He jumps off his cot. “I figured something out. If I can prove I didn’t kill Sufia, will you let me go?”
“That’s the way it works.”
“Yesterday, when you came down here, you said it had been forty-nine hours since Sufia was murdered.”
“So?”
“When we went upstairs, I saw a clock. It was three then, so Sufia was killed at two.”
“That’s right, Sherlock.”
“I was on the phone around that time, you can check.”
I start to close the window. “I did check. Nice try.”
“Wait.” He pushes a hand through the port, holds it open. “I wasn’t talking on my cell phone. The battery was almost dead, so I used the landline in the room. I was staying in a cabin in the Hullu Poro hotel.”
It’s next to the bar and restaurant. He gives me a name. “I’ll look into it.” I shut the port in his face.
I check out his story. Seppo was registered there. He made a call a little later than he said, at two forty-one P.M., and talked for nineteen minutes. I get the number and call Seppo’s friend. He confirms the conversation.
“How would you describe Seppo’s emotional state during your conversation?” I ask.
“He was Seppo, nothing special.”
“You detected no agitation in his voice?”
“He was happier than I’ve heard him sound for a while.”
“What did you and he talk about?”
He hesitates. “It was pretty personal.”
“Seppo is locked in a cell and about to be charged with murder. Is it more personal than that?”
“It’s about her, then. You arrested Seppo for it?”
“Are you referring to Sufia Elmi?”
“Yeah.”
I wait, but he doesn’t say anything. “What did you talk about?”
He sighs. “Okay. Seppo talked about that girl.”
“What did he say?”
“Shit. Well, I won’t lie for him. The girl had just left. He went on about how she sucked him and fucked him. That’s all he talked about the whole time. That’s why he called me, to brag about it.”
Now I know where Sufia was abducted. The killer must have driven her straight from the hotel to Aslak’s reindeer farm.
“Did he say if he had feelings for her outside of their sexual relationship?”
“You mean was he in love with her?”
“I mean feelings. Love, hate, whatever.”
“No, I didn’t get any of that.”
“Well, what did you get? What was his attitude, his demeanor, when he discussed Sufia Elmi?”
He doesn’t say anything. I can almost hear him thinking.
“Listen,” I say, “a woman has been murdered. Bringing her justice is more important than your concept of duty toward a drinking buddy.”
“Jesus, you just don’t quit. He called her his nigger. You happy now? He said, ‘My nigger got on her knees.’ He said, ‘Nigger looked up at me with those gorgeous eyes while she sucked my cock. I blew in that beautiful nigger’s face. Nigger whore took it in the ass.’ He went on like that.”
Nigger whore. The words cut into Sufia’s torso. “He used the phrase ‘nigger whore.’ You’re certain.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to know Seppo. He doesn’t mean anything. He talks shit, tries to act like he’s a big man. He does it because he feels small. He’s not a bad guy or I wouldn’t be his friend.”
“Yeah, I’m getting a real sense of his underlying sensitivity. I’ll be in touch.” I hang up.
17
Jaakko, gossip columnist and writer of true-crime horseshit, walks into my office. He’s a little guy with a scraggly beard, full of energy. “Thanks for giving me the tip about the murder,” he says.
I finish the last sentence of my report to the national chief of police and e-mail it before looking up. “I did you a favor,” I say, “treated you like a professional journalist. You repaid me by writing about Sufia Elmi with disdain and disrespect. You released details of the crime I didn’t want published, and the photos you printed were exploitative. I just called you in here to tell you that. Now get out.”
He winces like I slapped him. “If you mean the comparison to the Black Dahlia murder, I meant no disrespect. The two killings are similar.”
“Putting a Hollywood spin on her murder makes it seem inconsequential. How do you think publishing those photos made her parents feel? I spoke to her father. They’re devastated.”
He looks penitent. “Can I sit?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry I offended you, but anybody would have published the photos. Alibi even held the presses to get the story in. Sales were up sixty percent. And, well, true-crime stories are a hobby for me. When I heard the details, the Black Dahlia was the first thing that came into my head.”
“Where did you get the crime scene details?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“How much did you pay the diener?” He ignores the question. “I’d like to interview you about the case.”
“I’m busy, go away.”
“Your ex-wife called Ilta-sanomat today.”
I should have expected this. “And?”
“She says she left you for Seppo Niemi, and you arrested him for Sufia’s murder. She says you’re framing him. Care to comment?”
“No.” Something occurs to me. “How did Sufia’s murder remind you of the Black Dahlia case?”
“I’ll tell you, if you answer a few questions.”
“You’re out of the loop. I can find out about the Black Dahlia case on my own.”
“And I can find out about the murder investigation without you. This thing about you and Seppo Niemi, I’ll find that out too.”
“Go ahead.”
He turns to leave, then looks back at me. “I’m still grateful to you for the lead, so I’ll tell you this. The Black Dahlia, Elizabeth Short, was dumped in a vacant lot in Los Angeles. Sufia was killed in a snowfield, sort of a rural equivalent. Short was cut in half and Sufia had a deep slash in her abdomen. Both had a piece of their breast cut off. Both had writing scratched into their skin. The crimes aren’t exactly the same, but close enough to make me think of it. Most important, though, Sufia had scarred genitals, and Short had a genital birth defect. What are the odds of that?”
“No interview, but I’ll keep faxing you police reports,” I say.
Antti comes into my office. The results from Seppo’s house and car are back from the lab in Helsinki. Antti pulls a chair over next to me and we go through them together. DNA from Seppo’s toothbrush matched semen found in Sufia’s vagina and mouth. He drank out of a couple of the bottles and smoked some of the cigarettes found in her room.
DNA records from the sex offender database validate Peter Eklund’s story. The rest of the bottles and cigarette butts match to him. The blood in the backseat of Seppo’s car belongs to Sufia, the semen is Seppo’s. Hair samples from the car are both of theirs. The source of the tears recovered from Sufia’s face remains unknown.
We go out to the common room. Valtteri and Jussi are eating lunch. “The beer bottles in Seppo’s refrigerator and the one used to attack Sufia are from the same lot,” Jussi says. “They were sold at a kiosk about half a mile from Seppo’s place.”
I bring them up to date, tell them about the tears dripped onto Sufia’s face, about my interview with Peter Eklund and about Seppo’s telephone conversation.
“Let’s look at the timeline,” I say. “Aslak reported the murder at two twenty-five P.M. He saw a vehicle pull away and made the call when he found Sufia’s body. Let’s say it took him three minutes to do it. That puts the vehicle on the road at two twenty-two. When I left Hullu Poro, I drove the speed limit and I got to Aslak’s place in twelve minutes. If Seppo killed her and drove straight back to the hotel, that puts him there at two thirty-four. He calls his buddy at two forty-one. What do you think?”
“It’s tight,” Jussi says, “but possible.”
“That nigger whore stuff,” Antti says. “I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
“Me neither,” I say, “but I wouldn’t call it damning.”