Darling

by Sipila, Jarkko

  Thinking about death made him think of his father. He was glad Rauno wasn’t around to see this. He had been a big enough disappointment to his dad already. He closed his eyes and could see his dad lying in the hospital bed, breathing in and out slowly, just like he was doing now. Inhale slowly and exhale a little faster. His eyes are almost closed, his mouth open under the oxygen mask. The mask is different from those in airplanes; its see-through profile is shaped like a hawk’s nose, with a tube coming from an oxygen tank. Korpivaara covers his mouth with his hand.

  His father has an IV in his arm for fluids to keep his body hydrated. But the nurses couldn’t give him too much, because his body can’t process it. He gets morphine in his left shoulder at regular intervals to keep the pain at bay. That’s hospice care—to give a person a chance to leave this world gracefully and without too much pain. The nurse comes in to turn his dad. Rauno isn’t capable of doing that on his own.

  There was no hope of recovery. The nurse just told the family to stay strong. Jorma held his father’s warm hand, feeling his pulse.

  Why wasn’t anyone here to hold his hand now? Oh, how Jorma wished that someone would.

  * * *

  It was close to 2 A.M. Kulta, wearing white paper overalls and blue plastic shoe covers, opened the bedroom closet, yawning. The guy obviously didn’t bother folding his T-shirts or matching up his socks. All his clothes were in jumbled piles on the shelves. He did have some order to the mess—his dirty laundry was in a heap on the floor and the clean clothes piled in the closet—unlike some of the drug holes Kulta had seen.

  Apparently, Jorma Korpivaara didn’t make his bed or change his sheets very often. The floor was sticky with stains, and trash was scattered all over.

  Korpivaara’s apartment was the fourth place they searched. It was in the building the farthest back from Nӓyttelijӓ Street. Kulta and Kohonen had looked through the apartments of the other three suspects but hadn’t found much. No blood-stained clothing in the trash, no knife, or anything else directly linked to the case. Each was just as sloppy as Korpivaara’s, though. They all lived alone—probably why they had time to hang around at the Alamo Bar.

  Kulta checked the bathroom first, looking for blood stains someone might’ve left while washing their hands. He noticed pale stains in the sink—blood or something else? Forensics would have to find out.

  “Come here and look,” Kohonen yelled from the living room.

  Kulta noticed a stack of crime novels next to a pile of porn DVDs. Empty beer cans littered the floor. Color photos were scattered around the printer and laptop. The photos were of a woman posing in various sexual positions, and the face belonged to Laura Vatanen.

  “Look at her face,” Kohonen urged.

  “The photos are fakes,” Kulta said. The pictures were clumsy attempts of attaching Laura Vatanen’s face to bodies of different women.

  “I wonder if he posted these online or just kept them for his own pleasure,” Kohonen said.

  “Let’s take the laptop to the pros.”

  Kulta found a photo album under some junk in the closet. On the first page was a black-and-white photo of a young couple holding a baby dressed in a christening gown. The parents looked solemn. Kulta thought the man even looked angry. The caption under the photo read Jorma’s Christening August 17, 1969.

  On the next few pages were pictures of a smiling child playing in the snow and on a beach. Some of the photos showed a mother or father, others the whole family. The colors had faded. One photo was of Jorma standing square-shouldered and proud next to a red bicycle in front of a green house. The last one was of him as an eighteen-year-old on a camping trip. Two more pictures had been glued on the pages, but later torn off.

  Kulta stared at the camping photo trying to pinpoint what was wrong with it. Korpivaara was older, but his face looked different somehow—perhaps softer. Kulta could compare the photo to Korpivaara himself at the station. Hoping to find a current picture of him, Kulta rummaged through the closet but had no luck.

  He looked through the rest of the closets quickly and went into the living room.

  “Check the kitchen,” Kohonen ordered.

  It was more of a kitchenette, with a stove, a sink, and a fridge. Half a dozen dirty plates sat in the sink, one of them with leftover pasta. A bread knife with a long blade lay on the cutting board—it fit the profile of the murder weapon. Kulta didn’t see any blood on it, so he left it alone. He remembered Korpivaara saying that he had cut his hand while slicing bread. That hadn’t happened here, since there were no traces of blood. Crumbs were scattered on the table.

  Kulta looked in the fridge and saw a quart of milk, half a bottle of Coke, a stick of butter, sausage, and Koff beer cans—it must have been this week’s special at the neighborhood grocery store. It occurred to him that the inside of his fridge used to look just like this before his girlfriend moved in. And his clothes used to be a muddled mess. Kulta peeked into the cabinet under the sink and saw an empty trash container.

  “He took the trash out,” he hollered to Kohonen.

  “Shit!” Kohonen cursed in the living room. “Dumpster diving—that’s all we need.”

  * * *

  Kulta stepped into the dumpster shed, and the dim motion-sensor light came on. The detective’s Maglite cast a beam around the space, and he saw four black trash containers, a blue one for cardboard, a green one for paper, and two smaller brown cans for compost.

  Kulta checked under the containers and the spaces between them. He quickly rummaged through the cardboard and paper containers.

  “Yep, yep,” he said. “Now the real fun starts.”

  Kohonen was only a little over five foot two, so her job was to hold the lid open. Kulta, who was six three, could easily reach inside.

  “One question,” Kulta said. “How do I know which one is Korpivaara’s trash bag?”

  “Skip the fancy white ones with a Stockmann logo and focus on the Alepa yellow. We’re not interested in common household trash but possible clothes and such that would’ve been thrown in.”

  “Yeah, the soft packages,” Kulta agreed. He was still wearing the paper coveralls and now slipped work gloves over the rubber ones. Kulta handed the Maglite to his colleague, and she lifted the first lid.

  “Have at it.”

  Kulta scowled at Kohonen. The trash bags filled half of the container. He turned and felt each bag carefully before opening it. The stench was nauseating. His bachelor pad had never smelled this bad, even with trash bags piled in the kitchen corner for weeks and sweaty basketball gear adding to the aroma.

  Despite Helsinki’s mandatory recycling rules, through the plastic he could feel milk and juice cartons, and coffee grinds that belonged in the compost bin. Maybe one day the city would hire someone to dig through people’s garbage and hand out fines for failure to separate the trash into the correct bins. Or they could outsource it to a private company like they did with parking tickets. Then finally, failure to recycle would become a crime and get handed over to the police, who would in turn ignore it. At least that’s what was happening with other new “crimes.”

  Kulta opened the bags and emptied them in the other end of the dumpster—food and food containers, crumpled paper, receipts, cigarette butts, plastic wrap, pieces of glass, diapers, tampons, popcorn bags, and condoms. The whole rainbow assortment of apartment living.

  Kulta knew that illnesses and drugs were part of that rainbow, and he was careful with each bag. Any of them could contain a syringe. In one Alko liquor store bag, he found a wad of bloody paper towels, among other garbage. He pulled it out for further examination.

  After spending twenty minutes on the first container, they moved to the next.

  Kohonen glanced at her watch and cursed.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s three in the morning and we’re digging for garbage,” she huffed. But she knew if they waited, the trucks would come in the morning, and searching around the dump would be far worse.


  “What’s the difference between criminal investigators and patrol officers?” Kulta said with his head in the container.

  “What do you mean?” Kohonen asked.

  “We’re digging for scum at three in the morning while they’re hauling it to the station.”

  “Not exactly politically correct,” Kohonen chuckled.

  “Wasn’t meant to be. Besides, in my current state of mind I couldn’t care less about political correctness. I think we should be allowed to talk directly about things, instead of skirting the issue and always having to put a positive spin on everything. What good is it if we can’t say it like it is?”

  “Yep, and speaking of which, dear, you could dig more and talk less so we can get outta here,” Kohonen smirked.

  Suddenly someone yanked the door open.

  “And who do we have here?” asked a fifty-something man in a parka. A Rottweiler growled next to him. “Riku, heel,” the man commanded, and the dog was quiet.

  “Detectives,” Kulta said, lifting his head out of the dumpster, while Kohonen shone the flashlight into the man’s face. He looked as unfriendly as the dog.

  “Detectives, you say,” the man repeated, his voice full of doubt, though seeing the paper overalls at least helped him believe they weren’t two-bit junkies.

  “Yeah, and we’re in the middle of an investigation.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” the man said. “Must be important.”

  “A murder case,” Kulta added.

  “Huh. I’ll just toss this bag in here, if that’s alright.”

  Kulta glanced at Kohonen, who still had the flashlight directed at the man.

  “And who are you, bringing your trash out at three in the morning?” Kulta asked.

  “Well, I’m leaving for work in a bit, and I needed to walk Riku first. This bag was lying in the park and I thought I’d pick it up. Tryin’ to be ecofriendly, you know.”

  Kohonen turned the flashlight on the yellow Alepa bag. It looked like there was a lump inside.

  “So that’s not your bag?”

  “No, it was in the park.”

  Kulta took a better look at the man.

  “Did we talk earlier today?”

  “Hard to say, I can’t see you,” the man said, squinting.

  Kulta remembered meeting the man while doing his rounds in the apartment building.

  “Do you work for the Parks Department?”

  “No, construction.”

  Kohonen stepped forward, but froze when the dog started growling.

  “Riku, sit,” the man said, yanking the already tight leash.

  “I’ll take a look at that,” Kohonen said.

  The man stretched his arm out to hand Kohonen the bag, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing gloves. Kohonen stepped back and opened the bag with caution. She saw a couple of cloths with bloodstains on them.

  She looked up at the man and asked, “Where was this?”

  “I told you already, it was in the park.”

  “Show us,” Kohonen suggested and stepped outside behind the man.

  It was still snowing. Not good, Kohonen thought. The fallen snow would cover tracks and destroy evidence.

  * * *

  Korpivaara lay on the cot in his cell. He stared at the dark ceiling, unable to sleep. He thought of his father again in the Turku University Hospital, in his brown hospital gown and no pants, only a diaper.

  The doctor had said his father wouldn’t make it to his next shift and told the family to just be strong. Korpivaara had wondered how he would do that.

  Jorma had gone to get something to eat at the hospital cafeteria, and when he returned the room was completely silent. Jorma couldn’t feel a pulse. He pressed the alarm and a nurse hurried in. She confirmed what Jorma already knew: his father was dead. There were no emergency teams, no efforts to revive him, only the nurse pronouncing him dead.

  The nurse told him that if anyone wanted to see the body, they’d have two hours. Mom took a taxi there. She said that death was merciful—more merciful than the man himself.

  THURSDAY,

  DECEMBER 8, 2011

  CHAPTER 7

  THURSDAY, 9:10 A.M.

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE GULF OF FINLAND

  Nea Lind sat in seat 17C. The Finnair morning flight from Rome was half empty, and she had the row to herself, which suited her just fine. Lind was reading a book on her iPad after she had first leafed through the two Finnish tabloids, both raving about the evening gowns at the President’s Independence Day Ball. The attorney was disappointed that she didn’t find an article about a murder. The press probably didn’t yet know about the case the police had called her about. Interesting, Lind thought. There must be something to hide.

  Nea Lind was pleased—it wasn’t often the police referred a case to her. She wasn’t sure why they had, as she didn’t have much reputation or visibility in legal circles yet, and her practice was too new to have made a name for itself.

  The flight attendant reached for the cup Lind had placed on her tray, and she then closed her tray. She’d had to wake up early for the morning flight. Last night she had had a few drinks at the hotel bar, where an American businessman tried to get her to go to Milan with him, but she had to return home.

  Lind was from Lieto, a town about ten miles northeast of Turku. Her Turku dialect faded while she was getting her Helsinki University law degree in the early ’90s. She specialized in tax law and was successful at a mid-sized law firm. In 2000 she was recruited to one of the top firms in the country, but her career hit a wall there—not right away, but during the early 2000s recession when the firm went through a restructuring and downsized.

  She ended up on the team led by sixty-something-year-old Oscar Francke, one of the senior partners. Lind became a pawn in all the discord about who would be let go. Francke wanted to keep someone else, but he was forced to take Lind as a compromise. She hoped to prove herself through hard work, but things only got worse. Her every report, plan, and brief was nitpicked, scrutinized, and modified. Her intelligence and acumen irritated Francke. It didn’t help that she always said exactly what she thought—a trait that should’ve been considered a plus in a law firm, but wasn’t.

  Lind finally got fed up with the constant aggravation when Francke blamed her for an oversight that ended up costing a client hundreds of thousands of euros. In reality, it had been Francke who forgot to file an appeal on time. Lind suspected that he did it on purpose. Fortunately, Francke didn’t demand that Lind repay the client from her own account, but the firm took care of it.

  Lind’s patience had reached its limit, and she quit. But it was difficult for her to find a new position in the small, incestuous world of Helsinki corporate lawyers. Despite a confidentiality agreement, Francke spread rumors that made it impossible for Lind to get hired. She considered starting a small accounting firm, but thought it was too boring. So she started a firm specializing in criminal law. She was on her own but planned to get a partner at some point, and hire an intern, maybe even a secretary.

  The captain announced that the plane would be landing at Helsinki-Vantaa airport in about twenty minutes. The pilot said that a couple of inches of snow had fallen overnight and more would come during the day. The temperature was twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

  So far Lind had only handled small cases like drug-related charges and domestic abuse cases. She had also defended a man charged of bankruptcy fraud. While she was fully qualified, she realized she didn’t like numbers anymore. She wanted to do something different.

  Instead of being focused on numbers and money, a criminal justice lawyer had to care about people and their bad luck, sob stories, and unfortunate fates; about stupid mistakes, hatred, and utter evil.

  This was her first murder case. She wondered what it would feel like to defend a person who had killed another. For the justice system to work, the suspect had to have a capable attorney. With the police and prosecutor working against the defendant, a solid defense had to b
e provided, since everyone was presumed innocent until the court decided otherwise. Up until now, all of Lind’s clients had been found guilty, but there was one case she believed she had won. A woman accused of grand larceny could have been sentenced to prison, but Lind was able to get her probation.

  The murder case made her nervous. As soon as she hung up the phone in Rome, she regretted not getting more details from the police.

  * * *

  Korpivaara lay on the cot. He felt like he hadn’t slept a wink, but drifted in and out of some sort of stupor. He had expected death, but it hadn’t come. The cell door clanged. His head pounding and eyes watering, Korpivaara clambered up to sit. He felt grungy.

  The guard came in, and behind him a familiar-looking woman. Korpivaara remembered that the brunette had talked to him the night before. That seemed like a lifetime ago and his memory was muddled. During the night he had time to think.

  “How are you feeling?” the detective asked. Korpivaara thought he detected a hint of empathy in her tone.

  “Alright, I guess, no complaints. And if I had any, it wouldn’t do any good, would it?” Korpivaara said. He figured that’s how a murder suspect was supposed to talk. Not show any weakness.

  The stone-faced guard, who was as big as a house, stared straight ahead, expressionless. Korpivaara thought the guard was probably dreaming of him making a sudden move just to get a chance to tackle him.

  “I have a few questions,” said the woman in a gray sweater and blue jeans.

  “What’s your name?” Korpivaara asked.

  She didn’t laugh, but stated matter-of-factly, “Anna Joutsamo.”

  “Okay. My memory is spotty.”

  “Do you remember why you’re here?”

  The woman’s tone was cooler than before. Korpivaara nodded.

  “Because of Darling… I mean Laura. Something happened to her…” Korpivaara tried to find the words, but couldn’t. Finally he said, “Like something bad.”