James Thompson - Snow angels

I’m not sure if he’s mocking me. “I guess we’re even now,” I say, “but are you sure you’re ready to be on duty?”

“I wouldn’t have let him fall.”

I don’t press it.

Back at the Police Station, I go down to the lockup and open the port in Seppo’s cell door. He’s sitting on the edge of his cot, crying, looks like he hasn’t stopped since I left him there hours ago.

“You have two options,” I say. “You can hold Heli’s funeral tomorrow, or wait until after Christmas.”

He looks up through eyes swollen almost shut. “What do you think I should do?”

My patience with him is gone. “For fuck’s sake, she was your wife. What you do with her isn’t my decision.”

He whimpers. “I can’t think, just do whatever you think is best.”

Maybe we should just get it over with and put her burial behind us. At least then I won’t have to discuss it with him anymore. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”

He starts bawling again in big sobs and shouts through his tears, “My wife is dead and I can’t even go to her funeral because I’m in jail.”

I’ve already considered this. “You can go. I’ll take you.”

He pauses, wipes his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, then gets down on the floor on his knees, folds his hands and starts begging. “I’m innocent, please help me. I’m innocent, please help me.” He keeps repeating it over and over again.

I ignore him, shut the port in his door and go up to my office. I call Jorma to make Heli’s funeral arrangements, then check my e-mail. Luck is with me. Interpol sent me a student identification photo from the Sorbonne. It’s twenty-six years old, but the man in the photo bears little resemblance to the man in Finland claiming to be Dr. Abdi Barre. The last the Sorbonne heard of him, Abdi Barre was practicing medicine at Karaan Hospital, to the north of Mogadishu. It wasn’t so much a real hospital as a group of villas that were converted to form a collective center for emergency surgery for those suffering acute war injuries. Dr. Barre was last heard from in 1990.

Since there’s no agency in Somalia I can turn to, I consider who might be able to trace Dr. Barre. If he was killed, maybe his death was recorded and listed somewhere. Murdering a physician treating civilian wounded might qualify as a war crime. Finland is a member of the European Union, and international cooperation between EU police departments is good. However, the EU has no jurisdiction over war criminals. That responsibility falls to the International Criminal Court, in The Hague.

When I call the ICC, they give me the bureaucratic runaround. After a while, I get a minor functionary on the phone who explains to me that they’ve been talking about holding war crimes tribunals for genocide in Somalia for some years, but haven’t done anything about it yet. They haven’t even assembled an official list of suspects, let alone put together a list of victims. I ask why not. He doesn’t have an answer.

When Serbians committed genocide in the Balkans, the ICC took their prosecution of war criminals seriously and is still tracking them down. The message is clear: Europeans find their own lives of great value, but African lives of little or no worth. I ask if any agency might have assembled a victims list. He says the Human Rights Commission monitored violence in Mogadishu during that time frame and suggests I check with them.

I phone the HRC and speak with a helpful and concerned woman. I give her the year and name of the hospital and she checks their records. There is no victims list, but physicians from the expatriate staff of Medecins Sans Frontieres provided emergency assistance. She has a list of MSF doctors that were there, and can e-mail me their contact information. Two minutes later, I get it and notice that one of the doctors is a Finn. I call her up.

Yes, she remembers Abdi Barre, his death was very sad. In the first weeks of heavy fighting, it was common for groups of armed soldiers to bring their wounded to the hospital. They dictated tri-age decisions and forced doctors to operate with guns held to their heads. The president’s own bodyguards, the Red Berets, notorious for torture, subjected Dr. Barre to such treatment. When his patient died on the operating table, they took him outside, filled a tire with gasoline, placed it around his arms and chest and burned him to death.

I’m thinking maybe a Red Beret took his passport before they killed him and used it to get out of the country. The picture of the man claiming to be Abdi Barre has arrived from passport control. I e-mail it to her while we talk and ask her if she can identify the person in the photo. She’s sorry, but the moment was so shocking, there was such chaos and confusion, that she couldn’t identify any of the murderers if they were standing in front of her. I thank her for her help.

The pieces of the puzzle are coming together. The problem is that I don’t know how to prove any of it. I decide it’s time to call it a day and go home.

I walk into the living room carrying bags of groceries. Kate is on the couch, typing on her laptop. I lean over for a kiss, but she doesn’t return it. “I put on the sauna,” she says, “I thought it would do you good.”

“Thanks, I could use it.”

Sauna relaxes me more than anything else in the world. Like most Finns used to be, I was born in one. Mom had an emergency birth. Dad wasn’t home, they didn’t have a phone then, and a neighbor woman acted as midwife. Maybe going to sauna is like a return to the womb for me. God willing, I’ll die in one too.

“I got everything for Christmas dinner,” I say.

She still hasn’t looked up. “Who’s going to cook it and eat it?” I want to make amends, so I ignore the slight. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Catching up on e-mails. If you’re going to work through Christmas, I might as well do it too.”

She’s pissed off and I don’t blame her. “I don’t intend to work through Christmas.”

She keeps typing. “No?”

“I’m close to solving this. It should be over tomorrow.”

She closes the laptop, and with effort moves her broken leg from the couch to a stool. She pats the seat beside her. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

I tell her about the day, about Seppo and what I learned about Abdi, about arresting Eklund and what Valtteri said about my father. “So to sum up,” she says, “you conclude that in Helsinki, before they came to Kittila, Heli overhears Seppo on the phone, bragging about fucking Sufia, his nigger whore with the beautiful eyes. He talks about her strange vagina. Heli learns he’s going to Levi to be with her. She’s worried he’s in love with Sufia. If he leaves Heli, she’ll lose everything. She follows him to nip this in the bud. Am I right so far?”

“Yeah.”

“She starts thinking about teaching Seppo a lesson. She covers her real purpose for coming here with a story about rediscovering her religious roots. She’s a crime buff. Seppo talking about Sufia’s strange vagina inspires Heli to copycat the Elizabeth Short killing. She meets Heikki, opportunity presents itself. She uses his beliefs against him, tells him niggers and whores are sinners. She sucks his cock, tells him it’s not intercourse and so not a sin. She knows Seppo and his big mouth. He’s been going on about his gorgeous nigger whore to anyone who will listen. Am I still on track?”

I don’t like where this is going. “Yeah.”

“She gets Heikki to cut the words into Sufia’s belly-damning evidence-so that if she has to, she can blackmail Seppo into marrying her, insurance in case he falls in love with another young beautiful girl. She also has the boy gouge out Sufia’s eyes, a way of punishing Seppo because he loved them. Afterward, she pushes Heikki over the edge to suicide by rejecting him, forcing him to the realization that he committed murder and will suffer eternal damnation for nothing, and so all the evidence against her is gone. It’s a well-executed murder. She just didn’t count on being murdered herself for revenge.”