Afterward, we went to Tapiola for ice cream. We were just leaving the ice cream shop when I received a text from Saarnio, saying that he had reached Länsimies, who had seemed extremely interested in the improvement in Tero Sulonen’s condition. I walked outside the restaurant for a moment and notified Officer Haikala, who was guarding Sulonen, and told him that he should stay sharp. He said he was in civilian clothes in the ICU.
“Call Oksana Petrenko’s guard to help you if Ilari Länsimies shows up. I’ve issued a warrant already. Yes, I’m talking about the guy from TV. I’m glad you’ll recognize him.”
The spring afternoon was warm, and soon it would be time to trade our winter clothes for lighter ones. Iida thought the melting ground smelled bad.
“That’s the dog poop,” Taneli said. To me the stench held the promise of future scents: spring rains, sprouting birch leaves, grass. It also gave me hope of change, of escaping the White Cube for somewhere that felt like a home rather than just a place to live. Back at home Antti and I went through the real estate listings again. The market was cooling off, so many of these places would still be for sale the next week.
At seven I headed out for a run. Earlier in the evening, it had started sleeting, so hardly anyone was out. My muscles felt stiff. As I turned onto the shortcut behind the parking garage next to our building, I heard footsteps behind me quickly approaching. I didn’t have time to realize what was happening before someone was tackling me and trying to twist my arm behind my back. He clearly knew what he was doing. I fought with all my might, but I was at a disadvantage. I smelled aftershave, and as my hands struggled to counter his hold, I felt that my attacker was definitely a man. When he grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back, I saw who he was: Ilari Länsimies. He had a syringe in his hand, which he pressed against my carotid artery. Guessing what it was, I stopped struggling.
“Take it easy, Kallio. You don’t want a dose of this, do you? You know what happened to Lulu and Riitta. Cyanide kills quickly. If you want to live, you’re going to do exactly as I say. Now, don’t make a sound!”
I felt nausea welling in my throat. Länsimies had hit me in the kidneys, and my internal organs felt like they’d been tied in a knot. I looked at the syringe, unable to decide whether I really smelled bitter almond or if I was imagining it. Fear made me break out in a sweat, and my legs suddenly lost all their strength.
Länsimies dragged me into the small stand of trees behind the parking garage. He held the syringe at my neck the whole time, so I didn’t dare do anything but obey. How quickly would cyanide injected directly into the bloodstream take effect? Would death be instantaneous?
“You cops are such idiots! Trying to get me to go after Sulonen. What, do you have a camera in his room or something? I’m not going to fall for anything that basic. And besides, my wife told me that you were looking for me. Did you really think I’d walk right into your trap? Get down on your knees! Do you have a weapon?” Länsimies groped me, and to spare myself more unpleasantness I answered truthfully: “No.”
“Phone?” Länsimies saw it in its belt holster. “Give it to me.”
I handed the phone to him, and he threw it against the wall of the parking garage, shattering it and sending parts flying. My breathing was rapid, but I still felt like I couldn’t get any oxygen.
“Undo my pants!” Länsimies ordered, stepping in front of me. From this position, his groin was at the height of my face, and I could see that he had an erection.
“Do it, you fucking whore!”
The forest along the wall of the parking garage had been left as a dense thicket but still I prayed that all the noise he was making would attract someone passing on the other side of the building. If only a dog walker would happen by. Or anyone . . . I unbuttoned Länsimies’s trousers, and his penis thrust out eagerly. He shoved it in my mouth.
“On top of two murders and one attempted murder, rape is a minor issue. I’ll get the maximum sentence anyway. But before that happens I’m going to teach you bitches a lesson. Lulu thought she could stop me too. At our last meeting she said she wouldn’t let anyone think that picture of her and the president was real. She said she was going to expose my plot, that I could choose whether it happened on live TV or some other time. The cunt got what she deserved!”
I couldn’t help retching, but I tried to listen as Länsimies spoke faster and faster. Every word would be important later—if I could just live to repeat it.
“And you’re always going to be the cop who took it in the mouth from a murderer. Every client you deal with will remember that. I can’t wait to talk about it in court. I’ll describe every detail: how your lips felt, how you moved your tongue, even how you’re gagging now. Don’t bother biting. Remember it doesn’t matter anymore how many people I kill—I’ll get the same sentence. But I don’t want to kill you. I want you to remember this for the rest of your life.”
Länsimies’s arousal seemed to increase from his own words, and his penis protruded deeper into my mouth, touching the back of my throat and making me feel like I was going to vomit. I’d instinctively closed my eyes because I didn’t want to see Länsimies’s thighs or the color of his pubic hair or the skin beneath his navel. Now I forced myself to open them, even though they were full of tears caused by choking. I felt like I was suffocating. Länsimies’s left hand ripped at the hair on the back of my head, and his right held the syringe at my throat.
It wouldn’t matter if anyone found us. Länsimies wouldn’t interrupt his act, and having eyewitnesses would just mean more spectators for my humiliation. I groaned involuntarily. The snow under my knees was hard and wet, and it was difficult to keep my balance.
“And in prison I’m going to tell everyone what this was like. You could use your tongue a bit more . . .” I stopped listening and concentrated on his reactions: When would he be close enough to orgasm to be distracted enough for me to strike? When his breathing intensified and his testicles began to jerk, I grabbed his right wrist with my left hand as hard as I could. The syringe moved away from my throat.
Fast as lightning, I bit down.
20
I tore myself away from Länsimies and ran back to our yard, where I stopped a neighbor, who could tell without my saying so that I needed his help. I knew that I hadn’t caused irreparable damage to Länsimies’s genitals, but I had temporarily incapacitated him. Using the neighbor’s phone to call for a patrol car, I led him to the forest, where Länsimies lay on the ground moaning. I searched for the cyanide syringe that had fallen from his hand and tucked it away for Patrol to collect. Everything moved in slow motion, and I felt as if I were watching myself in the third person: there goes Detective Kallio, who was just raped but is alive.
The patrol car arrived in under ten minutes. Officers Liskomäki and Himanen were new to the department, and I didn’t know them well. As they arrived on the scene, Länsimies had recovered enough to crawl on his knees in a futile attempt to flee. Himanen took him down with an efficient soccer-style tackle, then slapped cuffs on him.
“I’ve been assaulted. Fuck you. Take me to a doctor,” Länsimies demanded. “Let me go, you idiots. I’m not saying a word until my lawyer is present.”
Liskomäki looked at me and asked if they should take him to the hospital. I left the decision to them. Mira Saastamoinen reported later that Länsimies had arrived at the hospital with some new and inexplicable bruises and scrapes. But that knowledge wouldn’t provide me any comfort.
Liskomäki called me a taxi.
“Can you let my husband know that I’ve been assaulted but I’m okay, and that I’m going to see a doctor but there’s nothing to worry about?” I asked him. He nodded. I couldn’t bear to have Antti or, worse yet, the kids see me in this state.
I went to a private health center in Tapiola I knew had their lab open on Sunday evenings. Throughout the taxi ride I desperately wanted to drink water, to clean my mouth out and get rid of the taste of Länsimies, but I knew that I had wait. At the heal
th center, the technicians swabbed my mouth for a DNA sample, and I held on the entire time, the police officer in me overpowering the part of me that wanted to flee. But once all the samples were taken, I collapsed. For a while, I just rocked back and forth in my chair, unable to speak.
It wasn’t your fault. How many times had I said those words to a victim of rape or abuse? The perpetrator is responsible for his crime. This time, however, I just didn’t believe it. Why had I set such a clumsy trap? Why had I gone out running instead of going to work and waiting to hear of his arrest? Why hadn’t I stayed with Antti and the children?
I was incapable of completing the investigation, and a lieutenant on loan from the NBI took over for me. I was given six weeks of sick leave, sedatives, and crisis counseling. The sick leave saved me from the enormous onslaught of media attention following Länsimies’s arrest. When the Call Girl Murders, which was what the news called the series of crimes, turned out to be part of political machinations, the columnists and commentators had a field day.
“Länsimies seems to have overestimated himself,” said Koivu one day when he stopped by for coffee. “For some reason, his supporters have all disappeared now. I questioned Jaakko Aarnivuori, and according to him Länsimies was completely serious and believed he would be the next president. Aarnivuori was on board too until he heard from Lulu about the forged pictures.” Länsimies had claimed that unpopular foreign policy wouldn’t be enough to topple the current president, and that they had to find something that would make even her faithful women voters change allegiances. In the end, it wouldn’t matter whether people actually believed the picture was genuine—damage would have already been done.
The snow had finally melted, and the asphalt of the apartment building parking lot glistened. The birch trees looked pregnant, their buds close to bursting. The skylarks had already arrived. I tracked the changes in nature more avidly than the news about the case, but of course I followed that too. Länsimies’s lawyer tried to challenge the confession he had made to me—only the two of us had been there—but the other evidence was less malleable. A golf buddy reported being on the trip to Italy when Länsimies bought the illegal hunting slingshot. A search of his house didn’t turn up the slingshot, and Länsimies claimed he disposed of it after realizing it was illegal. But Forensics found skin flakes in the grooves of the handle from the earlier times Länsimies had played with the weapon without gloves. The DNA matched his.
“Both Pamela Lahtela and some of the Big Apple eyewitnesses have identified Länsimies from his picture,” Koivu continued. “And as luck would have it, Länsimies’s black coat and hat turned up in a flea market in Kuopio, where a colleague’s secretary had taken them while they were traveling. She wondered why he wanted to get rid of such expensive clothing that was still in perfect condition. And the K-Market bag we chased down at the mall had Mrs. Kaarina Länsimies’s fingerprints. We got her prints during the search of their house. So yeah, the prosecutor has plenty of material,” Koivu said, satisfied. “How are you holding up?”
“One day at a time.” I stirred more milk into my coffee and offered Koivu the plate of pulla. Baking was a good distraction—the aromas and the supple firmness of the rising dough calmed my mind.
Apparently Länsimies had spent his whole life searching for a way to reach the upper echelons of politics, and the presidency had been his goal even though the president of Finland no longer had the same authority as that office once held. While most ambitious young men had turned east, toward the Kremlin, to get ahead in politics, Länsimies had aligned himself with the United States.
Public and official statements from Länsimies’s friends and partners said it all. Even his closest confidants were only too happy to describe his negative attributes: his belief in his own omnipotence, his complete lack of empathy. One college friend reported that Länsimies used to collect butterflies, so the cyanide might have been left over from those days. And if not, he’d surely know how to get his hands on some. A neighbor related that Länsimies’s well-stocked bar always included Fernet Branca, which was also the neighbor’s wife’s favorite drink. Some enterprising reporter discovered that the police had been canvassing Alko outlets for records of Fernet Branca sales and connected the dots. Mrs. Kaarina Länsimies refused to comment on anything related to her husband, and she no longer showed her face at the shoe boutique. The television psychologists argued over the point at which Länsimies’s narcissism had gone beyond normal ambition to dangerous. A well-liked TV personality had become a monster, an easy target to take a shot at. However, some of Länsimies’s supporters stood by their presidential candidate’s political views about the obsolescence of the welfare state and the possibility of Finland becoming a geopolitical and economic backwater while the Baltic states rose to prominence. Mauri Hytönen was one person who publicly defended Länsimies. The proud john seemed to have achieved permanent B-list status from his appearance on Surprise Guests, and he launched a campaign for the 2007 parliamentary elections and assembled his own slate of candidates in the Northern Savo election district. They called themselves the Real Men for Finland Party and pitched themselves as an antifeminist counterbalance to the feminist political party, Feminist Initiative, gaining traction in Sweden. In other circumstances, I would have followed the political discussion with interest, but now it reminded me of the shame I had to learn to live with.
I’d been a victim of a violent crime before. But none of those incidences had left me feeling like this. I had nightmares about men trying to take me by force. In my dreams, I was dressed in my own police uniform or in the nurse’s costume I’d found at the Blue Nightingale, and the men who wanted me to fulfill their wishes had no faces. I didn’t dream about Ilari Länsimies. Awake I thought that I might have some idea how Oksana and those like her felt.
Länsimies was charged with two counts of murder, one attempted murder, and one rape, just as he’d predicted. I hadn’t been on duty at the time of the crime, but the fact that I was investigating a crime for which Länsimies was a suspect would serve as an aggravating factor in his sentencing.
Lasse Nordström called one afternoon after Easter. Taneli was playing with friends and Antti had taken Iida to ballet practice.
“Hi, it’s Lasse. I’m running an errand near your place and wondered if I might drop in for a cup of coffee. I can catch you up on Operation Good Friday.”
I didn’t even think to ask how Nordström knew my address, which I only gave to those I trusted most. “Come on over. I’ll make it double strength.” Then I gave Nordström the downstairs door code.
He was outside my door within a few minutes. Through the peephole I saw that he had an unwrapped bouquet of white lilies in his hand, and I was flummoxed when he offered them to me.
“I hope you’re recovering,” he said, and for a moment it looked like he wanted to hug me. In the end, he just shook my hand. I escorted him into the living room, where I’d cleaned up the worst piles of toys, set some packaged oatmeal cookies on the table, and poured the coffee.
Nordström spent a while looking around before he began.
“You probably heard on the news that the operation was carried out according to plan on the night before Good Friday. It was a success, and we caught Mishin. We’ve been tied up with interrogations ever since. Mishin is silent as the grave, but a few of the girls—I mean women—have already broken. Some of them really are just girls. The youngest are fifteen. The bastards.”
Nordström sipped his coffee. I’d filled mine half-full of milk, and still it tasted strong.
“This is good. You’ve always liked a strong drink. Do you remember those whiskey shindigs in college? You drank Kristian and me under the table. We should get everybody together again sometime and reminisce.”
I didn’t answer. Why was Nordström here?
“Yevgeni Urmanov got away. But Ursula was able to ID him from his picture. So we solved that case too.”
“Did Ursula report the assault?”
<
br /> “Yes. Apparently, she went to the Mikado to sniff around and someone took it the wrong way. She’s a pretty hot chick after all. Still, it’s better for her that they beat her as a call girl rather than as a cop.” Nordström picked up the pitcher and poured himself more coffee.
“We can breathe for a while now, at least until the market gets divvied up again. Because there will always be a market. Don’t think that doesn’t piss me off. Just so you know, not everyone considers women to be commodities, even if there are a surprising number of men who do. I’ve decided recently that I think buying sex should be illegal. The world is a buyer’s market, and it isn’t easy fighting against the power of money.”
I looked at Nordström’s slender fingers, which fiddled with the long tail of Taneli’s stuffed dog. Golden hair grew on the backs of his hands.
“You probably think I only do this job for the glory and to get my name in the papers. You’re wrong, Kallio. I’m a do-gooder just like you, and that’s why Anne left me. She said I cared more about the welfare of whores than my own wife. But when you see the reality . . .” Nordström shook his head. “That’s why I despised Lulu Nightingale. She was trying to make something that’s mostly just slavery and rape seem glamourous. And as long as buying sex is legal, that slavery will continue, and the situation will only get worse as income inequality grows. But people aren’t just pieces of meat, and they won’t be treated as such if I’m around to do something about it.”
Nordström stood up and walked to the balcony door. I wondered why he’d chosen me as the audience for this sermon. Maybe he thought I would understand.
“What do you think about Kaartamo?” he asked, not looking at me.
“I’m not a member of his fan club,” I said carefully. I still didn’t entirely trust this man.
“Well, I’m not either! He’s exactly the kind of guardian of law and order who’s causing everything to go to shit like it is. Guys like him think there are different rules for different people. Real men have needs that must be met despite the costs, tax evasion is just a national sport . . . What do you think a normal cop can do about men like that?”
The Nightingale Murder (The Maria Kallio Series Book 9) Page 31