James Thompson - Lucifer's tears

Rumors and speculations given the stamp of truth-secondhand-by a Winter War hero. I have no idea if he’s making all this up as he goes along, but he would sure as hell upset a lot of people if he said it publicly. The Civil War remains the most emotionally charged event in the history of this country. After almost a hundred years, we haven’t even agreed on a name for the conflict: the Civil War, the Red Rebellion, the Freedom War, the Class War. The list goes on.

“The war was essentially over,” he says, “but by then Dad and the others had a taste for Red blood. In Hamina, during the second week of May, they executed over sixty prisoners. In the last week of May, they shot another thirty-something prisoners. Kekkonen made the leap from shooter to leader and ordered the execution of another nine Reds in Hamina. In June, Kekkonen, Dad and your great-grandpa were sent to Suomenlinna as prison camp guards. It was essentially a death camp. And the result of all this was that Kekkonen became a celebrated war hero. After the war, Kekkonen spent seven years as an investigator for the state police, during which time he was a Communist hunter. Like me. Like your grandpa.”

Kekkonen was a hero-even a God-like character-to me as a child. I guess to most of us. He was a gifted athlete, a war hero, he protected us from the Soviets. Except for a brief period, he served as prime minister from 1950 to 1956, and as president from 1956 until 1982. He was essentially an absolute ruler. At a certain point, he humiliated his opponents in presidential elections by neglecting to show up for televised debates. He knew he was unbeatable. As a child, I thought “Kekkonen” meant “president.” I remember asking Mom who she thought would be the next Kekkonen.

“During the Civil War and its aftermath,” Arvid says, “the Reds executed about fifteen hundred White prisoners, and the Whites executed upwards of ten thousand Reds. Do you know who ordered the execution of those almost ten thousand people?”

I shake my head, weary from his terrible tales. “Who?”

“Lord and Savior Marshal Mannerheim. That’s who. The great men of our nation saw to the extermination of Communists. I shot a few commissars in a POW camp, less than nothing in comparison. Why bother me about it? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

Under the influence of his revisionist version of history, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.

“The great man, Kekkonen,” Arvid says. “Don’t make me laugh. He was a drunken whoremonger. He got more pussy than JFFUCKING-K, and his wife, Sylvi, put up with it. And those fucking propaganda films about him they show every year around Independence Day. More Leni Riefenstahl-type stuff that would have done the Third Reich proud. See the great athlete Kekkonen. See Kekkonen go to sauna. See Kekkonen swim in the lake. See Kekkonen chop wood. See Kekkonen, contemplative man of the people, sit on the edge of a dock and fish.”

“Why such acrimony?” I ask. “Kekkonen did a hell of a lot for this country. He kept good relations with the Soviet Union and maintained our sovereignty through Finlandization.”

“Because I detest hypocrisy, and I’m its victim. I’m just pissed off at the moment. Kekkonen paid a price for his success. He was a Communist-killer, just like I was raised to be. How do you think that must have made him feel, sucking Russian ass to save this nation. Taking orders from people he wanted dead. It must have been a living hell sometimes.”

I get his point. “And so, because of their connections from the Civil War, your dad and my great-grandpa were able to secure positions for you and grandpa in Valpo.”

He nods. “That’s right. Killing Communists. The family business. Mine, and yours, too, by way of inheritance.”

And now Jyri wants me to run a black-ops unit, mandated to fight crime organizations that rose from the ashes of the Soviet Union. Confluence.

Arvid looks across the table at me with sad eyes. We share a quiet moment, but the silence is comfortable this time. Finnish silence. After a while, he says, “Son, you better go soon. I’m tired. All this talk has worn me out, and I have to look after Ritva.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I better get back to work.”

I’m tired, too, and melancholic, worn down by so much ugliness. Compared to relearning the history of my country in this new light, even the Filippov murder seems cheerful.

I start back to Helsinki and turn on the radio. The weather forecast announces that the worst snowstorm of the season is on the way. Given the severity of what we’ve already experienced, this seems near impossible, but within minutes, thick sheets of snow start to pound the landscape. Road visibility sinks to almost nothing. I drive slow.

Jyri calls. He says, “Ivan Filippov and Linda Pohjola are at Filippov Construction, and their vehicles are there, too. I got you sixteen detectives. Twelve are on-site, waiting for you to orchestrate the raid. Two detectives each have sealed off Linda’s and Filippov’s homes. They’ll wait for you and the other detectives before beginning the searches. Is that everything you need?”

“For the time being.”

He rings off, and I change direction toward Vantaa. I call Milo and tell him to meet me at Filippov Construction.

I get there before Milo. The other cops are hidden in their vehicles around the area. I park. They spot me and follow to the front door. I explain to them that we’re looking for video disks, which they’re not to watch but to hand over to me for inspection, for camcorders and cell phones, for any device capable of shooting video, for bloodied protective gear and a taser.

I assign three detectives each the task of searching Linda’s Mustang and Filippov’s Dodge Journey. Filippov must have been watching us on a security camera and sprints out of the building in a rage. He’s not even wearing a coat. “Inspector, who the fuck do you think you are, and what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like? Search and seizure of your property.”

He screams. “This will not stand! Show me your search warrants!”

“In urgent cases,” I say, “any police officer can conduct a search without a search warrant. Additionally, I have verbal authorization from the national chief of police. Give me your car keys.”

He folds his arms, adamant. “Not a chance in hell.”

Jyri wasn’t joking, the detectives have brought crowbars with them. I borrow one and use it to snap open the Dodge’s passenger’s-side door, then take out my pocket knife and slash a seat open. The cushioning comes spilling out. “I can search your houses and vehicles like this if you want, or I can be a little more gentle. You pick.”

He’s near to foaming at the mouth from fury, calls me a fucking cocksucker. I hold out my hand. He slams a key ring into my palm.

“Do these open all the locks to your vehicle, home and business?”

“Yes, you motherfucker, they do. I’ll get you for this.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Where do you expect Linda and me to go while you violate our property and privacy?”

I stamp my feet and rub my gloved hands together against the cold. “I couldn’t care less. Take a taxi somewhere. Have a couple drinks and something to eat. Enjoy yourselves.”

He’s already fringed white with snow, calms down, sees the wisdom of this. “When can we have our property returned to us?”

I shrug. “It depends. I’ve got a lot of manpower. Probably just a few hours.”

“And when will you release my wife’s body to me for burial?”

“When I’m done with it.”

He goes back into the building in a huff. I follow, repeat the routine with Linda, take her keys and both their cell phones.