Lucifer’s Tears

Jyri sighs. ‘Me. The interior minister. We’re plugged into the intelligence community. We learn things. We know things.’

‘Even if he was, again, so what? He’s dead.’

‘As are all the other Finns who worked in it, except for one. Arvid Lahtinen, age ninety. Eyewitness testimony states that he, among other Finns, personally took part in executions. The Simon Wiesenthal Center sent a formal request that Finland investigate the matter, which we haven’t done to their satisfaction, and now Germany has requested extradition. They want to charge Lahtinen with accessory to murder.’

‘How the fuck can Germany charge him with anything? The claim is that he worked for them.’

‘Ah. But you see, therein lies the rub. Germany granted general amnesty for war crimes to its own citizens in 1969, so it has to expiate its sins by punishing others. They recently filed similar charges against another old man, accused him of being a guard at Sobibor and involved in the killing of twenty-nine thousand Jews. They extradited him from the U.S.’

‘How can the world not have realized that Finland had a stalag on its soil until sixty-five years after the war ended?’

‘Potential Finnish culpability has been largely ignored because of language lockout. We don’t want to talk about it, and very few people in this world besides us can read our documentation. It seems someone at the Wiesenthal Center learned to read Finnish and noticed Tervomaa’s book.’

‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’

‘Finland and Germany have an extradition treaty. The Interior Ministry has to at least investigate the matter. The minister wants you to interview Arvid Lahtinen.’

Now it all becomes clear. ‘Because if I find the old man took part in the Holocaust, it means my grandfather did, too. I’ll give you credit, that’s conniving.’

‘I liked it. Lahtinen is notoriously irascible and has a habit of telling people to fuck off. We need him to cooperate. You charm him, tell him your grandfather served with him, get him to talk to you. Either come back with proof that he’s not guilty, or the two of you concoct a convincing enough lie to get the Germans off Finland’s back.’

‘If he’s guilty, why lie?’

‘Arvid Lahtinen is a Finnish hero. Every December sixth, on Independence Day, he’s invited to the gala at the Presidential Palace. The president shakes his hand and thanks him for his service to his country. Lahtinen was in the Winter War in 1939 and 1940. He took out six Soviet tanks, charged them and destroyed them with Molotov cocktails. He fought in almost minus-fifty-degree weather and personally shot and killed hundreds of Russians. He slaughtered Communists at the Battle of Raate Road and helped save this country. Finland needs its heroes. Pay the man a visit, and keep that in mind while you interview him.’

Jyri sucks down a last sip from his flask, stands up, takes a sheet of notepaper from his pocket and lays it on my desk. ‘Here’s his contact information. I’ll report to the interior minister that you promise full cooperation. Keep me informed. I’m going back to the party. Some grade-A pussy was there, and I’m dying to stick my dick in it. Welcome to murharyhmä.’

He gives me a grin and a wink on his way out the door.

Chapter 4

As if I don’t have enough to think about, Jyri, never the bearer of glad tidings, has forced me to consider the possibility that my ukki – grandpa – was a mass murderer. I loved him dearly. Before he retired, he was a blacksmith. He gave me ice cream when we visited in the summers, and always let me sit on his lap. He used to put salt in his beer. He never mentioned the war. I remember somebody asking him about it once – I guess hoping Ukki would share some heroic tales – but Ukki kept mum.

I don’t give a damn about political agendas, but Jyri did a good job of manipulating me. Desire for the truth about Ukki will force me to talk to Arvid Lahtinen.

No doubt there are corpses to be examined. I turned my phone off while talking to Jyri. I wander down the hall to Milo’s office to see if the dispatcher has called, but can’t stop thinking about Ukki. The throb of the migraine renews itself. I open Milo’s door. He’s got a look on his face like I caught him jerking off.

‘You could knock,’ he says.

I have no idea why I just walked in on him. It’s unlike me. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘My mind was somewhere else.’

His service pistol, a 9mm Glock, is fieldstripped, in pieces on his desk. Beside it are a Dremel tool and a box of ammo. A few loose semi-jacketed soft-point rounds are lined up in a row beside a little jar. A desk drawer is open. I get the impression he left it that way so if someone knocked, he could scoop the stuff into it and hide it quick.

Milo’s scowl is justifiable. ‘Well, get your head out of your fucking ass,’ he says.

Milo’s shirtsleeves are rolled up, and I see that despite his small stature, he’s built out of ropey muscle.

‘What are you working on?’ I ask.

‘None of your business.’

Whatever he’s doing must be at least against police procedure, maybe against the law. His discomfiture amuses me. I suppress a grin and wait for him to tell me. We stare at each other for a while.

‘I’m trying to figure out if it’s possible to install a three-round-burst selector switch into a Glock Model 19,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘Because, as every soldier knows, three-round 9mm bursts take men down, single shots usually don’t.’

‘Three-round bursts often kill, not part of our mandate.’

He gets a cocky look on his face. ‘Show me where it says that in the police handbook.’

There is no police handbook or detailed set of rules and codes. He’s fucking with me. ‘Don’t be a jackass,’ I say.

He says nothing.

‘Well, can you?’ I ask.

‘Can I what?’

‘Install the selector switch.’

‘Yes.’

‘If you shoot someone, they might examine your weapon. If they see the selector switch, you’ll lose your job, maybe get prosecuted.’

‘The switch can be removed and the drill tap filled with a small screw, which no one will ever notice.’

I can’t hide my amusement any longer. I shake my head and laugh. ‘And what about the bullets?’

He grimaces. This must be even worse than modifying his weapon. ‘I’m drilling cavities in the lead tips and filling them with glycerin. When a bullet collides with flesh, it slows down. The liquid inside retains its inertia and releases excess energy by ripping through the front of the bullet. It leaves a jagged slug, and lead fragments continue to tear up tissue. It creates a larger wound than a normal round and causes severe hydrostatic shock.’

I’ve heard of this somewhere before. It comes to me and I tease him. ‘In a thriller called The Day of the Jackal, an assassin fills his bullets with mercury. Why not do the same? That way, when you shoot crooks, you can poison them, too.’

He doesn’t see the humor. ‘Obviously because when they autopsied the body, I’d get caught.’

This kid has a few screws loose. ‘Why not just shoot hollow-point rounds?’ I ask.

‘They expand on penetration but tend to remain intact. Glycerin is more effective.’

‘I see. Let me show you something. Give me a bullet.’

He tosses one to me and I catch it. I take out a pocket knife, notch a cross in the soft lead tip and show it to him. ‘It’s called cross-hatching,’ I say. ‘Some people call them dum-dum rounds. On impact, the bullet deforms and breaks into chunks along the cut lines. You get your big wound channels, multiple exit points, severe blood loss and trauma, and someone would have to look for it in order to detect it.’

He looks both impressed and disappointed. ‘My way is more fun,’ he says, ‘but I have to admit, yours is more practical. Where did you learn it?’

‘My grandpa showed it to me while he taught me to shoot.’

My own words take me by surprise. My ukki, now an accused mass murderer, taught a child how to dum-dum bullets. I suppose a man from his generation – born just after the Finnish Civil War in 1918, and then later a combat veteran of the Second World War – must have thought the generation to come should be prepared for wars of its own.

‘Your grandpa must have been a cool guy.’

‘Yeah, he was.’

I fold up the knife and put it back in my pocket. I think about where I got it, and whatever amusement I feel at Milo’s expense disappears. Valtteri’s son used it to butcher Sufia Elmi. Valtteri said he hid the murder weapon by keeping it in his pocket, because no one would ever look for it there, and so he would have a constant reminder of his failures. After the inquest, I stole the knife from the evidence locker, and like Valtteri, I keep it in my pocket so I won’t forget my own failures.

‘Are you going to tell anyone about my hobbies?’ Milo asks.

‘You realize that, even if you remain a policeman until retirement age, the odds of you having to fire your pistol in the line of duty are about a thousand to one.’

‘You did,’ he says.

Point taken. ‘Just stop doing it,’ I say.

He nods.

With agile fingers, Milo reassembles the Glock in under a minute. He practises field-stripping it. ‘What did the head honcho want?’ he asks.

‘Too much,’ I say.

The visit from the chief intrigues him. I can see he wants to press the issue, but restrains himself.

‘Any dead bodies to look at?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Some.’

Helsinki homicide is a body factory. I check out three to four corpses during a normal shift. Always understaffed, the three teams in murharyhmä, the homicide division, a total of around twenty-five detectives, look into about thirteen hundred deaths a year. Most of them, as homicide cops call them, are grandmas and grandpas, the natural deaths of the elderly. A fair share of the remaining deaths are accidental. About a dozen of those twelve hundred will be ruled homicides and investigated, down from about three dozen murders only a decade ago, due to improved on-site trauma care and response time. It’s saved a lot of lives. Also, I figure because of the massive volume of death investigations, some of the more subtle premeditated murders go undetected.

We also look into an average of a hundred and twenty-five suicides each year. Helsinki has a higher rate than the rest of Finland, partly because of sexual minorities. They come from all over the country to the nation’s largest city, seeking the acceptance and promise of happiness that they lacked in smaller communities. Since they have higher rates of depression and mental illness than the city’s norm, and hence a greater propensity toward self-destruction, I presume many of them don’t find what they’re looking for. In the couple of weeks that I’ve been working in homicide, I’ve looked at twenty-seven dead bodies, but I’ve yet to investigate one as a possible murder.

Over the next hours, Milo and I examine an overdosed junkie, a middle-aged man who died of a heart attack while watching television, and a teenage girl who got drunk, passed out in the snow and froze to death. It’s eight thirty a.m. We should have gotten off work a half hour ago. My phone rings. It’s Arto, my boss. ‘I know your shifts are over,’ he says, ‘but we’re shorthanded. I’ve got a murder for you if you want to take it.’

This takes me aback. I didn’t think he was prepared to trust either me or Milo with a murder and risk the precious murharyhmä winning streak and reputation, unless we stumbled upon one in a normal death investigation and he couldn’t take it away from us.

‘Do tell,’ I say.

‘A woman was beaten to death in Töölö. The responding officers say it’s bad.’

I ask Milo. He’s about to jump up and down from excitement. If I take it, it means I won’t get a chance to sleep tonight, but solving a murder might go a long way toward quelling the misgivings the other homicide unit members have about me. What the hell. I probably wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘we’ll take it.’

Arto gives me the address and says, ‘A forensics team is already on the way. Get over there now.’

Chapter 5

Milo and I take the car we signed out from the police garage earlier. The department is big on economy. We get a Ford Fiesta. Milo wants to drive, and given the icy road conditions, he does so faster than necessary. The murder scene is only a few minutes away. A time and temperature sign on the side of a building reads eight forty-four a.m. and minus twenty-four degrees. Snow cascades through the darkness.

Europe is experiencing its worst winter in thirty years. Even Helsinki, eminently well-prepared for cold-weather conditions, is in chaos. Hoarfrost coats everything. Constant plowing has created mountains of snow and buried cars. The central railway station is out of commission. Trains still running have to be frequently deiced, and it’s wreaking havoc on their timetables. Water mains have burst and flooded the streets. The water has turned into vast sheets of ice and brought the tram lines to a standstill. Traffic accidents abound.

This is the antithesis of the normal Helsinki winters I experienced living here years ago. Usually, in January, the temperature hovers around zero. Helsinki is like that most of the winter, although sometimes the temperature dips down to as much as minus twenty or thirty. We get some snow and it melts. Snow melt snow melt snow melt. Makes it like walking around in icy gray mud for most of the winter. Still, at a certain point some snow piles up. Then the spring thaw exposes a winter’s accumulation of dog shit, and the city is overwhelmed by the stench for a week or two. I missed Arctic winter during my seven years here, the meter or two of snow reflecting moon and starlight. The beauty of snow-laden forests. This year, we get to experience real winter in Helsinki, and it brings joy to my heart.

Töölö is a fashionable district. It’s not tremendously expensive, but has a reputation for a better class of resident. We pull up behind a police van, next to a snowbank in front of a pretty yellow apartment building at the address Arto gave me. My phone rings. The forensics team’s pathologist tells me their vehicle was involved in a minor collision with another car. One of the crime-scene technicians wasn’t wearing a seat belt and his head hit the windshield. He needs stitches. They have to take him to the hospital, and we have to wait until he’s patched up.

‘Fuck that,’ I say.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The investigation starts now, without you.’

‘That’s against procedure.’

‘Time is wasting. We’re setting a new procedural precedent.’

Pause. ‘Do you have the right gear to wear?’

‘Yep.’

‘Okay, we’ll be there as soon as we can.’

Milo and I enter the building and take the elevator to the fourth floor. A uniformed officer stands in the hall. ‘You the detectives?’ he asks.

‘That’s us,’ I say.

‘Where are the crime-scene techs?’

‘Late. They had a car wreck. Fill us in.’

‘This apartment belongs to Rein Saar, an Estonian citizen. He called in the murder himself. He claims an unknown assailant struck him from behind and knocked him unconscious. When he woke up, he was in his bed beside his lover, Iisa Filippov. She was beaten to death, and he was covered in her blood.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the back of our van.’

Something is amiss here. ‘Where’s your partner?’ I ask.

‘He went to get us coffee.’

So much for police procedure. ‘You left an injured suspect, alone and unsupervised, in the back of your vehicle?’

He reddens. I let it go.

‘What’s your impression of the situation?’ I ask.

‘Rein Saar has a bad cut on his head from a blunt instrument. It looks to me like a lovers’ quarrel ended badly. She hit him with something, he killed her and hasn’t been able to think of a better lie.

‘Does he need stitches?’

‘At least not immediately. The bleeding stopped. He might be concussed.’

Milo and I don surgical gloves and paper suits, complete with head and foot coverings, to prevent our fingerprints, hair and clothing fibers from contaminating the crime scene, walk into the apartment and take a look around. The home is neat and clean, in large part decorated with inexpensive furniture from Ikea. The kitchen is off the living room.

I go back out into the hall and hand the patrol officer the keys to the Ford Fiesta. ‘There are more gloves and paper suits in the trunk of our car. Get some for yourself and the suspect, put them on and sit in the kitchen. Just don’t touch anything.’

‘That’s not going by the book,’ he says.

I use Milo’s line. ‘Show me where it says that in the police handbook.’

The uniform doesn’t know how to respond.

‘It’s fucking freezing outside,’ I say, ‘our suspect is injured, and I’ll want to talk to him before he’s processed and treated for his injuries. I would prefer he not be angry, miserable and traumatized while I do it.’

The uniform shrugs. ‘It’s your case.’ He goes downstairs to fetch Rein Saar from the van.

Milo and I examine the kitchen, to make sure the victim can sit in it without contaminating evidence when he comes back inside. I see Rein Saar in the hall while he and the uniform put on paper suits. He looks like he took a shower in blood.

Milo and I walk over to him. ‘I’m Inspector Vaara. This is Detective Sergeant Nieminen. Do you feel that you require immediate medical attention, or can you stay here for a while so I can talk to you?’

He nods. He can wait. I instruct him and the uniform to sit at the kitchen table.

I turn to Milo. ‘Let’s go look at Iisa Filippov.’

‘The bedroom is a fucking mess,’ the uniform says. ‘Have fun.’

We go to the bedroom. The uniform wasn’t exaggerating. Blood soaks the bed around the corpse. Fine mists of blood feather the walls and ceiling. Her murder speaks of both method and rage. The smell of fresh blood and scorched flesh, menthol cigarettes, as well as urine and feces, is strong.

We need duplicate documentation so there’s no chance of evidence from our initial investigation being lost. I take a digital audio recorder and notepad out of my coat pocket. ‘Which one do you want?’ I ask Milo.

‘I’ll write,’ he says.

I start recording. ‘The victim, identified as Iisa Filippov, is located in the bedroom of a man identified as Rein Saar. The bedroom itself is about a hundred and thirty square feet and unexceptional. It contains a standard queen-size bed in a corner, headboard and left side of the bed against walls. The victim’s body lies on the right side of the bed. Other furnishings include a dresser, a single wooden chair, and a nightstand with a reading lamp and a woman’s purse on it. There’s one closet, not yet inspected. About halfway up, the closet door has an approx two-inch hole bored through it. The room shows no damage to indicate struggle.’

I open her purse and rifle through it. ‘The purse contains a Finnish passport issued to Iisa Filippov. From the photo, I believe the victim is indeed Filippov. It also contains a wallet, makeup and related cosmetic accessories, a pack of Belmont cigarettes and orange Bic lighter, a cell phone and a compact Samsung camcorder.’ I unfold a sheet of paper. ‘And a copy of Rein Saar’s work schedule.’

I give Milo a moment to write and catch up, then continue.

‘Filippov appears to be a woman approx age thirty, five foot five inches tall, athletic build, about a hundred and twenty-five pounds.’

I’m careful about what I say, because the recording may be entered into evidence, but before being beaten to a pulp, she must have been damned good-looking. Tanned. Long black hair cut in bangs. One eye is burned through, I guess by a cigarette, but the other is open and also nearly black in color. Great figure, something like 36-23-36.

‘She’s nude and lying face-up on the bed. Her feet are bound tight with several wraps of duct tape. Her hands are behind her back, underneath her.’ I kneel down and look. ‘They’re bound in the same manner. The remainder of the roll of tape is on the nightstand. Her mouth is stuffed with women’s socks. Her clothes – jeans, sweater, panties and bra – are wadded up in a pile on the chair, but I don’t see her socks there, so I think the ones in her mouth belong to her.’

‘Care to add anything?’ I ask Milo.

He shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’

Although this murder scene is gruesome, Milo doesn’t seem fazed by it, shows no sign of coming unglued, like he did last night when we investigated Rauha Anttila’s death.

‘Filippov has been struck multiple times with a blunt instrument. Her forehead is split open. Her left arm is broken just above the elbow. Bone protrudes through the skin. Her chest, on the right side, is flattened, suggesting that multiple ribs are caved in. Nothing in the room seems heavy or hard enough to have inflicted this kind of damage.’

Milo takes a look around. The place hasn’t been dusted for fingerprints yet, so with one gloved finger, he opens the closet door. We look in. I see only men’s clothing and shoes on the floor. A stool is inside; a closet seems a strange place for it. ‘Nothing here either,’ he says.

Then I notice equestrian clothing on the shelf on top of the clothes rack: shirts, breeches, a jacket and helmet. Interesting.

We go back to Iisa’s body. ‘Filippov has in the neighborhood of fifty burn marks on her body. Most are located on her abdomen, her genital area, her nipples, her face, and one through her left eye. The diameter and circular shape of the burns indicate she was burned with lit cigarettes. The wounds could have been inflicted after death, but I think they were probably used as a method of meting out pain. She voided her bowels either while being murdered, from fear or pain or both, or maybe upon death. Feces and urine are on the sheets between her legs.’

‘It’s enough to puke a dog off a gut wagon,’ Milo says.

I point at the audio recorder, press a warning finger to my lips and continue. ‘The blood pool pattern around the victim indicates that another body lay next to her while she bled. The outline of a head, arm and torso are clear. The resident of the apartment, Rein Saar, claims to have woken up next to the victim and found her dead. This lends some credence to his story. Most unusual is that Iisa Filippov has been struck dozens, perhaps more than a hundred times, with a light instrument at high velocity. It’s notable that her face around the lips was beaten with particular severity.’

The tone of my description is neutral, but the scene reeks of torture, horror and agony. Iisa’s face is nearly destroyed by cigarette burns, whipped to pieces, scored by marks and welts. Deep and wide-open wounds that ooze.

‘She was struck on the same surface areas, mostly on the face and torso, multiple times. It appears that the first lash abraded flesh, and that subsequent strikes deepened the wounds. This resulted in significant blood spatter. The walls and ceiling are misted with patterns of thousands of blood droplets that I estimate are an average of two millimeters in size.’

I hear the front door open, then voices. The forensics team is here.

Milo points. ‘Look at this little spot on the wall,’ Milo says. ‘Whatever the killer used to hit her smacked it and left a small tongue-shaped bloodstain. Given the clothes in his closet, I’d say Rein Saar beat her to death with a riding crop.’

‘A good guess,’ I say.

I go to the closet, get down on my knees and look at the floor. A bloody crop is propped up against the inside wall. I don’t touch it, leave it in place for the forensics team to photograph it. ‘Found it.’

Milo comes over and takes a look.

I speak into the tape recorder. ‘In the bedroom closet, we discovered the probable weapon used in the lashing attack. A riding crop, a little over three feet in length, with a leather tongue on the end. It appears to be made of fiberglass, has a leather-wrapped handle, and a loop on the end to secure grip.’

We return to the bedside. Both of us stare down at her for a moment. Milo asks me, ‘What do you think was the cause of death?’