“So Särkijärvi’s not coming?” he asked, voice dripping with accusation.
“He still hasn’t gotten in touch with you?”
“Not a word, and we can’t reach him. His wife and family are very concerned. In my view, the police have acted extremely recklessly in this instance—”
“We’ve done everything in our power.”
“Is Särkijärvi missing?” the reporter asked, pulling out his notebook. The photographer immediately zoomed in on Hätönen.
“Could we have a word in my office?” Hätönen said, shooing away the photographer.
“I guess you’re not going to get your scoop after all,” I said to Moisio.
He chuckled. “The story’s ready. We just wanted a photo and a little ambiance, and comments from the minister and maybe a couple of former students.”
“I’d love to read the article before it’s published; to check the facts, you know,” Hätönen said. “I still don’t understand what the story is. The story, if you can even call it one, is over twenty years old.”
“Many of the guilty parties and those in positions of responsibility continue to hold important roles in society. Like Särkijärvi. We have extremely damaging evidence on him.”
“Well, there’s no need for a gossip-rag reporter to ask me any questions, then,” Hätönen snapped, and made for the building. On the way, he noticed a man climbing out of a black car and turned towards this new arrival with his hand raised. I recognized the man as the traitorous bishop Laurén had cursed, Johan Kaltio. Hätönen immediately led him inside, gesticulating in my direction. Maybe he was afraid I would arrest his prominent guest.
“I think we’ll get out of here, too. I look forward to the story. I have nothing against someone writing about it; on the contrary.”
I took a couple of steps, but then turned around. “Do you happen to know where Laurén is? He was supposed to execute some sort of ambush here today.”
“We were supposed to meet here this morning, but he’s not answering my calls.”
“Hopefully Särkijärvi’s and Laurén’s disappearances aren’t connected to each other.”
“I’m sure they’re not.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because everything was so carefully planned.”
“What was supposed to take place here today?”
“A minor provocation, harmless but embarrassing for a lot of people. We’re going to conjure up the ghosts of the past.”
“When was the last time you spoke with Laurén?”
“Yesterday. I don’t get why he’s not here. I can do the story without him, but I’ve been counting on what we agreed.”
“Let me know if you hear from him. It’s for his own good, too.”
“So you guys are giving up already?”
“I have better things to do. We’ve arranged for a local police patrol to hang around just in case. Remember that charges of aiding and abetting are likelier than you think.”
Moisio laughed nonchalantly. He put his trust in his newspaper’s prominence, their crackerjack legal team, and the police’s desire to maintain good relations with the mainstream media. And he wasn’t completely off base.
“What now?” Simolin asked, once we were in the car.
“Now we wait.”
Three hours later we were still waiting.
We were in a gray corrugated metal warehouse; a heap of machines whose purpose was obscure to me stood at the far end. From the dust and the junk, car tires, plastic containers, and pallets tossed on top of them, you could tell they hadn’t been used for years. Up against the wall there was a metal box at least six feet tall with a large electric motor on the side. I couldn’t figure out what it had been used for. The warehouse only had a few smutty windows that the gray spring light listlessly tried to penetrate. I peered out of one and looked around. Across from the warehouse there was a broad open space, crossed by a row of low-slung sheds, each about fifty yards long. Birch saplings dotted the yard, and a broken-down yellow tractor had been left to rust at the rear. It crouched lopsidedly in the brush, as if embarrassed by its abject state. A field loomed in the distance, and beyond it, black spruce woods.
In the other direction, at the edge of the open space, stood a flat-roofed, ’60s brick home with an incongruous wooden extension. Someone had had more money than taste. Based on how overgrown the garden was, it had also been left to its own devices.
A tall chain-link fence stood between the house and the warehouse. There was no movement anywhere.
Simolin circled the warehouse and picked up something from the ground, then carried it over for me to inspect. It was a tin can, pea soup, full of holes.
“Shot through with a rifle or a pistol.”
“We’ll look for the shells later.”
Simolin continued exploring the area. It wasn’t long before I got tired of sitting there and started poking around too. A couple of old wooden doors were leaning against the wall, along with a few sheets of the corrugated metal used to roof the warehouse. I peeked behind the sheets and spied something white in the gloom. I moved the sheets aside, and saw a door with an unusual metal handle.
“There’s a cold store here,” I shouted to Simolin, who came over, his curiosity piqued.
“They must have kept the feed frozen,” Simolin mused.
I opened the door. Darkness and stale air punched me in the face.
Simolin came up behind me and pointed his flashlight in. The room was about ten by ten feet. I could make out a stack of plastic containers that looked like white moving boxes. In the corner there were a few pallets on wheels, a swiveling office chair, and a desk lying on its side. That was all I could see, but I stepped in regardless. Metal tracks ran across the ceiling, with steel hooks hanging from them.
Simolin kicked the wall. It echoed dully. “Steel.” He let the beam from the flashlight sweep across the floor. “Someone’s been here. There’s no dust.” He was right; the floor looked freshly swept.
The flashlight beam climbed up the wall to the ceiling.
“Stop!” I ordered. “Keep it on the track.”
Simolin obeyed, and I stepped closer. My fingers reached up and came into contact with something.
“What is it?”
I studied my find. It was a tightly folded piece of paper the size of a postage stamp. I unfolded it.
A SIM card. I examined the paper. There was a four-digit number on it.
I turned off my phone, removed the battery, switched out my SIM card for the one I’d found, then turned my phone back on. A second later it asked for my PIN code. I entered the number from the slip of paper. The phone unlocked.
I copied the contacts from the SIM card to my phone. There were a few dozen. I recognized several of them, including my own.
“Must be from Laurén’s phone.”
“Strange place to hide it,” Simolin remarked.
I switched it back out for my own SIM card. After inspecting the other tracks without finding anything, we went back into the warehouse.
“Let’s go over to the house.”
We had gotten in through the chain-link fence at a spot where it had collapsed. It looked as if a car or tractor had crashed into one of the poles, knocking it over at ground level. It was possible to lift the fence free at the pole and slip under it.
Our car was parked just outside. We drove over to the house, which was surrounded by a dilapidated white wooden fence that a solid kick would have knocked over. A path of concrete pavers led to the front door.
I received a succinct text message: Coming!
“He’s coming,” I said to Simolin.
Five minutes later, we saw a cloud of dust at the end of the road, followed by the vehicle that was kicking it up. A moment later, I could tell the car’s make and color.
It was a dark green Range Rover. It seemed to be accelerating, as if the driver were in a hurry to find out what we were up to. The vehicle parked a few yards away. The win
dows were tinted, so we couldn’t see who was driving, but I knew who it was.
Moisio stepped out, looking irate. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Was it a good party?” I asked.
“A bunch of bullshit speeches.” The reporter leaned against his Range Rover and stared at me.
“Oh, what are we doing here? We’re looking for Laurén.”
“Here? Why?”
“Because his cell-phone signal was most recently picked up nearby, through a base station located a mile from here, to be exact, and because you conveniently happened to have a farm you inherited in the vicinity. We decided to check if you’ve been putting him up.”
“I haven’t.”
“You don’t mind if we have a look around, do you? We could use a cup of coffee, too.”
“You better bet I mind. And you can get coffee from the gas station in town… The thing is, I use this house as an off-site office. I’ve got source-protected material spread around in there.”
“We’re not interested in your material. You can cover it up; take your time.”
“Sorry, it’s still not going to work.”
The reporter tapped at his phone and reached someone: “Hey Markku, you have a minute? I’ve got a bit of an unusual situation here. I just arrived at my farm and there’s a detective here who wants to search the premises. I’ve got source-protected journalistic material spread around in there, because I’m doing that story on Daybreak for next week’s issue, and I have no intention of letting them in. Would you mind having a word with the esteemed lieutenant?” He handed me the phone.
“What’s going on there?” It was Pyysalo, Ilta-Sanomat’s legal counsel, trying to sound all businesslike and worth his considerable salary.
“We’re looking for an individual who’s got an APB out on him. He’s been in contact with Moisio and was traced here.”
“Traced how?”
“Some pretty incredible technology: via Laurén’s phone. We have reason to suspect Moisio is hiding him. He’s preventing us from searching the place, which of course increases our suspicions.”
“So you don’t have a search warrant?”
“I’m the lead investigator and as such have the authority to order a house search whenever I want. But an honest journalist can’t have anything to hide. We’re not looking for porn magazines, and we’re not trying to expose anyone who’s leaking information. We’re investigating several homicides.”
“Is Laurén suspected of these homicides?”
“Among other things.”
“Would you please hand the phone back to Moisio?”
I gave the phone back.
“Yes… of course it is… I see this as an attempt to get around source protection; it’s an outrageous violation… I could, but I don’t want to. The police can’t just march into a newspaper’s editorial offices to conduct a search either.”
“You better believe we can,” I interjected.
“Couldn’t you get in touch with the lawyer at the Union of Journalists? I’m sure they’d be interested… yeah, just a sec… Pyysalo wants to talk to you again.”
“Have you considered that what we’re talking about here are core journalistic values? The media is going to have it in for you. The new Minister of Justice has been stressing freedom of the press and its significance in a democracy. I suggest you drop it this time. I spoke with Moisio; he says he wants to do everything he can to help you—”
“Moisio’s resistance has heightened my suspicions that he’s hiding critical investigative information from us, so I’ve decided we’ll be conducting an immediate search of the premises. Moisio is under arrest for the duration.”
Pyysalo made a last-ditch effort: “Are you sure you’ve given all the ramifications sufficient consideration?”
“Far too much.” I ended the call. “You heard what I said.”
The reporter decided it was wisest to give in. “Why don’t I show you around? What do you want to see?”
“We don’t need a native guide. If we need your help, we’ll ask for it. Wait here in your car while we have a look around.” I held out my hand. “I’ll take your phone until we’re done.” Moisio was forced to restrain himself. “And the keys to the house.”
Once they were turned over to us, Simolin and I entered the premises.
The house didn’t smell as stale as I’d expected; someone had been there recently. And I knew the journalist had come straight from Helsinki.
It was a single-story house without a basement. There were half a dozen rooms; it didn’t take long for us to go through them. Then we sat down in the living room to kill time. I made a couple of calls. After chatting together for fifteen minutes, Simolin and I went back outside. Moisio was sitting obediently in his car. He stepped out when he saw us.
“Well, did you find anything?”
“What should I have found?”
“What are you looking for?”
“All kinds of stuff.”
“You mind if I get to work now? I have an eight o’clock deadline.”
“The search is just ramping up. This is a big place. That’s why we called in backup: more men and a couple of tracking dogs.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You better believe we are.”
My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I recognized the voice. It was Deputy National Police Commissioner Arto Kalliola.
“What the hell are you doing, Kafka? I have the editor-in-chief and lawyer from Ilta-Sanomat breathing down my neck. Then the ministry’s permanent secretary called.”
“Normal investigative work. House search.”
“Searching a journalist’s house is not normal, even for you.”
“We suspect a serious crime.”
“What is this supposed serious crime?”
“Are five murders enough for you?”
Kalliola lost it. “What the hell are you talking about?”
A five-car convoy approached the house.
“I don’t have time to talk. We want to search the area as thoroughly as possible before nightfall.”
“I hope you’re not putting your career on the line. This is all on you, and you alone.”
We stepped outside to meet the cars. The first was Oksanen’s Audi; Stenman was sitting in the passenger seat. It was followed by two unmarked cars, a marked police Mondeo, and a police van. Moisio gaped at the incursion in shock.
“Put him in the van to wait,” I ordered.
“You want us to cuff him?” the uniformed driver asked eagerly.
“Knock yourself out.”
The reporter was about to explode. He stared at the handcuffs as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Oksanen and Stenman headed off with one of the patrols to inspect the warehouse; Simolin led a second patrol into the house. I stayed back with the dog handlers to negotiate the search. One of the cadaver dogs headed into the forest behind the house. Another went to search the warehouse and the cold store. I stayed in my vehicle to report to Huovinen and ponder my next move.
I was climbing out of the car when I noticed a silver Golf approaching the property; it parked in the yard a moment later. The photographer I’d seen in Moisio’s company at Daybreak stepped out, camera aimed and ready.
“What’s going on here? The editor-in-chief called and told me to come get some photos.”
“This is a crime scene. If you want to photograph, go back to the road, unless you want to end up in the cell next to Moisio.”
The photographer aimed the camera at my face.
“You can tell me what’s going on, can’t you?”
“It’s confidential information under investigative powers legislation.”
“Come on, now you’re fucking with me. I’m just doing my job.”
“So am I.”
The photographer gave up and retreated to the road. He switched the lens out for a telephoto and kept it trained on the property.
&nb
sp; “Ari!” Stenman shouted from the warehouse doorway. She waved, and I walked over. “Jari found something.”
Oksanen was up on top of the big steel container next to the wall. He scanned the insides of the box one last time before climbing down the ladder fixed to the side. “I found this.” He handed me a gleaming golden nugget the size of a pea.
I studied it more closely and almost dropped it.
“A gold tooth. Found it at the bottom of the feed mill.”
26
Moisio stared at the tooth I was holding between my thumb and forefinger. He struggled to remain expressionless, but a tremor in his cheek muscles revealed it wasn’t easy. “What is it?”
“A gold tooth. According to the missing person report, Silén had a gold tooth. We’ll compare this to his dental X-rays. The tooth was in the feed mill. We also found this.” Now I showed him the SIM card we’d found.
The photographer tried to move in, but I ordered the patrol to chase him off and one of the men to keep an eye on him.
“Laurén’s SIM card. It was in the cold store. We’ll use it to trace his calls and movements. I’m sure you know what comes next. I’ll call in more backup, and we’ll cordon off the whole area and have the cadaver dogs go over every square inch. There’s always some trace, no matter how careful you are. The technical investigators will scour the mill and the rest of the warehouse. I’m sure we’ll find Silén’s and Laurén’s DNA. Pretty soon media from around the country will be here. There’ll be television cameras and helicopters. The reporters will set up camp outside your gate and watch the place 24/7. Your face is going to be on every TV screen in the country. Make no mistake, your pack is going to turn on you.”
My performance was so commanding that Moisio backed up until he was sitting in the doorway of the van. He only had one card left to play, and I knew what it was. Covering his face with his hands, he shook his head, and said in a quivering voice: “I had to… it was horrible. I’d never have believed Laurén was capable of it. He always told me you had to love evildoers, too, and he’d get his revenge by playing that tape through the intercom speakers during Särkijärvi’s speech, that’s all. We decided I would do a story on it. That would have been the end of Särkijärvi’s career. The police were looking for Laurén, and he didn’t have anyplace to go. So I promised he could use this place until the centennial; I only come here a few times a year. And it’s near Daybreak. I believed everything he told me—”
Holy Ceremony Page 18