Koivu raised his glass to me.
“Here’s to teamwork.” We clinked beer glasses, in complete violation of proper Finnish toasting etiquette. “Listen, Maria…I wish you were still my partner. Are you sure you don’t want to be a cop anymore? You weren’t afraid staring down that clown. I knew I could count on you.”
“I was afraid. I was so damn afraid that other guy was going to end up as meat on a slab.”
“But it doesn’t alter your judgment. Take Saarinen and Savukoski. You know how they are; sometimes they’re so weak at the knees I can barely get them out of the car, and Saarinen is so decrepit he can barely run. With your legal education, you could go far on the force.”
“Why are you on this all of a sudden?”
I was bewildered. Too many people had voiced doubts about my choice of profession during the past few days. First Ström, whom I didn’t much care about, and now Koivu. And I had to admit that sometimes I even did.
“You’re one of the best cops I’ve ever met. And working with you was always fun.” This was all so un-Koivu-like that I was starting to wonder where it was coming from.
“Are you taking some American-style self-improvement class that tells you to try to build up at least one other person a day? Twelve-step program? Emotional Intimacy 101?”
Koivu blushed adorably. “Well, since we’re both dating someone now, I can compliment you without you thinking I’m trying to hit on you.”
We continued talking about summer plans and agreed that he and Anita would come out to Tapiola for a sauna night sometime after their trip. Even though moving on to harder drinks would have been free, we decided to head home. I was tired from my short night’s sleep in the tent, and my adrenaline crash was coming in the form of a pounding headache.
The evening was still light, so instead of walking to the bus stop, I continued past it to the main Helsinki city cemetery. I wanted to visit Sanna’s grave. Based on what Antti had told me, I knew that Sanna had been buried in her mother’s family’s plot, in the older part of the cemetery. Although I found an appropriate grouping of Hallmanns, none of the surrounding stones bore Sanna’s name. Of course not. The Hänninens didn’t even want to remember Sanna’s existence on a gravestone, I thought angrily as the stabbing pain worsened.
When I arrived home, Antti was playing the piano. The Scarlatti sonata calmed me in spite of the headache. I downed two ibuprofen, took a shower, and then read through Otso Hakala’s and Sanna’s criminal records, which Koivu had given me. Neither contained any stunning revelations, although Hakala’s was even more impressive than I expected. Drugs, larceny, assault and battery. In a Dorothy L. Sayers mystery, he would have escaped without anyone noticing in order to kill Sanna and Armi and then cunningly returned himself to prison after committing his crimes. Or someone else entirely would be sitting in prison in his place, while the real Hakala was walking around having shaved his beard and dyed his hair. Disguised as Makke Ruosteenoja.
Antti opened the kitchen door just as I was making some chamomile tea I had found in his mother’s amply stocked health-food cupboard.
“Teemu Laaksonen called—Mallu’s husband. He said he was coming to Helsinki tomorrow and could meet with you then. How was tonight?”
Antti looked worried as I recounted the evening’s excitement.
“Is it just me, or does your life seems more dangerous now than when you were a cop?”
“A leopard can’t change her spots. I’m lucky enough to be trained to handle dangerous situations when I encounter them—it’s not like I’m seeking them out.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Maria. Seriously. You could be a tad more careful, if only for my sake.” As Antti looked me in the eyes, I could still see the warmth of our morning together in them. I didn’t want to fight. Instead, I pressed up against him like a tame kitty cat.
“I’m going to see my advisor tomorrow to deliver another couple of chapters of my dissertation for him to look at,” Antti said. “Unless he finds something big that still needs work, I can probably defend in November.”
“Will you go back to the university after Christmas then?”
“I don’t know. I’ll still have a year and a half of fellowship funding left. In the beginning my plan was to go for a postdoc overseas, to the States or Denmark. My advisor and I are going to be talking about that tomorrow too.”
“When would you leave? January?” I didn’t want to put this conversation off, even though I wasn’t ready and my head was still throbbing.
“Yeah, or the next fall semester. It depends a little on you. I meant to bring this up yesterday, and then this morning, but we were having such a good time I was scared to ruin the mood. If I go, what would you do? Would you come with me? Would you wait for me here? If I leave, does that mean it’s the end of this?”
I didn’t know how to answer. Up until now, we had been living without any particular plans, even moving in together practically by accident. I loved Antti, but how much was I willing to tie myself to him? And do you do that one day at a time, over and over, or once and for all?
“I just started a new job, so I’m not planning on going anywhere immediately,” I said, not bothering to add that if Eki was indeed a murderer, I would be out of a job sooner rather than later. “Of course, at some point I still want to do my court internship. I can’t just drop everything and follow you across the planet. And what do you mean by waiting? That you go gallivanting across the United States while I sit here hoping I’ll still be good enough for you when you get back?” I regretted that last sentence before it was all the way out of my mouth.
“Don’t be a jerk, I didn’t mean that! I was just thinking…OK, maybe this isn’t the time, since you’re obviously in a bad mood.”
“I’m sorry. My head just hurts.”
We drank our tea in silence. I tried to think about something else other than our future.
“How well do you know Mallu’s husband?” I asked after finishing my first cup.
“I’ve met him a few times. Why?”
“What kind of a person is he?”
“I don’t know. Pretty normal. Nice, a little reserved. Like Kimmo. Or me. Not the murdering type. Is that what you’re getting at? Is everyone a murderer to you this week?”
“I was thinking that maybe he did see Armi driving that car. But that’s unlikely, because Armi didn’t even have a driver’s license.”
“Where did you get the idea that Armi didn’t drive? Of course she did. She used to drive me and Kimmo places all the time.”
I took a deep breath and tried to focus.
“Say that again!”
“Armi had a driver’s license. I know she did.”
“So why on earth did Mallu say she didn’t?” I asked, although I knew the answer. To turn suspicion away from herself. And, like an idiot, I didn’t even check. I just took her word for it.
Despite the herbal tea and ibuprofen, my headache was getting worse. Tomorrow was going to be busy. I was so close to cracking the case I could smell it, despite the length of my list of possible suspects I still had.
“Seeing how much more interested you are in tracking down criminals than working on our relationship really hurts,” Antti said as he rose from the table. “And your family. What time are your sisters coming tomorrow?”
Cursing myself, I realized I had forgotten all about Eeva and Helena’s visit. On top of all my real work, I had to get ready for them, which at least meant cleaning the house and making dinner. I wasn’t going to be able to do half as much as I wanted. I hoped I wouldn’t have to cross paths with Eki at the office.
Before falling asleep, I thought about how wrong Antti was. It wasn’t that I was more interested in criminals than in our relationship—my skills were just far better suited to one than the other. Puzzling out my own feelings was a much more difficult task than catching murderers.
12
Acting natural around Eki during our regular Monday morning meeting was a c
hallenge. Albert was already out on vacation, so the only other employees present were Martti and Annikki. I tried to stay calm as we started reviewing Kimmo’s case.
“I can’t tell the police how to do their jobs, but I really think Kimmo Hänninen’s alibi could bear closer scrutiny,” I said. “Might it be possible for us to hire someone, a private investigator, perhaps, to interview the neighbors? We really need someone who can place Kimmo at home before one o’clock.”
“Haven’t the police found anyone?” Martti asked.
“I don’t know whether they’ve even tried, and I don’t have any time in the next few days to go around knocking on doors myself. The Palmgren case is going to court on Friday.” I sighed. “I’ll be tied up with that the last half of the week.”
“Has the judge set a pretrial date for Hänninen’s case?” Martti continued. Eki shook his head. I looked at him thoughtfully. Chubby, balding, and well past fifty. Not repulsive by any means, but not attractive, let alone handsome. Knew how to be coarse or courteous depending on the situation. Two adult sons just a few years younger than me. What would Sanna have even seen in Eki? Safety? A father figure? And what did Eki want from Sanna? Didn’t he realize that getting involved with a client meant risking everything—his family, his reputation, and his career?
From out in the hallway came the sound of a phone ringing. Annikki grabbed the conference-room line, then handed the phone immediately to me.
“Teemu Laak—” was all she got out.
“Excuse me, but I have to go take this call!” I said, rushing out of the conference room. Mallu’s husband didn’t want to talk over the phone, so we arranged to meet at three thirty. Detective Ström was continuing Kimmo’s interrogation at one o’clock, so I would still have time after our staff meeting to contact Dr. Hellström.
Back in the conference room, Eki was leaning back in his chair talking about the divorce settlement he was working on. Then he mentioned his intent to take some vacation time after Midsummer. Then he took a third piece of pulla. Then he asked after Annikki’s aging mother’s health. Was this supposed to be a cold-blooded murderer? Maybe I was the one too wrapped up with all this, with Sanna and Sylvia Plath and Poor Yorick making my imagination run roughshod over my good sense. Maybe Dr. Hellström would be able to help. Maybe Teemu Laaksonen was the answer and Armi was behind the wheel of that car.
When Eki left the office for the Helsinki District Court, I decided to check on his alibi for the morning of Armi’s murder. Eki claimed to have left sailing first thing that Saturday morning. What did he mean by morning? For me noon could still be morning after a late night out. Exactly what time did he leave? Fearing my clumsy lie would be too transparent, I didn’t dare meet Eki’s wife face-to-face, so instead I called upstairs. Lying over the phone seemed easier.
“Hi, it’s Maria down in the office. Did Eki already leave? Oh. Listen, you can probably help too. Kimmo Hänninen claims that he waved to your car when he was biking back from Armi’s house on the morning of the murder, sometime around twelve thirty. Don’t you keep your boat at the Haukilahti Marina?”
“Yes, but we didn’t leave that day until nearly two thirty. Eki had a terrible hangover and didn’t get out of the house to go to the liquor store until one. He was such a mess. I wondered whether he was even in good enough shape to drive. I imagine he could have taken the beer crate straight to the boat though. You should ask Eki when he gets back.”
“It’s more likely that Kimmo simply mistook someone else’s car for yours. I wouldn’t even bother Eki—Kimmo is so desperate at this point that he’s started clutching at straws,” I said in hopes that Eila Henttonen would forget all about my call. If I’d had more balls, I would have just asked her directly whether she knew about Eki’s relationship with Sanna.
Next I dialed Dr. Hellström’s number, where a machine answered and told me his next available appointment was at twelve o’clock. I decided to interview him then, convenient or not. For the intervening two hours, I attempted to concentrate on the rest of my caseload, suppressing the lingering shame I was feeling from manipulating Mrs. Henttonen. Researching the finer points of defamation law didn’t help, given the accusations I was considering making against my employer. Since you always had to concentrate on several things simultaneously, police work had taught me a sort of beneficial schizophrenia. Those skills were an asset now, because between reading passages from my law books, I could also plan what I would serve my sisters for dinner that evening. Antti fortunately had time to clean the house after his meeting with his dissertation advisor. I didn’t take all this multitasking to the point of trying to resolve the issues about where our relationship was going, though.
On the third floor of a drab gray office building in downtown Tapiola, Dr. Hellström’s clinic smelled of disinfectant. The secretary shared by the various specialists in the building said that with Armi gone, she was handling all of Hellström’s scheduling and a nurse from one of the other offices was assisting with exams. After the police had turned the whole clinic upside down searching for anything relating to Armi’s death, the secretary told me, the office had been forced to call in a professional cleaning crew. Thus the smell.
“This whole thing is just so horrible. Erik looks like he’s aged ten years,” the secretary was saying as Hellström walked into the reception area.
“Dr. Hellström, do you have a minute?”
Hellström nodded stiffly and then blew his nose into a handkerchief.
“Still this cold,” he complained. “I don’t understand why I’m always the one getting sick around here. Come into my office.”
With a desk and computer, bookcases, a couple of chairs, a sink, an instrument table holding forceps, cotton pads, and latex gloves, and a screen behind which loomed that hideous stirruped exam table loathed by women the world over, the room looked like any other gynecologist’s. The thought came to me how silly patients undressing behind a screen out of sight of the physician was when he was going to come around and prod them in their nether regions anyway. As I sat down in one of the patient chairs, I almost expected Hellström to start asking me how I was doing with my menstrual cramps. But it was my turn to ask the questions.
“Actually, I came to talk about Sanna Hänninen. She was your patient as well, in addition to her mother and Mallu Laaksonen. Is that correct, Dr. Hellström?”
He sighed. “Please, call me Erik. I’ve known Antti’s family since he was in diapers for goodness’ sake.” Hellström smiled, charming despite his red nose, which took me off guard. The light of the sun shining through the window on his hair illuminated the silver strands, momentarily creating a halo effect over his head. “Yes, Sanna Hänninen was my client. Why do you ask?”
“I understand that Sanna had several abortions. Dr. Hellström…Erik, do you have any idea who was the father or who were the fathers related to those pregnancies?”
“Come now. You should know I can’t give out that kind of information.”
“This is a murder investigation, Erik,” I said, as I had so many times before, although realizing in the same moment that I still didn’t have any right to demand this information.
“I also suspect Sanna Hänninen’s death was a homicide,” I continued. “I understand that this medical information I may need for my case is confidential. So are my suspicions. I still don’t have any solid evidence to back them up. I need your help.”
I found myself speaking more frankly to Erik Hellström than I ever had before. Perhaps the classic tableau was affecting me: the big leather chair, the white coat, the fatherly expression and graying hair.
“Sanna murdered? But why?” Hellström asked, looking interested. He was used to listening to women’s cares after all.
“I suspect that she had a relationship with someone and it became problematic for him, possibly a married man. Did she ever mention a relationship of that nature to you?”
Now Hellström was the one who looked taken aback.
“
With a married man? But before her death, Sanna was dating that”—he paused, searching for the name in his head—“Ruosteenoja. Kind of a bodybuilder? I think when she had her second abortion, she was with someone who went to prison for dealing drugs. Sanna was mixed up in that incident too. The first abortion? I don’t know; the father was some other good-for-nothing. Of course, I was the one who wrote the abortion orders. I had to agree with Sanna when she felt she was in no position to have a child with her degree unfinished and given the type of men she kept company with.”
“When was that second abortion?”
“Wait just a moment, and I’ll check our patient files.” Hellström turned away from me toward his computer screen and started typing.
“September two years ago. About six months before her death.”
So just before Otso Hakala went to prison.
Did someone else come into Sanna’s life after Hakala went to prison, and before she met Makke? Could she have turned to Eki for comfort when she lost Hakala?
“Did Sanna come to your office at all after the abortion? Perhaps needing birth control? Did she mention any serious relationships?” Something was stopping me from mentioning Eki directly, but I earnestly hoped Hellström would take my meaning. What did I know about the Tapiola good-old-boys’ club? Did they brag to each other about their conquests?
“Of course Sanna came in for follow-up visits. And when she started dating again, I tried to make sure she was taking her pills.”
“Was Sanna’s suicide a surprise to you?”
“No, not really. Sanna was a hopeless case. I suppose most people close to her knew she wouldn’t live long. No, I wasn’t surprised. Sad, yes—surprised, no.” Hellström’s hands shook as he instinctively dug in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, but then he presumably remembered he couldn’t smoke in the clinic anyway.
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