.”

  “He told me he liked one of my articles,” Moisio said.

  “Which one?”

  “It was on the malfeasance of the CEO of a state-owned company. He felt I had gathered a lot of important information and hadn’t softened the story.”

  “I suppose you asked why he wanted publicity?”

  “Wait, we haven’t reached an agreement yet,” Pyysalo jumped in, before Moisio could answer.

  “I told you what we want and what you’ll get. What’s not clear?”

  “Go on,” the editor-in-chief said.

  “He said this was about a much bigger matter and he wanted a good reporter to follow the story from the start and do a proper write-up on it. He didn’t go into any further detail.”

  “Did he identify himself?”

  Moisio glanced at Pyysalo and the editor-in-chief.

  “He didn’t tell us, but we also know how to acquire information,” the editor-in-chief said on his reporter’s behalf. “And I’ll answer your next question while I’m at it. We don’t have his phone number. You mind if I ask some questions, too? The VCU doesn’t investigate the theft of bodies. Why are you guys handling the case?”

  I told the truth: “It was my bad luck to be on duty when the case came up, and I got stuck with it for the meantime. As far as I’m aware, there’s no unit dedicated to handling cases like this.”

  “You also happened to be there when the body was burned.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We hung back around at the fringes to see how things would unfold,” the reporter said. “Why did he leave a letter addressed specifically to you?”

  “I wish I knew. Maybe he saw my name in the paper.”

  “My hunch is he handpicked Moisio from the press and you from the police force. For some reason, he trusts you two,” the editor-in-chief said. “We’re prepared to cooperate on that basis, but it has to be advantageous to us, too. Of course, we’re always happy to help the police in any way we can.”

  Moisio seemed to grow gloomier. “As a journalist, I have to protect my sources. I can’t betray his trust, no matter what the police promise us. The police do their job; we do ours. If it starts getting around that we’re leaking information to the police, no one will ever dare contact us again.”

  “It would be important for us to know immediately next time he contacts you.”

  The reporter clearly disapproved. “You want me to set a trap for him?”

  “Surely your job description doesn’t include helping those suspected of crimes avoid arrest.”

  “Of course we’ll have to weigh cooperation case by case, but in principle we’re prepared to cooperate, and understand our responsibility,” the editor-in-chief said.

  I spent another fifteen minutes in the editorial offices, but we didn’t get much further. Stenman was waiting for me in a car outside. We’d be going to our next meeting together.

  10

  Sotamaa had all the hallmarks of an old rocker: the jeans, the leather jacket, the mullet, and the sideburns. He had suggested we meet at the bar at the Hotel Pasila. The public radio building and police HQ were both a stone’s throw from there, so that worked for us. I brought Stenman along.

  He glared at me accusingly. “What did Reka do now? Caught for possession? Leave the poor guy alone, for God’s sake.”

  A glass of orange juice stood on the table in front of Sotamaa. A beer would have been more fitting.

  “Not this time. We’re actually looking for two of his old acquaintances, and believe you can help us.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “We haven’t been able to reach him,” Stenman said. “When did you two last see each other?”

  “It’s been at least six months. How did you find out about me?”

  “His wife,” I said, then corrected myself: “Ex-wife.”

  “Hmm. I have fifteen minutes before we start taping. Shoot.”

  “When did you and Laurén get to know each other?”

  “As students. First at boarding school, then we started studying music here in Helsinki at the same time.”

  “You guys were also in the same band.”

  “True, but that only lasted about a year. In college we played at parties for free food and booze. He met his future wife at one of them. He was already so unstable back then I knew the relationship would crash and burn. Seija, the future wife, studied at UIAH. She didn’t dig us too much, said we were a bad influence on Reka. I wasn’t at the wedding; I don
’t think I was even invited. As I recall, they got hitched at the magistrate’s office.”

  “Unstable in what way?” I asked.

  “We all smoked pot, but it didn’t really suit Reka. He’d shoot right off into outer space. He thought he was God’s chosen one, destined to suffer like Jesus, but he wouldn’t turn the other cheek and would destroy evil for good.”

  “What did he mean by evil?”

  “Money, for one. He thought it was the bait the Devil used to lure the weak into traps. So anything involving money was to be avoided. As far as I know, he was from a wealthy family, so maybe it was a projection of a bad conscience, or rebelling against your father, take your pick. Back then if you were socially conscious you were leftist. He came up with some theses of his own, like Martin Luther back in the day. Reka battled his own demons like Luther, but he wasn’t satisfied using a bottle of ink as his weapon. I got an ominous vibe from it sometimes. I’m a peaceful man. Tail end of the peace and love generation.”

  Stenman continued in this vein: “Did this evil take human form? I mean, were there any real people he considered evil?”

  “He didn’t like cops, for one, or politicians. But that’s pretty normal,” Sotamaa chuckled. “If you ask me, the contradiction was that he talked a lot without saying much. He’d tease you but never go all the way, as they say. I didn’t get how he could be so gung-ho and so constantly mysterious at the same time.”

  “We’re mostly looking for two people. One is named Leo Anteroinen, the other is Lars Sandberg.”

  Sotamaa shook his head. “The names don’t say anything. Who are they?”

  “Laurén’s childhood friends.”

  “The Sacred Vault gang, huh?”

  “So you’ve heard of it?”

  “More than I wanted to. That’s actually what I was talking about when I said that he talked a lot but was still mysterious. Reka would go on and on about it when he was drunk or stoned, but he never got very specific. From what I could gather, it was some sort of secret society from his high-school days. I never did figure out what the point was. I was only at the Daybreak Academy a year and a half, and then my family moved to Helsinki. That’s why I was never as up on it as he was.”