“Watch out,” I say.
“For what?”
“Vermin. They’ve been laying eggs in her for days.”
Rauha is slumped over, lying on her side. Milo makes an effort to examine her. He moves Rauha, tries to look under her for possible signs of violence. Water blisters burst and run. Rauha’s skin is stuck to the sauna’s wooden seat, slips through his fingers and comes off. Maggots wriggle out of her ass and drop squirming onto the bench.
I watch him try to be tough. He shudders but keeps going. He moves her head. Scalp slides off her skull. He jerks his hands away in disgust. I suppose because he can’t think of anything else to investigate, he uses a tongue depressor to look in her mouth for an obstruction of her airway, a sign of intentional suffocation. When he opens it, little newborn wasps fly out from between her teeth into his face. He loses it, starts to flail and bat at them.
“Warned you,” I say.
He glances at me and turns away fast. If we stay here in the sauna with the body, he might break down. I spare him the humiliation. “Let’s do the legwork,” I say.
We search Rauha’s house for medicines, prescriptions, hospital documents, anything that might clue us in as to why she died. Nothing stands out. When we finish, I call Mononen, the company that transports bodies for us. The dispatcher says we have about forty-five minutes to wait.
We sit in the kitchen, at opposite sides of Rauha’s table, bowls of stale cookies and rotten fruit in between us.
“Want a cigarette?” I ask.
“I don’t smoke.”
Milo stares at the bowl full of moldy oranges and black bananas. “I take it this is your first bad one,” I say.
He nods without looking up.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “It gets easier.”
He makes eye contact. “Does it?”
I lie to make him feel better. It doesn’t get easier, it’s just that people get used to anything over time. “Yeah.”
“We haven’t examined her,” he says.
“Sure we have, as best we’re able. They’ll have to shovel her out of there, and if she’s a crime victim, the autopsy will turn it up.”
I take a coffee cup from Rauha’s cupboard and run a little water in it so I can use it for an ashtray, then sit back down and light a cigarette.
“The other homicide members don’t like me,” Milo says, “and now I investigate a routine death and act like a pussy.”
I dislike the sharing of emotion from strangers. It’s a sign of weakness and makes me uncomfortable. But he needs to talk and I don’t think we’ll be strangers for long, so I give him what he needs and let him open up. “You just got your homicide cherry busted,” I say. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
He only stares at the rotten fruit again, so I prod him. “What makes you think the team dislikes you?”
He sits back in his chair, taps out a cigarette from the pack I set on the table and lights it.
“I thought you don’t smoke,” I say.
“I quit. I guess I just un-quit.” He takes a couple drags, and I see him hit by the rush of satisfaction that only un-quitting smoking can give.
“They had a ‘welcome to the new guy’ party for me a couple days ago. Bowling and then drinking. They think I’m an oddball geek brainiac, not a detective.”
I was on duty, couldn’t attend the party. I know a little about Milo from the newspapers. He was promoted over others with long-standing careers marked by accomplishment, so it’s easy to understand resentment toward him. Milo is smart, a member of Mensa. He got his job on the homicide unit because as a patrol officer, he solved one case of serial arson and two cases of serial rape. They weren’t his investigations. He did it for fun, as a hobby, by triangulating the likely areas of residence of the criminals. Once within a third of a mile, once within two hundred yards, once to the exact building.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
The dark circles under his eyes look like charcoal smudges. He smirks. “Because I’m a people person, and my extreme powers of empathy allow me to look into the hearts and minds of others.” This makes me laugh, and he laughs a little, too. “Believe me,” he says, “I could tell they don’t like me.”
“How did you solve those cases that got you promoted?” I ask.
“A couple psychologists-slash-criminal-profilers developed a computer triangulation program. Police departments are reticent to use it because it’s expensive, and because a lot of cops are convinced that their brilliant crime-solving techniques, also known as hunches, are superior to scientific method.”
“If it’s so expensive, how did you get it, and how come I didn’t hear how you did it?”
“I pirated the software, and since I stole it, I lied about it.”
I laugh again. He’s odd, but I have to admit, he’s an entertaining little fucker. “You’re one up on me,” I say. “I didn’t even get a ‘welcome to the new guy’ party.”
“They don’t like you either,” he says.
“Is this more of your people-person intuition?”
“After they got drunk, they bitched about you. The team doesn’t trust you because you got a job in an elite unit for political reasons. That’s not supposed to happen. You shot one man and have been shot twice yourself. That speaks of carelessness. You got medals for both those fuckups. That pisses them off. As an inspector, your pay grade is higher than the rest of us detective-sergeants. You make more money than we do. That pisses them off even more. They don’t want to work with you. I remember hearing the phrase ‘dangerous Lapland redneck reindeer-fucker.’”
I thought they were just standoffish because I’m new and haven’t proven myself yet, that it will pass when I do prove myself. Maybe I was wrong.
“Actually,” Milo says, “Saska Lindgren said some good things about you. He told the others he thought they should give you a chance.”
Saska is half Gypsy. An outsider by race. It stands to reason he would be more receptive to someone like me. According to many, including my boss, he’s one of Finland’s best homicide cops. He’s served as a UN peacekeeper in Palestine, worked for the ICTY-the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia-investigating war crimes, executions and mass graves in Bosnia, and identified bodies in Thailand after the tsunami of 2004 that devastated the region. The numerous certificates of achievement lining the walls of his office attest to the many educational police conferences he’s attended worldwide. He’s also one of Finland’s leading experts in bloodstain-pattern analysis. Additionally, he’s involved in many works that benefit the community. He’s such a do-gooder that, up to now, I found him annoying. Maybe I’ll try to readjust my opinion.
“Since we’re the black sheep,” Milo says, “by default, we may find ourselves working together a lot.”
The guys from Mononen show up for Rauha Anttila’s body. We watch them scrape up her corpse-then we move on.
3
We drive back to the Pasila station through a torrent of snow, get there at eleven thirty p.m.
Milo and I walk down the long corridor. I open the door to my office. The national chief of police, Jyri Ivalo, is sitting at my desk, in my chair. Milo gives me a look of quizzical respect and meanders down the hall toward his own office.
Jyri and I have spoken on the phone several times, but I haven’t seen him in person since 1996, when he decorated and promoted me for bravery after I was shot in the line of duty.
I was a beat cop in Helsinki and answered an armed robbery call at Tillander, the most expensive jewelry store in the city, on Aleksanterinkatu, in the heart of the downtown shopping district, in the middle of June. My partner and I arrived as two thieves exited the store carrying backpacks weighted down with jewelry. They pulled guns. One of them fired a shot at us, then they separated and ran. I chased the shooter down a street crowded with shoppers and tourists. The thief stopped, turned and fired. My pistol was in my hand, but he surprised me. I was running when the bullet hit me and blew out my left knee, which I had already wrecked playing hockey in high school. I fell hard to the pavement. The thief decided to kill me, but I got a shot off first and the bullet hit him in the side. He went down, but raised his pistol to fire again. I told him to lower his arm. He didn’t. I blew his head off.