Timo Repo had ended up serving in the army himself. He hadn’t made it into officer school, and had had to settle for the NCO academy. “The subject says he performed well at the institution he termed the ‘rat academy.’ Psychological evaluations previously conducted on the subject and medical reports were acquired from the armed forces for the purposes of this mental health evaluation. They do not reveal any issues related to mental health.”
The evaluation indicated that Timo had met his future wife, Arja, at a bar in Helsinki in the early ’90s. A one-night stand had led to a relationship and marriage in 1993. The wife had one childless marriage behind her. Repo had also told the psychiatrist that Arja and his father, Erik, had occasionally argued, because Arja had once belonged to the Communist Youth Association. Erik’s needling had prompted Arja to look into his old hazing incident. Timo had felt caught between a rock and a hard place, and visits to Timo’s parents had subsequently grown less frequent.
“The subject described his family life as normal. According to the subject, alcohol was consumed, but not to excess. The subject indicates that alcohol use did not lead to absences from work. In 1995, a child was born into the family, which, according to the subject, was a happy and anticipated event. Joel’s birth was a cause for joy, but the same year had also been marked by grief, as the subject’s mother died of cancer.”
Interesting, Joutsamo thought. And yet the trip to Riihimäki hadn’t advanced the investigation in the least. She hadn’t found a single name in the papers that would have been useful in tracing Repo. No acquaintances, no childhood friends. Nothing.
Several things nagged at her, however. She found herself wondering about the bread knife and how Timo Repo had been gripping it at the moment of the murder.
Fifteen minutes later, she knocked on the door of Detective Lieutenant Johannes Leinonen. Leinonen had led the Repo investigation and given Joutsamo the preliminary investigation report to read.
“Come in,” Leinonen growled. He was sitting at his computer. A brown sport coat hung from the back of his chair. Sixty and gray, he was heavy enough that the buttons of his white dress shirt strained at the gut.
“Thanks,” Joutsamo said, returning the stack of papers to Leinonen.
“Find anything?”
“I have a couple of questions.”
Leinonen gestured for Joutsamo to take a seat across from him. His office was just like Takamäki’s and that of a thousand other police officers. The shelves were full of folders, and there were stacks of papers next to the computer.
“Shoot.”
Joutsamo referred to her notes. “In the first place, why was it classified as a murder?”
“Did you take a look at those photos? That woman’s throat was slashed wide open.”
“Repo initially denied the crime, and then he confessed. But only to manslaughter.”
“He had no choice,” Leinonen said. “The case was cut-and-dried. The lawyer, whatever his name was, I think it was Tiainen, talked some sense into him. Into Repo. No point fighting a clear case… That’s not going to help anyone.”
“But it never reverted to manslaughter?”
“No, because the act was so brutal and cruel. The medical examiner estimated that the woman had been alive for at least several minutes after the deed.”
“Were any reconstructions done?” Joutsamo asked.
Leinonen frowned and looked intentionally perplexed.
“What is it you’re getting at? I thought you were looking for this Repo?”
“Were any reconstructions done?”
“No, nothing like that. The case was totally clear.”
“Was her throat slit from the front or from behind?” Joutsamo asked, still thinking about the fingerprints on the knife.
“I don’t know. Does it matter? His fingerprints were on the knife, and there was no one else there. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
Joutsamo didn’t reply immediately. “I’m just trying to get inside Repo’s head and try to think where I might find him,” she said after a while.
“Is this some new profiling thing, or?”
“Yeah. We’re piloting it down in Helsinki Homicide,” Joutsamo lied.
“How about that,” Leinonen said. “More American BS, sounds like.”
“It’s a system developed by the Germans, as a matter of fact,” Joutsamo said, her face deadpan. “The Hannover police got really good results with it. But back to where Repo was standing when it happened. We can deduce from the bloodstains that the wife was on her feet when she was killed.”
“Well, he didn’t remember anything about it, so I guess we’ll never know.”
Joutsamo rose. “Do you mind standing up?” she said, picking up a twelve-inch ruler from the desk. “This is the knife. Based on the fingerprints, Repo was holding it the way you would if you were slicing bread.” She circled around behind Leinonen. “Look, if you’re holding a bread knife like this, then your hand isn’t naturally going to twist into a position where you could slit someone’s throat from behind.”
The lieutenant turned around and looked Joutsamo dead in the eye. “Well, it must have been from the front then.”
Joutsamo raised the ruler and made a slashing movement at Leinonen’s throat. “Pretty harsh way to kill your wife, eye to eye,” she said.
“I’m sure there’ve been harsher ones.”
“But the photos didn’t show any injuries on her hands from blocking the knife.”
“He probably surprised her,” Leinonen said.
“According to the witnesses, they didn’t hear any shouting coming from the apartment, and Repo wasn’t mentally ill.”
“Well, it was a cut-and-dried case anyway. Repo was the perpetrator. Appeals court confirmed it too, so there’s no point trying anything,” Leinonen said, annoyed. “Was there anything else? I’ve got some real work to do here.”
* * *
The red walls of Helsinki Prison rose up before Suhonen. A bald guard in a blue uniform was walking in front of him. Suhonen knew the way, since he had been to the “Big House” dozens of times. He had left his gun and phone behind at the entrance.
The guard opened the door and turned right, toward a narrow stairwell. The administrative offices were upstairs. The second-floor corridor had been painted light gray and was lined by rooms on either side. Fifty feet ahead loomed the iron door that led into the prison proper.
The bald guy knocked on the door marked Warden.
“Come in.”
The guard remained at Suhonen’s side as he entered. The room was big-thirty feet long and fifteen wide. Most of it was taken up by a long wooden conference table that butted up against the warden’s desk. Behind it sat a dry-looking forty-year-old in a gray suit. Saku Ainola, who had been promoted from assistant warden to warden a year ago, was an old buddy of Suhonen’s.
“Hey there,” Ainola said. “Give me a sec. I still have to deny a couple more leave applications.”
“No worries,” Suhonen said. There was a thermos on the table. Suhonen pumped coffee from it into a paper cup. Prison coffee contended in the same league as police coffee, gas station coffee, and hockey arena coffee.
It took Ainola three minutes, and after that he came over and helped himself to coffee, too.
“Annoying, this Repo incident,” he began.
“Prison escapes always are.”
“We didn’t see this one coming. No indication at all that the guy was a flight risk. Several years of a life sentence behind him. Probably would have been allowed to take unescorted leaves in a year or two.”
“What kind of guy is Repo?” Suhonen asked.
“Harmless. Caused no problems for years.”
“But before that there were?”
“Not for us, exactly.”
Suhonen knew that Ainola knew all the lifers. He read the court papers on all incoming convicts.
“Well,” Ainola began. “Repo admitted manslaughter in district court but still got life for murder. Then in appellate court he denied the whole thing, but of course the sentence didn’t change at that point, nor did the Supreme Court grant permission to appeal. After that, he began a massive but obviously futile round of appeals.”