Jarkko Sipila - Darling

“Yeah, hard to say.”

A female pastor came into the room, cloaked in a purple robe.

“Excuse me, we’re about to start a service here. You’re welcome to stay, of course.”

“No, thank you,” Salmela said, getting up gingerly.

He headed out, sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of the hallway and said, “Let’s talk some more. I don’t feel like watching TV… I got somethin’ else I need to tell you.”

Suhonen was ready to make a joke about the last rites of a man on death row, but changed his mind when he saw the serious look on Salmela’s face. He sat down.

“I couldn’t tell you this before, because it would’ve revealed the source, and things could’ve ended badly for the guy.”

“Yeah?” Suhonen said, with interest.

“Well, the guy got run over by a train a couple of weeks ago. Could’ve been suicide, but it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead either way. I don’t know if you can use this, but he used to have a cell mate in prison by the name of Nortti…”

THURSDAY, 12:45 P.M.

HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA

Nea Lind’s gray pants were impeccably pressed. She wore a matching gray jacket, a white blouse, and a new pair of shoes she’d bought in Rome. A dark overcoat was folded across her arm.

She wanted to appear professional to her client and the police. Her goal was to make the top of the list of recommended attorneys in the Violent Crimes Unit, which would ensure a steady flow of clients. The only thing better was the Narcotics Unit; they often had as many as ten suspects per case, whereas the VCU only had one or two. Drug-related court hearings were also more complicated, which meant more billable hours. Her income was guaranteed because the state would pay if the criminals couldn’t afford it.

The atrium of the temporary police headquarters reached up to the top floor. The building used to be a courthouse, and the architectural style created a lofty feeling of openness. Of course the police headquarters didn’t need that; rather it could’ve used something that depicted strength and wisdom, like a bronze statue of a police officer helping a child across the street. As it happened, an artist, who once had to wait too long in line for his passport, had already designed a statue called “Waiting.” The piece would depict a man sitting in a chair, frozen in time, holding a number slip in his hand. The electronic number on his slip would advance to the next one each time a person was called up, and he’d be stuck waiting forever. This statue could be replicated and placed in all the police stations in the country.

A dozen people sat in the blue chairs in the first floor waiting room. On one side of the room were counters for passports and permits. On the other side, a glass wall with a locked door that led to the confines of the police department.

During her career at the large law firm, Lind never set foot in a courtroom. Squabbles were solved by negotiation, and tax issues in the office of the Administrative Court. Companies didn’t want bad publicity, and agreements always included confidentiality clauses. The courthouse was for people’s small claims and debt collecting-and for criminal cases, of course. Now, Lind was particularly interested in the latter.

Lind glanced at the wall to the number being served; it was 346. She’d waited for ten minutes and the number had gone up by two. The efficiency level at the police station was about the same as a hardware store, but better than the cable companies’ customer service.

When she saw a brunette woman approaching in a black sweater, Lind picked up the computer case she had set at her feet. The ID badge around the woman’s neck confirmed she was a police officer. “Lind?” the officer asked, with a serious expression.

“Yes,” Lind replied, and the officer introduced herself as Anna Joutsamo from the Violent Crimes Unit. As was customary, the attorney introduced herself, though the officer already knew her name. Lind thought Joutsamo’s firm handshake fit her persona.

“Guess we haven’t met?” Joutsamo asked.

“No.”

“Have you handled criminal cases before?”

Lind found the tone of the question a little condescending, but figured it was part of the process; straight to business, no beating around the bush.

“Yes, for a little over a year.”

“Is this your first homicide?”

“Yes,” Lind said.

“Welcome to our world. Contrary to common belief, it’s no glitz and glamour-quite the opposite actually. It’s not for everyone, but some of us are fascinated by it. I hope you like it,” Joutsamo said, and Lind thought she detected a faint smile on the woman’s lips.

Joutsamo pointed to the front doors.

“Your client is being held in the other building. You can chat with him there.”

“Can you tell me about the case?” Lind asked as they stepped outside. Cars lined the street, accentuating the curve in the road. It was snowing, but this year’s snow hadn’t measured up to the past several winters.

A few months ago Lind had asked an experienced colleague for advice, in case she ever got a homicide case. The main rule was that if the police talked freely, it meant the case was clear-cut, and the client was guilty. If, however, the police were closed-mouthed, establishing guilt and innocence would be more complicated.

The women walked side by side briskly.

“A twenty-six-year-old woman named Laura Vatanen was found dead in her North Haaga apartment yesterday morning. The victim had a relationship with your client, and we have reason to believe he killed her. At the moment we’re investigating it as a murder.”

“Murder?”

“Yes, at the moment. If we find out it wasn’t premeditated, or if there were mitigating circumstances, the charge could be changed to voluntary manslaughter. In Finnish law, the punishment for murder is life in prison, with a possibility of pardon after 12–14 years, and for voluntary manslaughter it’s 4-10 years,” Joutsamo explained and grew quiet.

“I see,” Lind said, intrigued. The police were obviously holding back some details, so her job could prove to be quite interesting.

“Your client’s fingerprints were in the apartment and he has no alibi. He and the victim had a sexual relationship, and we have other evidence as well. And your client knew how she was killed.”

Now Lind thought the case might not be as intriguing as she’d assumed just a bit earlier.

“Have you interrogated him?” she asked.

“Once. He says he can’t remember anything about it, but that it’s possible he killed her. And like I said, he was able to tell us how she was killed, even though that information hasn’t been released.”

“What was the method?”

“The woman’s throat was slashed from ear to ear. The weapon hasn’t been found.”

They reached the steps of the other building that was still under remodeling. Joutsamo flashed her ID card at the reader and let Lind in first.

“What do you guys think the motive was?”

Joutsamo shrugged and said, “No idea. Only the killer knows. Might’ve been an argument; it often is.”

The officer led the attorney farther ahead through locked doors. The fluorescent lights cast a pale yellow hue on the wall, despite the bright paint.

“By the way, what’s my client’s name?”

“Jorma Korpivaara.”

Lind jumped. “Korpivaara?”

“Yeah. You know him?” Joutsamo asked, studying the attorney.

Lind could tell the officer would see right through her and thought it best to be honest.

“I used to know someone named Korpivaara, but I haven’t heard from him in twenty years. I wonder if it’s the same guy.”