Snow Woman

by Leena Lehtolainen

  Although just a few days earlier I’d ordered Antti to keep the news about the baby to himself, I suddenly found myself telling Eva. “We’re actually expecting too.”

  “Congratulations! We wondered a little why you drove to the New Year’s Eve party. What week are you?”

  “What is it now . . . Eighth, I guess. I’m due at the end of August. It was a pretty big surprise because I had an IUD. I haven’t really wrapped my head around the whole idea yet.”

  “That’s a lot of stress all at once—a coworker dying and a surprise pregnancy,” Eva observed.

  “You’re telling me. But maybe that’s exactly what this whole cruel system is about: birth and death side by side.” I shook my head. “Geez, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so melancholy. Should we head back?”

  I walked Eva to her house in Mankkaa. Kirsti was horrified that her wife had slogged nearly six miles so close to her due date, but Eva cheerfully dismissed her worries. I said good-bye to them and decided to walk the last mile and a half back, hoping Antti would have a meal ready when I arrived.

  Like Eva, I didn’t feel like walking along the busy main road, so I started weaving down the back lanes. Suddenly I stopped. A man stood leaning against the fence in front of a row house, compulsively picking stray hairs from the shoulders of his coat. Pertti Ström. But he didn’t look like the Ström I knew. This man’s shoulders were slumped in exhaustion and his head hung down. His whole bearing was utterly resigned, which was totally at odds with Ström’s typical self-confident, boorish personality. I stood there watching him, wondering whether I should go talk to him. Then it struck me. Why on earth was he leaning against a fence in Mankkaa looking like he was waiting for someone? He lived two miles from here. Was he waiting to interview a witness? But it was Sunday, and I was relatively sure Ström had the day off too.

  Nervously he glanced at his watch. Then the door to the row house opened and a boy of about seven peeked out.

  “We’ll be there in a minute, Dad. Jenna can’t find her swimsuit.”

  Ström’s shoulders instantly rose to their usual arrogant level, and the gruffness of his voice was familiar as he yelled into the house behind the boy, “Don’t even try it, Marja. Give Jenna the swimsuit!”

  Jenna, Marja, and a boy about seven years old . . . It clicked into place. Ström was waiting for his kids. What was the boy’s name? Jani? I’d caught a glimpse of the children’s pictures in Ström’s wallet once when he bought me coffee after an important arrest. Imagining Ström having warm feelings toward anyone was a stretch—although of course he was attached to his kids. Then I remembered the way Ström had cried with me over Palo’s death.

  Now it became clear that Ström’s relationship with his ex-wife was worse than his relationship with me: their conversation about when the kids should come home had turned into a shouting match. “Eight at the latest. They have school tomorrow!”

  “What the hell? If we go to the meet, we won’t be back until nine at the earliest! They’re big kids now. They can handle staying up a little late one night! Come on, Jenna, let’s go already!”

  “You aren’t the one who has to wake them up tomorrow morning! If Jenna can’t find her swimsuit, she just won’t go swimming.”

  Finally Jenna came out, triumphantly dangling a pink bathing suit from one finger. Seeing Pertti Ström’s features in the face of a ten-year-old girl was amusing. Then, embarrassed about spying on a colleague’s private life, I slipped behind the nearest house.

  On Monday morning, everything seemed almost normal at work. Only the picture of Palo, which had been cut out of a newspaper and taped with a black border to Palo and Pihko’s office door, served as a reminder that everything had changed. Pihko was nowhere to be found, and Ström wasn’t around either, but Taskinen was sitting behind his desk, his face ashen and strained. The smile that appeared when he saw me was surely the first of his day.

  “Back to work?”

  “I had to come in eventually. What’s new?”

  “Nothing major. We need to divide Palo’s cases between us. I doubt we’ll be getting a replacement anytime soon. Be ready for an interview about the hostage incident later this week. It’s going to be a big mess.”

  “You’re telling me. I’ll keep working on the other Nuuksio case for now. And I’ll probably head up to Oulu tomorrow night.”

  “Kari Hanninen, the psychologist, sent his regards and said he would always be at the disposal of such an enchanting female specimen.” Taskinen could barely get the words out without laughing. I mentally forgave Hanninen his irritating comment. At least it had made Taskinen laugh.

  I was just about to pick up the phone to ask Dispatch for Leevi Säntti’s number when the ringer beat me to it.

  “Tarja Kivimäki, Finnish Broadcasting. Hello. I see you’re back at work after this second shocking incident in Nuuksio.”

  “Yes. Do you have any new information about Elina Rosberg?” I said.

  “Unfortunately not,” she answered. “I imagine you’ve had other things on your mind lately as well. That’s what I’d like talk to you about, Maria. I can call you Maria, can’t I? Well, anyway, Studio A is doing an in-depth report about all the shootings over the past few years. We’d like to interview you, and I’d be the one to do it.”

  “But you don’t work for Studio A anymore,” I said.

  “I’ve been thinking about moving back. I’m getting tired of doing the news, and there are a few reasons I’d like to get away from reporting on politics.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I said. “First, I’m not really excited about talking about my coworker’s death publicly, and second, you’re still technically a person of interest in an open case I’m investigating.”

  “Am I? Could we at least meet? Dinner, tonight. I’ll buy.”

  “No, you won’t. As I said, you’re still a person of interest. But OK, we can meet. Name the time and place.”

  When I hung up the phone, I felt like a blood-sucking parasite. I had no intention of giving Tarja Kivimäki an interview. But I did intend to trade for information, and that would be easier done at a dinner table than in an interrogation room.

  Next I called Leevi Säntti, who was fortunately at home and not on the road preaching. I introduced myself with as much authority as possible and hoped Johanna hadn’t told him that I was the one who’d recommended her lawyer.

  “What are you calling about? Has my . . . um . . . wife murdered someone else?” he said.

  “What do you mean someone else?” I asked, although I knew exactly what Leevi Säntti meant.

  “She murdered our child by having an abortion. And this is what it’s led to. Once you step onto the path of sin—”

  “Mr. Säntti, your wife is only one of several persons of interest in the case. I’d like to meet with you in Karhumaa.”

  “Of course. I understand how police procedure works.” Leevi Säntti’s phone voice was intentionally pleasant and manipulative in a similar way to Kari Hanninen’s.

  Ending the call, I knew I should phone Hanninen too, but I couldn’t force myself to do it yet. Over the past few days I’d spent hours wondering whether Palo and Malmberg would still be alive if the police commanders had listened more closely to Hanninen. Whenever I thought about it, anger began rising from beneath the agony. I wanted someone to blame for Palo’s death, someone I could scream at, someone to punch and kick. It didn’t matter that Malmberg had fired the shot that killed Palo. I had been killed there too—if I had been in the cabin in Palo’s place, the same thing would have happened to me and my inch-long baby.

  When I went down to the cafeteria for lunch, people stared at me as if I were a freak. I had sometimes heard my suspects talk about this: anyone involved in a dramatic death, whether directly or not, bore a mark that aroused simultaneous disgust and curiosity. Of course, it was worse for suspects than witnesses o
r police officers, but still.

  At last a female patrol officer came over to chat, dragging a couple of others to the table, so I didn’t feel so isolated anymore. Still, I knew I was a living reminder of the side of our work we preferred to put out of our minds.

  Fortunately I had a routine to follow after lunch. The work that had piled up the week before still had to be dealt with, and I had meetings to arrange and reports to type up. But whenever I came upon a case Palo and I had worked together, I felt like pushing it aside. With the restaurant break-in, I was almost out of my chair and on my way to ask his opinion when I remembered he was gone.

  How did Pihko feel? Had HR already cleaned out Palo’s desk? Had the family pictures pinned to the cubicle divider been removed? Had they taken his things from the closet and emptied the box that housed his famous medicine cabinet? I didn’t want to look yet.

  Managing to squeeze in time after work to stop by home to change clothes, I set off for Cucina Raffaello, where I was to meet Tarja Kivimäki. On the bus, I caught myself eying a tightly secured baby stroller. The baby, only a few months old, was sleeping peacefully. Its father, a thin, long-haired guy tattooed down to his fingertips, kept adjusting the blankets and picking up the pacifier. He looked strangely familiar.

  At the next stop, a heavy guy who seemed mildly drunk stepped onto the bus carrying a clinking plastic bag. He greeted the tattooed father animatedly.

  “Hey, Nyberg! Shit, dude! I haven’t seen you since you got out. What are you doing in Espoo?”

  “I got a wife and daughter here. And don’t yell so loud. You’ll wake the baby,” Nyberg said.

  The rotund man lifted an unsteady finger to his lips and whispered that he was going to sit in the back so he wouldn’t bother the baby. The sack clanged dangerously against a railing as the man tottered toward the rear bench.

  He didn’t stay quiet for long though. “Did you hear those pigs shot Markku Malmberg? That dude was crazy as shit. I was there that time he smashed one of Soininen’s fingers in the weight room.”

  Nyberg didn’t answer. He just dug a pouch of tobacco out of a pocket and started rolling a cigarette. When a cry from the stroller interrupted the ritual, the father rushed to comfort the baby. With her quiet again, he quickly returned to his task, then shoved the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  “Hey, driver, is the next stop Tapiola? That’s where I get off,” the man with the bag announced. As he stepped off the bus, he noticed the cigarette hanging from Nyberg’s mouth and rushed back aboard to bum it. Strangely, the driver and other passengers didn’t seem to mind the two minutes it took them to exchange the cigarette and reminisce about how good the coffee had been in prison. Maybe the men’s previous address had something to do with their reticence.

  When I arrived, Kivimäki was already sitting in a rear booth with her tape recorder on the table. As I ordered a glass of mineral water, I realized I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. In fact, I felt somewhat nauseated.

  “So have you recovered from last week?” Kivimäki asked with false perkiness.

  “No. Have you recovered from Elina’s death?” I replied.

  “I guess you’re right. Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”

  “What are you going to use the tape for? I didn’t agree to an interview.”

  Tarja Kivimäki drew a deep breath but didn’t have time to reply before the waiter returned to ask if we were ready to order. I ordered a bland shrimp pasta. Maybe that would go down. Nothing with meat or tomatoes sounded good.

  “Let me tell you about the program,” Kivimäki said after ordering jambalaya and a Mexican beer. “Our goal isn’t just to cover the Nuuksio hostage drama but to investigate the tendency of the police to use their weapons more generally, starting way back with the Mikkeli incident. Of course Hirsala and Vesala, and the Tampere Police Academy case.”

  “Why do you want to interview me?”

  “It’s well known Malmberg first tried to break into the car of another police officer but had to settle for Sergeant Palo. The identity of the other officer wasn’t hard to find out. I was hoping you’d participate in a little thought experiment: how would you have wanted the police to act if you’d been in that cabin?”

  “Are you doing a documentary or something sensational? I don’t think I’m interested in that kind of speculation.”

  “No? Then you think the situation was handled in the best possible way? You don’t have anything critical to say?”

  Of course I had plenty to say. But I didn’t have the energy to go down the rabbit hole of that kind of postmortem. In a way, it sounded tempting to pour all my grief and anger and fear through the television screen into the living rooms of half of Finland. But Palo wouldn’t have wanted that. I guess I’d finally learned the code: cops don’t shit where they eat.

  “Isn’t it unethical to stay silent if you see something wrong?” said Kivimäki.

  “I think it would be unethical to interview me when you’re involved in a homicide investigation I’m working on.”

  “Someone else could interview you.”

  “Forget it. Why are you going back to Studio A? I doubt they’ll let you hide behind the camera.”

  “A lot of reasons. One is that I can do longer, more in-depth investigative pieces than I can as a news reporter. And personal reasons too. I guess you could say they have to do with ethics too.”

  The waiter brought our salads, and I filled my mouth so I wouldn’t have to say anything. Getting me to criticize the police command for Nuuksio certainly would make a good story: a female in a police force dominated by men seeing the mistakes more clearly than any of them. I was used to putting myself on the line in my investigations, but I wasn’t ready for that kind of attention. After I swallowed, I said as much to Kivimäki.

  “Too bad. I thought we could help each other,” said Kivimäki.

  “How?” I asked.

  “I haven’t wanted to betray Elina’s trust because she only told me. But I’ve thought about it and realized it could possibly be the motive for Elina’s murder.”

  As usual, I spoke before I thought it through. “So you’re saying you’ll tell me the motive for Elina’s murder if you get your interview? And you’re the one lecturing me about ethics!”

  I stood up, pushing my salad plate out of the way and into Kivimäki’s beer bottle, which fell over.

  “You’re welcome to come discuss the motive for Elina Rosberg’s murder at the Espoo Police Station. How about Thursday at ten? And be on time. If you aren’t, I’ll have a warrant issued for your arrest for concealing evidence and hindering a police investigation. Enjoy your jambalaya!”

  11

  When I burst out onto the street, I was pelted with sleet. Under normal circumstances, I would have headed for the nearest bar to throw back a couple of quick shots of whiskey. As a pregnant woman, I had to settle for venting my frustration on an empty Coke can lying on the sidewalk. Although it was perfectly possible Kivimäki was bluffing, I intended to follow through with the Thursday interrogation. Same difference whether she was or not. I hadn’t liked her from the beginning, and the idea of grilling her felt great.

  I had more than half an hour until the next bus, so I headed over to the Ruffe Pub to get out of the weather. Deciding to paint the town red, I ordered a nonalcoholic beer. As I scanned the place for a seat, I found that my work day wasn’t quite over yet. There was Joona Kirstilä sitting at a window table with a pint of dark Kozel and a laptop in front of him. I considered whether I should bother him. The computer appeared to be turned off and Kirstilä was just staring into his glass.

  I had unfinished business with Kirstilä. That morning a report had been waiting on my desk confirming that Kirstilä had been on a bar crawl in Hämeenlinna with his friends, but not on Boxing Day, on Wednesday the twenty-seventh.

  If it had been a normal work week, I could
have believed Kirstilä mixed up the days, but I doubted even he could confuse a holiday with another day. Kirstilä had claimed he last saw Elina before Christmas, but it was looking more probable that he was in Nuuksio on the twenty-sixth.

  So I took my not-quite pilsner and marched over to Kirstilä’s table. He glanced up from his glass and nodded. It was easy to see he wasn’t exactly sober. His brown eyes looked young and bright, but even the relaxation of intoxication couldn’t smooth the lines around his mouth.

  I sat down in the empty chair.

  “How’s it going?” I asked when I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “It isn’t really. My words seem to have died with Elina.” He nodded toward the blank screen of his laptop. “Luckily there’s plenty of booze. Have you found out anything?”

  “We have. You weren’t in Hämeenlinna on Boxing Day, Joona. You didn’t go until the next night. We have at least ten witnesses.”

  “I’m here to get drunk, damn it, not interrogated!” Kirstilä’s shout was even louder than the Green Day blaring. The customers at the nearby tables glanced at us curiously.

  “Calm down,” I said, standing up. “I can leave if you want. I’ll call tomorrow and tell you when to come to the police station.”

  I was still in a bad mood from my meeting with Kivimäki. Tormenting Kirstilä felt like kicking a puppy, but I couldn’t just leave things there.

  “Do I have to? I hate that place. I’d guess I’d rather talk now.”

  I sat back down, although I knew our conversation wouldn’t carry any official weight. Kirstilä was drunk, and I was alone. But I still had time until the bus, and the sleet outside was only getting worse. Few places were as desperately ugly as the Helsinki Bus Depot in a storm. The Ruffe’s blue and green and violet stained glass distorted the scene outside, turning the windows of the six-story redbrick Union of Agricultural Producers and Forest Owners building across the bus plaza into ornate polygons and painting the muddy buses beautiful pastels.