Her Enemy

by Leena Lehtolainen

  Men’s faces danced in my mind as Sylvia Plath’s poem hammered on the inside of my skull. As I brushed my windblown hair out of my eyes, I began to see the kaleidoscope slowly come into a focus, now a crisp, clear, beautiful picture.

  Herr God, Herr Lucifer, Beware, Beware. Now I knew what had happened. I stood up and headed off to meet Armi’s murderer.

  15

  I arrived at the murderer’s door out of breath. Pressing the doorbell insistently, I forced a smile when he appeared.

  “I’m glad you’re home. May I come in?”

  The house was quiet in a way that suggested no one else was present.

  That was fine with me. I didn’t want any spectators for this portion of the show. The man led me into the kitchen. Sitting down on a hard chair next to the door, I switched on the tape recorder in my bag.

  Keeping my composure was difficult. When I first realized what was going on, I was thrilled to have finally figured things out. Then came the rage. This man denied life to Armi and Sanna. What right did he have to turn upside down the lives of so many? I had vowed to catch him, but I knew that wouldn’t save the rest of us. Murder always left its mark on everyone involved.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  I shook my head. The man poured himself a large mug and then removed a bottle of cognac and two snifters from the cupboard.

  “And cognac? Certainly your client’s release is cause for celebration.”

  The man poured himself more than half a glass of cognac and threw back his first slug without savoring. His hair glinted in the sunlight shining through the window.

  “Thank you. Yes, I could take a drop.”

  I watched as he poured a generous amount of the liquid, the same color as my hair, into the expensive-looking stemware. I tasted cautiously: I had to stay ready for anything. The gash on my arm had stopped dripping now, and I gingerly ran a little cognac over the wound, making it sting a little.

  “I think I’ll wait to celebrate until the truth comes out,” I said, staring the man in the eyes. Long black eyelashes fluttering, he averted his gaze.

  “Do you think I can help with that somehow?” The man attempted to look amused, but I saw his body tense.

  “This day hasn’t been all good news. A few minutes ago, I put Mallu Laaksonen in an ambulance. Attempted suicide. But don’t worry,” I said when the man jumped out of his chair as if he would run headlong to Mallu’s side in the hospital. “She’ll pull through.”

  “But why would she attempt suicide?” The man drained the rest of his glass and then poured himself more.

  I related the contents of Mallu’s suicide note.

  He looked aghast. “Did she really kill Armi? But why?” I noticed his shoulders begin to relax.

  “No. Mallu thought someone else killed Armi because of her. She wanted to protect her husband.” I sipped from my own glass, trying to think how best to weave this net of words. “Mallu thought Armi was driving the car that ran her off the road and caused her to have her miscarriage.”

  “And someone killed Armi because of that?” His tone was dubious.

  “No. Armi wasn’t the reckless driver—the driver was the one who killed Armi. Of course Armi knew who could have had her red scarf at the time of the accident.”

  The man looked at me dubiously. “Surely no one would kill over a traffic accident.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason for Armi’s death. She also knew something else about this man. She knew that he was Sanna Hänninen’s lover and killed Sanna because she wanted to end their relationship. I’m not sure what finally made Armi speak out, but it may have been the Laaksonens’ separation. Maybe Armi thought that Sanna was at least partially to blame for her fate, but the Laaksonens were innocent.”

  The man stared at me, his eyes darkening. Again, I saw the muscles in his neck tense, but when he spoke, he struck a cheerful tone.

  “A very imaginative story. I can barely wait for you to tell me who the bad guy is.”

  “Don’t you know, Herr Doktor? I feel like an idiot for not guessing right off that you were Sanna’s lover.”

  I stared at his salt-and-pepper hair, the gray at his temples, the wrinkled yellow backs of his hands. Herr Doktor, Herr Lucifer, Herr Death. I flinched at a sudden movement of his hands, but he was only reaching for the package of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. Lighting the cigarette took a few moments because his hands were trembling. Yet his voice remained controlled.

  “Kimmo Hänninen’s defense must have left you completely exhausted. Wouldn’t it be best to leave the investigation to the police? Perhaps they’ll be able to come up with something more convincing.” Dr. Hellström spoke evenly, as though he were advising a patient on a new prescription.

  “Take a few Valium and all these pesky figments of your imagination will go away—is that it?” I said. “Of course the pills Sanna Hänninen was using came from you. How could you be so stupid to get mixed up with your own patient? You fucked her and supported her drug habit. I knew Sanna, and, yes, I can remember how attractive she could be, but even so…”

  Instead of answering, he just stared past me into the distance. From outside came a commotion from a group of boys on their bicycles. I heard mostly Swedish, interspersed with Finnish swear words.

  “Did Sanna threaten to expose your relationship? That would have been dangerous—no one could know you were taking advantage of your own patient. Did she want to have sex with you, or did you force her in exchange for the drugs? I imagine it all started with that second abortion when Hakala was on his way to prison. Sanna couldn’t get along without her sedatives, and she had no difficulty convincing you to give them to her.”

  “I did obtain access to medication for Sanna. But there’s nothing illegal about that; I was her doctor—that’s just part of my job.”

  “Yes, but sleeping with mentally unbalanced patients isn’t.”

  “Sanna knew what she was doing!” Hellström’s self-control was starting to crack. “She was using me. She said I was like the father she never had! But she just wanted the pills, not me. And then she ran into that Ruosteenoja punk and decided she was going to start a new life without me. As if she could stop just like that!”

  “At least she wanted to try, but you didn’t give her the chance.” I felt my anger rising again. Hellström stared at me curiously, his eyes narrowed, as though waiting for my next sentence.

  “What about the car accident then? What explanation have you dreamed up for that?” His tone was one of forced amusement, but anger boiled beneath the surface.

  “Teemu Laaksonen claimed to have seen a driver with blond hair wearing Armi’s red scarf. When the light hits your hair just right, the gray stands out enough that it almost looks white. When you were tending to Mallu on the morning after the accident, you complained of a cold. I imagine you accidentally left your own scarf at home and found Armi’s in your office. And when Armi started thinking about it, she remembered leaving it at work that same day.”

  “So you think I put on a scarf and drove into a couple of people and didn’t bother to stop? I am a doctor. I would have stopped if someone was hurt, no matter what.”

  “Of course you would have, unless you were drunk. Word has it Sanna wasn’t the only one with a substance-abuse problem. You were probably self-medicating with booze and pills and weren’t in any shape to drive. You probably didn’t know what happened to Mallu or even notice that it was Mallu at all. Failure to stop and render aid is a serious crime for anyone, but especially for a doctor.”

  Remembering Mallu’s prematurely aged face and the stink of stagnation in her apartment, I finally understood Armi. She had to do something for her sister, and she needed to ask me how to proceed.

  Hellström fumbled for another cigarette.

  “You can’t prove any of this.” Now he sounded afraid.

  “I have two witnesses. One saw you kissing Sanna Hänninen in your office, and the other saw you with Sanna on the breakwater.
I think he’ll be able to pick you out of a lineup. And then it’s going to look pretty strange that you never told anyone about seeing Sanna on the night of her death.”

  “Recognizing someone you saw from a hundred meters away more than a year later? I doubt it. That old man couldn’t have seen anything in all that fog.”

  “How did you know my witness was a man?” I squeezed the strap of my backpack, which contained the voice recorder. Hellström had gone for the bait on the very first try, and I had it on tape.

  “Man or woman—it’s all the same. You of all people should know that won’t hold up as a confession in court.”

  “We have other evidence too, like a draft of Sanna’s graduate thesis. One of the main characters in a poem she analyzed was called Herr Doktor, Herr Enemy. Next to that Sanna wrote: ‘Like me and E.’ E as in Erik. Read the right way, Sanna’s whole analysis is proof of your relationship with her. That was why the poem was out on her desk. It wasn’t a suicide note—it symbolized the beginning of a new life to her.”

  “Bullshit,” Hellström said dismissively, as if addressing a hypochondriac complaining of uterine cancer. “So what was Armi supposed to have known about all this? Why didn’t she tell anyone about Sanna’s murder earlier?”

  “Armi was in charge of keeping stock of your drug supply and prescription records and did the math. She knew there were way too many pills flying around your office, and she knew about your relationship with Sanna. She even tried to tell Annamari about it, but Annamari wouldn’t believe her. Now was just the right time for Armi to use the information she had been storing up. You know why better than I do.”

  I stared into Erik Hellström’s brown eyes. We weren’t in his medical clinic anymore—now it was my turn to render a diagnosis. I had finally put all the symptoms together.

  “The whole time I had this feeling that Teemu Laaksonen told Armi something really important on the day of her murder. What? He told her again what the driver of the car looked like. Armi must have been too careless though. After Teemu left her house, Armi called you and told you she was sure now that it had been you. You couldn’t let Armi talk, so you rushed over to her house and, after trying in vain to persuade her to remain silent, you strangled her. You happened to have a pair of exam gloves in your pocket—every good doctor carries them wherever he goes. Of course, that pair is either burned or in the landfill by now. You were just lucky no one saw you.”

  “Do you really intend to present this ridiculous story to the police? Who do you think will even believe you? When the police find Mallu Laaksonen’s suicide note, they’ll think she did it…”

  “Did she tell you today that she thought Teemu was guilty? Did you encourage her suspicions?”

  Hellström’s expression told me I had guessed right again.

  “And did you give her some sedatives to help her on her way? Of course you did, you bastard! But, Herr Doktor, the police aren’t going to find any note. I took it.”

  Hellström glanced around, looking so angry I thought he might be on the verge of attacking me.

  “Keep listening! I don’t have it on me anymore; it’s in safekeeping,” I lied. “And I’m not going to tell you where it is, so keeping me alive is in your best interest. That’s what you’re thinking now, of course: How do I get rid of this bitch too?”

  Hellström dropped his cigarette on the floor, seeming not to notice as he did. His self-control was breaking down the same way it had when he had killed Armi and Sanna. I knew it was a matter of seconds before he would get violent. I wished I had my old service weapon. Even with an empty revolver, I could have at least threatened him.

  “Detective Sergeant Ström isn’t stupid. Once he hears what I have to say and interviews the right witnesses, you’re through. And I don’t think Mallu is in any mortal danger—Valium wasn’t nearly enough to do the job properly. When I arrived, she had probably only just lost consciousness. A little stomach pumping and she’ll be as good as new. And when Mallu tells the police why she attempted suicide—she thought Teemu was guilty—then your game will be up.”

  Hellström mechanically lit another cigarette. The smoke in the room was becoming thick enough to bother my lungs and cling to my hair.

  “The rambling of two hysterical women against a respected physician? Who will believe you? And if you’re so smart, why did you come running over here alone and play your whole hand? You’re as big an idiot as Armi. She didn’t exactly try to blackmail me, she just asked which of us would go talk to the police. I had no idea she knew about Sanna until that morning—I thought she just wanted to confront me, finally, about Mallu’s accident. And I knew no one would have been able to prove that. But the relationship with Sanna was different. Armi had one of Sanna’s last diaries, which she stole from Kimmo. Sanna was right about one thing. Armi was a military-grade pain in the ass.”

  Hellström tried to laugh. Cautiously, I rose to my feet, preparing to make a run for it. I bolted, but hadn’t made it as far as the kitchen door before he rushed me. Dr. Hellström was a good seven inches taller than I was and probably sixty pounds heavier. When he lunged for me, I jumped to the side, and he crashed to the floor. I think I had taken him completely taken off guard: I was faster and in better shape, and Hellström had no idea how strong I was, given my height. As we backed out of the upstairs hallway into the library, he grabbed my calf and tried to pull me down next to him, but I kicked him in the jaw. The crunch as it broke made me cringe, but he continued clutching at my leg all the more violently. Sweeping the glasses from his eyes, I tried to make for the front door, but he caught my ankle and held on.

  As I attempted to kick and wriggle out of Hellström’s grasp, a wave of rage washed over me. Rage for myself. Rage for Armi and Sanna and Mallu. I had to make it through this alive for them. I bent over and bit the hand holding me, and Hellström reflexively let go of my leg.

  Casting about for an appropriate weapon with which to knock Hellström out, I saw a bronze statue standing on a bookshelf. Realizing what I meant to do, Hellström tried to reach my outstretching hand. I kicked him to the ground, and my next punch landed on his already injured jaw. This last blow did the trick, so I didn’t need the statue after all. Hellström fell into a heap on a crimson rug in front of the bookshelf.

  Using wire ripped from his stereo speakers, I tied Hellström’s hands behind his back and then went to the phone. Hellström’s breathing seemed normal, and he would probably regain consciousness soon. The emergency operator promised to dispatch a patrol car and inform Detective Sergeant Ström.

  Hellström jumping out a second-story window seemed unlikely, so I began grabbing my things—hopefully the tape recorder was intact! The door to the library had a lock that could be opened only with the key protruding from it. Removing the key, I closed and locked the door from the living-room side and headed downstairs in search of proper restraints and a real weapon.

  I had just found a gruesome-looking bread knife in a kitchen drawer when I heard a crash from the entryway. Somehow, Hellström had managed to worm his way free. Cursing myself, I realized I hadn’t checked his pockets. I clutched the knife tightly, but Hellström ignored me as he raced toward his car, blood streaming from his mouth. Hellström slammed the front door of the house in my face, and although he had only a ten-yard head start, I didn’t reach him until he was closing the car door. Automatically I jumped out of the way as he accelerated out of the driveway onto the street. At the first intersection, Hellström noticed the approaching police cruiser and sped up. Taking several critical seconds to grasp the situation, the driver came to a full stop. I yanked the passenger door open and jumped inside, screaming at him to follow that car.

  Hellström’s most likely escape route would be to the west, away from the city, because the beltways and downtown Helsinki would be jammed with traffic at this hour. The patrolman in the passenger seat broadcast Hellström’s license plate number and a description of his BMW across the metro area.

  Then,
suddenly, Detective Sergeant Ström’s voice came over the radio.

  “Goddamn it, where is that Kallio bitch?” I grabbed the hand microphone and, holding it and my tape recorder close to my ear, played Ström a few crucial snippets. Ström listened, cursing to himself. I wondered why I didn’t feel triumphant.

  “I would have checked Hellström next too, since we had to release Hänninen,” Ström shouted after I finished. “Why the hell didn’t you take me with you?” he barked. “Didn’t you learn anything at the academy? When do you go to make an arrest without backup? You don’t!”

  With that, a report that the doctor’s BMW had just turned northeast onto Ring III interrupted our pleasantries. Since he was coming in from the north, Ström announced that his car would move to intercept. Before signing out, he added, “Maria, you might be interested to hear the latest word on Mäenpää’s sister: she’s conscious and we’ll be able to question her tonight.”

  I leaned back and swallowed my tears. At least someone had escaped Hellström’s clutches alive. After cutting northwest toward the suburb of Kauklahti, we had just arrived at the Ring III on-ramp when Ström’s agitated voice came over the police radio again.

  “Subject passed car two, about one kilometer south of Kauklahti. All cars, proceed toward Kauklahti intersection.”

  The signal crackled and cut out. Ahead we saw a roadblock hastily constructed from a spike strip and two police cruisers. Sirens blaring, we maneuvered past the backed-up traffic. Trying to find Ström among the police officers waiting in their cars, I suddenly heard his voice over a megaphone.