11
I RESPECT ABDI’S GRIEF, but melodrama won’t solve his daughter’s murder. Routine police procedure will. Seppo’s car is in the police garage. I park next to it, take the cameras out of my fishing-tackle boxes and start snapping photos.
The BMW is a gorgeous vehicle, graphite with satin chrome exterior trim and star-spoked wheels. I open all the doors, walk around it and look for anything inside that might stand out. This car just says money. The interior is leather trimmed with matte black stainless steel and variegated poplar. It has automatic climate control and a LOGIC7 sound system. To avoid touching anything, I use a flashlight and a mirror to look under the seats. I find no evidence, but see three subwoofers. They give me an idea.
This kind of work makes me feel confident, in control. I can use this time to be alone, to do my job in peace. A rack under the dash holds around twenty CDs, mostly techno crap. I lift fingerprints from the steering wheel and dashboard, then go back to my car and choose music appropriate for this type of work. I decide on Miles Davis,
I divide the interior into quadrants and go through the car inch by inch. In the backseat, I find pubic hair, fibers and small semen stains. I don’t find blood, so I use Luminol in the area of the semen, but just a touch. Traces light up. My mood is much improved. I’ve gotten everything I could ask for and more. Now maybe Seppo and I will have something to talk about.
It occurs to me that I haven’t checked on Kate today. I feel guilty and hit the speed dial on my cell phone.
“Hi Kari,” she says.
“Sorry I haven’t called. This investigation is keeping me busy. How are you?”
“Fine. I was hoping I would hear from you. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for last night.”
“For what?”
“For breaking the table.”
“It was an accident, and anyway, I don’t care about the table.”
“For behaving like a child over a broken leg.”
“Jesus Kate, you lay on the side of a mountain worrying about our child-our children-in screaming pain. Anybody would have been traumatized.”
“Well, I’m not anymore. I’m getting used to the cast and crutches. Mrs. Tervo came by today to check on me. She brought me smoked whitefish and potatoes with cream sauce for lunch. They were delicious. Thanks for calling her and for moving the bed.”
“Do you need anything?”
“It’s pretty hard to get around and moving still hurts some. You mentioned finding someone to help with errands.”
“I’ll take care of it this afternoon.”
“You’re a love. Hey, didn’t you say you broke the case?”
I can’t help it, I don’t want to talk to Kate about my ex-wife and her affair with Seppo. She knows the basics, but I’ve never discussed it beyond that. I guess she knows it makes me uncomfortable and so never pressed it. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“You sound like you’re in a hurry.”
All I want right now is to be with her. “Yeah, I have to go. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“I love you Kari.”
Finns seldom tell each other they love one another, and we seldom call each other by name without cause. The two in conjunction is so intimate that I’m moved every time she does it. “I love you too Kate.”
I GO BACK INTO the police station. Valtteri is staring at a computer monitor in the common room. I sit on the edge of his desk. “How are things?”
He looks up at me. The circles under his eyes are so dark that they look like bruises. “Okay. You?”
“Good. I processed the BMW. It’s a gold mine. Blood, semen, everything.”
He looks surprised, smiles. “That’s great.”
“You check on Seppo lately?” I ask.
“No. He didn’t say a word while I processed him. I figured I’d let him stew for a while.”
“I’ll pay him a visit, let him know how the case against him is progressing.”
“Want me to come along?”
I guess he’s worried because of what happened earlier. I don’t blame him. “I’m close to a hundred percent certain he killed Sufia. When he threatened Kate, I pictured him doing the same thing to her and I lost it. It won’t happen again.”
He nods. “Okay.”
I also guess he’s afraid that I can’t separate this case from what happened years ago, but doesn’t want to broach the subject. I don’t want to either. Still, I open the door in case he feels he needs to. “Do you think I should give up this case?”
He stares at the desktop, considers it. “No, but some people might think otherwise.”
Enough said. I change the subject. “Listen, before I forget, Kate’s having a hard time with her broken leg and could use some help at home. Running errands, shopping, a little cleaning. Think one of your kids might be interested in making a little extra spending money?”
“My boy Heikki can do it. He’s been out of sorts lately, it’ll give him something to do. I’ll call and tell him to go over this afternoon. He was disappointed when we didn’t go hunting. Some extra money might cheer him up.”
“I appreciate it. Do you know if Antti and Jussi finished processing Seppo’s house?”
“Antti called about half an hour ago and said they’re done. They’ve got a lot of stuff to be analyzed, but nothing definite.”
“Then I need to release the house to Heli. Give her a call and tell her to come pick up the keys.”
We sit in silence for a minute. Valtteri looks thoughtful. “You, Heli, Seppo, this case,” he says. “You shouldn’t give it up. No matter what. It’s the will of God. It has to be.”
I leave Valtteri, still seeming reflective, thinking that even for him, it seemed like an odd thing to say.
THE DETENTION CELLS ARE in the basement. My timing is good. As I walk down the stairs, I hear Seppo screaming, “Hey! Hey! Somebody let me out of here!”
It took all of three hours to break him. The cell door is steel. I slide open the observation port and look in. His face is pressed against the inside.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Please let me out. I can’t stand it in here.”
“Stick your hands out the window.”
He looks like he’s afraid I’ll rip them off, but he does it. I hand-cuff him. “Now move away from the door.”
I unlock it and step inside. He almost falls backing away from me. His piss-stained expensive suit is gone, along with his bravado. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both way too big for him.
“Where did you get the clothes?” I ask.
“The sergeant gave them to me. I was expecting an orange prison jumpsuit or something.”
“You’ve been watching too much American TV.”
Valtteri’s Christian charity applies even to psychotic murderers. They’re his own clothes. The T-shirt is tucked into the jeans and accents Seppo’s beer belly. His face is red from broken blood vessels. It takes years of hard drinking to acquire that look. I can bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds. Seppo doesn’t look like he could bench-press a vodka bottle.
“Want a smoke?” I ask.
