He looks at Valtteri, doesn’t answer.
“I count down from five. You don’t agree to my terms, I blow your brains out.”
He starts to cry.
“Five, four, three… ”
His voice is shrill like a child’s. “I agree, I agree.”
“Too late, you fucking cunt. BOOM!” I shout it in his ear.
Seppo faints and slumps over in a puddle of his own piss. Valtteri and I look at each other through the open door. “Let’s go,” he says, “it’s cold out here.”
I stumble past Seppo out of the cruiser. “You better drive,” I say.
We get back on the road. “If you feel like you have to report what I did, I won’t hold it against you.”
“You did what you felt you had to do to protect your wife. I understand that.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to lie for me.”
“You wouldn’t have to ask me.”
Valtteri is surprising me more and more every day.
10
We arrive at the police station. Valtteri turns off the squad car’s engine. I sit still for a minute and try to compose myself before dealing with Seppo again. Valtteri exits the car before me. “I’ll process him,” he says, and ushers Seppo from the car into the police station.
I get out of the car, light a cigarette and exhale. Smoke and frozen breath pour out into the dark in a great plume. The street is empty and silent. I’m tired. I want some peace and quiet. Hard-packed snow crackles under my feet. Every surface is sheathed in ice and snow. I feel like I live in a vast frozen hell.
I made a mistake threatening Seppo. He made a mistake bringing Kate into the equation. Questioning him will be harder now. I’ll wait, give us both some time. A few hours in a jail cell might make him consider what it would be like to live in one and encourage him to confess.
My cell phone rings and destroys my thoughts. “Vaara.”
“This is Sufia’s father. My wife and I are in Kittila. We wish to see you, and we wish to see our Sufia.”
I’m still shaken by my confrontation with Seppo and unprepared for Abdi’s call. “Sir, perhaps we could meet at the police station. I could bring you up to date on the investigation and ask you a few questions about your daughter.”
“No, we will not. Where is Sufia?”
I give him the name of the funeral home.
“We will meet there, and in her presence, you will tell me all that you know, how you intend to find her killer, and how he will be punished.”
I don’t want Sufia’s parents to see her ravaged corpse, and I don’t want to see it again either. “Sir, I don’t think that’s for the best. Please consider that it might be better to remember Sufia as she was, not as she is now.”
His voice rises a notch. “Sufia is our daughter. We will decide what is best and how we shall remember her. When can you meet with us?”
I have no choice but to respect his wishes. “I’ll leave for the funeral home right now.”
Abdi and Hudow pull their car up to the front of the funeral home just as I arrive in my Saab. I watch their silhouettes through the window as they step out into the snow. Abdi stands more than six and a half feet tall. Even in his winter coat he looks gaunt, thin as a razor.
Hudow is short and fat. She observes hijab, traditional dress for Muslim women. A loose brown dress hangs below the hem of her coat to her ankles. A scarf is wrapped around her head so that only the outline of her face is visible. Atop this arrangement sits a thick fur hat.
I get out of the car, go over to them and offer my hand. “I’m Inspector Kari Vaara. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Hudow looks uncomfortable. I forgot that she probably doesn’t shake hands with men. Abdi doesn’t look uncomfortable, he just doesn’t want to shake my hand. We stare at each other. I’m six feet tall, but I have to look up at him.
“My wife is cold. We should go inside,” he says.
We file through the front door. A bell rings, and a few seconds later the owner comes out of the back room. He’s a small man, about sixty, in a charcoal-gray suit. What’s left of his hair is gray. He looks at the three of us, and I see his confusion. The chief of police has arrived with two black people, one of whom is a giant. As like as not, a black person has never crossed the threshold of his establishment before. But then he registers understanding, must have remembered who his latest client is.
“I am Jorma Saari,” he says. “Nothing can ease your suffering, but please accept my condolences, and know that whatever is in my power to help you through this most difficult of times, I will do. You have only but to ask.”
This isn’t just industry patter for Jorma. I’ve known him since I was a kid and dealt with him on many occasions because of my work. He’s a nice man. He offers his hand. Abdi doesn’t take it.
“Good,” Abdi says. “Thank you. We wish to see our Sufia.” Jorma looks unsure how to continue. He must have seen Sufia’s body. “Mr. Elmi… ” he says.
Abdi raises a hand and silences Jorma. He has a commanding presence that derives from more than just his height. “My name,” he says, “is Abdi Barre. You have mistakenly referred to me by my daughter’s surname. We are Somali. As is our custom, my daughter’s surname is matriarchal.”
“I apologize,” Jorma says.
“Do you understand what I have asked of you? We wish to see our Sufia. Please take us to her.”
“Mr. Barre, of course this is your right, but I would spare you needless suffering. Sufia has not been prepared for viewing, and in my opinion cannot be. At this moment, embalming is taking place.”
Abdi raises his hands, presses his fingertips together. His fingers are long and slender, twice the length of mine. His face is scarred. He has the air of a holy man, as if a lifetime of suffering has hollowed him out and left him a creature of spirit.
“In Finland,” Abdi says, “I own a cleaning service. The people that work for me vacuum the floors and empty the trash in businesses such as yours. My language skills do not allow me to pass the Finnish medical boards, but I studied at the Sorbonne and in Somalia I was a physician. I assure you that whatever has happened to my Sufia, it is nothing that I did not see in my practice in Mogadishu. My wife saw Sufia as she came into this world, she can see her as she leaves it.”
Abdi’s Finnish is stilted but excellent. Maybe he doesn’t write it as well as he speaks it.
“May I have my technician make Sufia ready for you?” Jorma asks.
Abdi peers at Jorma over fingers like tendrils. “No.”
Jorma wrings his hands, as if absolving himself of responsibility.
We walk downstairs to an embalming room in the basement. A machine hums. Sufia is naked, on the same kind of table as the one used during her autopsy. The machine is draining the remainder of her blood. The embalmer is sipping a Pepsi. He looks shocked to see us, like we’ve violated his space. He shuts off the suction machine.
In silence, we look at Sufia. The torment she suffered, the hurt done to her, both pre- and postmortem, is as clear as if the story were written down. Still, I’ve never seen a body look less human, so devoid of life. I can’t understand why Abdi insisted on this.
Hudow chokes back a scream. Abdi puts an arm around her. She turns her head and vomits on the floor. When she’s done, she stands upright and tries to salvage what remains of her dignity. She speaks in broken Finnish. “I sorry. I clean up.”
Jorma folds his hands in front of him. “That’s not necessary.” Abdi looks at me. “Now, in the presence of myself, my daughter and her mother, you will tell me how you intend to prosecute the investigation of our daughter’s murder, and how her murderer will be punished.”
He wanted to make a point and he’s done it well. Since my first glimpse of the crime scene, this case has held tremendous gravity for me. Now though, I feel like all our lives depend on it. I look at Sufia, then at Abdi and Hudow. Her head is held high. She’s regained her composure and looks like a font of strength and nobility.