Snow Angels (10 page)

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.

The smell of vomit mingled with chloroform is overwhelming. I try not to react to it. I give Abdi what he wants and start at the beginning, tell him everything that was done to Sufia, everything that has been done to find her murderer, and about Seppo’s arrest.

When I’m finished, Abdi asks, “How is it possible that you do not know if Sufia was raped?”

“As I told you, and as you can see, there has been excessive damage to the genital area.”

Abdi bends over Sufia’s body, looks for himself. “As I hope you realize, Sufia underwent the rite of womanhood as a child. Had she not been raped, she would be intact. It is clear that prior to being assaulted with the bottle, she was not intact. Please do not ask me to be more explicit in the presence of her mother. She is not intact, therefore she was raped.”

Abdi wanted truth, but now we’re on new and dangerous ground. I can’t find it in myself to tell him what I know about Sufia’s sexual relationships. I’m afraid it might be more than even he can bear. “I can’t discount the possibility that Sufia might have had sexual intercourse of her own volition.”

Hudow looks down, looks around. The embalmer is cleaning up the floor with paper towels. “I know people say things about daughter,” she says. “Those things not true. We no watch movies, not want see, but Sufia actress. Movies acting. Sufia good girl. Abdi and I no like her be in movies, but we proud for who she was. I proud her. She keep her good even around bad people.”

“I need not say more,” Abdi says.

I can’t destroy her beliefs and I wonder if Abdi shares them, or if the scene we’re playing out has been in some measure a charade designed to maintain them. “I will proceed accordingly,” I say.

“This man, are you certain of his guilt?” Abdi asks.

I want to be careful here. I don’t want to make a false promise, raise false hopes. “I can’t say with certainty, but the evidence gathered thus far is convincing.”

“Given your professional expertise in these matters, please express your opinion in terms of a percentage.”

Abdi inspires truth. “Better than ninety.”

“How will he be punished?”

“If convicted, and if no mitigating circumstances weigh in his sentencing, he’ll likely receive life in prison.”

“Mitigating circumstances?”

“Incapacity, such as mental illness.”

“In this instance, how long would his prison term be?”

“In my experience, five to seven years, perhaps served in prison, perhaps in a mental hospital, the cure of his illness a prerequisite to release.”

Hudow raises her hands, turns her face upward. A ceiling with a bank of fluorescent lights is above her, but she beseeches the heavens. She wails. “Look my angel. This no justice.”

Abdi puts a consoling arm around her. “Hush,” he says, “your screams will bring her grief.”

He turns back to me. “And if there were no mitigating circumstances, how many years would this man serve in prison?”

“Life means life,” I say, “but in common practice, murderers serve ten to twelve years, after which they receive presidential pardons and are released.”

“Look at Sufia,” Abdi says. “Do you believe that a sufficient penalty?”

I don’t need to look. “No.”

“Inspector Vaara, see to this man’s punishment, pallid though it may be. In the Koran, Surah 5:45 tells us: ‘Life for life, eye for eye, nose for nose, ear for ear, tooth for tooth, and wounds equal for equal.’ In Islam, it is permitted that the closest living relative exact justice in such a matter, but in this country it is not permitted. I abide by the laws of this country, and as such, you must act as my surrogate. I hold you responsible. Now, leave us alone with our daughter, all of you.”

I leave, feeling like I may be punished if Seppo walks free, like somehow I’m already being punished, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.

I RESPECT ABDI’S GRIEF, but melodrama won’t solve his daughter’s murder. Routine police procedure will. Seppo’s car is in the police garage. I park next to it, take the cameras out of my fishing-tackle boxes and start snapping photos.

The BMW is a gorgeous vehicle, graphite with satin chrome exterior trim and star-spoked wheels. I open all the doors, walk around it and look for anything inside that might stand out. This car just says money. The interior is leather trimmed with matte black stainless steel and variegated poplar. It has automatic climate control and a LOGIC7 sound system. To avoid touching anything, I use a flashlight and a mirror to look under the seats. I find no evidence, but see three subwoofers. They give me an idea.

This kind of work makes me feel confident, in control. I can use this time to be alone, to do my job in peace. A rack under the dash holds around twenty CDs, mostly techno crap. I lift fingerprints from the steering wheel and dashboard, then go back to my car and choose music appropriate for this type of work. I decide on Miles Davis,
Kind of Blue
. I load it into the LOGIC7. The garage throbs with cool jazz.

I divide the interior into quadrants and go through the car inch by inch. In the backseat, I find pubic hair, fibers and small semen stains. I don’t find blood, so I use Luminol in the area of the semen, but just a touch. Traces light up. My mood is much improved. I’ve gotten everything I could ask for and more. Now maybe Seppo and I will have something to talk about.

It occurs to me that I haven’t checked on Kate today. I feel guilty and hit the speed dial on my cell phone.

“Hi Kari,” she says.

“Sorry I haven’t called. This investigation is keeping me busy. How are you?”

“Fine. I was hoping I would hear from you. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for last night.”

“For what?”

“For breaking the table.”

“It was an accident, and anyway, I don’t care about the table.”

“For behaving like a child over a broken leg.”

“Jesus Kate, you lay on the side of a mountain worrying about our child-our children-in screaming pain. Anybody would have been traumatized.”

“Well, I’m not anymore. I’m getting used to the cast and crutches. Mrs. Tervo came by today to check on me. She brought me smoked whitefish and potatoes with cream sauce for lunch. They were delicious. Thanks for calling her and for moving the bed.”

“Do you need anything?”

“It’s pretty hard to get around and moving still hurts some. You mentioned finding someone to help with errands.”

“I’ll take care of it this afternoon.”

“You’re a love. Hey, didn’t you say you broke the case?”

I can’t help it, I don’t want to talk to Kate about my ex-wife and her affair with Seppo. She knows the basics, but I’ve never discussed it beyond that. I guess she knows it makes me uncomfortable and so never pressed it. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“You sound like you’re in a hurry.”

All I want right now is to be with her. “Yeah, I have to go. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“I love you Kari.”

Finns seldom tell each other they love one another, and we seldom call each other by name without cause. The two in conjunction is so intimate that I’m moved every time she does it. “I love you too Kate.”

I GO BACK INTO the police station. Valtteri is staring at a computer monitor in the common room. I sit on the edge of his desk. “How are things?”

He looks up at me. The circles under his eyes are so dark that they look like bruises. “Okay. You?”

“Good. I processed the BMW. It’s a gold mine. Blood, semen, everything.”

He looks surprised, smiles. “That’s great.”

“You check on Seppo lately?” I ask.

“No. He didn’t say a word while I processed him. I figured I’d let him stew for a while.”

“I’ll pay him a visit, let him know how the case against him is progressing.”

“Want me to come along?”

I guess he’s worried because of what happened earlier. I don’t blame him. “I’m close to a hundred percent certain he killed Sufia. When he threatened Kate, I pictured him doing the same thing to her and I lost it. It won’t happen again.”

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.”