Darling

by Sipila, Jarkko

  In the best scenario for reporters, two or three investigative journalists worked together, driving and supporting each other on the story. Römpötti worked alone, but she was helped by Nea Lind. Lind might also be right in saying that something didn’t make sense in the case. Römpötti might be on a wild goose chase, but at least she was on a chase.

  She molded a different answer for Mrs. Korpivaara.

  “I don’t know if it’ll lead to anything, but I want to investigate the background for the homicide. It intrigues me. Is that a good enough reason?”

  “I suppose it’s as good as pure curiosity,” Mrs. Korpivaara said.

  Römpötti looked into the old woman’s eyes. They were filled with determination, but also grief. It could be summed up as life experience.

  “The police are investigating how it happened. I want to know why.”

  Römpötti had given dozens of lectures on investigative journalism for the police, prosecutors, and judges. Each time she had stressed the fact that reporters weren’t at the crime scene to satisfy their own curiosity. But this time she had to admit that she was curious.

  Römpötti wanted to interview Mrs. Korpivaara on camera, but the woman refused. She agreed only to supply background information.

  “Jorma was a normal boy. He wasn’t too interested in school, but he was no dummy. He preferred soccer to books.”

  “Did you live here during his childhood?”

  “I’ve lived here since the early sixties. My late husband, Rauno, built the house and this is where I’ll die. If they want to haul me to the hospital, they’ll have to tie me up.”

  Römpötti wondered if it was her who had kept the developers away from the area.

  “There were probably a lot of children around back then.”

  “Yeah. And now it’s just old people, and some environmentalists.”

  Römpötti sipped her coffee and took a bite of her cinnamon roll. The woman was talking, but she wasn’t giving out very much information. The reporter thought about pulling out her pencil and notebook, but she was afraid it might make the woman even more guarded.

  “How often is Jorma in touch with you?”

  “He’s called now and then, and he stops by occasionally.”

  “Does he have siblings?”

  “He’s an only child,” Ansa Korpivaara said, shaking her head.

  “How long did Jorma live here?”

  “He was in his early twenties when he moved away. It was a year after that incident.”

  Römpötti perked up, but the old woman seemed to regret her slip and broke off a piece of her cinnamon roll.

  “What was the incident?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Please. It’s extremely important,” Römpötti pleaded.

  Of course, Römpötti didn’t know how important yet. The woman had brought it up and would eventually talk about it. Römpötti figured the mother of a killer would feel the need to explain things. Her son committing a serious crime was bound to make her feel she had failed somehow.

  “Yeah,” the woman said, with a measured look. “I suppose it won’t hurt anything, since he’s going to prison now. The boy shouldn’t have done it, but it was the booze.”

  “Jorma drank a lot?”

  “Too much. Booze is what killed his father, too, eight years ago.”

  Römpötti didn’t see the point in offering her condolences so long after the man’s death.

  “Alcohol is rarely the cause for good,” Römpötti said. “Did Jorma’s life change after the…incident?”

  Mrs. Korpivaara glanced down and sipped her coffee.

  “It…it was always referred to as an accident, but it was no accident.”

  Römpötti waited for the woman to continue.

  “They said the boy ran into a rock on his motorcycle and got hurt. Psh.”

  “What happened exactly?”

  “Jorma was twenty-one and the girl was sixteen,” Mrs. Korpivaara said, her face softened now. They dated in secret, but the girl’s father found out about the relationship. He couldn’t accept this older boy from a working-class family. When Jorma gave her alcohol, the father lost it completely. He interrogated his daughter, and she told him about the sex. The hot-tempered man beat the living daylights out of Jorma and called Rauno to come and get his son. Jorma was a bloody mess, but Rauno agreed with the man not to report it to the police. Rauno made up the motorcycle story to tell at the hospital. I disagreed, but my opinion didn’t count. Rauno was ashamed of his son.”

  Römpötti listened in silence.

  “His face was a mess and the doctors discovered he had serious head injuries, so he had to stay in the hospital for a while. He changed—became introverted. He used to be so active and now he just stayed cooped up in his room and wouldn’t go out with his friends. He wasn’t interested in school, either. I kept trying to get him to do things, but eventually he got tired of that and moved to Helsinki. He didn’t do well there, either, and he just moved from one temp job to the next.”

  “It’s very sad,” Römpötti said.

  “Life is sad,” Ansa Korpivaara added.

  “Did the girl live nearby?”

  “She lived about eight miles north of here, in Lieto. They met at a disco, or a dance hall.”

  “And after that they didn’t keep in touch?”

  “No. Jorma tried to call her once and got Mr. Lind, who asked Jorma if he hadn’t had enough. Mr. Lind made sure my son wasn’t seen around there anymore.”

  “What was the man’s name?”

  “Rainer. Rainer Lind.”

  Römpötti thought it had to be a coincidence.

  * * *

  Suhonen and Joutsamo walked on the hiking trail in Pirkkola Sports Park. They were returning to their car that was parked in the swimming pool parking lot. Suhonen tucked his hands in his leather jacket pockets.

  “Have you heard the story about the whore who went to see a psychiatrist?” Suhonen asked. “After they spent a heated moment on the couch, they each said at the same time, ‘So, that’ll be 300 euros.’”

  “That guy was a psychiatrist,” Joutsamo said with a chuckle.

  “That’s what made me think of the joke,” Suhonen said.

  The two had just inspected the body of a psychiatrist who had died while jogging. Joutsamo snapped a few photos, and they tried to determine the cause of death. The outward signs pointed to a heart attack, but an autopsy would provide the official word. Nothing they found suggested a crime.

  “We could get a bite to eat. How about a greasy burger at Snacky’s?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Joutsamo said. She’d been eating salads and other health foods all week and she was hungry.

  Suhonen said he’d ask if Toukola from Narcotics would care to join them. He knew Toukola was on call this weekend too.

  Joutsamo’s phone rang and she answered it. While she talked they reached the parking lot.

  “Well?” Suhonen asked, clicking the key fob to unlock the car doors.

  “Nothing special. That over-eager attorney called again. She wants to talk to her client before the hearing. It’s obvious this is her first homicide case, but she’ll learn.”

  * * *

  The two-story, red brick house was well cared for, but its boxy look exposed its age—it had been built in the seventies. Bay windows, angles, and appendages in single family homes weren’t in style again until the nineties. It was all about money. Special features were expensive and anyone who could afford them wouldn’t build that kind of a house in Lieto—they’d rather go to the upscale neighborhoods on the shores of the Gulf of Finland.

  Römpötti had left Ansa Korpivaara’s house in a taxi—the same way she got there. The driver waited while she ate her veggie burger at a gas stationcafé and made a few phone calls. The fifteen-mile trip took forty minutes.

  The brick house had a large yard bordered by a row of pine trees on the left and a low hedge on the right. The house sat a
bout twenty yards back from the road, with the adjacent garage in front of the pine trees.

  Römpötti had obtained Rainer Lind’s cell phone number, and she had debated about calling him. The man would likely not want to talk about the past, so Römpötti didn’t call. Ansa Korpivaara had told her what happened, and Römpötti just needed a confirmation. She could get one from the man’s first reaction, even if he didn’t say a word.

  The gravel crunched under her shoes. She looked for any warning signs of angry dogs—she didn’t like dogs, she was more of a cat person. She remembered a time when they were doing a shoot in Järvenpää, in front of a known black market operator’s house. The owner tried to sic his German shepherd on them, but they made it to the car in the nick of time. She was mad that the cameraman had turned off his camera; the escape would’ve added great flavor to the story.

  The yard was vacant, and the house seemed quiet. The garage door was closed and curtains were drawn in the upstairs windows. The downstairs also looked dark. The barren lawn seemed ready for the long winter. Römpötti knew someone lived there because she could see thin tendrils of smoke rising from the chimney. She thought the trip to Lieto would be a waste of time if no one was home, but she couldn’t know beforehand. She stepped to the dark-wood door. The frosted glass on the window by the door prevented a view of the inside. Römpötti rang the doorbell and heard its ding-dong. She waited and pressed the doorbell again. She could hear slow footsteps coming down the stairs in the house.

  A tall, skinny, silver-haired man in a gray cardigan and dark pants opened the door. His expression was angry, but quizzical. A large hawk nose supported a pair of slender-rimmed glasses.

  “Hello,” Römpötti said in a friendly tone. He could tell from her attire she wasn’t peddling art or selling Girl Scout cookies.

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  “Are you Rainer Lind?”

  “Yes,” the man growled.

  “I’m reporter Sanna Römpötti. Could we talk a bit?”

  The man kept his left hand on the door handle, ready to yank the door closed. Römpötti kept a good distance from the door so the man wouldn’t feel threatened. She also thought it a plus that she was female—the old man wouldn’t likely fear she was here to rob him.

  “A reporter? What are you after?”

  Römpötti wondered if she should ask to go in, but didn’t think it was necessary. If the man wanted to talk, he’d invite her in.

  “I’d like to ask a few questions about an old incident that involves you.”

  She knew she was taking a risk starting with such an open question, and the man’s response would now depend on how big the skeletons in his closet were. On the other hand, she wanted to pique the man’s curiosity. He wouldn’t find out what she wanted unless he was willing to talk.

  “What sort of an old incident?” The man cast Römpötti a questioning look.

  I’ll tell you as soon as you agree to talk, Römpötti thought.

  “It would be nice to talk inside,” she said.

  The man’s curiosity got the better of him. “Come inside then,” he grunted.

  Rainer Lind didn’t help Römpötti with her coat, but pointed to a hook by the stairs. As she was hanging her coat, the man opened the study door.

  “Why didn’t you call first?”

  “This came up suddenly, and I happened to be in the neighborhood,” Römpötti said. She knew the man didn’t believe her, but that didn’t matter.

  A desk sat in front of the window and bookcases half full of binders lined the walls. The blend of furniture made it look like the pieces had been acquired one at a time, as needed. The room was just big enough to hold the white, round vinyl table with three orange chairs around it.

  The computer was a fat, outdated model that looked like an old portable TV. A large apparatus, which Römpötti recognized as a fax machine, sat in one corner of the desk. The items in the room could’ve been from a 1980s-’90s office display in a museum.

  “Have a seat,” the man said.

  Römpötti looked around the room and saw a few photos on the wall. One was of the man standing in front of a big grocery store about twenty years ago. In another, the man was younger and the Statue of Liberty in New York City was in the background. In the third one, he was standing with a blonde woman his age and a girl in her early twenties. Römpötti’s eyes fixed on the last picture.

  “Yes, I’ve seen your stories on television and, frankly, I don’t understand why you’re here.”

  “It’s about a homicide in Helsinki a few days ago,” Römpötti said without disclosing Korpivaara’s name.

  The man said he wasn’t aware of a case like that and still didn’t understand why Römpötti was in Lieto. His tone grew increasingly irritated.

  “Actually I’m here for one reason. The man suspected of this homicide is someone you know from a couple of decades ago.”

  The man looked confused, and Römpötti could tell that he was mentally going through a list of people he knew.

  “Homicide? And I know the killer? Are you sure you’re in the right house?”

  “His name is Jorma Korpivaara.”

  Römpötti watched the man and could see the memories returning—his expression changed from initial surprise to irritation, and finally to guilt. Römpötti knew that Ansa Korpivaara’s account was true.

  Rainer Lind looked at Römpötti. He understood it was futile to try to deny anything.

  “How did you…?”

  “Ansa Korpivaara.”

  “The mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say about it,” Rainer Lind said with a blank expression.

  “From the criminal justice point of view the statute of limitations has expired, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “You’d better leave now.”

  “One more question,” Römpötti began and could see fear in his eyes.

  She glanced at the photo on the wall. Nea Lind was about twenty years younger in it, but clearly recognizable.

  “How did Nea take it?”

  “What? How did you…? It’s none of your business. Nea has nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. She has a lot to do with it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell you after you answer my question,” Römpötti said, keeping her expression stern.

  The man ran his hand through his gray hair. Römpötti knew she had him. The surface had cracked, and the fear of the secret coming out was oozing through. He slouched and took off his glasses.

  “Nea felt so bad about it, as did I later on. I’ve thought many times about contacting Jorma to apologize. I overreacted back then; I couldn’t help my temper.”

  Römpötti disagreed with the man, but didn’t say it.

  “How badly did Nea feel about it?”

  “She didn’t speak to me for six months. Then I sent her to the States as an exchange student, and she got over it there.”

  Römpötti nodded.

  “What’s Nea got to do with the case?” he asked.

  “She’s Jorma Korpivaara’s defense attorney.”

  “What?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hell, no,” the man said.

  Römpötti stood up and got her coat. Mr. Lind followed her.

  “Are you doing a TV story about it?”

  “That’s very possible.”

  “And my role is…”

  Römpötti wondered if she should feel sorry for the old man. Probably not.

  “I can only promise that I’ll stick to the facts. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  The man stood in silence while Römpötti said good-bye and left.

  * * *

  The taxi drove at 49 miles per hour, just under the speed limit. Römpötti glanced at her watch. The train was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes, and it would leave without her. She’d have to wait an hour for the next one and she wouldn’t reach Helsinki in ti
me. She found herself wishing she had a cab driver from Helsinki; they’d be going at least sixty.

  The reporter reflected on her trip. The puzzle had a lot of pieces for her to fit together. Korpivaara’s past was now making more sense. The severe beating in his youth had clearly spun the course of his life into a downward spiral. Medical records would shed light on his injuries. Römpötti couldn’t get them, but Nea Lind could. Potential brain injuries could explain the act, but they wouldn’t have bearing on the case unless they could get him a partial insanity verdict. That seemed highly unlikely.

  Römpötti was intrigued by the connection between Lind and Korpivaara. Why did Lind take the case? On one hand, Lind’s history with Korpivaara didn’t make her unsuitable for the case. It wasn’t a problem. And it explained why Lind was eager to take the case. The average lawyer would’ve listened to the police evidence, urged the client to confess, and collected the fee. On the other hand, Römpötti didn’t like the fact that the attorney had concealed such a critical piece of information—but then again, Römpötti hadn’t asked if they had any connections from the past. She would soon, though.

  Römpötti thought about the crime, again. She didn’t know exactly what evidence the police had. The authorities were not obligated to share information with the suspect or the attorneys while the investigation was still ongoing. The preliminary report would include all that.

  Lind had said that Joutsamo said… There it was; the story could change dramatically, like in the game of Telephone. It was all about two essential parts: forensic evidence and the relationship between the victim and perpetrator. And the man had confessed.

  Römpötti couldn’t help thinking that Lind was trying to make amends for Korpivaara’s beating.

  With a solid yellow line prohibiting passing, the cab driver had to slow down behind a tractor. The cab was going so slow now that Römpötti knew she would miss her train.

  “Okay,” Römpötti said to the driver. “I won’t be able to make my train, so let’s go straight to Helsinki, if that’s alright.”

  “To Helsinki?” the driver asked, looking in the rearview mirror.