Darling

by Sipila, Jarkko

  Korpivaara’s confession wasn’t the result of the police pressuring him; she was the one to blame. This was the second time she was about to ruin Jorma Korpivaara’s life. Lind thought it was possible that Korpivaara was the killer, but she wanted to see the evidence, not just hear his confession. As his defense attorney, she needed to do her job perfectly.

  * * *

  Takamäki was reading a tabloid he had grabbed at the station. He sat at the dining room table with a towel around his waist. His dark hair was wet from the shower, and a few drops ran down his back. As he had promised Joutsamo, he’d gone for a five-mile run before he hopped in the sauna.

  The paper had a story about how petty thieves were becoming bolder and more insolent since unpaid fines could no longer be converted into jail time. When a pickpocket was caught red-handed and given a fine, they could tear up the ticket and laugh about it to boot.

  In Takamäki’s opinion, the change in the policy wasn’t due to the naïveté of the lawmakers, but rather to the former attorney general’s view that the poor shouldn’t be punished for being poor. Sending someone to jail for unpaid fines wasn’t punishing them for being poor, but for the original crime, like theft, Takamäki thought. But now, the deterrent to petty crime had been removed.

  Another article in the paper was about a homicide by an outpatient in a Kuopio mental health hospital. A thirty-four-year-old man had stabbed his fifty-seven-year-old mother. Takamäki lamented that this was yet another example of how sending the mental health patient home with a bottle of pills didn’t work. He thought patients should stay in regular contact with their doctors, and someone—other than the police—should ensure that they stay clean. He wondered if the Salvation Army or perhaps the Red Cross could do something for local communities besides just chasing donations.

  These were both examples of how accountants were increasingly at the helm. It was cost effective, at least on paper, to reduce the number of people incarcerated for unpaid fines or number of patients in mental health hospitals. The daily cost of an inmate had become astronomical at two hundred euros.

  In reality, the savings was questionable as eighty percent of the expenses were fixed, including building operating costs and staff salaries. Incarcerating a hundred fewer prisoners didn’t actually save all that much in cash—even if on paper it was twenty thousand euros per day.

  The continual attempts to save costs meant that more prisoners—and more hardened criminals—were getting transferred to low-security prisons, where it was easy for them to pursue their criminal ventures before they were even released.

  In actuality, a first-time offender ended up serving only five years of a ten-year sentence, and of that the last third was usually in a minimum-security facility. The actual time inside a proper prison ended up being three and a half years rather than ten. Prison math was tough—for the victim.

  And it became even tougher if the criminal, say, killed again after being clean for three years. The record was wiped clean after three years, and the killer was once again treated as a first-time offender. The rights of crime victims, and the safety of citizens at large, always took second place to offenders’ rights.

  FRIDAY,

  DECEMBER 9, 2011

  CHAPTER 12

  FRIDAY, 11:00 A.M.

  DAGMAR STREET, HELSINKI

  The elderly lady never stopped talking for even a second while Lind helped her with her fur coat. Mrs. Harju had come to her ten o’clock appointment, as agreed, to draw up her will. This was her third appointment, even though Lind could usually write up a simple will while the client waited.

  Lind’s neat and conservative office was totally different from her modern, “organized chaos” apartment. The furniture looked majestic. While picking the set, she had wondered if she was trying to compensate for being female. She decided the ambience of the office was more important than her personal taste. Being an attorney required being trusted, and the furniture needed to be dignified.

  She was renting the Dagmar Street office space. Having two rooms gave her the option of one day hiring someone else to work there, too. But she wasn’t ready for that yet.

  The elderly lady was still hesitating about something, so Lind had set up another appointment for her. Mrs. Harju had assured her it had nothing to do with the fact that Lind was female. Her previous attorney had been a skinny man who, according to Mrs. Harju, was only after her money. Ms. Lind, however, seemed very trustworthy.

  Lind thought the will was complete, but the lady wanted to think about it some more. Lind got her drift: Mrs. Harju just wanted someone to talk to. This time the conversation was about her grandson’s academic success and his university alternatives. Lind charged the woman two hundred euros for the hour, which the elderly lady gladly paid.

  “Till next week, then,” the woman said from the door.

  “Good-bye,” Lind replied, closing the door.

  She had slept poorly, woken up early, and come to the office. Her apartment on Museo Street was only a few blocks away. She had picked up a pastry on the way and made some coffee in the office. The Helsingin Sanomat newspaper printed only a short piece about the homicide, and both afternoon papers gave the seemingly routine incident only two columns each.

  The media saw nothing special about the case, since the perpetrator had been taken into custody. They hadn’t been told about the brutality of the killing. The police bulletin’s mention that the killer had confessed irritated Lind to no end. A direct statement of the man’s guilt or innocence wasn’t the police department’s job. They were merely to investigate; the prosecutor would prosecute, and the court would determine whether the suspect was guilty.

  Lind kept thinking about the case. She couldn’t put her finger on what bothered her about it, but something was off. In the back of her mind she didn’t believe, or didn’t want to believe, that Korpivaara was a killer. But it had been twenty years since their last meeting, and people changed—especially those who got into drugs, and Korpivaara definitely had.

  Before Mrs. Harju’s appointment, Lind had searched the web for information about Korpivaara and the victim. She found nothing on either one—no Facebook pages, blogs, or anything else. She was perplexed.

  Late the night before, she had sat on her sofa making a list of questions she wanted answered. The first was, “Is it possible for the perpetrator of a crime to lose his or her memory?”

  The police seemed to think that memory loss meant the suspect was either unwilling or too scared to confess. But Lind found an article in a medical journal about dissociation, which discussed how dissociation, psycho-dynamically, is an automatic adaptive reaction to trauma that threatens one’s psychic balance, such as feeling shame or being horrified. As a result of the reaction, memory loss, disorientation, and hallucinations tend to cause a feeling of insecurity. Even though the original source of pain is gone from the conscious mind, the realization of not remembering one’s identity or what has happened is confusing.

  Lind read the article twice, but still didn’t totally understand it. She came to the conclusion that one might protect oneself from a traumatic experience by blocking it from memory.

  So the scientific answer to her question was yes. Of course, in Korpivaara’s case, the memory loss supported his guilt rather than his innocence. Had Korpivaara not been in the victim’s apartment, he would have no reason to forget what happened.

  Lind listed another half dozen questions, but in order to gain answers she needed to know more about Korpivaara and Vatanen and their relationship.

  Lind glanced at her watch. She would stop by the Alamo Bar in the afternoon, but first she had to represent a client in a real estate dispute in small claims court. It would take a couple of hours for several witnesses to be called to the stand. Lind would rather take on criminal cases, but she was glad to have any work. This case had been referred by a friend.

  * * *

  Crime Reporter Sanna Römpötti sat on one of the chairs near the side wall,
looking at the computer screen projected on the white wall at the end of the conference room. While reporters sat to the side, the management was seated at the conference table. About twenty people were in the room for the Channel 3 News morning meeting to review the day’s events, listed on the wall. Beyond corporate press conferences, not much was going on.

  Römpötti yawned, not even bothering to conceal it.

  “Is that your view of today’s news agenda?” News Chief Risto Lӓhdesranta asked. He was nearing fifty and always wore a striped tie, whether his shirt was plain or plaid. Römpötti suspected that he slept with his tie on, and she could’ve had a chance to find out when Lӓhdesranta, drunk as a skunk, hit on her at a company Christmas party. To no avail.

  “What?” Römpötti asked. The meeting was mandatory, and she hadn’t paid attention while discussion centered on education statutes and the administration’s plans to focus on secondary education over the next few years.

  “You’re not interested in education statutes?”

  “Just as interested as our viewers,” Römpötti retorted, and the others, except Lӓhdesranta, laughed.

  Römpötti wondered if she had made a mistake. Sometimes news chiefs, not to mention editors-in-chief, had their own ideas on what made interesting news. Some of the ideas were good, but some were impossible, or impossible to cover in the two minutes of airtime each story got on the nightly news. Those suggestions were simply ignored. But under no circumstance were they to be shot down in the morning meeting—certainly not with jokes.

  “Education statutes concern a large segment of our viewers.”

  “Sure, sure. Facebook will probably be buzzing with posts about the upcoming huge scoop we have on tonight’s news…about education statutes.”

  Lӓhdesranta turned all attention to Römpötti. “What does our crime reporter have to offer for the day?”

  “The report of sentences for sex crimes will be published next week, but we can deal with that then.”

  Lӓhdesranta laughed. “Well, that’ll interest the rapists, at least.”

  The others didn’t find his comment funny.

  Römpötti had reported on sex crimes a few years back, and it had resulted in a tightening of the laws. She was anxious to see what the impact was on sentencing.

  “Don’t you have anything for today?” Lӓhdesranta pressed.

  “Not really. Sometimes I just don’t.”

  “If you don’t think our viewers find education statutes interesting, we’ll need something else to waken passions and shake up the Facebook crowd—and people are intrigued by crime.”

  Römpötti stared at her boss. She should’ve kept quiet, because he was now about to get back at her by suggesting some totally stupid story idea.

  “Yeah,” Römpötti said. “Apparently you have an idea.”

  “Actually I do.”

  Römpötti feared the worst.

  “The police reported last night about a homicide in Haaga,” Lӓhdesranta continued. “A young female was killed in her apartment.”

  “That’s probably not…”

  “Don’t knock it. I think it’s interesting. Take it and add some human element to it. They’ve had several homicides around Haaga and Kannelmӓki in the past few years.”

  “Well, they’ve got lot of public housing.”

  “That’s a great angle.”

  “Nah,” Römpötti said.

  The other reporters followed the conversation, heads turning from side to side as if watching a tennis match at Wimbledon.

  “If this was England, you’d be reporting live from the front yard of the building. This would be breaking news.”

  “Yeah, but this is Finland.”

  Lӓhdesranta smiled.

  “You’re always complaining that human life isn’t valued and homicide cases get shrugged aside. Here’s a chance to get air time for a homicide, but yet you don’t seem very excited.” Lӓhdesranta started singing, “It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears; it’s a world of hopes and a world of fears…”

  To his chagrin, nobody laughed this time either.

  “While we’re quoting children’s songs, I’ve got one,” Römpötti said, getting on her feet.

  She cleared her throat and started singing quietly as she walked out of the room: “I’m going on a story hunt! I’m gonna catch a big one! I’m not afraid!”

  The others guffawed and Lӓhdesranta asked, “Where you going?”

  “To get a cameraman and go to the apartment,” Römpötti replied without turning. She’d been given a challenge and, despite all, Lӓhdesranta had a point. The media did shrug off homicides, leaving their causes and effects in the dark. Each had a story behind it and here was her chance to grab one and tell it to the million Finns who watched their newscast.

  * * *

  “You serious?” Takamäki asked incredulously.

  He was on the phone with Sanna Römpötti who had just asked him for an interview on the Laura Vatanen case.

  “I’m very serious.”

  “TV news is covering a simple homicide. Why?”

  “The news chief wants a touching, human interest story, and he thinks this case has the makings for one.

  “Is that right?” Takamäki said. “You want me to send someone to administer a drug test on him?”

  Römpötti chuckled. Wouldn’t that be a sight!

  “But really, when can we come?”

  Takamäki had known Römpötti for years. If she was in a bind because her boss had come up with a dumb idea, he’d help her out and grant an interview.

  “We’re not talking about a Trojan here, are we?”

  “No,” Römpötti assured him.

  A Trojan was a technique where reporters enticed the interviewee with an easy topic that, as soon as the cameras rolled, turned into something they didn’t want to talk about. The method was popular among investigative journalists.

  “Unless you have something else you want to address.”

  “I can’t think of anything just now. But you can do a story about how easily criminals get off for committing serious crimes, due to the policies of the current government.”

  “Oh, is that something new?”

  Takamäki couldn’t tell from Römpötti’s tone if she was serious or joking. He decided to take her seriously—he thought that best when dealing with reporters.

  “You can go with converting unpaid fines for prison sentences, and inheritance tax evasion.”

  “Kari,” Römpötti said. “Three-quarters of our viewers can’t connect with those topics. So they’re unsuitable for TV.”

  “Yup,” Takamäki agreed.

  “If you have a sensational new case about those issues, then maybe, but people aren’t interested in generalities,” Römpötti said. “How about we come by around three so you’ll have time to think about it.”

  “Three o’clock works fine.”

  Römpötti asked Takamäki for the exact address of the crime scene, and the names of the victim and suspect. Takamäki knew Römpötti wouldn’t put them on air yet—the media had strict ethical rules about that—but the information would be helpful. And she could repay him with other tidbits, since sometimes people would rather talk to reporters than the police. As the head of investigation, Takamäki was free to talk about the case any way he chose; and the names would be on public record anyway, come Saturday’s court hearing.

  CHAPTER 13

  FRIDAY, 2:00 P.M.

  SALMISAARI COURTHOUSE, HELSINKI

  The stocky security guard with short, spiky hair smiled at Römpötti, waving her through the metal detector in the courthouse lobby. During the morning rush, reporters and attorneys were sometimes permitted to cut in line. In a late night hot dog stand or a cab line, people would’ve grumbled—and rightly so. But when it came to security, they just stood quietly and waited politely, just like at airport security checkpoints.

  The metal detector beeped and Römpötti exchanged a few words with the guard. Ari
Mustikkamӓki, the bald cameraman, followed her.

  The lobby was open to the eighth floor, with hallways leading into courtrooms encircling it like balconies. During the courthouse’s inauguration, a fireworks show was held in the open space. But on the flipside, suicides have also been committed by jumping off the top floor. Alko, the government-owned distillery, was once housed in this massive brick building.

  After going through security, Römpötti and Mustikkamӓki came to a large airport-style screen that listed the day’s cases and room numbers. As usual, Römpötti scanned the names of defendants to see if any of them rang a bell. Sometimes she recognized one or two, but not today. The first floor contained several courtrooms, an office, and a cafeteria. Römpötti and Mustikkamӓki headed to the right and into the cafeteria.

  The rectangular room had glass walls that separated it both from the outside and the lobby. Inside were a dozen tables and a small counter with pastries and good coffee. Römpötti chose her favorite: a Karelian pirogi with egg butter and a large coffee. She treated Mustikkamӓki to a cinnamon roll and a Pepsi. They sat at a black table near the door. A prosecutor acquaintance of Römpötti’s had finished his coffee and came over.

  “What do you have today?”

  “What have you got?”

  The forty-year-old lawyer in a suit, with silver sideburns, gave a short chuckle.

  “Good question. We’ve been hashing the never-ending tax fraud case for thirty days now. The attorneys’ fees already amount to double the losses from the fraud. It doesn’t make any sense to send defendants on probation or slap them with fines they can’t pay. You could do a story on that.”

  Römpötti sipped her coffee.

  “Will you say that on camera?”