“Rainer. Rainer Lind.”
Römpötti thought it had to be a coincidence.
* * *
Suhonen and Joutsamo walked on the hiking trail in Pirkkola Sports Park. They were returning to their car that was parked in the swimming pool parking lot. Suhonen tucked his hands in his leather jacket pockets.
“Have you heard the story about the whore who went to see a psychiatrist?” Suhonen asked. “After they spent a heated moment on the couch, they each said at the same time, ‘So, that’ll be 300 euros.’”
“That guy was a psychiatrist,” Joutsamo said with a chuckle.
“That’s what made me think of the joke,” Suhonen said.
The two had just inspected the body of a psychiatrist who had died while jogging. Joutsamo snapped a few photos, and they tried to determine the cause of death. The outward signs pointed to a heart attack, but an autopsy would provide the official word. Nothing they found suggested a crime.
“We could get a bite to eat. How about a greasy burger at Snacky’s?”
“Sounds good to me,” Joutsamo said. She’d been eating salads and other health foods all week and she was hungry.
Suhonen said he’d ask if Toukola from Narcotics would care to join them. He knew Toukola was on call this weekend too.
Joutsamo’s phone rang and she answered it. While she talked they reached the parking lot.
“Well?” Suhonen asked, clicking the key fob to unlock the car doors.
“Nothing special. That over-eager attorney called again. She wants to talk to her client before the hearing. It’s obvious this is her first homicide case, but she’ll learn.”
* * *
The two-story, red brick house was well cared for, but its boxy look exposed its age-it had been built in the seventies. Bay windows, angles, and appendages in single family homes weren’t in style again until the nineties. It was all about money. Special features were expensive and anyone who could afford them wouldn’t build that kind of a house in Lieto-they’d rather go to the upscale neighborhoods on the shores of the Gulf of Finland.
Römpötti had left Ansa Korpivaara’s house in a taxi-the same way she got there. The driver waited while she ate her veggie burger at a gas stationcafé and made a few phone calls. The fifteen-mile trip took forty minutes.
The brick house had a large yard bordered by a row of pine trees on the left and a low hedge on the right. The house sat about twenty yards back from the road, with the adjacent garage in front of the pine trees.
Römpötti had obtained Rainer Lind’s cell phone number, and she had debated about calling him. The man would likely not want to talk about the past, so Römpötti didn’t call. Ansa Korpivaara had told her what happened, and Römpötti just needed a confirmation. She could get one from the man’s first reaction, even if he didn’t say a word.
The gravel crunched under her shoes. She looked for any warning signs of angry dogs-she didn’t like dogs, she was more of a cat person. She remembered a time when they were doing a shoot in Järvenpää, in front of a known black market operator’s house. The owner tried to sic his German shepherd on them, but they made it to the car in the nick of time. She was mad that the cameraman had turned off his camera; the escape would’ve added great flavor to the story.
The yard was vacant, and the house seemed quiet. The garage door was closed and curtains were drawn in the upstairs windows. The downstairs also looked dark. The barren lawn seemed ready for the long winter. Römpötti knew someone lived there because she could see thin tendrils of smoke rising from the chimney. She thought the trip to Lieto would be a waste of time if no one was home, but she couldn’t know beforehand. She stepped to the dark-wood door. The frosted glass on the window by the door prevented a view of the inside. Römpötti rang the doorbell and heard its ding-dong. She waited and pressed the doorbell again. She could hear slow footsteps coming down the stairs in the house.
A tall, skinny, silver-haired man in a gray cardigan and dark pants opened the door. His expression was angry, but quizzical. A large hawk nose supported a pair of slender-rimmed glasses.
“Hello,” Römpötti said in a friendly tone. He could tell from her attire she wasn’t peddling art or selling Girl Scout cookies.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“Are you Rainer Lind?”
“Yes,” the man growled.
“I’m reporter Sanna Römpötti. Could we talk a bit?”
The man kept his left hand on the door handle, ready to yank the door closed. Römpötti kept a good distance from the door so the man wouldn’t feel threatened. She also thought it a plus that she was female-the old man wouldn’t likely fear she was here to rob him.
“A reporter? What are you after?”
Römpötti wondered if she should ask to go in, but didn’t think it was necessary. If the man wanted to talk, he’d invite her in.
“I’d like to ask a few questions about an old incident that involves you.”
She knew she was taking a risk starting with such an open question, and the man’s response would now depend on how big the skeletons in his closet were. On the other hand, she wanted to pique the man’s curiosity. He wouldn’t find out what she wanted unless he was willing to talk.
“What sort of an old incident?” The man cast Römpötti a questioning look.
I’ll tell you as soon as you agree to talk, Römpötti thought.
“It would be nice to talk inside,” she said.
The man’s curiosity got the better of him. “Come inside then,” he grunted.
Rainer Lind didn’t help Römpötti with her coat, but pointed to a hook by the stairs. As she was hanging her coat, the man opened the study door.
“Why didn’t you call first?”
“This came up suddenly, and I happened to be in the neighborhood,” Römpötti said. She knew the man didn’t believe her, but that didn’t matter.
A desk sat in front of the window and bookcases half full of binders lined the walls. The blend of furniture made it look like the pieces had been acquired one at a time, as needed. The room was just big enough to hold the white, round vinyl table with three orange chairs around it.
The computer was a fat, outdated model that looked like an old portable TV. A large apparatus, which Römpötti recognized as a fax machine, sat in one corner of the desk. The items in the room could’ve been from a 1980s-’90s office display in a museum.
“Have a seat,” the man said.
Römpötti looked around the room and saw a few photos on the wall. One was of the man standing in front of a big grocery store about twenty years ago. In another, the man was younger and the Statue of Liberty in New York City was in the background. In the third one, he was standing with a blonde woman his age and a girl in her early twenties. Römpötti’s eyes fixed on the last picture.
“Yes, I’ve seen your stories on television and, frankly, I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“It’s about a homicide in Helsinki a few days ago,” Römpötti said without disclosing Korpivaara’s name.
The man said he wasn’t aware of a case like that and still didn’t understand why Römpötti was in Lieto. His tone grew increasingly irritated.
“Actually I’m here for one reason. The man suspected of this homicide is someone you know from a couple of decades ago.”
The man looked confused, and Römpötti could tell that he was mentally going through a list of people he knew.
“Homicide? And I know the killer? Are you sure you’re in the right house?”
“His name is Jorma Korpivaara.”
Römpötti watched the man and could see the memories returning-his expression changed from initial surprise to irritation, and finally to guilt. Römpötti knew that Ansa Korpivaara’s account was true.
Rainer Lind looked at Römpötti. He understood it was futile to try to deny anything.