“Pertti! It’s me, Maria. Don’t do anything stupid. Your children need you! And we need you at the station . . .”
My words echoed into nothing, and there was no reply. I opened the mail slot, but all I could see was a pile of junk mail and a corner of shabby gray rug. I tried hopelessly to get my arm through and open the door. The smell of gunpowder from inside was all too familiar.
“Have you tried the balcony?” I asked one of the officers, surprised that my voice wasn’t trembling more. An ambulance siren approached.
“That’s hard. Ström’s apartment is on the corner. And shooting the lock is no good. Too risky.”
“What’s the apartment layout?”
“The super will know, but the downstairs neighbor let us in and he said they’re all the same. Bathroom off the hall, kitchen on the left, and main room on the right.”
“Do you have a screwdriver? We can try to pry the lock off. And what’s the risk of shooting it if you aim right? If you don’t dare, give me your gun.”
I wanted into that apartment soon. Maybe Ström was only injured. Maybe we could still save him. Every second might be important.
“The super will be here in a few seconds. The management company is almost next door. And we can’t start shooting. You know Ström. If he’s drunk and starts taking pot shots for fun, he might hit us too.”
“I don’t think he’s doing this for fun. At least get me a screwdriver!”
The sound of feet trudging came from the stairway and the super arrived with his master key to unlock the door. He didn’t say a word. Ström had always mocked people’s stupidity for not protecting their belongings, but he didn’t even have a chain on his door and the deadbolt was open. The door opened quickly, and I rushed inside, even though I really didn’t want to see what I was going to find.
Gunpowder smoke still hung in the entryway. Ström lolled in the living room, half on the couch and half on the floor. His bloody mouth was open, and the back of his head was splattered across the back of the couch.
“Give me some gloves,” I whispered to Haikala. Pulling them on, I moved behind the couch and tried the pulse of the slackly hanging left wrist. Of course there was nothing there or in his neck.
He knew right where to shoot, I said to myself. Ström had ensured his fate by using a hollow-pointed bullet that had nearly exploded his head. Apparently he had aimed through the roof of his mouth at the back of his skull, trying to leave his face reasonably intact. His beer-colored eyes were open, pores gaping wide on a face that would soon lose all color. It wasn’t the time yet to close his eyes or wipe the blood from his chin.
“Call Forensics and the photographers,” I said. Carefully I stepped away from the body.
I was completely calm. Soon the routine would kick in, and there wouldn’t be any investigation necessary, since this was an obvious suicide. Ström still clutched his Beretta in his right hand, so the powder marks would line up perfectly. He had almost emptied a half liter of Koskenkorva vodka before pulling the trigger. The bottle lay at his feet on the rug, apparently kicked over as he slumped after the shot.
My eyes registered the details just as they always did at a crime scene. The room was sparsely decorated and, other than the overflowing ashtray, was very tidy. The television was at the perfect angle to watch from the couch. The table and two chairs were rattan models that didn’t seem like Ström’s style. He had probably bought the first dining set he could get for cheap. The latest issue of Police and Justice and a half-scratched lottery ticket were on the coffee table. The double bed that filled the sleeping alcove was made so carefully it would have passed the strictest barracks inspection.
When Forensics arrived I pulled on the shoe protectors and plastic jacket they gave me and put my hair in the shower-cap thing. The photograph-taking began, and the ambulance crew pronounced Ström officially dead.
I peeked in the kitchen, which, aside from the two beer bottles on the counter, looked like it might have been licked clean. Ström’s desk had always been the same way, every paper perfectly arranged. Next I went in the bathroom. The letters were there, sitting on a rusting green washing machine. One was addressed to Jani and Jenna, and another to the Espoo Police Violent Crime Unit. I picked up the latter. Ström hadn’t been able to decide whether to write print or write in cursive, and his handwriting was difficult to decipher.
To the Espoo Police Violent Crime Unit,
A few times we’ve complained about suicides not having the decency to leave notes. Then we have to waste a bunch of time investigating before we can be sure the dead guy really killed himself. I’m going to save you that trouble. I am leaving today of sound mind, knowing exactly what I’m doing. I’m shooting myself because life isn’t worth living anymore. There isn’t anything left for me now that I’m losing my job. I have always tried to be the best police officer I could be and to work so that upstanding taxpayers can walk the streets in safety. It feels like a waste that criminals have more rights than honest people these days. You can be sure Väätäinen is going to kill his wife eventually, and the police can’t stop him.
A lot of you are probably glad to get rid of me, but don’t take revenge by organizing a big funeral. That kind of garbage makes me sick too. No one is going to cry for me, and they shouldn’t. I’m not afraid of death, and I’ve always wanted to go with my boots on. For a while I thought about going and shooting Väätäinen and a few other shits first, but I’m going to let it be. You have enough work to do.
Stay good cops.
Lieutenant P. Ström
Toward the end, the lines skewed increasingly downward, and the writing became even more unclear. Maybe Ström had been drinking as he wrote. I shouted to Forensics that I had found the suicide notes and asked them to bring some plastic bags. Because the letter to Ström’s children had been left open, I read it too.
Dear Jenna and Jani,
I have always loved you, even though I haven’t been able to live with you for a few years. I know that you will be happy with your mother and Kai, even though I am leaving your life now.
Jani, you can have all of my police gear, and Jenna, you can have Grandma’s wedding ring. It’s under the bed in the locked gun case. Sell everything else and use the money for school. I’m sorry I don’t have more to leave you.
What’s going to happen isn’t anyone’s fault but my own, at least not yours or your mother’s. Always remember that. Work hard in school and grow up to be good people. Don’t be too sad about me. This is best for everyone.
With love, Dad
Hakkarainen from Forensics had come to the bathroom door. Someone would have to take the letter to Jenna and Jani. I decided that I wasn’t going to let it get buried in the evidence room. Putting the letters in the bags, I laid them back on top of the washing machine. I looked at myself in the perfectly polished mirror. There was a blueberry stain on my collar, which I rubbed absentmindedly. Ström had hung a pair of dark-brown-and-green-striped long underwear on the shower curtain rod to dry. I tried to imagine Ström doing laundry, but I couldn’t. He had always proclaimed that he wouldn’t stoop to doing women’s work.
To my surprise I heard Puupponen’s voice from the entryway. Maybe Lähde had called him too. I walked back into the main room where the forensic team and photographers were going about their work. It was strangely quiet. The usual theorizing and bantering you heard at a crime scene were completely absent. Everyone present had worked a body dozens of times with Ström bossing them around.
“Jesus Christ,” Puupponen said when he saw Ström’s body. “Maria . . .” he said, almost shyly.
“Hi. What are you doing here?”
“I was dropping a witness off at home, since he didn’t even have money for the bus, and I heard on the radio. I had to come . . .”
“I’m glad you did. Someone has to go notify Ström’s ex-wife and children. I’ll go, of course, because I was his boss, but it will be easier if someone else is with me. Can you come?”
Puupponen nodded and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket. He was paler than normal, his nose bright red and swollen, but that was probably just because of his cold.
“This isn’t going to need much of an investigation. It’s clear enough what happened,” Hakkarainen said uncertainly.
“Yes, but do it by the book. We don’t want any complications. As soon as you’re ready, you can take Pertti to the morgue. Has someone called Lähde at the station to tell him?” I asked Haikala. When he said no, I dialed the number myself.
“Hi, it’s Maria. Unfortunately we were too late. Ström shot himself right after he called you.”
“So he’s dead?” Lähde’s voice was full of dread. “Oh my God . . .”
“No kidding. Will you ask Taskinen to come to our morning meeting tomorrow? We’ll start the day off a little differently than normal.”
The paramedics brought a stretcher in and lifted Ström onto it. His bloody silhouette remained on the couch. I wondered who would have to clean the apartment and realized that I didn’t know whether Ström had any family—siblings or parents—even though I had worked with him for years. The paramedics covered the body, which looked too heavy for the narrow stretcher. Haikala removed his hat as Ström was carried past.
“You goddamn idiot . . .” Puupponen said with a shaky voice.
I handed him the plastic bag with the letter addressed to us.
“Were they going to fire him?” Puupponen asked after reading it. I didn’t know how to answer. And even if I had, killing yourself over losing your job still seemed insane, even though I knew the world could look awfully twisted after a long bender. I gave the letter to Hakkarainen and asked him to send me a copy by morning. I nodded to Puupponen to indicate we were leaving, but then the phone rang. It was Antti, and he was furious.
“Where the hell did you go?” he yelled. “I’m supposed to be at the Cultural Center in an hour and a half!”
“I’m at Ström’s apartment. Pertti shot himself.”
That silenced Antti. I said I would probably be home within an hour, so Antti could still make it to the concert if he took the car. He said he had already called his sister for emergency babysitting.
Although the ambulance had already left, people still loitered around the police cars outside. I had to practice my slalom skills to get my car out from behind the Forensics van. It was a relief to be alone if only for five minutes to try to collect my thoughts a little.
Ström’s ex-wife lived with her children and new husband in the same town house where Ström had lived with them before the divorce. Now the door said “Hirvi/Ström,” and I remembered Ström once making fun of his ex-wife’s new husband’s name. When combined with his first name, Kai, it basically meant, “It was probably a moose.” Of course the children still had their father’s last name. I met Puupponen in the yard, and we stood for a moment looking at the warm light that shone through the lace curtains of the kitchen window. I felt a deep compassion for the cozy, idyllic scene I was about to shatter.
Marja Hirvi, formerly Ström, came to the door. I had met her a couple of times in passing in the halls of the police station when she had been dropping off the kids on her way somewhere. Marja was a couple of years shy of forty, short and tanned. Something about her gave the impression she needed protecting. Her dark-green leggings and long yellow shirt emphasized the girlish look.
“Good evening. I think we’ve met before. I’m Lieutenant Maria Kallio, and this is Officer Puupponen from the Espoo Police.”
Immediately Marja frowned. She was a cop’s ex-wife, so she could see from our expressions that we weren’t there selling raffle tickets.
“Pertti?” she asked. “What happened?” From inside I heard the California accents of the actors in The Bold and the Beautiful.
“Are Jani and Jenna home?”
Marja nodded.
“I’m very sorry, but Pertti shot himself about an hour ago. When the police arrived, there was nothing they could do.”
For a moment Marja was frozen still. She had to moisten her lips to get the words out.
“So he shot himself. I can’t say I’m surprised. He threatened to do it back when I left him. Why did he do it now?”
“He had been put on administrative leave because he assaulted a suspect.”
“I hadn’t heard. We just got back from our honeymoon in the Canary Islands the night before last. The children were with us too.” Marja turned toward the door, which was when I noticed that she was pregnant, probably about six months along, judging from her belly. “They were supposed to go to his house this weekend. How am I going to tell them?”
“Would you like us—”
Marja shook her head. She could take care of her children. I asked about Ström’s other family. His brother lived in Vantaa and his father in a small town called Vammala, but his mother had died three years earlier of cancer. I hadn’t known anything about that either, since it had happened a little before I joined the Espoo police force. I told her about the wish Ström expressed in his suicide note that we not arrange a big funeral and gave Marja the letter addressed to Jani and Jenna. Reading that was hard for her, and she burst into tears, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off the cold coming through the open door. She didn’t ask us in.
“What’s going on here?” The man who appeared at the door had to be Kai Hirvi. I did a double take because Hirvi looked so much like Pertti Ström: tall and brawny with bad skin. He wrapped his arms around his wife’s shoulders and stared at us as if we were missionaries going door to door, making people cry. But when Marja told him what had happened, even his face fell.
“Let’s go tell the children,” he sputtered.
“Marja, we’ll talk later about the funeral, about who’s going to organize it,” I said. “Tell the children that if they want to talk about their dad or anything that happened, we are always here for them.”
I gave her my business card and then we left the family to grieve in peace.
“Are you going to be OK?” I asked Puupponen as we were walking to our cars.
“Why would you even ask that? I hated him.” Puupponen’s nose was running again, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. “But, you know, not even Ström deserved to have this happen. I’ll see you in the morning,” Puupponen said, opening his car door.
“Meeting starts at eight.”
I took a deep breath and then got behind the wheel. I drove home very slowly, as if trying to make up for my earlier speeding. Marita’s car was in the driveway. I hoped Antti hadn’t told his sister why I had to leave so suddenly. I didn’t have the energy to talk about Ström. Maybe with friends from work, but not with an outsider.
The darkness felt comforting, as did the smell of decomposing leaves. I took a deep breath. One, two, three. The moon was full and the air was still. Leaves fell from the aspen trees one at a time, as if performing an ancient ritual. I watched them for a few minutes until I felt calm enough to go inside.
I spent a while chatting with Antti’s sister, mostly comparing Iida’s development with that of her twin boys, Matti and Mikko, who were eleven now. I tried not to let it show that I wanted her to leave. Just after eight I started putting Iida down and lied when I said it would be easier for her to fall asleep if there weren’t any guests in the house. After Marita left, I read Iida three bedtime stories instead of one. I was surprised I wasn’t crying. I drank two fingers of anise vodka and took a sleeping pill. I was asleep before Antti ever got home.
In the morning I dressed in a sober black skirt suit, which I had purchased for Antti’s uncle’s funeral that spring. I ate, even though I wasn’t hungry, and as I drove to work, I thought about how we would have to reorganize the unit now that we knew Ström wasn’t coming back. When I entered the conference room, the others were already gathered, including Taskinen.
“Morning. Thanks for getting word to everyone, Lähde. As all of you already know, our colleague Pertti Ström took his own
life last night. Pertti wasn’t the easiest person to work with, and we all had our differences with him. But he knew the job, even if he handled it a little differently than the rest of us sometimes. This is difficult for all of us precisely because we had conflicting feelings about Pertti. We’re all probably feeling some guilt about him committing suicide. The department psychologist will be coming at two this afternoon. Please cancel any meetings you have from two through the end of the day. We’re going to work through this together.”
I looked at my colleagues. Almost all of us were wearing mourning garb: some had on dark suits, and Koivu was wearing black pants and a black sweater. Wang was the only exception, dressed in a dark-red pantsuit.
“Pertti left two letters, one of which was addressed to us, his closest colleagues. I’ll get a copy to everyone this morning. In his letter he asks us not to take revenge on him by organizing a big funeral. That’s something the family will decide, though. Now I’d like to observe a minute of silence in memory of Lieutenant Pertti Ström.”
Everyone lowered their heads. Puupponen tried not to sneeze, and Lähde swallowed. I still wasn’t crying. I handled the rest of the morning meeting normally. The biggest news was that the mushroomer, Mrs. Haataja, had been seen with Toomas on Saaremaa Island off the coast of Estonia. After the meeting, I spent half the day fighting with a bureaucrat in the personnel department. He tried to whitewash their lack of funds by saying that it would be disrespectful to open up Ström’s position before he was even buried. Regardless I said I wanted a temporary replacement by Monday.
Then I scheduled the cleaners to empty Ström’s belongings from the office he had shared with Lähde. I talked to Ström’s brother about the funeral arrangements and tried to convince him that Pertti wouldn’t have wanted an honor guard of uniformed officers at the church. During the grief seminar, I sat with the department psychologist. He took the lead, and I mostly just listened to the others. When he asked about my own feelings, I said I was confused and sad.
Fatal Headwind Page 24