Jarkko Sipila - Darling

“Have at it.”

Kulta scowled at Kohonen. The trash bags filled half of the container. He turned and felt each bag carefully before opening it. The stench was nauseating. His bachelor pad had never smelled this bad, even with trash bags piled in the kitchen corner for weeks and sweaty basketball gear adding to the aroma.

Despite Helsinki’s mandatory recycling rules, through the plastic he could feel milk and juice cartons, and coffee grinds that belonged in the compost bin. Maybe one day the city would hire someone to dig through people’s garbage and hand out fines for failure to separate the trash into the correct bins. Or they could outsource it to a private company like they did with parking tickets. Then finally, failure to recycle would become a crime and get handed over to the police, who would in turn ignore it. At least that’s what was happening with other new “crimes.”

Kulta opened the bags and emptied them in the other end of the dumpster-food and food containers, crumpled paper, receipts, cigarette butts, plastic wrap, pieces of glass, diapers, tampons, popcorn bags, and condoms. The whole rainbow assortment of apartment living.

Kulta knew that illnesses and drugs were part of that rainbow, and he was careful with each bag. Any of them could contain a syringe. In one Alko liquor store bag, he found a wad of bloody paper towels, among other garbage. He pulled it out for further examination.

After spending twenty minutes on the first container, they moved to the next.

Kohonen glanced at her watch and cursed.

“What is it?”

“It’s three in the morning and we’re digging for garbage,” she huffed. But she knew if they waited, the trucks would come in the morning, and searching around the dump would be far worse.

“What’s the difference between criminal investigators and patrol officers?” Kulta said with his head in the container.

“What do you mean?” Kohonen asked.

“We’re digging for scum at three in the morning while they’re hauling it to the station.”

“Not exactly politically correct,” Kohonen chuckled.

“Wasn’t meant to be. Besides, in my current state of mind I couldn’t care less about political correctness. I think we should be allowed to talk directly about things, instead of skirting the issue and always having to put a positive spin on everything. What good is it if we can’t say it like it is?”

“Yep, and speaking of which, dear, you could dig more and talk less so we can get outta here,” Kohonen smirked.

Suddenly someone yanked the door open.

“And who do we have here?” asked a fifty-something man in a parka. A Rottweiler growled next to him. “Riku, heel,” the man commanded, and the dog was quiet.

“Detectives,” Kulta said, lifting his head out of the dumpster, while Kohonen shone the flashlight into the man’s face. He looked as unfriendly as the dog.

“Detectives, you say,” the man repeated, his voice full of doubt, though seeing the paper overalls at least helped him believe they weren’t two-bit junkies.

“Yeah, and we’re in the middle of an investigation.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” the man said. “Must be important.”

“A murder case,” Kulta added.

“Huh. I’ll just toss this bag in here, if that’s alright.”

Kulta glanced at Kohonen, who still had the flashlight directed at the man.

“And who are you, bringing your trash out at three in the morning?” Kulta asked.

“Well, I’m leaving for work in a bit, and I needed to walk Riku first. This bag was lying in the park and I thought I’d pick it up. Tryin’ to be ecofriendly, you know.”

Kohonen turned the flashlight on the yellow Alepa bag. It looked like there was a lump inside.

“So that’s not your bag?”

“No, it was in the park.”

Kulta took a better look at the man.

“Did we talk earlier today?”

“Hard to say, I can’t see you,” the man said, squinting.

Kulta remembered meeting the man while doing his rounds in the apartment building.

“Do you work for the Parks Department?”

“No, construction.”

Kohonen stepped forward, but froze when the dog started growling.

“Riku, sit,” the man said, yanking the already tight leash.

“I’ll take a look at that,” Kohonen said.

The man stretched his arm out to hand Kohonen the bag, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing gloves. Kohonen stepped back and opened the bag with caution. She saw a couple of cloths with bloodstains on them.

She looked up at the man and asked, “Where was this?”

“I told you already, it was in the park.”

“Show us,” Kohonen suggested and stepped outside behind the man.

It was still snowing. Not good, Kohonen thought. The fallen snow would cover tracks and destroy evidence.

* * *

Korpivaara lay on the cot in his cell. He stared at the dark ceiling, unable to sleep. He thought of his father again in the Turku University Hospital, in his brown hospital gown and no pants, only a diaper.

The doctor had said his father wouldn’t make it to his next shift and told the family to just be strong. Korpivaara had wondered how he would do that.

Jorma had gone to get something to eat at the hospital cafeteria, and when he returned the room was completely silent. Jorma couldn’t feel a pulse. He pressed the alarm and a nurse hurried in. She confirmed what Jorma already knew: his father was dead. There were no emergency teams, no efforts to revive him, only the nurse pronouncing him dead.

The nurse told him that if anyone wanted to see the body, they’d have two hours. Mom took a taxi there. She said that death was merciful-more merciful than the man himself.

THURSDAY, 9:10 A.M.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE GULF OF FINLAND

Nea Lind sat in seat 17C. The Finnair morning flight from Rome was half empty, and she had the row to herself, which suited her just fine. Lind was reading a book on her iPad after she had first leafed through the two Finnish tabloids, both raving about the evening gowns at the President’s Independence Day Ball. The attorney was disappointed that she didn’t find an article about a murder. The press probably didn’t yet know about the case the police had called her about. Interesting, Lind thought. There must be something to hide.

Nea Lind was pleased-it wasn’t often the police referred a case to her. She wasn’t sure why they had, as she didn’t have much reputation or visibility in legal circles yet, and her practice was too new to have made a name for itself.

The flight attendant reached for the cup Lind had placed on her tray, and she then closed her tray. She’d had to wake up early for the morning flight. Last night she had had a few drinks at the hotel bar, where an American businessman tried to get her to go to Milan with him, but she had to return home.

Lind was from Lieto, a town about ten miles northeast of Turku. Her Turku dialect faded while she was getting her Helsinki University law degree in the early ’90s. She specialized in tax law and was successful at a mid-sized law firm. In 2000 she was recruited to one of the top firms in the country, but her career hit a wall there-not right away, but during the early 2000s recession when the firm went through a restructuring and downsized.

She ended up on the team led by sixty-something-year-old Oscar Francke, one of the senior partners. Lind became a pawn in all the discord about who would be let go. Francke wanted to keep someone else, but he was forced to take Lind as a compromise. She hoped to prove herself through hard work, but things only got worse. Her every report, plan, and brief was nitpicked, scrutinized, and modified. Her intelligence and acumen irritated Francke. It didn’t help that she always said exactly what she thought-a trait that should’ve been considered a plus in a law firm, but wasn’t.