Lucifer's Tears

42

I get up early Saturday morning, thinking about Sulo Polvinen. He seems like a good kid who took a hard knock. No doubt he assaulted the bouncers at the Silver Dollar, and alibis from his parents or no, he’s going to get caught. If he turns himself in, he’ll get a reduced sentence. I decide to have a friendly talk with him. I check my case notes and find his address.

He lives in East Pasila, not far from the police station. It’s a crappy neighborhood, built in the 1970s. It’s frequently called the DDR, because its concrete and bunkerlike buildings call to mind the architecture of East Germany during the Soviet era. I drive over without calling first, because I think if I asked, he would refuse to see me.

The temperature remains around minus twenty, the snow still flies. Driving is difficult.

Mama Polvinen opens the door of their dreary apartment. I introduce myself. With a look of distaste, she lets me in. The furnishings are all old and worn. Papa Polvinen sits on a dilapidated couch, reading a newspaper, sipping his morning hangover beer. Sulo sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, playing video games. They should be called the Family Big. Mama Polvinen is two ax handles broad. Papa Polvinen is even bigger, his body built out of thousands of gallons of beer. Monster-sized Sulo takes after them.

“Sulo,” I ask, “is there somewhere we could talk in private?”

Papa doesn’t approve. “Anything you got to say to him, you say in front of me.”

Sulo shrugs, that’s the way it has to be.

No one invites me to sit down, so I stand in the doorway and keep my boots on. “I just came to offer some friendly advice,” I say. “You stabbed those bouncers yesterday evening. They probably got what they deserved, but you’re going to get nailed for it. It’ll cost you years of your life. I’d like you to consider turning yourself in. You’ll still have to sit for the crime, but maybe for three years instead of five.”

Sulo starts to speak, but Papa speaks for him. “Sulo was here with us, as I told you bastards yesterday. Fuck off and leave him alone. He lost his brother. This family has gone through enough.”

“You’ve gone through a lot,” I say, “but losing Sulo to a long stretch in prison won’t make it better.”

Papa chugs his beer dry and throws the can down beside the couch. “If Sulo had stabbed those cocksuckers, which he didn’t,” he shoots Sulo a dirty look, “he did a shit job of it. They’re alive, and our Taisto is dead.”

So, Papa put Sulo up to the attack.

Sulo finally speaks for himself. “Inspector, it’s nice of you to come here. I know you did it out of concern, but I didn’t do anything wrong. And besides, I’m thinking about leaving the country soon. I don’t have a job. I may go to Sweden and look for work.”

As if we can’t extradite him from Sweden. That doesn’t leave much to be said. At least I tried. “Okay, Sulo, I wish you luck.” I take a business card out of my wallet and flip it over to him. “Call me if you need anything,” I say, and leave for work.

I drive the few minutes to the Pasila police station and sneak to my office, bypass the common room. I sit for a while and contemplate December Day, my print of the Albert Edelfelt painting. It portrays a village on a frozen river in sepia and monochromatic colors. I hung it here because it soothes me.

I think about my meeting with Filippov later and what I could possibly say to him. I come up with nothing. I call Jyri and fill him in. I don’t want to, because his input will be Machiavellian, but I have little choice. He takes a while, turns it over in his mind. I turn on the recorder in my cell phone and document the conversation, to protect myself in case all this goes wrong.

“Why do you think he left the semen in his freezer, in clear view?” Jyri asks.

“Arrogance. He didn’t think we’d figure out that DNA samples were part of his blackmail scheme.”

“Then he’s made other mistakes, too. We just need to buy some time to find out what they are.”

“I’m not sure we have much time. Filippov might get pissed off or feel cornered and pull the trigger on you and the others. Release the videos to draw attention away from himself.”

“Maybe.” Jyri pauses. “Tell him we’ll give him the business contracts he paid us for.”

I note the use of pronoun, us. Jyri also takes bribes.

“And tell him if he returns the videos, we’ll guarantee that he never becomes a suspect in his wife’s murder investigation.”

This was my fear. Jyri will go the obvious route and hang Rein Saar out to dry. “You’d let an innocent man sit for murder?”

“Do you have a better plan?”

I think yes, let the truth come out and justice be done. “Not at the moment.”

“The only other option,” Jyri says, “is to let the case go unsolved. Release Rein Saar on the grounds that he couldn’t have been tased and then murdered Iisa Filippov.”

This is the lesser of two evils, but unsatisfactory. Ivan Filippov deserves punishment. “What about your precious murharyhma track record?”

“An unfortunate necessity.”

“Because I ruined it, I’ll look like an asshole, like a shitty detective. And it’s not a great start for Milo’s career, either.”

“True, but on the other hand, you two are both famous hero cops at the moment. Discrediting you and making you disappear would be a way of keeping the black-ops unit secret. I believe the term is sheep-dipping. You go away, then quietly reappear, out of the public eye.”

And I’m supposed to trust him with this. Not a fucking chance. I make up my mind. One way or another, the murder of Iisa Filippov-whether it’s Iisa, and not Linda, in a cold drawer in the morgue-will be punished. I just still don’t know how to accomplish it. I lie. “Okay, Jyri, we’ll do it your way. I’ll call you later and let you know what Filippov and I work out.”

“Just buy us some time to find his other mistakes. Make some cockamamie deal, then later, no matter what you agree to, we’ll put the fucks to him.”

As is Jyri’s habit, he hangs up without saying thank you, fuck you or good-bye.

I turn back to December Day, think about calling Milo to get his opinion, but decide I don’t want it. I turn my latest conversations with Filippov and Jyri over in my mind, try to find chinks in their armor I can chisel open, but I can’t. My cell phone rings. It’s Arvid.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer straight away, and when he does, his voice cracks. “Son, I’ve been better.”

Arvid keeps his emotions, except anger, tight. I’m worried. “What’s the matter?”

“Can you come here? Right away?”

I look out the window at a blizzard. Snow comes down in a deluge. “I don’t know if I can. The roads might not be passable.”

“I’m asking you, please.”

“What’s the matter?”

Long pause. “It’s Ritva. She’s passed away.”

It almost brings tears to my eyes. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

“I need you to do her death investigation.”

“Even if I wanted to, it’s not my jurisdiction.”

His sigh is long and full of sorrow. “It has to be your jurisdiction. Ritva had bone cancer. I helped her to die. I need you to cover it up.”

I don’t know what to say, and say nothing.

“It was her wish,” he says. “I know you can’t just take my word for it. We’ve known this day would come for a long time and planned for it. Ritva wrote you a letter to explain.”

I still don’t know what to say.

“Please help me,” Arvid says.

“Hang tight,” I say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”