his index finger. The rope snapped and she fell. An arm broke off. Only ash was left on the bone and it swirled away in the breeze. Sweetness watched as if in a dream state. Death fascinated him. A forensics tech started to yell at him. I poked the tech in the chest with my cane and told him to fuck off. He fucked off.
“I’m a French policeman,” Moreau said, “and I’m here at the behest of Veikko Saukko, who has some influence with the French government. It’s been almost a year since his daughter was shot and killed. His confidence in the Finnish police has waned. And so here I am.”
“It’s my case,” Saska said, “and a major reason I haven’t made any progress is that he refuses to cooperate with me in any way.”
“He’s an eccentric racist. You are half Gypsy. He calls you ‘that thieving Gypsy.’ He believes you steal when you come to his home. However, he likes me, because as a former soldier, I have killed many non-white people. He considers this the most admirable of attributes. I believe all these murders, beginning with the kidnap-murder of his family, are connected to this series of murders, and to the murder of Lisbet Soderlund.”
“Have at it,” Saska said. “I need help. I would appreciate it, though, if you share your findings with me.”
“Consider it done. If I solve the case, I will ensure that you receive the credit.” Moreau turned to me. “I think you should meet Veikko Saukko. It might lend perspective.”
“I was hoping to,” I said. “I’ve decided that the way to solve this case is through the interviews of a few key individuals. Some might call them interrogations, and the application of pressure may be somewhat more aggressive than is considered standard. Let’s say, with extreme prejudice. We’ll begin soon. You’re welcome to accompany us if you like.”
“You intend to go on a rampage?”
“Call it what you will.”
Saska frowned, disapproving.
“I have little choice,” I said, and pointed at the victims. “Look at these women. This can’t go on. People are being murdered almost daily. It must be stopped.”
To Milo and Sweetness, I said, “You have girlfriends, of a kind. You drink with them. That breeds loosened tongues. Don’t tell them our business.”
Milo smirked. “You mean like the way you don’t tell Kate our business.”
His point was valid. I ignored it. “Just keep your fucking mouths shut.”
I thanked Saska, told the others I would call them later, then went home to check on Kate.
I took a circuitous route, gave myself time to think.
As a young beat cop, I spent a lot of nights cruising these streets, watching Helsinki in the wee hours. The drunks drifting home after the bars closed. I watched a city awash in pain. I saw people run without direction, scream, beat their heads with their fists. Their pain and frustration shone and sparkled, beacons of anguish and insanity.
I played surrogate father to a young man so broken inside that he drank vodka upon waking and could drive a knife into a man’s heart without a thought. I spent my time examining women tortured and burned. I was lucky that I felt almost nothing. I remembered what it once was like to have emotions. Those poor tortured souls that felt were the ones who suffered.
Kate ordered a pizza and a bottle of orange Jaffa, her favorite Finnish soft drink. The salt and sugar in the pizza and pop did her a world of good. She was embarrassed and felt guilty, but for no tangible reason. She remembered little and wasn’t certain if she should be mortified at her behavior last night or not. She had discovered
26
I cross the street, go back the way I came, toward the clock over the entrance at Stockmann. “Gimme Shelter” is still stuck in my head. The pretty girls have finished their ice cream, but they continue to bop, bebop and rebop, and once again, the syncopation of their jam box techno and the Stones annoys me. The Gypsy beggar remains prostrate.
So, between January twenty-sixth, the day I asked Kate if I could become a more effective cop, a man empowered to truly help people by bending the rules of engagement in the war against crime, and today, May second, I’ve gone from, if not a paragon of virtue, a cop who mostly observed the rules governing my profession, to a man who has no qualms about breaking any law, committing almost any act, to achieve my own ends. I had become a changeling.
I don’t care. My transformation has brought me only success and wealth. Jyri’s invitation to hang out with his pals means it has also brought me acclaim. I’m sure he doesn’t brag about me as a thief. He doubtless describes me as his protege, but as a tough guy who bends the rules and who has single-handedly done what an entire metropolitan police department had failed to do, and turned Helsinki into the only narcotics-free big city in the world since Las Vegas during its golden years, when the punishment for dealing dope was a bullet in the head and a sandy burial in the desert.
And also, doubtless, he invented a fiction about the source of the monies accrued—he would have admitted only to a fraction of the fortune accumulated—and claimed it had all gone to campaign funds and worthy causes.
I make calls, check crime reports. Helsinki continues to go to hell. White and black youth gangs attack each other with knives, lead pipes, sticks, whatever crude weapons are at hand. Women, both black and white, are raped. Especially Finnish white women converted to Islam, referred to as nigger-fucking traitors. Helsinki suffers a barrage of race-related incidents. At public transportation stops, name calling and spitting is the norm. Little kids get no exemption. The emergency room at Meilahti Hospital is overrun with casualties requiring set bones and stitches.
The media covers up the incidents. They’re unreported or downplayed, maintaining a facade of racial harmony. Helsinki? A race problem? Nope, not us. Here in the Nordic Mecca, we live in brotherly paradise. Welcome to the City of Love.
I call Milo and Sweetness, tell them we’re to be on parade for the powers that be. Bring the girls. Wear your .45s in shoulder holsters. Wear jackets over them as if to hide them. Make an impression.
The babysitter shows up at eight thirty sharp. She’s a pleasant older woman in a floral dress and her gray hair done up in a bun, as if she’s been typecast for the role.
Kate and I arrive at Juttutupa a few minutes after nine. The restaurant is the perfect place for such a party. The building is known as “the granite castle” and looks out over a bay, Elaintarhanlahti. Juttutupa began selling booze in 1898 and has performed a number of functions over the years, including a time as a gymnasium, but most of them political. Various factions had possession of it during its early years. The Red Guard used it during the Civil War. Now the restaurant is next door to the Social Democratic Party. Come to think of it, even the gym was political. It belonged to the Helsinki Workers’ Association.
We take a taxi, since we’ll be drinking, pick up Aino and so are late arrivals. After Anu was fed, I pumped Kate’s breast milk dry while she was sober. The politicos obviously started boozing a couple hours ago, or maybe haven’t stopped since Friday evening. They have that look about them. Milo and Mirjami, Sweetness and Jenna, excited as kids at Christmas, showed up at nine sharp. Tables have been pushed together. Jyri comes over and welcomes us all, tells us he has a tab open for the group and not to pay for anything, he won’t allow it. He introduces himself to each of the women, and I see his charm for the first time. Without showing even a hint of the wolfish slut that he is, and without effort, he makes each of the girls feel like the only woman on earth. The man has a true gift.
We men go to the bar and get
