Authors: James Thompson
On the way over, I called Jyri and arranged to meet him later. He was less than pleased that I called at such an early hour the day after Vappu, but I assured him it was worth the pain of having his hangover disturbed. I promised he would be glad to see me, because I had a hundred fifty thousand euros for him. I usually skimmed ten percent off the top, but there was so much money, and the amount had such a nice ring to it, that I didn’t bother.
I arrived about ten a.m. The street was lined with vehicles. The press, cops, forensics people, curious citizens, all milled about. Police tape lined the whole of the property, meaning the house and its small front and back yards. Spring was here. The snow was all gone now, and likely wouldn’t be back for the next few months. The temperature was about the same as yesterday, but a wet breeze made it feel colder. Milo was already there, sitting on the front stoop, talking to Saska. Sweetness and Moreau hadn’t arrived yet.
“So they killed the rest of the family,” I said.
Saska nodded.
“How?”
“It’s too much to describe. Go out back and have a look if you want.”
“I’m in no rush. I’ll wait on the others.”
“I don’t like looking at it,” he said. “It’s just another murder in a sense, but this one is just so fucking disillusioning.”
Milo got up and motioned for me to follow him out of hearing distance of the crowd. “We took the body and dumped it like we planned,” he said.
“Good.”
“Well…it was weird. We opened the trunk and the guy wasn’t dead. Almost, but not quite. He didn’t move or say anything, but
he looked at us and blinked. I wasn’t sure what to do. We could have dumped him in front of a hospital.”
“But,” I said.
“But Sweetness didn’t even want to talk about it. He took a pull off that flask of his, felt around the guy’s chest and found a spot between his ribs near his heart. Then he took that knife I gave him and just slid it into the guy’s chest. Killed him dead as a hammer. ‘Problem solved,’ he said. Then we suited up, dropped the guy in acid, sealed up the barrel and left.”
“What did you do with the car?”
“Took it to East Helsinki and torched it with a Molotov cocktail. I figured it would go unnoticed, since other cars were burned in the area.”
“Good plan.”
“That’s all you have to say? ‘Good plan’?”
I shrugged. “What should I say? What’s done is done.” I felt a little silly for thinking Sweetness needed to get used to murder scenes. Other than that, I had no other feelings about it, one way or another.
“Sweetness is a fucking psycho.”
“I watched you kill a man. Are you a fucking psycho?”
“The circumstances were different.”
“Semantics.”
He stared at me for a minute. “That surgery changed you,” he said.
“Listen,” I said, “I hired Sweetness in part because I recognized in him the ability to commit acts of violence without angst or upset. You enjoy violence because it makes you feel like a tough guy and reinforces your self-image. But your self-image is a lie you
tell yourself. If you hurt someone, you feel guilty about it, suffer, have to unburden yourself and cry on my shoulder. You probably feel bad about wrecking that SUPO agent’s face. Sweetness couldn’t give a shit less if he hurts someone, just doesn’t care one way or the other, and I don’t have to listen to his sob sister boo hoo hoo remorse.”
I pounded Milo’s ego to dust. I didn’t mean to. He stared down at his muddy boots. “You can be really mean sometimes.”
I fake smiled and held up my cane. “I can also be nice. You be nice, or I’ll tell my lion to bite you.”
He just shook his head and wandered off.
Sweetness and Moreau showed up, I introduced them to Saska, and we all went back to view the murder scene. The racists who promised retaliation proved as good as their word. First, the young men were gassed to death, and now this.
Their mother and sister were laundry-line lynched, then set ablaze. The laundry poles stood opposite each other, and cords to hang up wet laundry were stretched between them. The poles weren’t high enough for a proper lynching, so the killers had tied their ankles and wrists, cinched them tight behind their backs so they only needed about three feet of clearance, and hoisted them up the laundry poles. One body lay on the ground. The other, miraculously, still hung. The rope hadn’t quite burned through.
The bodies were mostly burned down to the bone, the flesh reduced to soot hanging on it. And in the grass near them, the words
neekeri huora
were burned into the lawn.
Milo shook his head in disbelief. “For God’s sake, why them?”
“It was likely the most repulsive thing the murderers could think of,” Moreau said.
Saska said, “I don’t know what they used, but it was a really powerful accelerant.”
Moreau did an impression. “I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Smells like…victory.”
“Who’s that supposed to be?” Saska asked.
“Robert Duvall from
Apocalypse Now
. These women were soaked in homemade napalm. I know it by the smell. It’s basically just gasoline and soap. It causes the most terrible pain you can imagine. Even this homemade stuff burns at about fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. And it’s obvious to me, by looking at the burn pattern on their mouths, chests, and in the lawn in front of them, that they were forced to drink napalm and it was lit while they vomited. They died spewing fire like dragons.”
Everyone went silent. Except for Moreau and myself, I believe they resisted the urges to both cry and poke.
“But why the words burnt into the yard?” Moreau asked. “‘Whore’ is singular. There are two bodies.”
“That’s directed at me, as a taunt,” I said. “I worked a case in which a black woman was murdered. Those words were carved in her torso.”
Moreau chuckled and faked a different voice. “So this time it’s personal.”
I didn’t ask which movie he quoted. “But what’s the point?”
“It’s obvious,” he said. “To up the ante. To keep you enchanted and your enthusiasm high. The horror of the violence keeps the pressure up and the case top-priority. For some reason, the killers desire this. Probably for maximum media exposure.”
Milo, Saska and I lit cigarettes.
“Why are you here?” Saska asked him.
Sweetness had been staring at the hanging girl, mesmerized. Finally, he reached out and touched her with his index finger. The rope snapped and she fell. An arm broke off. Only ash was left on the bone and it swirled away in the breeze. Sweetness watched as if in a dream state. Death fascinated him. A forensics tech started to yell at him. I poked the tech in the chest with my cane and told him to fuck off. He fucked off.
“I’m a French policeman,” Moreau said, “and I’m here at the behest of Veikko Saukko, who has some influence with the French government. It’s been almost a year since his daughter was shot and killed. His confidence in the Finnish police has waned. And so here I am.”
“It’s my case,” Saska said, “and a major reason I haven’t made any progress is that he refuses to cooperate with me in any way.”
“He’s an eccentric racist. You are half Gypsy. He calls you ‘that thieving Gypsy.’ He believes you steal when you come to his home. However, he likes me, because as a former soldier, I have killed many non-white people. He considers this the most admirable of attributes. I believe all these murders, beginning with the kidnap-murder of his family, are connected to this series of murders, and to the murder of Lisbet Söderlund.”
“Have at it,” Saska said. “I need help. I would appreciate it, though, if you share your findings with me.”
“Consider it done. If I solve the case, I will ensure that you receive the credit.” Moreau turned to me. “I think you should meet Veikko Saukko. It might lend perspective.”
“I was hoping to,” I said. “I’ve decided that the way to solve this case is through the interviews of a few key individuals. Some might call them interrogations, and the application of pressure
may be somewhat more aggressive than is considered standard. Let’s say, with extreme prejudice. We’ll begin soon. You’re welcome to accompany us if you like.”
“You intend to go on a rampage?”
“Call it what you will.”
Saska frowned, disapproving.
“I have little choice,” I said, and pointed at the victims. “Look at these women. This can’t go on. People are being murdered almost daily. It must be stopped.”
To Milo and Sweetness, I said, “You have girlfriends, of a kind. You drink with them. That breeds loosened tongues. Don’t tell them our business.”
Milo smirked. “You mean like the way you don’t tell Kate our business.”
His point was valid. I ignored it. “Just keep your fucking mouths shut.”
I thanked Saska, told the others I would call them later, then went home to check on Kate.
I took a circuitous route, gave myself time to think.
As a young beat cop, I spent a lot of nights cruising these streets, watching Helsinki in the wee hours. The drunks drifting home after the bars closed. I watched a city awash in pain. I saw people run without direction, scream, beat their heads with their fists. Their pain and frustration shone and sparkled, beacons of anguish and insanity.
I played surrogate father to a young man so broken inside that he drank vodka upon waking and could drive a knife into a man’s heart without a thought. I spent my time examining women tortured and burned. I was lucky that I felt almost nothing. I
remembered what it once was like to have emotions. Those poor tortured souls that felt were the ones who suffered.
Kate ordered a pizza and a bottle of orange Jaffa, her favorite Finnish soft drink. The salt and sugar in the pizza and pop did her a world of good. She was embarrassed and felt guilty, but for no tangible reason. She remembered little and wasn’t certain if she should be mortified at her behavior last night or not. She had discovered
morkkis
, an integral part of the Finnish hangover. A state of usually irrational moral guilt inherent to the Finnish consciousness. I told her it was OK, I was sure she did nothing embarrassing, just got loaded. This usually helps people recover from
morkkis
. I chilled out with her for a while, then went to meet Jyri.
I
cross the street, go back the way I came, toward the clock over the entrance at Stockmann. “Gimme Shelter” is still stuck in my head. The pretty girls have finished their ice cream, but they continue to bop, bebop and rebop, and once again, the syncopation of their jam box techno and the Stones annoys me. The Gypsy beggar remains prostrate.
So, between January twenty-sixth, the day I asked Kate if I could become a more effective cop, a man empowered to truly help people by bending the rules of engagement in the war against crime, and today, May second, I’ve gone from, if not a paragon of virtue, a cop who mostly observed the rules governing my profession, to a man who has no qualms about breaking any law, committing almost any act, to achieve my own ends. I had become a changeling.
I don’t care. My transformation has brought me only success and wealth. Jyri’s invitation to hang out with his pals means it has also brought me acclaim. I’m sure he doesn’t brag about me as a thief. He doubtless describes me as his protégé, but as a tough guy who bends the rules and who has single-handedly done what
an entire metropolitan police department had failed to do, and turned Helsinki into the only narcotics-free big city in the world since Las Vegas during its golden years, when the punishment for dealing dope was a bullet in the head and a sandy burial in the desert.
And also, doubtless, he invented a fiction about the source of the monies accrued—he would have admitted only to a fraction of the fortune accumulated—and claimed it had all gone to campaign funds and worthy causes.
I make calls, check crime reports. Helsinki continues to go to hell. White and black youth gangs attack each other with knives, lead pipes, sticks, whatever crude weapons are at hand. Women, both black and white, are raped. Especially Finnish white women converted to Islam, referred to as nigger-fucking traitors. Helsinki suffers a barrage of race-related incidents. At public transportation stops, name calling and spitting is the norm. Little kids get no exemption. The emergency room at Meilahti Hospital is overrun with casualties requiring set bones and stitches.
The media covers up the incidents. They’re unreported or downplayed, maintaining a façade of racial harmony. Helsinki? A race problem? Nope, not us. Here in the Nordic Mecca, we live in brotherly paradise. Welcome to the City of Love.
I call Milo and Sweetness, tell them we’re to be on parade for the powers that be. Bring the girls. Wear your .45s in shoulder holsters. Wear jackets over them as if to hide them. Make an impression.
The babysitter shows up at eight thirty sharp. She’s a pleasant older woman in a floral dress and her gray hair done up in a bun, as if she’s been typecast for the role.
Kate and I arrive at Juttutupa a few minutes after nine. The restaurant is the perfect place for such a party. The building is known as “the granite castle” and looks out over a bay, Eläintarhanlahti. Juttutupa began selling booze in 1898 and has performed a number of functions over the years, including a time as a gymnasium, but most of them political. Various factions had possession of it during its early years. The Red Guard used it during the Civil War. Now the restaurant is next door to the Social Democratic Party. Come to think of it, even the gym was political. It belonged to the Helsinki Workers’ Association.
We take a taxi, since we’ll be drinking, pick up Aino and so are late arrivals. After Anu was fed, I pumped Kate’s breast milk dry while she was sober. The politicos obviously started boozing a couple hours ago, or maybe haven’t stopped since Friday evening. They have that look about them. Milo and Mirjami, Sweetness and Jenna, excited as kids at Christmas, showed up at nine sharp. Tables have been pushed together. Jyri comes over and welcomes us all, tells us he has a tab open for the group and not to pay for anything, he won’t allow it. He introduces himself to each of the women, and I see his charm for the first time. Without showing even a hint of the wolfish slut that he is, and without effort, he makes each of the girls feel like the only woman on earth. The man has a true gift.