Lucifer's Tears

6

A lutheran pastor, Henri Oksanen, often accompanies police to give the bad news to family members of the departed. I give him a call, he agrees to join us. Milo and I pick him up. We start out at just after noon and drive through heavy snow to Filippov Construction, in an industrial park in the Helsinki suburb of Vantaa.

The business is in a large, corrugated-metal building. We walk in. Construction tools and materials line shelves and lie on the floor: everything from jackhammers to face masks and other protective clothing necessary for asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal. A gorgeous secretary greets us from behind a battered metal desk. She’s a dead ringer for the 1950s soft-porn and pinup star Bettie Page. Tanned. Longish black hair cut in bangs. Black eyes. Curvy figure. Girl-next-door smile. A dark angel. She reminds me of someone else, too, but I can’t put my finger on who it is. Sleep deprivation is screwing with my memory.

We ask to speak to Ivan Filippov. She buzzes an intercom and announces our arrival. He tells her to send us in.

The office is nothing fancy. Concrete floors. Basic white walls and filing cabinets. A computer sits on a worktable. Filippov sits behind it. He stands to greet us. He’s maybe six-three, age fiftysomething, high-cheekboned and clean-shaven. His suit, shoes and haircut are expensive. His attire doesn’t mesh with the practical atmosphere of his business and speaks of vanity. “How can I help you?” he asks.

We introduce ourselves. Pastor Oksanen takes the lead. He practices this on a regular basis and is better at it than we are. “Mr. Filippov, perhaps you should sit down. We have sad news.”

Filippov’s expression turns quizzical and concerned. He regains his seat behind the desk, motions for us to sit. There are only two chairs on the other side of his desk. Pastor Oksanen gestures for Milo and me to take them.

“It’s about Iisa, your wife,” Oksanen says.

Two detectives and a pastor have come to bring bad news. Filippov must suspect the worst, but his voice is controlled. “What about Iisa?”

“I regret to inform you that she is no longer with us.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Then, pray tell, who is she with? I’m not a child, spell it out.”

“She has passed on. Her body was discovered earlier today.”

Filippov makes eye contact with Oksanen. His face registers nothing. “How did she die?”

The pastor goes around the desk and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She was murdered. She’s with God now.”

Filippov ignores the hand. “I’m an atheist.”

Odd first words to utter upon being informed that his wife was slain. He looks at Milo and me. “Who killed my wife?”

It’s always difficult to inform someone about the murder of a family member, but because she was planning to commit adultery when she died, this is even harder than usual. “Brace yourself,” I say. “This is unpleasant.”

“You come in here and tell me that Iisa was murdered, then warn me about unpleasantness. Quit fucking around and get on with it.”

His abrasiveness takes me aback. I give him his way and tell it straight. “She was having a long-standing affair with her riding instructor, a man named Rein Saar. They planned a tryst. She was found dead in his bed, beaten with an iron skillet and a riding crop, and burned with cigarettes.”

“Did this Rein Saar kill her?” His accent betrays his youth spent in Russian Karelia. It sounds like Donald Duck speaking Finnish.

“We don’t know yet. Saar claims she had a key to the apartment and was waiting for him to arrive. He maintains that he came home, was struck from behind and rendered unconscious. When he came to, he was in bed beside her and she was already dead. He says he never saw the assailant.”

Filippov has yet to demonstrate sorrow, only impatience. “Do you believe him?”

“Certain facts contradict his story, others support it.”

Filippov leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “I want Iisa’s killer found and punished.”

“I realize this is a shock and painful for you. Are you able to answer a few questions?”

“Of course.”

“Were you aware of your wife’s affair?”

“No.”

“It had been going on for two years. You had no clue?”

He shakes his head. “None.”

“They met a couple times a week. You never inquired about her comings and goings?”

“Iisa maintained an active schedule. She participated in various organizations and had many hobbies, riding among them. She was-or at least I thought she was-a good and faithful wife. I had no reason to invade her privacy or interrogate her.”

“Did she work?”

“She had no need. I earn a comfortable living.”

Filippov is a cold fish, but businesslike and seems candid. “Forgive me,” I say, “but I need to ask you about your whereabouts last night and today. Please understand that this is in no way an accusation, but a part of standard procedure.”

He waves his hand, gestures for me to get on with it. I’m senior officer here, but Milo is a new detective and needs experience. I don’t want to disregard him. Also, there’s something to be said for the good cop/bad cop routine. I nod, signal for him to take over.

“Where were you last night?” Milo asks.

“At a party. In fact, the national chief of police, Jyri Ivalo, was in attendance. He can serve as my alibi.”

Filippov was drinking with Jyri while he and the interior minister discussed me, and here I sit. Interesting.

“And you left the party and arrived home when?” Milo asks.

“I left at around one and was home in bed asleep by two a.m.”

“Were you drunk?”

“No. I’m not given to excess.”

“Tell me about your morning,” Milo says.

“It was like every other workday. I arrived here at nine and haven’t left since.”

“Not even for lunch?”

He takes a receipt from a file on the tabletop and hands it to Milo. “Lunch was delivered pizza.”

Milo pauses, looks thoughtful. “What time did your secretary arrive?”

“Also at nine.”

“Can you verify your times of arrival?”

Filippov sighs. “What sort of verification are you looking for?”

“Do you have a security camera and video record?”

Filippov offers a wry grin. “Detective, you’re playing games. A camera is mounted over the entrance and you saw it when you came in. You doubtless also saw the video recorder in the outer office.” He pushes a button on his intercom. “Linda, would you please eject today’s video surveillance tape and bring it in here.”

We wait. Linda enters. My memory kicks in. She reminds me of Filippov’s dead wife. She looks much as I picture Iisa Filippov did before the cigarette burns and riding crop disfigured her face. Ivan Filippov has precise taste in women. He asks her to give the tape to Milo. She hands it over and departs.

“Inspector Vaara was being euphemistic when he said your wife was beaten with a riding crop,” Milo says. “It would be more accurate to say that first, the killer used her for a human ashtray, then whipped her, focusing on her face, until she was nearly unrecognizable. She was systematically tortured, and for the coup de grace, we suspect smothered to death.”

That was way too harsh. I feel an inward cringe, but Filippov doesn’t flinch. “I see,” he says.

The dark circles around Milo’s eyes take on the dull gleam that says he’s enjoying himself. “Who might have a reason to do such a thing to her?” Milo asks.

“No one,” Filippov says. “Iisa was a gregarious and pleasant person. She enjoyed other people and they enjoyed her. I would say her priority in this world was simple. She liked to have fun.”

Simple and fun. This fits in with Rein Saar’s assessment of their relationship.

“I would consider a two-year sexual relationship with her riding instructor having fun at your expense,” Milo says.

We have to ask questions, but we just informed Filippov of his wife’s death. His detached demeanor makes me dislike him more with every passing moment, but still, Milo is pushing too hard. He doesn’t relent.

“So you have no alibi to account for your whereabouts between the hours of one and nine this morning.”

“No,” Filippov says, “most people don’t.”

“When did you last see your wife?”

“Yesterday morning at about eight thirty, before I came to work.”

Milo smiles and raises his eyebrows. “Iisa wasn’t home when you got back from the party?”

“No.”

“And you found nothing unusual about that?”

“I repeat. Iisa liked to have fun. And I might add that, unlike myself, she was somewhat given toward excess. So no, I found nothing unusual about it.”

Milo and Filippov stare at each other, adversaries, for a long moment.

“I’ve heard about both of you,” Filippov says, “and I’m honored to have two such distinguished detectives investigating my wife’s death. Your reputations precede you.” He looks at me. “You for your tenacity and bravery,” and then at Milo, “and you for your intellectual investigative achievements.”

He looks at me again. “In fact, your name was mentioned at the dinner party last night.”

And then Arto hands me the high-profile murder of Filippov’s wife, which I thought he would be reticent to do, only hours later. This strikes me as less than coincidental.

“No doubt my wife’s murder will be swiftly solved,” Filippov says. “I assume you want me to identify Iisa’s body. Isn’t that the procedure? I can do it this afternoon.”

“That’s not necessary,” I say. “Your wife’s identity has been established. However, I would like to come to your house and examine her belongings. Something among them might provide evidence of who killed Iisa and why.”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I won’t dishonor her memory by having her intimate possessions pawed at.”

“I can get a subpoena if necessary.”

“You can try. I’ll have it quashed. That’s within my power. Let’s compromise. I’ll go through Iisa’s belongings. If I find something I believe helpful to you, I’ll deliver it to you myself.”

What an arrogant prick. “You’re not a detective. You might overlook something crucial.”

“You’ll find that thoroughness is among my better attributes.”

He smiles at me. Given the circumstances, it’s disconcerting. “I read in the newspaper,” he says, “that your wife is the general manager of Hotel Kamp. Their restaurant is my favorite.”

This bewilders me. I say too much. “We just informed you that your wife was murdered, and you’re thinking about food?”

“I mourn the loss of my wife, but we must all grieve in our own way. Mine is to carry on with life as usual.”

I stand. Milo and the pastor follow my lead. I find Filippov repulsive, can’t bring myself to offer my hand or parting condolences.

When we get outside, I ask Milo, “What do you think?”

“Motherfucker butchered his wife and framed her lover,” he says, “and he’s so goddamned haughty that he doesn’t even try to hide it.”

Pastor Oksanen pretends he hears nothing.

I’m less certain than Milo-being a bastard doesn’t make him a murderer-but I’m inclined to agree. “If he framed Rein Saar,” I say, “he did a good job. It’ll be difficult to prove.”

“I…”-he realizes his fuckup-“we will.”

Likable as he is, in his own way, Milo has a fundamental character flaw that he’ll have to pay for eventually. Arrogance.

On the drive back to Helsinki from Vantaa, Jyri Ivalo calls. “I understand you’re investigating the murder of Iisa Filippov,” he says.

“That’s right.”

“I further understand that she was found dead beside her lover, some Estonian fuck.”

I haven’t filed a report yet, so Filippov must have called Jyri as soon as we left and filled him in. “Also correct.”

“Ivan Filippov is a good acquaintance of mine, and he’s well connected in the business world. This sounds open-and-shut, but you’re given to leaps of imagination. Close the case fast. And defer to Filippov whenever possible.”

I say nothing.

“I’ve got a vicious hangover and I’m not in the mood to be nice. Let me make this clear. You solved the Sufia Elmi case, but it dragged on too long and turned into a fiasco. Not this time.”

Fuck Jyri. “Filippov cites you as his alibi. Care to confirm it?”

“Confirmed. He left the party around one. I see no need to relate his whereabouts of last night to the press. I and some others would prefer to be distanced from the investigation. Somehow, the media would invent a conspiracy theory and create a scandal.”

Yes, they would. “I don’t intend to handle the media at all. I’ll leave it to Arto and the police PR folks.”

“Good thinking. Media relations isn’t your strong suit. And the discussion we had last night about Arvid Lahtinen. You on that yet?”

“I’ve been working for twenty hours straight. Of course I’m not on it yet.”

“You can sleep when you’re dead. Get on it.” He rings off.

I’ve always felt that Jyri is excellent at his job but a real fuckwad as a human being. Every interaction I have with him confirms it. I’ll handle both the investigation and Arvid as I see fit.

We drop Pastor Oksanen off at his house and drive back to the police garage. I tell Milo I want him to get some sleep, ask him to look at the tape Filippov gave him, check out evidence from forensics and write the initial report in the morning.