James Thompson - Lucifer's tears

“Hello, Inspector,” he says. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you would never speak to me again after the Sufia Elmi case.”

Jaakko committed obstruction of justice by releasing details of the murder that I wanted suppressed, published morgue photos that demeaned the victim and did his best to discredit me and have me fired because I refused to grant him an interview.

“I didn’t, either,” I say, “but you have your uses.”

He laughs. His high-pitched voice grates on me. “Who do you want dirt on?”

“Iisa Filippov.”

“I’m interested in her murder myself. What do I get?”

Jyri wants Rein Saar hung out to dry. I’ll make it hard for him. “A good scoop, provided I stay anonymous.”

“Give.”

I light another cigarette, exhale smoke and frozen breath in a long plume. “Iisa Filippov and Rein Saar were both stunned with a taser. He would have had a hard time giving her a prolonged torture session after that. And the taser is missing, wasn’t at the crime scene.”

“Damn,” he says, “that’s good.”

“Your turn,” I say.

“Iisa Filippov was a party girl, fuck monster and trophy dick collector. Notches on her bedpost include Tomi Herlin, Jarmo Pvolakka, Pekka Kuutio, and Peter Manttari.”

Herlin: a heavyweight boxing champion and hero-of-the-people-turned-politician and then finally drug-addled sad case. He committed gun suicide eleven days ago and lay dead for two days before his body was discovered. Pvolakka: the only ski jumper in the world to have won gold medals in Olympic Games, World Championships and Ski Flying World Championships, and to have finished first in the overall World Cup and Four Hills Tournament. Also hero-of-the-people-turned-nutcase and finally loser with a penchant for stabbing others. Kuutio: former minister of foreign affairs. Forced to resign because of a scandal involving hundreds of harassing text messages he sent to a stripper. Manttari: aka Peter the Great. Washed-up porn star.

“Drugs?” I ask.

“Of the recreational variety.”

“Her husband?”

“Straitlaced cuckold.”

I was once made a cuckold and was hell-bent on murder for months, even though I never committed it. I can imagine Filippov feeling the same. I picture my unfaithful ex-wife, Heli, sociopath and killer, burned to death on a frozen lake. I remember some of her last words to me. “Deserve,” she said. “Nobody gets what they deserve. If we did, we’d all burn in hell. We’re all fucking guilty.”

“Friend Linda Pohjola?” I ask.

“Party girl but not fuck monster. Iisa and Linda liked to get high and dress up alike to titillate. They even learned to speak and act alike. Iisa usually followed through after aforementioned titillation, Linda generally didn’t.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it. More will cost you more, too.”

I ring off and go to work.

I take the elevator from the parking garage in Helsinki’s central police station in West Pasila and head up to my office. My head throbs from the migraine again and it makes me stupid. I get off the elevator and walk ten paces before I realize I’m on the fifth floor, home to sex crimes and arson. I walk down the stairs to the fourth floor, which houses our three homicide teams and two robbery units.

I ask our unit secretary, Tia, to run background checks on the bouncers and securitas from the Silver Dollar through the computer system. I don’t see much of Tia, or the other team members for that matter, because I’m so often on evening and weekend shifts. She and I communicate mostly through notes and e-mails. Tia keeps the murharyhma ball rolling: takes care of paperwork, requests search warrants, does all the little things that make life easier for us detectives.

Milo typed up eyewitness statements last night and e-mailed them to me. They’re inconclusive. The bar was dark and noisy. Only a handful of patrons noticed the incident, and of those that did, most were too drunk to make credible witnesses. None state the belief that the bouncers caused intentional harm to Taisto Polvinen. The rent-a-cops’ version of events rings true. Milo also formally interviewed the bouncers and securitas. I read their statements. They stuck to their earlier version of events.

One by one, I take the bouncers and rent-a-cops from their cells to the interrogation room. They got their stories straight before Milo and I arrived. They keep their narratives vague enough so that it’s hard to punch holes in them. The bouncers portray Taisto as on the edge of a rampage. They’re sorry he’s dead, but they acted in self-defense. The rent-a-cops confirm that Taisto struggled as the bouncers ejected him. No doubt he did. I would have, too.

When I’m done with them, I go back to Tia’s office. She has their crime sheets waiting. I take them to my office. The bouncers have each had a couple previous complaints filed against them, but no charges brought. Gum-chewing cow has a clean sheet. Skinhead has had two assault charges filed against him, one conviction. But he tried to revive Taisto. I have no reason to suspect him of wrongdoing. Milo and I will pass this on to the prosecutor, but much as I told Taisto’s brother, nothing will come of it. It’s Milo’s case, too, so I’ll ask his opinion first, but we have no reason to hold any of them, will have to release them. It’s dispiriting to me.

I give the Internet versions of Helsinki’s three major daily newspapers a quick skim. They all contain thin stories about both the Filippov murder and the Silver Dollar death. I brought Einsatzkommando Finnland and Stalag 309 to work with me. I flip through it, consider what to do about Arvid, ask myself what I can do to help him. The interior minister wants me to file a report stating that the charges against him are fabrications. I question whether, if I do it, the matter will be dropped.

Jyri said that Germany recently extradited an accused war criminal from the United States. I Web-search the case. The man’s name is John Demjanjuk. Israel, Germany and the Wiesenthal Center started bulldogging him twenty-four years ago, in 1986. They’ve managed to have him stripped of his U.S. citizenship twice. They’ve charged him with murder under two different identities. They’ll stop at nothing. Arvid’s guilt or innocence may have no bearing on whether he’s forced to stand trial. Filing a false report will accomplish little more than buying Arvid time. At age ninety, with enough delays, he might die before he’s arrested, but he looks too healthy to be that lucky.

Pasi Tervomaa’s book doesn’t contain enough information about either Arvid or Ukki for me to draw conclusions about their guilt or innocence or the degrees thereof. I need to talk to the author. I Google his name and find contact info for him at the National Archives. I call and identify myself. He’s no longer employed there. He’s working from his home, writing books. They give me his cell phone number.

I call Tervomaa and explain the situation. “If they extradite a Winter War hero,” he says, “the nation will be up in arms. Finland might declare war on Germany again.”

His joke is poignant. The consequences would be dire. “Do you know anything about Arvid Lahtinen that’s not in your book? Something that might help me out?”

“No. Of course I looked into him while doing research, but he wasn’t the focus of my book. He played rather a small part in the events I described.”

“Why didn’t you call him and ask him for an interview?”

“I did. Several times. He kept hanging up the phone on me.”

“What about another Valpo detective at Stalag 309? Toivo Kivipuro.”

“Why him?”

“He was my grandpa.”