Nights of Awe

by Harri Nykanen

  The door opened, revealing a man of about fifty. Inexorably advancing baldness was attacking his grey, neck-length hair from the crown. Toivola introduced himself first and then me.

  “According to our information, a person by the name of Kimi Rontu is subletting from you.”

  The man thought for a second and then asked: “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing. We’d like to check a few things.”

  “He hasn’t been around since yesterday.”

  “You mind if we take a look around his room?”

  Without saying a word, the man snatched a key from the key rack in the entryway, thrust his feet into wide-mouthed rubber boots, and stepped out. We followed him out behind the garage.

  “This room has its own entrance. We’ve been renting it out since our son moved.”

  “Is Rontu a relative?” I asked.

  “My wife’s nephew. Kid’s enough of a juvie I wouldn’t have taken him in if my wife hadn’t put the screws on me.”

  “Does he have a job?”

  “Nah, lives off welfare. I don’t think that boy is ever going to be much of a credit to his country.”

  Behind the garage there was a dented-up motorbike with a flat front tyre.

  “Never fixed that either. It’s been lying there all summer,” he tsked.

  “Was he dating?” I asked.

  “Oh, I guess he had someone, this little brunette who came by the place sometimes, but I told him straight off that the apartment’s only for one.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “A couple of weeks ago, around… It’s high time I knew what you’re after.”

  “Last night a car was burnt not too far from here,” Toivola said. “A man’s body was found in the car. We suspect it was your subletter.”

  “Kimi? What makes you think that?”

  I looked at Toivola. He dug out the deceased’s effects and showed them to the man.

  His expression grew grave.

  “Those are Kimi’s… Those were on the body?”

  “Yes.”

  The man distractedly opened the door and we stepped inside. He stood in the doorway, watching us.

  The room was sparsely furnished. There was a bookcase on the end wall, and across from it a sofa bed, an armoire made of MDF and a small coffee table. A cheap stereo, a portable TV and a VCR were on the bookcase. A Playboy centrefold hung on the wall.

  “Kimi didn’t have a car… Was it an accident or a crime?” the man asked.

  “We don’t know,” I said. “Do you know where he kept his photographs?”

  Without hesitating, the man went over to the bookcase, opened the bottom compartment, and handed over a photo album with blue plastic covers. When I opened it, he pointed at a photo. It was of a young man with a buzz cut and bad skin. He was wearing jeans, a black flight jacket and combat boots. The familiar key chain hung from a belt loop. The shirt was open at the collar, revealing the gold horoscope medallion that had been found on the body.

  “Flight jacket and combat boots. Was he a skinhead?”

  “He didn’t like Somalis or other refugees, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was a skinhead or whatever. I’m not even really sure what that is. Someone who hates Jews?”

  “Something like that. Do you know, was he involved in any violence against foreigners?”

  “Never heard anything like that, I think it stayed more at the level of talk. He had a good friend who was a Gypsy, so I figure he couldn’t have really hated them too much.”

  I browsed through the photographs. It looked like they had all been taken within the past couple of years. In one of them, a dark-haired girl was sitting in Kimi Rontu’s lap. It had been taken at a party at someone’s house; the table behind them was heaped with wine and beer bottles. I showed the photo to the man.

  “Is this the girlfriend?

  He glanced at the photo and nodded.

  “You remember her name?”

  “Säde. Don’t know the last name. But she lived somewhere around here, because one night she walked home.”

  I poked around for an address book but couldn’t find one. There were two almost-new car stereos in the armoire. Judging by the clipped wires, they had been removed from their cars in a hurry and without permission.

  “I bet they’re stolen,” the landlord said. “You probably know that Kimi has some car-theft convictions, and I guess he fooled around with drugs too. There were these real pungent fumes in here sometimes… But in the end, he wasn’t such a bad person, considering his background… I guess it’ll always come out somehow…”

  The man’s voice trembled, and he turned to look out of the window.

  “There’s something seriously wrong with my wife’s sister. When Kimi was small, she’d leave him alone for a whole day sometimes. It was thanks to my wife that nothing worse happened…”

  I tried the bottom of the armoire. It was loose, and I lifted it out. In the hollow, there was a 22-calibre Bernardelli target pistol in a nylon case and a stiletto with a fake elk-horn handle.

  “I don’t know anything about those,” stated the man.

  I took the pistol and put it in my jacket pocket, along with its case. The NBI lab would have the honour of testing whether or not the gun had been fired at Linnunlaulu.

  “I regret having spoken ill of him, the dead,” said Kimi’s uncle from the doorway.

  Toivola’s empathy was roused.

  “That’s the way we humans work, we say unkind things and then we regret it. Not too many angels among us.”

  We didn’t find anything else of interest in the apartment. We left after Toivola asked for the key. If we needed DNA to identify the body, it would be found in Kimi Rontu’s apartment in one form or another.

  Outside, I thanked Toivola and shook his hand. Then I started heading towards Helsinki.

  I was at HQ at five past nine. I had called Simolin on the way to brief him on the morning’s events. He also had some things to report.

  “The white Nissan minivan spotted in Vartiokylä was found in Herttoniemi, at the Siilitie metro station car park. The Itäkeskus patrol found it in the middle of the night. It was towed back to the police lot for examination.”

  I was pleased. The case was lurching forward on multiple fronts at once.

  “And another thing. The bullets found at Hamid’s body shop and Linnunlaulu don’t match, just like we thought, but the blood on the unidentified man’s hand is the same rare type as Hamid’s cousin’s. No traces of gunpowder gas were found on his body, and the weapon that was recovered from the roof of the train had not been fired.”

  Just before the meeting I had time to call my former schoolmate, and he confirmed my suspicions.

  “Even though manjak is Arabic, it’s in common use among Jews too. A lot of other Jewish obscenities are also of Arabic origin.”

  “What did you mean when you asked if manjak was the only word?”

  “If a Jew really wants to offend an Arab, he says ‘Muhammad manjak’, whereas an Arab says ‘Moshe manjak’.”

  I had been certain that the Arab who fell from the bridge had addressed the obscenity manjak at another Arab. The situation would be totally different if the target of the slur had been a Jew.

  There was indeed high-level participation at our morning meeting, just as Huovinen had anticipated. Police Commander Tuulia was sitting at the head of the table, and Deputy Police Chief Leivo sat on his right. The last time I had seen Tuulia in an investigation meeting had been in connection with the police killing in Punavuori, and that had been several years ago. Inspector Sillanpää was sitting next to the wall, rocking back in his chair – without falling, no matter how hard I wished he would.

  After Huovinen’s briefing, I reported on the latest developments in the investigation. They must have been more favourable than Tuulia had expected, because his stony expression softened. He had probably included a wish in his bedtime prayers that the perpetrator would turn out to be a norma
l criminal, your basic Finnish murderer. He wasn’t any more interested in exoticism than Leivo, although he was a lot thicker skinned. The dead Rontu took the case in a normal direction.

  “Do you have any theories about what the car was doing in Kerava if it was being used by the man who was killed at Linnunlaulu, and what the young man who was found in the car had to do with it?” Tuulia asked.

  I replied that my theories still had gaps in them.

  “Let’s hear them anyway.”

  “Maybe someone was waiting in the car while two others met on the bridge. He saw what happened to them and fled the scene. He figured that there would be a search for the car and drove it far enough away to hide it. Rontu happened to be at the sandpit and so the perpetrator was forced to kill him. Afterwards he ignited the car. Or maybe the man who died at Linnunlaulu simply lived out there and came to Helsinki by train.”

  Tuulia looked a little disappointed.

  “Couldn’t the sandpit guy – Rontu, was that the name? – be one of the killers?”

  I said I didn’t believe he was.

  “You don’t? This Rontu has a criminal record. I think it’s a bit too much of a coincidence that he would just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  I hesitated for a second, but then I decided to play my Israeli card.

  “Manjak!” Tuulia repeated. “Based on one curse word we’re supposed to believe that the perpetrators were Israeli? So if the word ‘fuck’ had been used on the bridge, we’d assume that one of the crooks was American? We can’t afford to be labelled anti-Semites on such flimsy grounds.”

  “It’s pretty hard to accuse me of being an anti-Semite,” I said. Huovinen laughed.

  “It’s not a matter of one police officer, but of the entire organization,” Tuulia snapped.

  “I’m just repeating what a witness heard.”

  “One witness.”

  “Another witness is also certain that there were foreigners speaking a language that sounded like Arabic on the bridge. It’d be nice to hear what SUPO thinks.”

  Sillanpää sat up a little straighter.

  “About what?”

  “Do you believe that the killers could have been Israeli?”

  “The killers could just as easily be African Bantus or Indian fakirs as Israeli. The citizens of every country kill each other. We haven’t got to the point where the lamb and the lion go frolicking around in peace and harmony.”

  Leivo frowned.

  “Let’s stay on track, shall we?”

  Leivo indicated the tabloids in front of him. I had taken a glance at the articles. Both of them referred to an anonymous source according to whom the method used to execute the three dead men was similar to the one used by the Israeli intelligence agency Mossad. All of them had been shot multiple times in the upper body and once or twice in the head. In addition, there was a direct quote from the paper’s “Arab source”, who considered the killings part of Israel’s policy of assassination, designed to sabotage the emergence of an independent Palestine and fan conflict within the Arab community.

  “Does anyone know anything about this?”

  Everyone glanced around, but no one said a word. I eventually asked Sillanpää: “What sort of cooperation does SUPO have with the Israeli security police?”

  “The same kind as with the intelligence services of other friendly nations. We exchange information when necessary.”

  “Have you exchanged information in this instance?”

  “I’m not authorized to give out information regarding intelligence cooperation.”

  “That’s too bad. If the killers are Israeli, we have to suspect that the perpetrators are Israeli intelligence agency personnel. It’s pretty hard to imagine Israeli civilians getting up to something like this on their own here. And Mossad has operated abroad before, even in the Nordic countries.”

  Sillanpää snorted dismissively.

  I ignored him and continued: “And if it is Mossad, that means that the victims were terrorists. They’re not interested in normal criminals.”

  During my officer’s training, I had read all the literature on Mossad that I could get my hands on, and I was sure I knew more about the topic that anyone else present, with the possible exception of Sillanpää.

  “What do you think, Inspector Sillanpää?” asked Chief Tuulia, mustering all the authority he could. But Sillanpää was not to be shaken.

  “It’s hard for me to imagine a reason why Mossad would come to Finland to kill Arabs whom they suspect of being terrorists. They have enough problems of their own. All they would have needed to do is give us the information, and we would have taken care of it.”

  I was starting to get annoyed with Sillanpää.

  “Everyone knows that Mossad executes pre-emptive and retaliatory strikes on foreign territory. Maybe they got their hands on some information that gave them a reason to strike.”

  Everyone turned back to look at Sillanpää.

  “There are all kinds of legends and fairy tales going around about Mossad,” he said. “The majority probably started by Mossad itself. They make mistakes just like everyone else. In Lillehammer, Norway, they killed an innocent Moroccan-born waiter because they thought he was a terrorist. Five Mossad workers and aides who had participated in the assassination operation were convicted. In reality, Mossad is the same kind of intelligence and security service as all the rest, and conforms to the same laws. The bosses are equally stupid everywhere; all they think about is their careers and all they care about is getting a pat on the back from their superiors.”

  He glanced instinctively at Commander Tuulia. It was like someone had pressed a Stop button, the silence was so sudden. Sillanpää continued, as if he hadn’t noticed anything: “Generally speaking, of course. Besides, Finland and Israel are friends. Operating here illegally would be such a big risk for relations that it would require approval at a ministerial level.”

  Tuulia and Leivo clearly took Sillanpää’s remark about the stupidity of bosses personally.

  Tuulia spoke: “There’s no point wasting time debating; we don’t have enough facts for that yet. I’d like to hear some constructive suggestions, if anyone has any. I’ve decided that the photos of the deceased will be released to the media, if his identity is not ascertained this afternoon.”

  No one had any suggestions, and the commander ended the meeting. I was about to leave when Tuulia gestured me aside.

  He still looked grim.

  “I’ve had several people contact me about you.”

  “What about?”

  Tuulia cleared his throat.

  “Regarding, shall we say, a conflict of interest.”

  “A conflict of interest?”

  “A Jew investigating the murders of Arabs. I’ll tell you frankly that doubts have been presented that suggest that, due to your Jewish background, you might not have the motivation to find the perpetrators.”

  Even though I had suspected something like this, I was still offended.

  “I’m first and foremost a police officer, second a Finn, and only third a Jew.”

  The commander eyed me for a moment but then gave a strained smile.

  “Well said. I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

  Tuulia nodded and left, escorted by Leivo. Huovinen, who had been waiting in the sidelines, came over to me.

  “What was that all about?”

  I told him.

  “Such bullshit,” Huovinen sighed.

  I went to Simolin’s office. I was just stepping in when my phone rang. It was my brother.

  “It’s kind of a bad moment…”

  That wasn’t going to stop Eli.

  “We need to meet you, Silberstein and I.”

  “I’m busy, in case you didn’t notice.”

  I was annoyed by the fact that my big brother Eli took it for granted that I would be at his beck and call.

  “So are we. We can come there if you just tell us when.”

 
“What’s this about?”

  “You’ll find out. I think you’ll find it interesting, too.”

  I gave in. “At one at the Hotel Pasila, but fifteen minutes, tops.”

  “Thanks, we’ll see you there.”

  I stepped into Simolin’s room, where I also found Stenman. Simolin was busy doing something at his computer.

  “Anything in the latest tip-offs?”

  Simolin spun around in his chair.

  “Nothing special, but the medical examiner confirmed that the body that the nose and ears had been cut from wasn’t shot until after being stabbed in the chest with a knife, and only after he was lying on the ground. Pretty bizarre, at least when you think about the time, the place and the conditions under which it all happened.”

  I thought about the time, the place and the conditions. A meeting on the bridge, which was packed with joggers and commuters every morning. Someone follows one of the people coming to the meeting, the person coming to the meeting is surprised, one of them is killed, and there’s an attempt to kidnap the other one. He manages to get away, pulls out a gun, but falls to the roof of the train and dies. Those who attempted the kidnapping try to escape in a white minivan that had been spotted the previous night in Vartiokylä, where an Iraqi body-shop owner and his employee had been killed. Bizarre was the wrong word, though. That impression just resulted from the fact that our information was incomplete. When we got more information, the logic of events would be revealed.

  “What about the security cameras?” I asked Stenman.

  “Nothing on them either. I’ll get the cassette from the Siilitie metro station soon, but the camera doesn’t cover the car park, and I don’t think the men who dumped the car left by metro. Everyone knows that there are surveillance cameras in the metro.”

  “But they still left the area somehow. Try to pinpoint the time the car was abandoned and figure out what public transportation serves the area.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m sure they were picked up in a car.”

  Oksanen stormed in in his coat. He was wearing a copy-company scarf and a sweatshirt from a German car manufacturer.