I sigh. “Thank you.”
He’s miffed. “And in case you didn’t know, most of the blood spatter isn’t the result of the riding crop striking her. When the whip recoils away from the body at the bottom of the striking arc but still at high velocity, that’s when the blood really flies.”
I did know, but I’m still not certain if I believe he can work it all out without a computer. I’ll talk to Saska Lindgren after we get photos and data from forensics, and see if he confirms Milo’s version of events.
“He hit her with the riding crop a hundred and twenty-six times,” Milo says.
I’m curious about the extent of his capabilities. “What’s your IQ?” I ask.
He’s embarrassed, flushes again. “A hundred seventy-two.”
“Let’s go talk to Rein Saar,” I say.
We turn the crime scene over to the forensics team. We didn’t inspect the other side of Iisa Filippov’s body, because the front of it hasn’t been photographed yet. I ask them to let us have a look when they flip her over.
Rein Saar’s elbows rest on the kitchen table, his chin on his hands. I sit across from him, start the audio recorder and lay it between us. Milo remains standing. “Mr. Saar, how are you holding up?” I ask.
“My head hurts,” he says. “You can call me Rein.”
“All right, Rein. You can call me Inspector Vaara.” He blinks, nonplussed by my cold manner, which was my intention. “Tell me what happened,” I say.
I see a handsome man beneath his bloody face. Athletic medium build. Swarthy and dark-headed. On the tall side.
“Iisa agreed to meet me at seven thirty this morning. When I walked in, I was attacked from behind. I blacked out and don’t know anything else. Somebody hit me on the head. When I woke up beside her, she was already dead.”
“Where were you this morning, prior to coming home?”
“I spent the weekend in Estonia, in Tallinn, at my sister’s wedding. I came home on a ferry with some friends and family. We partied the whole way, and kept the party going all night in Helsinki.”
“So you haven’t slept and you came home drunk.”
He nods. “I’m still drunk. Thank God.” He points at a cabinet. “There’s a whiskey bottle in there. Can I have it?”
His hangover will kick in soon and it might make it harder to interview him. Besides, some truth serum might not hurt. I nod to Milo. He gives Saar the bottle and a glass. Saar pours a healthy drink and slurps. A pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights is on the table in front of him. He lights one. I note that there’s a carton of them in the cabinet where Saar keeps his whiskey. The killer had to go through at least a few cigarettes to inflict that many burns. I get up and check the kitchen and bathroom trash cans. No cigarette butts. The killer took them with him.
I sit down again. “And the purpose of meeting Iisa Filippov was what?” I ask.
He lifts his face from his hands. He folds them in front of him on the table, looks into my eyes and sighs.
“You may think it’s a stupid question,” I say, “but all information pertinent to this case must be directly stated.”
“We were meeting for the purpose of engaging in sex,” he says.
The Finnish and Estonian languages are closely related. So much so that even if he spoke Estonian, I could understand some of what he said. His Finnish is good, but his Estonian accent makes him sound silly, like a child in the process of learning how to speak.
“Tell me about your relationship.”
“I met Iisa about two years ago at the Equestrian Academy. I was her teacher. She is—was—married. We started an affair almost right away. You should be questioning her husband, not me. He’s the only one who would want to do something like this.”
“Trust me, I’ll speak with him, but that’s not your concern. Right now, I want to give you my undivided attention. You should know that it looks bad. She’s dead, in your bed, and she was beaten with a riding crop I found in your closet.”
According to the nonexistent police handbook, I shouldn’t have related this nugget of information, but I wanted to see the look on his face when I said it.
He’s on the verge of panic, starts to twitch. “With my riding crop?”
“Yep.”
“Somebody broke in and attacked us both. I can’t help it if the person used something that belonged to me.”
“Who has keys to your apartment?” I ask.
“Just me and Iisa.”
I tell Milo to check the front door for signs of forced entry. He leaves the room. We still haven’t found the blunt instrument used in the murder. I stand up and look around the kitchen. It’s immaculate. Saar is a good housekeeper. An iron skillet is on the stove. It’s weighty, a good weapon of opportunity. I try to pick it up, it’s stuck to the burner it rests on. I tug, it comes free. I feel its heft, then turn it over and look at the bottom. It’s smeared with blood that has hair stuck in it. I show it to Saar. “Looks like this is what you and Iisa got whacked with.”
Milo comes back in. “No forced entry,” he says.
I show the pan to Milo and sit down with Saar again. “Your story doesn’t hold water. It looks to me like you two fought, she hit you on the head with a frying pan, then you lost it and killed her—with gusto,” I add.
He shakes his head hard, his eyes turn wild. “That’s not what happened. Iisa and I got along great. We never fought. I had no reason to hurt her.”
“A married woman and her riding instructor. This reads like a romance novel. I can picture about fifty scenarios that would cause you to fight, maybe even get angry enough to murder her. Make me believe you.”
“We had no differences. Our relationship was open and simple. We met a couple times a week and had sex. And we weren’t in love, we never used the word. It was just sex. We had fun together.”
I admit, as bad as it looks for him, it’s convincing, as explanations go. “Who was her husband?” I ask.
“Ivan Filippov. He’s originally from Russian Karelia. He owns a construction business that specializes in asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal.”
When the borders were redrawn at the end of the war, Russia annexed a part of Karelia that was previously Finnish territory. Stalag 309, where my grandpa supposedly collaborated with the Nazis and participated in Holocaust, is also in that region.
“Was Iisa born Finnish or Russian?” I ask.
“She was a Finn, from Helsinki. She took her husband’s name when they got married.”
“Did Filippov know about you and Iisa?”
“I didn’t think so, until today. She said he didn’t.”
“If your version of events is true and Filippov is the killer, why are you alive? Why didn’t he murder you along with Iisa? Killing you as well would have been more expedient.”
He chugs whiskey, frightened. “Obviously, he wanted to frame me. If I go to jail for the murder, he gets off scot-free.”
A member of the forensics team comes in. “We turned the body over. Want to take a look?”
I thank Saar for his cooperation and tell the uniforms to take him first to the Pasila station for processing, then to the hospital for examination.
Milo and I go back to the bedroom. A digital Nikon D200 and a Sony video camera are on tripods. Fingerprint dust covers surfaces. Scales and tape measures are scattered about. I check Iisa’s phone and find a text message Saar sent her yesterday morning, asking her to meet him here at seven thirty a.m. this morning. Her sent messages confirm the tryst. I’ll reserve judgment about Saar’s guilt or innocence. So far, I’ve found no evidence that he’s been less than forthright.
The victim is on her stomach. Her reverse shows no signs of violence. I ask Milo, “See anything noteworthy?”
He shakes his head. “No. We’re done here.”
“Then let’s go talk to Ivan Filippov,” I say.
6
A LUTHERAN PASTOR, Henri Oksanen, often accompanies police to give the bad news to family members of
the departed. I give him a call, he agrees to join us. Milo and I pick him up. We start out at just after noon and drive through heavy snow to Filippov Construction, in an industrial park in the Helsinki suburb of Vantaa.
The business is in a large, corrugated-metal building. We walk in. Construction tools and materials line shelves and lie on the floor: everything from jackhammers to face masks and other protective clothing necessary for asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal. A gorgeous secretary greets us from behind a battered metal desk. She’s a dead ringer for the 1950s soft-porn and pinup star Bettie Page. Tanned. Longish black hair cut in bangs. Black eyes. Curvy figure. Girl-next-door smile. A dark angel. She reminds me of someone else, too, but I can’t put my finger on who it is. Sleep deprivation is screwing with my memory.
We ask to speak to Ivan Filippov. She buzzes an intercom and announces our arrival. He tells her to send us in.
The office is nothing fancy. Concrete floors. Basic white walls and filing cabinets. A computer sits on a worktable. Filippov sits behind it. He stands to greet us. He’s maybe six-three, age fiftysomething, high-cheekboned and clean-shaven. His suit, shoes and haircut are expensive. His attire doesn’t mesh with the practical atmosphere of his business and speaks of vanity. “How can I help you?” he asks.
We introduce ourselves. Pastor Oksanen takes the lead. He practices this on a regular basis and is better at it than we are. “Mr. Filippov, perhaps you should sit down. We have sad news.”
Filippov’s expression turns quizzical and concerned. He regains his seat behind the desk, motions for us to sit. There are only two chairs on the other side of his desk. Pastor Oksanen gestures for Milo and me to take them.
“It’s about Iisa, your wife,” Oksanen says.
Two detectives and a pastor have come to bring bad news. Filippov must suspect the worst, but his voice is controlled. “What about Iisa?”
“I regret to inform you that she is no longer with us.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Then, pray tell, who is she with? I’m not a child, spell it out.”
“She has passed on. Her body was discovered earlier today.”
Filippov makes eye contact with Oksanen. His face registers nothing. “How did she die?”
The pastor goes around the desk and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She was murdered. She’s with God now.”
Filippov ignores the hand. “I’m an atheist.”
Odd first words to utter upon being informed that his wife was slain. He looks at Milo and me. “Who killed my wife?”
It’s always difficult to inform someone about the murder of a family member, but because she was planning to commit adultery when she died, this is even harder than usual. “Brace yourself,” I say. “This is unpleasant.”
“You come in here and tell me that Iisa was murdered, then warn me about unpleasantness. Quit fucking around and get on with it.”
His abrasiveness takes me aback. I give him his way and tell it straight. “She was having a long-standing affair with her riding instructor, a man named Rein Saar. They planned a tryst. She was found dead in his bed, beaten with an iron skillet and a riding crop, and burned with cigarettes.”
“Did this Rein Saar kill her?” His accent betrays his youth spent in Russian Karelia. It sounds like Donald Duck speaking Finnish.
“We don’t know yet. Saar claims she had a key to the apartment and was waiting for him to arrive. He maintains that he came home, was struck from behind and rendered unconscious. When he came to, he was in bed beside her and she was already dead. He says he never saw the assailant.”
Filippov has yet to demonstrate sorrow, only impatience. “Do you believe him?”
“Certain facts contradict his story, others support it.”
Filippov leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “I want Iisa’s killer found and punished.”
“I realize this is a shock and painful for you. Are you able to answer a few questions?”
“Of course.”
“Were you aware of your wife’s affair?”
“No.”
“It had been going on for two years. You had no clue?”
He shakes his head. “None.”
“They met a couple times a week. You never inquired about her comings and goings?”
“Iisa maintained an active schedule. She participated in various organizations and had many hobbies, riding among them. She was—or at least I thought she was—a good and faithful wife. I had no reason to invade her privacy or interrogate her.”
“Did she work?”
“She had no need. I earn a comfortable living.”
Filippov is a cold fish, but businesslike and seems candid. “Forgive me,” I say, “but I need to ask you about your whereabouts last night and today. Please understand that this is in no way an accusation, but a part of standard procedure.”
He waves his hand, gestures for me to get on with it. I’m senior officer here, but Milo is a new detective and needs experience. I don’t want to disregard him. Also, there’s something to be said for the good cop/bad cop routine. I nod, signal for him to take over.
“Where were you last night?” Milo asks.
“At a party. In fact, the national chief of police, Jyri Ivalo, was in attendance. He can serve as my alibi.”
Filippov was drinking with Jyri while he and the interior minister discussed me, and here I sit. Interesting.
“And you left the party and arrived home when?” Milo asks.
“I left at around one and was home in bed asleep by two a.m.”
“Were you drunk?”
“No. I’m not given to excess.”
“Tell me about your morning,” Milo says.
“It was like every other workday. I arrived here at nine and haven’t left since.”
“Not even for lunch?”
He takes a receipt from a file on the tabletop and hands it to Milo. “Lunch was delivered pizza.”
Milo pauses, looks thoughtful. “What time did your secretary arrive?”
“Also at nine.”
“Can you verify your times of arrival?”
Filippov sighs. “What sort of verification are you looking for?”
“Do you have a security camera and video record?”
Filippov offers a wry grin. “Detective, you’re playing games. A camera is mounted over the entrance and you saw it when you came in. You doubtless also saw the video recorder in the outer office.” He pushes a button on his intercom. “Linda, would you please eject today’s video surveillance tape and bring it in here.”
We wait. Linda enters. My memory kicks in. She reminds me of Filippov’s dead wife. She looks much as I picture Iisa Filippov did before the cigarette burns and riding crop disfigured her face. Ivan Filippov has precise taste in women. He asks her to give the tape to Milo. She hands it over and departs.
“Inspector Vaara was being euphemistic when he said your wife was beaten with a riding crop,” Milo says. “It would be more accurate to say that first, the killer used her for a human ashtray, then whipped her, focusing on her face, until she was nearly unrecognizable. She was systematically tortured, and for the coup de grâce, we suspect smothered to death.”
That was way too harsh. I feel an inward cringe, but Filippov doesn’t flinch. “I see,” he says.
The dark circles around Milo’s eyes take on the dull gleam that says he’s enjoying himself. “Who might have a reason to do such a thing to her?” Milo asks.
“No one,” Filippov says. “Iisa was a gregarious and pleasant person. She enjoyed other people and they enjoyed her. I would say her priority in this world was simple. She liked to have fun.”
Simple and fun. This fits in with Rein Saar’s assessment of their relationship.
“I would consider a two-year sexual relationship with her riding instructor having fun at your expense,” Milo says.
We have to ask questions, but we just informed Filippov of his wife’s death. His detached demean
or makes me dislike him more with every passing moment, but still, Milo is pushing too hard. He doesn’t relent.
“So you have no alibi to account for your whereabouts between the hours of one and nine this morning.”
“No,” Filippov says, “most people don’t.”
“When did you last see your wife?”
“Yesterday morning at about eight thirty, before I came to work.”
Milo smiles and raises his eyebrows. “Iisa wasn’t home when you got back from the party?”
“No.”
“And you found nothing unusual about that?”
“I repeat. Iisa liked to have fun. And I might add that, unlike myself, she was somewhat given toward excess. So no, I found nothing unusual about it.”
Milo and Filippov stare at each other, adversaries, for a long moment.
“I’ve heard about both of you,” Filippov says, “and I’m honored to have two such distinguished detectives investigating my wife’s death. Your reputations precede you.” He looks at me. “You for your tenacity and bravery,” and then at Milo, “and you for your intellectual investigative achievements.”
He looks at me again. “In fact, your name was mentioned at the dinner party last night.”
And then Arto hands me the high-profile murder of Filippov’s wife, which I thought he would be reticent to do, only hours later. This strikes me as less than coincidental.
“No doubt my wife’s murder will be swiftly solved,” Filippov says. “I assume you want me to identify Iisa’s body. Isn’t that the procedure? I can do it this afternoon.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say. “Your wife’s identity has been established. However, I would like to come to your house and examine her belongings. Something among them might provide evidence of who killed Iisa and why.”
“Absolutely not,” he says. “I won’t dishonor her memory by having her intimate possessions pawed at.”
“I can get a subpoena if necessary.”
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