He nods. “Okay.”
I also guess he’s afraid that I can’t separate this case from what happened years ago, but doesn’t want to broach the subject. I don’t want to either. Still, I open the door in case he feels he needs to. “Do you think I should give up this case?”
He stares at the desktop, considers it. “No, but some people might think otherwise.”
Enough said. I change the subject. “Listen, before I forget, Kate’s having a hard time with her broken leg and could use some help at home. Running errands, shopping, a little cleaning. Think one of your kids might be interested in making a little extra spending money?”
“My boy Heikki can do it. He’s been out of sorts lately, it’ll give him something to do. I’ll call and tell him to go over this afternoon. He was disappointed when we didn’t go hunting. Some extra money might cheer him up.”
“I appreciate it. Do you know if Antti and Jussi finished processing Seppo’s house?”
“Antti called about half an hour ago and said they’re done. They’ve got a lot of stuff to be analyzed, but nothing definite.”
“Then I need to release the house to Heli. Give her a call and tell her to come pick up the keys.”
We sit in silence for a minute. Valtteri looks thoughtful. “You, Heli, Seppo, this case,” he says. “You shouldn’t give it up. No matter what. It’s the will of God. It has to be.”
I leave Valtteri, still seeming reflective, thinking that even for him, it seemed like an odd thing to say.
The detention cells are in the basement. My timing is good. As I walk down the stairs, I hear Seppo screaming, “Hey! Hey! Somebody let me out of here!”
It took all of three hours to break him. The cell door is steel. I slide open the observation port and look in. His face is pressed against the inside.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Please let me out. I can’t stand it in here.”
“Stick your hands out the window.”
He looks like he’s afraid I’ll rip them off, but he does it. I hand-cuff him. “Now move away from the door.”
I unlock it and step inside. He almost falls backing away from me. His piss-stained expensive suit is gone, along with his bravado. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both way too big for him.
“Where did you get the clothes?” I ask.
“The sergeant gave them to me. I was expecting an orange prison jumpsuit or something.”
“You’ve been watching too much American TV.”
Valtteri’s Christian charity applies even to psychotic murderers. They’re his own clothes. The T-shirt is tucked into the jeans and accents Seppo’s beer belly. His face is red from broken blood vessels. It takes years of hard drinking to acquire that look. I can bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds. Seppo doesn’t look like he could bench-press a vodka bottle.
“Want a smoke?” I ask.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
I sit down on a metal cot bolted to the wall and shake a cigarette out of the pack. “No.”
He reaches out to take it, his hands tremble. I try to light it for him, but he’s shaking so hard that I have to hold him by the manacles to steady him. He inhales and coughs. The cell is sixteen by twenty-four feet square. Former occupants have scrawled names and dates on the gray concrete walls.
“Drab surroundings compared to your winter dacha,” I say.
He sucks on the cigarette like he’ll never get another.
“Let’s talk about Sufia.”
He coughs again. “I don’t know any Sufia.”
“Sufia Elmi, murdered forty-nine hours ago in a snowfield. You were having an affair with her. If you’re going to murder someone, you shouldn’t leave documentation. You gave her money, paid her rent.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I just spent a couple hours collecting evidence from your BMW. I found blood, hair and semen. Are you going to tell me they won’t connect you to Sufia?”
He purses his lips, like he’s trying to decide something. “Can I talk to you straight, without you hurting me?”
“If you want to get out of here, that’s the best thing you can do for yourself.”
“I didn’t kill anyone, and I think you know it.”
“I’m ninety-nine percent convinced that you did.”
“There’s been a murder, and you found a way to link me to it. After all this time, you’re getting even with me for my affair with Heli.”
“That’s not true.”
He starts to cry. “Can’t I just apologize? I’m truly sorry that Heli and I hurt you. I didn’t know you. All I knew was that I loved Heli.”
This note rings false. People have affairs all the time and I doubt he cares who he hurts. Seppo is a sack of shit. He’s begging, just spewing whatever he hopes will get him out of this mess. I don’t say anything.
He sniffles. “And I’m sorry for what I said about your wife. I was trying to be brave.”
“Ancient history has nothing to do with this murder investigation.”
“I know what Heli did to you was awful. I didn’t make her do it, I told her to decide for herself who she wanted to be with.”
“Let’s move forward in time thirteen years and talk about Sufia’s murder.”
He dries his tears. “I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t think I should discuss it without talking to a lawyer.”
“You want out of here? Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you something that might change your mind.”
We go up to the common room. It’s empty. I give him my pack of cigarettes and lighter. “Keep them. Have a seat.”
He sits and smokes. I douse the lights and start the PowerPoint slide show of the murder scene. He watches Sufia, I watch him. He shakes, then sobs a little. After a couple minutes, he’s weeping like a child. Finally, he holds himself, rocks back and forth, mutters “No, no,” over and over.
I think he’ll confess now. I freeze the projector on a close-up of Sufia’s ruined face.
“Please charge me,” he says, “so I can have a lawyer.”
“Not yet,” I say. “After the DNA samples come back from the lab.”
“I’d like to go back to my cell now.”
He wanted out of the cell. I guess he didn’t enjoy his taste of freedom. I take him back downstairs.
“Thank you for the cigarettes,” he says.
I slam the steel door shut and the clang echoes through the corridor. “You’re welcome,” I say.
12
I go back to my office, write a detailed summary of events and e-mail it to the national chief of police. A photocopy of Sufia’s address book is in a plastic sleeve on my desk. I have coffee and a cigarette and browse through it again. I recognize more names familiar from the tabloids. Sufia must have liked to surround herself with famous people.
I start dialing numbers. I introduce myself and say I have a few questions concerning Sufia Elmi. The media picked up on the murder through the national crime incident database and word has gotten around. People express shock. The interviews are all the same. No one knew Sufia well. The men say they went out a couple times, had some fun. The women say they hung out in nightclubs, went dancing, had some fun.
Valtteri comes in. “I called Heli,” he says. “She doesn’t want to see you and asked if I could bring her the keys.”
“Tell her no. Seppo’s car is a crime scene and she had access to it. I have to talk to her.”
“She won’t come.”
“Then arrest her and lock her up.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
He hands me a magazine. “I thought you should see this.” He walks out.
The front page of Alibi is splashed with the headline: “MURDER! SOMALI SEX GODDESS SLAUGHTERED IN SNOWFIELD!” When I open the magazine, I’m outraged. Two photos side by side occupy a quarter-page each. One is a still from her last movie, a display of her beauty. The other is a photo from the morgue, her corpse on a gurney in an unzipped body bag. She’s nude and ravaged, once again violated. Smaller but no less grisly photos are underneath.