Darling

by Sipila, Jarkko

  “Of course not. I’d say that it sometimes takes a lot of resources to uncover the truth, and a constitutional democracy should be able to afford it.”

  “Call Channel 2, they’re interested in that sort of thing. I’m not,” Römpötti said with a smile.

  A few more people she knew waved hello from other tables. Whenever there was a big case, reporters were accepted as part of the crew. That was a few dozen times a year. On the so-called quiet days, however, reporters were the oddities—no one knew why they were there, but everybody wanted to find out.

  Römpötti finished her pastry and coffee; Mustikkamӓki was already done.

  “Now what?” the cameraman asked.

  “Now we wait for her to show up.”

  * * *

  Nea Lind leaned against the balustrade on the second floor as she talked on her cell phone. The call had lasted almost ten minutes. Laura Vatanen’s mother had wondered why she had to meet with Lind, but Lind agreed to stop by her work at six o’clock. Lind hung up and dropped the phone in her purse.

  She glanced at her watch and realized she was fifteen minutes late. She could say her other case took longer than expected.

  Lind stopped by the restroom and checked her makeup. In her previous life at the large law firm she had learned tricks about presenting herself and influencing people, but she was a rookie when it came to dealing with the media. The reason was simple: big law firms avoided media publicity like the plague. They hired consultants, known as “spin doctors” to take care of any problems. No attorney ever had to be on TV to explain their actions, risking their futures.

  Attorneys who worked for large firms sometimes appeared as top income earners in annual tax disclosures. Finland was one of the few countries to publish people’s personal taxable incomes and effective tax rates. Being on the top of the list wasn’t considered bad. It signaled success, and also served as a recruiting tool for graduating law school students: “Come work for us, we’ll pay you well.”

  Nea Lind had never made partner and didn’t earn the large bonuses, though she made good money. She purchased her apartment on Museo Street with those earnings.

  Lind felt nervous as she descended the stairs to the main floor. She wore a navy blue suit, the same style as her gray one from the day before. She wasn’t sure how it would look on television, but she had dressed for the trial. The call from Römpötti had been a surprise, but it was exactly what Lind wanted. She needed publicity in order to gain credibility and clients.

  Lind saw Römpötti and the cameraman sitting by the cafeteria door. She improved her posture and went through the key words: honesty, openness, and confidence. To hell with those, Lind thought. When the camera was rolling, it was just a battle for survival.

  “Hello,” she said, walking to the reporter’s table.

  “Sorry I’m late. I had to make a phone call after the trial,” Lind said. She decided not to start lying right off the bat.

  Römpötti introduced herself, shaking Lind’s hand, and Mustikkamӓki followed suit.

  “Is it alright if I get a cup of coffee?”

  “Um, we’re in a hurry. We need to be at the police station at three o’clock and then get to Nӓyttelijӓ Street…”

  Mustikkamӓki stood up and said, “You two can talk while I set up.”

  Lind got a cup of coffee and returned to the table, seating herself opposite Römpötti.

  “I remember you from a legal conference where you gave a lecture about the media. You summed it up in three rules, and they all were ‘Don’t lie.’”

  “That’s a good starting point when talking to the press.”

  “So be honest, then,” Lind said. “Why is this case so interesting to you? Really.”

  Römpötti was about to recount her conversation with the news chief, but at the last minute she changed her mind.

  “Sometimes homicide cases deserve more thorough coverage, and today is a slow news day, so it’s partly a…coincidence.”

  “Okay, that’s good enough for me,” Lind said and took a sip of her coffee.

  “We haven’t met before. You haven’t done many criminal cases, have you?” the reporter asked.

  “No. The well-known attorneys get the high profile cases. I got this one, well, partly by…coincidence.”

  Römpötti let out a small laugh. Lind seemed to have a sense of humor. She was the kind of person Römpötti could have a conversation with at a bar as well. That’s more than she could say for most lawyers.

  “What are you going to ask on camera?” Lind said, sounding insecure.

  Römpötti was familiar with the question and the tone. Sometimes she would share the objectives or line of her questions ahead of time, but not always.

  “Just the basic facts: What? Where? When? Why? That’s all.”

  “Well, that’s plenty.”

  “Shall we?” Römpötti urged, when she saw that Mustikkamӓki had the camera ready.

  Lind took a big sip of coffee and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. As she stood up, she glanced at her reflection in the glass wall to check her attire.

  Römpötti stood by the camera and led Lind to her spot. Mustikkamӓki asked the attorney to move a half step closer.

  “Thanks,” he said. “And we’re rolling.”

  Römpötti looked at Lind intently and asked, “What do you think about this case?”

  The question confused Lind, and she lost her focus for a moment. “What do I think—what do you mean?”

  “What happened?” Römpötti rephrased her question.

  “A twenty-six-year-old woman has been killed and my client is the suspect.”

  “And, what does he say about it?”

  Lind thought for a moment. The police had told the press that the suspect had confessed.

  “He may not remember what happened.”

  Römpötti had assumed the interview would be routine, but now she perked up. She’d planned to ask about the motive, and the routine background question, but the attorney had just disputed facts from the police bulletin.

  “Wait a minute. According to the police, the suspect confessed. Do you disagree?”

  “The statement doesn’t represent the whole truth,” Lind said.

  “How so?”

  “My client was unable to recall all the events during the interrogation.”

  “So, did the police bulletin contain false statements?”

  “Not false, but I don’t think the police should comment on a suspect’s guilt or innocence, including confessions. Ultimately only the court can determine guilt.”

  Römpötti looked at Lind who was standing in front of the camera with a determined look. This wasn’t a routine interview after all, since the defense attorney disagreed with the police bulletin. She wanted Lind to give her a clear statement.

  “The police say the suspect has confessed. Do you disagree?”

  “The police have their opinion, and as a defense attorney I have mine.”

  “Has the suspect made a confession?”

  “My view differs from that of the police regarding my client’s guilt,” Lind said and immediately regretted it. But there was no way to take any of it back.

  Römpötti nodded, “Would you like to add anything?”

  “I suppose that’s about it.”

  Römpötti threw a glance at Mustikkamӓki who stopped the camera. This wasn’t an extensive, detailed interview; a few minutes were enough.

  Maybe there was something to this case. For a minute Römpötti felt a faint respect toward Lӓhdesranta, but the feeling quickly disappeared. The news chief hadn’t had a sense of the case; he had merely given her a dumb case to chase.

  But the fact that Lind disputed the police statement made it newsworthy and Römpötti figured this would be a good story. The reporter and the attorney exchanged business cards and agreed to get back in touch.

  CHAPTER 14

  FRIDAY, 3:00 P.M.

  HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA


  Detective Lieutenant Takamäki stood in front of the camera in the police station lobby. He had changed out of his usual cardigan into something appropriate for a television interview—a navy blue suit coat, a white shirt, and a gray tie.

  Mustikkamӓki said the camera was rolling, and Römpötti began, “What is this case about?”

  She passed the microphone to Takamäki.

  “It’s a rather typical homicide case for Helsinki. A twenty-six-year-old woman was killed in an apartment in North Haaga. The suspect is a forty-year-old man who knew the victim.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “We can’t disclose that yet due to our ongoing investigation. But I can say it was vicious.”

  “So the victim died at the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did the police discover the suspect?” Römpötti asked. She was starting with a few easy questions.

  “We conducted a routine investigation, such as lifting fingerprints on the crime scene.”

  “Was it domestic violence?”

  “The victim and the killer knew each other, but they didn’t live together.”

  “What was the motive?”

  “The victim and the killer had an argument before the incident, but the reason for that isn’t clear.”

  Römpötti looked Takamäki in the eye.

  “You’re saying ‘killer.’ How do you know this forty-year-old is the killer?”

  “Well, the correct term is ‘suspect,’ of course. But the police consider the case solved.”

  “How?”

  “Based on information gathered by the Forensics team, and the suspect’s confession.”

  “Has the man confessed?”

  “He has confessed.”

  “Indisputably?”

  “Yes,” Takamäki said, confused by the question.

  Römpötti thanked the detective and lowered the microphone. She got what she wanted. She could build a juicy controversial story with the comments from the detective and the attorney. Mustikkamӓki turned off the camera.

  Takamäki took a step to the side and said, “I still can’t figure out why you’re interested in this case.”

  Römpötti answered with a question. “What sort of woman was the victim? Did she belong to a group of drinking buddies?”

  “In a way yes, but…”

  “But what?”

  “You haven’t asked if there was anything special to this case.”

  “Is there?” Römpötti asked, her curiosity piqued.

  Takamäki had planned on telling her the one detail necessary to see the full picture.

  “There is one thing. The victim was twenty-six years old, but mentally she was much younger. She was mentally handicapped. I don’t know all the medical details.”

  “She was mentally handicapped and she lived alone?”

  “Apparently the disabilities were mild, and she could manage on her own, most of the time anyway.”

  “That’s interesting,” Römpötti said and asked a few more questions.

  * * *

  Joutsamo sat at the table in the Homicide Unit’s meeting room, eating a salad she had picked up in a nearby grocery store. She had spent the day transcribing the interrogations—a slow, tedious task given she had a few hours’ worth of material. And there would be more after the tenants of the Nӓyttelijӓ Street apartments and other witnesses were questioned. She still needed to set up an appointment to interrogate Laura Vatanen’s mother.

  Kulta sat down across from her with a cup of coffee. He had some documents with him.

  “The lab sent a report of that towel.”

  “What towel?” Joutsamo asked.

  “The one that was found in Korpivaara’s apartment, apparently taken from Vatanen’s place. At least she had several of the same brand.”

  “And,” Joutsamo urged him on.

  “The DNA tests are still ongoing, but apparently the towel only has Korpivaara’s blood on it.”

  “He probably hurt his hand in Vatanen’s apartment,” Joutsamo said.

  She thought that they had already established that fact, although lab results were just starting to come in. On the other hand, it wouldn’t have been the first time lab results were duplicated. Several forensic tests were going on concurrently, and she couldn’t be sure which ones had been completed without looking at the file, which was at her desk.

  “That was my thought, too, but Vatanen’s blood type wasn’t on it,” Kulta said.

  “Did they find anything in the plastic bag that was discovered in the woods?”

  Kulta shook his head. “Nope. Nothing from the bloody paper towels found in the trash bin, either.”

  “Okay,” Joutsamo said, turning back to her salad.

  “Do you want me to ask them for more tests?”

  “No hurry,” Joutsamo said. “It might well be that the plastic bag has nothing to do with the case anyway.”

  “Yeah, it might’ve been left in the bushes by some junkies or drunks.”

  “Based on all evidence, we have the killer here, and there’s no rush. The DNA tests won’t come back till next week anyway.”

  CHAPTER 15

  FRIDAY, 4:30 P.M.

  NORTH HAAGA, HELSINKI

  Lind didn’t own a car so she took a taxi from the courthouse to her office and dropped off the documents from her real estate dispute case. She could bill the client for that leg of the trip, but from there she walked to the National Museum stop to catch a bus going to North Haaga.

  It was snowing and the bus ride was slow in the slushy rush-hour traffic. Humidity fogged up the bus windows. Lind’s thoughts kept going back to the interview with Römpötti. She wondered if she’d gone too far in questioning the validity of Korpivaara’s confession—which she had heard with her own ears. But it was done now. If it had been a newspaper interview, she could’ve asked the reporter to email her a draft of the story, but TV didn’t work that way.

  The second question she had written on her list the night before was: “Can an innocent suspect make a false confession?” She wasn’t interested in mentally-disturbed professional confessors, but regular suspects who confess to crimes they haven’t committed.

  Lind had read about a case from 1989. A twenty-eight-year-old woman jogging in New York’s Central Park was raped and left for dead in a ditch. She survived, but wasn’t able to identify the attacker. The police arrested five teenage boys who were found loitering nearby, and they confessed to the act on video. Later in court the boys denied everything. Despite the lack of forensic evidence, the court sentenced the boys to prison for five to twelve years. The victim was Caucasian and the convicted boys were blacks and Latinos.

  In 2002 the police discovered that the real attacker was a convicted murderer and a four-time rapist. A DNA sample that had been found at the crime scene—and marked as unidentified at the time of the original investigation—was finally matched to the actual rapist.

  The case drew a lot of attention in the press and among American human rights lawyers. The police had pushed the youngsters past their breaking point to make false confessions.

  Lind found a number of other reasons for false confessions, such as the desire to protect a loved one. Or sometimes the mentally disturbed might confess in order to please the authorities. Fatigue, intoxication, fear of punishment, ignorance of law, personality… There were many reasons, but often the determining factor was that the accused was under duress during the interrogation.

  Lind didn’t have access to the recording of Korpivaara’s first interrogations, but she recalled how downtrodden he had appeared. A number of the reasons listed for false confessions were applicable in his case.

  Lind brushed a thin layer of snow off her shoulders as she walked into the Alamo Bar. She immediately spotted a group of men sitting on the right. The neatly dressed woman caught their attention.

  The bartender smiled when Lind asked for a cup of coffee.

  “You sure you’re in the right
place?” he asked.

  “If you don’t have coffee, I’ll have tea.”

  “We’ve got coffee, and it’s fresh, too,” the man said and poured her a cup.

  Lind set a euro coin on the counter, picked up her cup, and headed to the men’s table.

  “Is one of you Jaakko Niskala?”

  The men were in their forties, and each had a mug of beer in front of him. One of them looked a little older and had a full mustache. Another was a large man, and the third had a long, narrow face, his hair styled in a crew cut.

  “Why do you ask? You some kind of reporter?” the oval-faced man asked aggressively.

  Lind figured the man was Niskala, since he’d been the one to react to the question. Anyone else would’ve just answered the question with a “no.” Lind stood by the table and decided not to play any games.

  “I’m Jorma Korpivaara’s defense attorney. My name is Lind.”

  “We’ve got nothing to do with that case,” the man with the large mustache growled.

  “You must be Pekka Rautalampi, and that third guy is Heikki Lahtela,” Lind said.

  She had seen the others’ names on a document Joutsamo had at the station. The note said “the Alamo gang” and a Google search led her to the bar. Lind knew the men had been released the night before.

  Niskala had reacted, but with the others she just guessed.

  Despite Niskala’s angry expression, the mustache man told her to sit down.

  “We all got out of jail last night,” Mustache-Rautalampi said.

  “And you’ve been sitting here ever since?”

  “Heh, we did go home to crash for a few hours.”

  Lind turned to Niskala. “Why did you ask if I was a reporter?”

  “One of those stopped by here a little while ago. We didn’t tell her anything, and I’m not sure if we should talk to you, either.”

  “I’m on Jorma’s side,” Lind said and noticed now that the men were quite intoxicated.

  “How’s Jorma?”

  “He won’t be able to hit the bar scene for a while; he’s lying on his bunk.”

  “He must be feelin’ shitty.”