Before I Go

by Leena Lehtolainen

  Petri Ilveskivi also appeared in other clippings from the box. Väinölä had collected his election flyers and reports from the local paper on meetings of the City Council and Planning Commission. In addition to Ilveskivi, Väinölä also seemed interested in articles about his own misadventures. There were three versions of a brief report on his conviction. The collection also included clippings of his ideological brothers’ achievements all around the country.

  Some of the papers were racist Nazi-inspired leaflets, including English and German ones. Apparently Väinölä needed those to strengthen his faith as well. I took everything that indicated homophobic tendencies.

  Wang had finished searching the kitchen. Väinölä’s bread knife and paring knife would go with us to the station, although neither was a likely murder weapon.

  “Could there be something behind those posters?” Wang asked and then began systematically taking them down. General Ehrnrooth, Marshal Mannerheim, and the black man making off with the Finnish girl came off the wall easily, but Hitler’s corner got ripped. Wang’s expression didn’t waver, but I was sure she had torn that poster on purpose. There was nothing under the posters except dirty walls.

  The second cardboard box was full of more random junk, including combs, an unmatched sock, a half-used package of condoms, and a photo album. On the first page was a baptismal picture from 1976. A very thin girl with long hair in a diagonally cut skirt and a tight blouse held a bald baby who was crying as an irritated-looking priest sprinkled water over his head. On the next page there were two more pictures of the same baby, then a few elementary school class photos with a miniature Jani Väinölä hidden in the crowd. The final class picture was from the seventh grade. After that the album was empty.

  Kettunen and Jerry were finished searching the bathroom and had moved on to the rest of the apartment. When they’d gone around the small space a couple times without Jerry finding anything, Kettunen said he was going to take the dog out to the car to rest and then they would take one more pass. I looked out the window at a small supermarket across the street. Outside, a circle of men were passing a beer bottle around. No one seemed to be intoxicated or underage, so the police didn’t have any authority to intervene. Within a few hours they would be drunk enough that someone would have to pick them up for the drunk tank.

  We didn’t find any motorcycle leathers, and the leather jacket we had taken with us before had already been sent to Forensics. Even though the drug stash we had discovered would let us keep Väinölä behind bars for a while, I was disappointed in the results of the search. Of course it was interesting that Väinölä had been keeping tabs on Ilveskivi, but a few newspaper clippings didn’t make him a murderer. In the cupboard was a half-empty bottle of booze, which could easily be the one he had claimed he was buying when Ilveskivi was attacked. There were no receipts in the trash or in the plastic liquor-store shopping bag under the sink.

  Väinölä’s apartment revealed a life of poverty, neglect, and loneliness. I took another look in the bathroom, which the Narcotics team had turned over quite thoroughly. I wasn’t a clean freak by any means, but the mildewed grout and thick layer of grime on the toilet made me feel sick to my stomach. Väinölä did at least own a toothbrush, although the bristles were thoroughly splayed. There was no sign of a washing machine. Maybe the building had a laundry room.

  Väinölä had removed one of the bathroom tiles and scratched out a hole about four inches across and twice as many deep. The work was clumsy enough to make me think that this was Väinölä’s first time hiding drugs. He also hadn’t had the sense to flush the goods, even though he should have known we’d be conducting a search.

  Maybe he was more afraid of his supplier than he was of the police.

  We didn’t have to clean up after ourselves, but Wang shoved the posters out of the middle of the floor with her foot, somehow managing to get the Blu-Tack on the Hitler poster stuck to her shoe and ripping the poster in half.

  “Do you want some matches?” Puustjärvi asked dryly, but Wang shook her head and didn’t even crack a smile. She had come to our unit three years earlier, just as I was going on maternity leave. She was the first Vietnamese-born police officer to graduate from our police academy. She had moved to Finland as a small child, and as an adult, despite her parents’ objections, she had changed her first name to make it sound more Finnish. But even with the name change, Anu Wang couldn’t escape the banal racism of the Finnish people, which revealed itself not only in some of our clients but also certain coworkers.

  I told Kettunen that Narcotics should handle Väinölä’s processing from here on out. We would only question the neo-Nazi if something new came to light, but of course Narcotics would need to keep an ear out for anything related to the Ilveskivi attack. Maybe Väinölä was involved indirectly somehow. The brown heroin was serious stuff that could take even an experienced user by surprise. Over the course of the spring, I had investigated four junkie deaths. They had all been overdoses.

  Koivu had made it back to the station after the autopsy. He, Wang, and I gathered in my office. Koivu looked pale and tense, and he seemed disappointed when I told him the search had been unilluminating in terms of the Ilveskivi killing.

  “Did the autopsy shed any light?” I asked, sipping my coffee with its triple dose of creamer and three sugar cubes. On some mornings I remembered to make myself a salad and a sandwich for lunch, but this morning hadn’t been one of them.

  “It mostly just confirmed what we already knew. Ilveskivi was in great shape. He didn’t have any injuries other than a scar on his forearm from that assault three years ago. He didn’t smoke and his liver looked good, so we can assume he didn’t drink much. The actual cause of death was cardiac arrest caused by the perforated pericardium.”

  “So no support for Mela’s AIDS theory?” Wang asked.

  “No, although the full test results aren’t in yet. The hospital checked his blood type and did alcohol and blood testing before he went into surgery. Nothing.” Koivu wiped sugar crystals from his mouth. He had stopped for donuts on the way back. Koivu loved pizza and donuts, which may have been why he was looking even stouter since the past winter.

  “Based on Ilveskivi’s injuries, it seems likely that the attacker hit him with the metal pipe first, apparently trying to do the job without touching the victim. For some reason he pulled out the knife next, and as we all know, stabbing someone requires getting up close and personal. There were black leather flakes under Ilveskivi’s fingernails. He was wearing biking gloves, but they didn’t completely protect his knuckles. He obviously hit his attacker.”

  “So the original purpose may not have been to kill him,” I said. “Maybe it was just some druggie who was looking for someone to rob and saw the briefcase on the back of Ilveskivi’s bike. Maybe he lost his cool when his victim resisted. What about prints on the bicycle?”

  “Forensics found a couple of prints besides Ilveskivi’s, but nothing with a match in the database. Same thing with the briefcase and helmet, although there was only one set besides Ilveskivi’s on the helmet.”

  “Probably Tommi Laitinen’s. We’ll need to get his for comparison.”

  Koivu’s cell phone beeped, and he pulled it out to read a text message. His expression brightened momentarily, and he wrote something down. Then he entered a reply: OK.

  “That was from the lab. They’ve identified the tire type from the motorcycle tracks at the crime scene. Only the center of the pattern is visible, but apparently the tire is a . . . wait . . . Metzeler ME 99. Either 120 or 130 centimeters.”

  “Is that common?” I asked, since I knew embarrassingly little about motorcycles. Koivu didn’t know either.

  My own phone rang, and the duty officer at the reception desk in the lobby said that I had a visitor who was demanding to see me immediately. When I asked the name, the answer was a shock:

  “Tommi Laitinen. He says he has some extremely important information about a murder investigation, and he
refuses to talk to anyone but you.”

  5

  I threw Koivu and Wang out of my office. They both looked a bit confused, but they knew me well enough not to object.

  Tommi Laitinen looked haggard. A dark-brown wool jacket hung from his shoulders, and the light-brown shirt underneath hadn’t been ironed. His brown shoes, the same ones that had been so shiny in the hospital hallway, were scuffed, and he had two days’ worth of stubble.

  “Hello,” I said. Laitinen avoided my outstretched hand, so I motioned to the couch. “Please, sit. Would you like coffee or tea?”

  Laitinen shook his head and sat down heavily. He stared at his hands for what seemed like minutes before saying anything.

  “I wanted to talk to a female detective because women are usually more open to things, even if they are police officers. The police were anything but pleasant three years ago when Petri and I were attacked. The detective wouldn’t even shake our hands. He seemed to think that homosexuality is contagious, and the other officer wasn’t any better. They made it clear that they might not be able to restrain their fists either if they saw two men kissing.”

  The detective in question had been my deceased colleague, Pertti Ström, who had been well known for his prejudice. Lähde had been the lead detective on the case. Ilveskivi and Laitinen had lost at the game of detective roulette, even though the case had been solved and convictions made.

  “Lauri Jensen said that you’re a friend,” Laitinen continued. “So you don’t have anything against people like us?”

  “No, not in the slightest,” I said, somewhat irked. Lähde and Ström had succeeded in tarnishing the reputation of our entire profession.

  “I have to ask: Did my husband fight back?” Laitinen asked.

  “Yes, he tried to defend himself,” I replied. If Laitinen was the murderer, he would know that anyway.

  Laitinen gave a pained groan and then spent the next minute or two staring at his stubby hands with the curly blond hair growing on the backs. Finally he started speaking again.

  “Petri is . . . was . . . quite hot tempered. He didn’t approve of violence, but he had a mouth on him. He never hit anyone, but if someone hit him and he got mad, then . . .” Laitinen shook his head and a smile flitted across his face.

  “Did anyone ever attack him other than that time three years ago?”

  “Well, once. At Café Escale. It was stupid. Petri had drunk a couple more cocktails than normal, and he started mouthing off to this guy who was trying to cut in line at the bar. Then this guy flicked ash from his cigarette into Petri’s empty glass, and Petri pitched a total fit. Both of them got thrown out, and it was all I could do to get Petri into a taxi without another confrontation.”

  I nodded. The person who wouldn’t defend himself when attacked was rare. Even though Jesus had taught the importance of turning the other cheek, that doctrine didn’t work very well in practice. Maybe nowadays Jesus would tell people to run away.

  “I’m telling you this because Petri and I had a terrible argument before he left for his meeting,” Laitinen said. “He left in a rage, and I’m afraid that . . .”

  Laitinen paused and again stared at his hands, which had started to shake as if he were cold. He was a professional caregiver, a kindergarten teacher, but did he know how to care for himself? In my experience, people who cared for others professionally tended to neglect themselves. They knew how to give others good advice, but they didn’t always know how to follow it.

  Laitinen started to speak again, quickly now as if wanting to get rid of the words he was saying.

  “Petri hadn’t asked my permission before settling things with Eila. Of course that made me furious. Of course I yelled and said all those things that I shouldn’t have said.”

  “Settling what?”

  It was like Tommi Laitinen hadn’t heard my question.

  “What if Petri was angry and rode his bike at someone on purpose? Then it would be all my fault!”

  “There’s no indication of something like that,” I said reassuringly. I was having a hard time imagining a scenario in which Ilveskivi started the fight. I was curious to hear why the couple had been arguing, but I wasn’t going to ask again. Laitinen could tell me when he was ready. Every detail was important in a homicide investigation, and you had to gather all the information you could. Only through experience could you learn to tell the difference between the wheat and the chaff.

  “Do you have any acquaintances with motorcycles?” I asked, and after mulling it over for a moment, Laitinen listed a few names, none of who were close friends. He couldn’t think of a reason why any of them would attack Petri. Still, I took down the names, and I would check to see if any of their motorcycles could take a Metzeler ME 99 tire and whether any of them had a criminal record.

  “Did Petri usually ride his bike to work and to meetings?”

  “Whenever there wasn’t snow. It’s a matter of principle and a good way to keep in shape. We don’t even have a car, and bikes are usually faster than the bus.”

  “I’ve noticed. Did he always take the same route to get downtown?”

  “Yes, he usually went the same way, since that way has the least traffic. Sometimes he would come back through Central Park, but that adds a bit of time.”

  So it wasn’t at all improbable that someone who knew Ilveskivi’s routine could have been waiting for him by that path. Were we going to find someone with a motive from his political activities or at his work? Wang and Puustjärvi were going to Petri’s office in the afternoon to interview his colleagues and figure out what projects he had in the works.

  My stomach grumbled. It was already past one. Soon my hands would start shaking too; I could no longer handle low blood sugar as well as I did when I was younger. The coffee, which was half milk and sugar, would help for the next hour or so. I decided to drop the formalities and use his first name. Hopefully that would make us feel like we were on the same side.

  “Excuse me, Tommi, I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “If there’s any juice. Or maybe tea,” he said.

  Mela was slouched in a chair in the break room reading a tabloid.

  “Hi, boss,” he said, straightening up slightly. “Have you seen the papers?”

  “I haven’t had time.” I grabbed the one he was holding. “Oh God, do I really look like that?” I said involuntarily. I really would have preferred Mela not to have heard that.

  In the newspaper photograph, I practically had shopping bags under my eyes, and my bangs had gone completely frizzy on the way from the women’s restroom to the press conference. On the bright side, the crime reporter was a pro, and so all the facts were right, although of course Ilveskivi’s sexual orientation received inordinate attention and was suggested as a motive for his murder. The most offensive thing, though, was that the article mentioned that Tommi Laitinen, who was described as Ilveskivi’s “live-in boyfriend,” worked in a kindergarten. This wasn’t the first time I had considered the fragility of the privacy of victims and their loved ones. Grief often drove people to talk to the media, and later they usually regretted it. Homicides always shattered the lives of those left behind, and there was no point picking at those wounds in the press. Of course there were always those who enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame, but I didn’t think Tommi Laitinen was one of them.

  “Where is Lähde?” I asked as I returned the tabloid. I didn’t feel any kind of connection with Mela, even though I was one of the people who was responsible for familiarizing him with the duties of Violent Crime.

  “Smoking. After that we’re going to Helsinki to see if anyone remembers Väinölä from Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Good. Anything new?”

  Mela shook his head and went back to the newspaper, and I remembered that Tommi Laitinen was waiting in my office.

  I poured a cup of coffee from the pot, filled another cup with hot water, and grabbed a tea bag, sugar, a small carton of mil
k, and some napkins. Laitinen probably needed the blood-sugar boost even more than I did. He was still sitting on the couch staring straight ahead when I walked into my office. Through the window a small piece of hazy blue sky with a couple of lazy, tattered clouds was visible.

  Laitinen dunked his tea bag, looking distracted. I sipped my coffee, which had obviously been sitting in the pot for a couple of hours, and then added a little more milk. I hadn’t drunk milk in years except with coffee, and the strong taste of the creamy, sugary brew suddenly brought to mind my summers as a child on my Uncle Pena’s farm, Grandma’s sweet cardamom pulla baked with fresh milk from the cow, and the scent of hay just cut and drying in the field. Just a few days ago I had been searching for Iida’s birth certificate in a drawer when a picture of my grandmother at my age happened to fall out of a file. Her work-worn face had shocked me. She looked so much older than she should have, with her hair back in a severe bun and her tired, catlike eyes that had the same expression as mine after a hard day of work. By the time the picture was taken, Grandma had given birth to eight children and buried two, and a ninth was kicking inside of her. I had been seven when my grandmother died and didn’t remember much about her other than the taste of her pulla and the way she stooped.

  Laitinen took the tea bag from his cup and then looked around the room, obviously at a loss about where to put it. I moved the trash can over to him. He tossed it in and put the cup to his lips, then grimaced as if it were whiskey burning his throat instead of a standard Lipton tea. The color of the liquid did bear a strong resemblance to Jameson.

  “Do you have any idea what really happened? Have you arrested those skinheads?”