Antti Tuomainen - The Healer

He straightened up, adjusted his stance, and towered over me, showing me his shoulders in all their broadness. Whoever invented the word “overbearing” must have had someone like him in mind.

“Why do you want to know my name?” I asked.

He thrust his head forward but left his chin nearly resting on his chest. He looked at me from under his eyebrows, his lined cheeks completely in shadow.

“So I’ll know who I’m showing the door. So I can tell the other employees that there’s a guy named such-and-such who’s not allowed in here.”

“Are you going to tell Pasi Tarkiainen the same thing?”

He made a gesture toward the door. A gigantic block of solid muscle with a bald head the same bright, meaty pink color as raw salmon started to head in my direction.

“See you later,” I shouted.

I headed for the block of muscle and the door, smelled aftershave a few meters ahead, and braced myself as well as I could for the bouncer to grab me by some part of my body. He looked at the bartender, then stepped aside and let me pass. I didn’t look behind me as I went down the stairs to the street and walked back to the taxi.

Half an hour later I was lying in bed staring out at the dark of the night without seeing anything.

I was thinking about Johanna—and trying not to think about her.

The building was quiet. Nothing was moving; it felt like nothing anywhere was moving. It wasn’t until I lay down that I realized how tired I was, how much my body hurt, how hungry I was, and how hopeless I felt. I couldn’t bear to turn my face toward Johanna’s pillow, let alone pull her blanket over me, although I was shivering under my own.

The rain tapped a rhythm against the windowsill, took a long pause before breaking out in a tight series of dozens of drops, then quieted again. I closed my eyes, listened to the wind and rain, and let my fists open and my muscles relax. Without realizing it, without wanting to, I fell asleep.

I rolled over in bed and reached for the phone on the night table. 6:05 a.m. Unknown number. I’d slept without dreaming for almost exactly three hours.

“Tapani Lehtinen,” I said, now fully awake as if I hadn’t slept at all—or had slept a long time. I’m not sure which it was.

“Lassi Uutela. I assume I don’t need to ask if I’ve called at a bad time.”

My heart skipped a beat. Johanna.

“Not at all,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. As if controlling my voice could keep everything else under control.

“I have somewhat bad news, which is connected to Johanna in a way. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Of course.”

“The photographer, Gromov—the one I tried to call last night?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead.”

I didn’t know what to say. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck. Soon it had climbed to my temple.

“There’s no information about Johanna,” Lassi said. “Gromov was found alone, so it may be that it has nothing to do with her.”

“Where was he found?” I asked with a gulp.

“He was thrown from a car up north, along Tuusulantie. Apparently he died somewhere else.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I was told we may never know because they might not get around to investigating it.”

“How did he die?”

“They didn’t tell me.”

I rubbed my dry eyes, thought for a moment, then asked, “Was he wearing clothes? Was there anything in his pockets?”

Lassi didn’t answer right away. I could hear his fingers quite clearly tapping on his keyboard.

“No information,” he said. “I do know that he didn’t have his camera or telephone with him.”

“I was thinking more of memory cards. Photographers sometimes have them in their pockets, don’t they?”

Lassi again didn’t answer right away.

“Well,” he drawled, and I could hear the keyboard clicking again. “I think they would have mentioned that.”

“Who? The police?”

“I haven’t heard from the police,” he said after a short, emphatic pause. “I’m talking about the men from the security company who found him.”

I stood up—it hurt so much to straighten my back that it knocked the wind out of me. I grabbed the head of the bed for support.

“The police didn’t find him?”

“No,” Lassi said. “Some guys from a private security company called and said they were taking him to the morgue. As you know, they have permission to do that now.”

“I know, I know,” I said, sounding more impatient than I intended. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

I took a breath and straightened my back again. The pain didn’t let up.

“OK,” Lassi said. “Am I supposed to understand what you did mean?”

I told him about Johanna’s investigations and my own, with particular emphasis on the thrashing I’d been given. I walked into the kitchen as I spoke, got a glass of water, and sat down at the table. When I’d finished talking, Lassi was silent for a moment.

“Of course there’s a remote possibility,” he began, speaking considerably more slowly, and without the accompanying pounding of a keyboard. He paused a moment as if looking around the room for answers. “It’s possible that there’s some connection between these events. But I don’t yet see what it is.”

“Gromov is dead,” I said. “And he hardly would have been thrown into a ditch if he’d died in an accident. How do you even know he was found in a ditch? Maybe they killed him someplace, anyplace, and carted him straight off to the morgue.”

I noticed that I’d raised my voice. Lassi noticed, too. His tone turned sarcastic.

“Naturally. First they murder him, then they take him to the morgue, and finally they politely call me. Makes perfect sense.”

He paused for a moment; I kept silent and took a drink of water. When he spoke again the sarcasm drained word by word from his voice.

“I called because I thought you’d want to know that at least for now, and at least judging by what we know, Johanna’s all right. I intend to find out what this is all about by the end of the day. This may come as a surprise to you, but we do still place some value on our reporters and photographers. We take care of our own. As well as we can in these times.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment. Maybe the moment of silence was in memory of Gromov.

“Is there anything you intend to do with regard to Johanna?” I asked.

A brief silence.

“What can I do, really?” Lassi said. “What the heck am I supposed to do? I’m losing my staff, losing the paper itself, at an accelerating pace. I don’t have any room to move.”

I drank the rest of the water, then got up and went to fill the glass again. When the water’s running and you don’t have to boil it, it feels like your whole life’s a little easier. Or it would have felt that way in some other circumstances, at some other time. I put the glass of water down on the counter.

“Anyway,” I said. “Thanks for calling.”

Lassi’s voice was quieter now, and, surprisingly enough, softer.

“I’m sorry, Tapani. I really wish I could help you—and a lot of other people.”

“I believe you,” I said, trying to sound as sincere as I could. I looked out at the dark morning.

“But these times…”

“I know.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You, too.”

I lowered the phone from my ear and wiped the sweat from both.

I warmed up some oatmeal in the microwave, mixed in a teaspoon of honey, and ate it. I felt a little better. I immediately made myself another helping and turned on Johanna’s computer while I ate.