Behind God's Back (12 page)

“Has anything else caught your eye?”

“Roni Jacobson called his father from Lapland twice the day before he died, and his father called back twice…”

My cell phone rang. It was Jacobson's grey-haired neighbour, the one who loitered at his window and had seen the killer. “I heard something. It might be a rumour, but I thought I'd call just in case… you never know…”

I imagined the guy talking into the phone from his perch at the window, hawk-eyeing passers-by.

“I'd love to hear it.”

“Those boys who found the car. I heard that they saw the killer. One of the boys lives nearby, and his sister walks our dog Titi. She said that her brother had seen the killer but their mother told him not to tell the police so the boy wouldn't get mixed up in anything. I wouldn't put a whole lot of stock in the boy, now, but Maija's a good girl. She wouldn't lie to me.”

“Which boy are we talking about?”

“The Wallius boy. Jari.”

I knew that the boys had been questioned and they had claimed that they hadn't seen anyone.

I thanked the man, and asked him to keep his eyes open. The case wasn't over yet.

I suspected my request would lead to him setting up a sentry station at the kitchen window and making a note of everyone who moved in the vicinity. Why not? It couldn't hurt, that was for sure.

I grabbed Simolin and we headed out to eastern Helsinki.

The Wallius residence was on the same side of the street as the Jacobsons', but a little closer to the heart of Tammisalo. It was only a few years old: white brick and lots of glass. Latter-day Aalto replica. The woman who answered eyed us suspiciously through the barely open door. I pulled out my badge and introduced us.

“Yes. What is it?”

“Your son found the car we were looking for. I'd like to talk to him about it.”

“He already told everything to the police.”

“But not to the investigators. I'm the lead investigator, and this is my colleague,” I said, nodding at Simolin.

“Do you have a warrant?” the woman asked, still barricaded behind the door.

“A warrant for what?”

“A warrant to interrogate a minor. My husband is a lawyer —”

“We're not interrogating anyone. At this point, he's just an eyewitness.”

A case about twenty years old crossed my mind, in which a thirteen-year-old boy had been found stabbed to death in a fort behind his house. I had gone around to all of the dead kid's friends', and the mother of one of the boys had done everything in her power to keep me from seeing her son. At first she told me he was sleeping, then she said he couldn't talk because he was in such severe shock. Eventually, I had been forced to resort to extreme measures. Within fifteen minutes, I knew that the boy had killed his friend. I could tell that the mother knew it too; she had tried to protect her child to the last.

In the end, Mrs Wallius grudgingly let us in and called for her boy. He didn't look the least bit afraid; on the contrary, he was excited. According to the neighbour, the boy was about eleven years old.

“Can we talk in your room?”

We followed the boy, the mother at our heels. I stopped and told her that we'd like to talk to the boy alone.

“Why? What are you trying to do?”

“Solve a murder. If you don't have any objections, that is…”

The mother was forced to back down.

The boy took a seat on his bed; Simolin and I pulled up wheeled office chairs from the desk. A war game was exploding on the computer screen. Simolin glanced at it.

“I have that. Pretty good, huh?”

“Which version, One or Two?”

“One.”

“Two's even better, and harder.”

I interrupted their conversation. “Could you tell me once more where you found the car?”

“From the start?”

“From the start. Every single detail. I think you've got a pretty good memory.”

“I do.”

“Are you the one who saw the car first?” Simolin asked.

“Yeah. Sami was pretty far behind me… We went there to eat plums. Otherwise they get rotten because nobody picks them…”

“I like plums, too,” I said.

“They're really good: sweet and juicy,” the boy said. “I was the first one in the Seppäläs' yard; we came through the back, by the hedge —”

“Wait a minute.”

I pulled a notebook from my pocket and sketched from memory: the house, the garage, and their locations on the plot.

“Use this to show me where you came from.”

The boy drew a line that followed the west side of the house and circled around to the front.

“This is where the plum tree is,” he said, drawing a circle on the paper. “I was picking some plums from the ground, and when I stood up I saw that the garage door was ajar. I could see the trunk of a blue car with a Volkswagen symbol. Sami's kind of a wuss, so he didn't catch up to me till then.”

“So then what did you two do?”

“We ate some plums and went home.”

“That early?”

“I had to study for a test.”

“Did you get a closer look at the car?”

“No. Sami got scared and said that he was going to leave, no matter what. So I went with him.”

“Has there ever been a car in the garage before when you've gone to eat plums?”

“Never. No one's lived there for a long time, at least three years.”

“And what about when you came home?”

“My sister came home from school and said that someone had killed Mr Jacobson and that the cops… the police were looking for a blue Golf. I told Mom that there was a blue Volkswagen in the Seppäläs' garage, the same kind the police were looking for. She called the police, and they came and got the car.”

I eyed the boy thoughtfully. “So the garage door was ajar?”

“Yeah.”

“When the police arrived, the door was closed. How is that possible? Did you close the door?”

“No, we scrammed.”

“So who shut it, then?”

“I don't know.”

“Probably the same guy who you and your friend saw.”

“We didn't see any guy… We —”

“Sami said you saw a man in the yard.”

“What? We said we wouldn't tell the —”

“That you wouldn't tell the police, huh?”

“Yeah. Mom said the guy's a killer and he might come after us. Sami almost started bawling.”

Jari Wallius was clearly made of tougher stuff than his friend. He didn't appear bothered by the fact that he had been caught lying to the police.

“That was wrong. You can get punished for lying to the police.”

The kid smiled, as if to show he knew we weren't serious. “Like what, prison?”

“Not that bad, but you're not going to get any points for lying, either. Now tell me what you saw.”

The boy thought for a moment, brow furrowed, and then said: “Everything went like how I said at first, but when I got to the plum tree I saw the guy. He was just closing the garage door. Then he went behind the house and left that way.”

“In another car?” Simolin asked.

“He was walking.”

“Walking?”

“Yeah. He looked a little suspicious, so I went and looked in the garage and saw the car.”

“Tell me more about the guy. How old was he, how was he dressed?”

“At least as old as you, maybe even older, normal height, pretty thin. He was wearing blue sweatpants and a blue Nike baseball cap.”

“What brand were his sweatpants?” Simolin asked.

“Adidas, I think.”

“Was he carrying a backpack or a bag or anything?”

“Yeah, a black backpack.”

“Do you remember what brand?”

“There wasn't one, or else the logo was so small I didn't see it.”

“Do you remember anything else? Hair, beard, moustache, glasses?”

“Short hair, dark, I think. He didn't have a moustache or a beard, but he had sideburns to at least halfway down his ear. He had sunglasses on. The kind cyclists wear.”

“Could you draw the glasses?” I asked.

The boy did as asked. The picture turned out well.

“You know how to draw,” I said, putting the sketch in my pocket.

“Yeah, I like drawing.”

“So the man left on foot down the other side of the hill, towards the church?” Simolin asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you see where he turned?”

“No, I just made sure he left, and then Sami and me went to check out the car.”

An idea occurred to me. “Could you draw a picture of the man? Draw everything you remember: the clothes, the backpack, everything. If you do a good job, we might be able to use it to identify him.”

“Will I get a reward if you find him?”

“Maybe.”

The kid was bursting with enthusiasm as he picked up the pen. It glided nimbly across the paper, and an image began to take shape. I was a horrible draughtsman myself, and had no idea how someone could create a recognizable portrait with just a few strokes.

“You want me to colour the clothes?”

“Go for it.”

The boy bent over the paper, a look of concentration on his face. It only took about five minutes, and the picture was ready. I looked at it, and had to admit it was good. Even the posture of the body was completely natural. The eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but the chin was narrow and long, and the nose slightly hooked.

“You could be an artist when you grow up. Did the guy have a bump in his nose?”

“Yeah. I saw it when he turned sideways. He was skinny, the way athletes are. I think he works out a lot and is in pretty good shape.”

I thanked the boy. The mother was sitting on the sofa, but bounded up as soon as we came out of the bedroom.

“You should have told us that your son saw the man who left the car,” I said in a reprimanding tone.

The woman's face turned beet red. “I was afraid the murderer might do something if he heard —”

“You've seriously compromised our investigation. Thanks to you, the killer has had a significant head start.”

The woman's eyes widened. “I'm so sorry —”

“We're going to visit your son's friend Sami now. I'm going to ask you to make sure that your son doesn't call him. If he does, we'll be forced to take unpleasant measures —”

The woman rushed to assure us: “I won't let him call. I'm so sorry.”

We went and visited Sami, but he couldn't give us any fresh
information. I showed him the drawing and he said he thought the man in the drawing looked exactly right.

When we were back at HQ, I made a few colour copies of the drawing and asked Simolin to scan it and put it online for all the patrols.

I was trying to figure out how to use the pictures most effectively when Huovinen stepped into my office. I showed him the drawing, and told him where I had got it.

“This is good. The kid can draw.”

“I was wondering if I should release the sketch to the papers, or if it would be better to hunt the guy on our own.”

Huovinen took another look at the picture. “Let's wait until 7 p.m., and if we haven't found anything by then, send it out. That'll be enough time for it to make it into the evening news and tomorrow's papers. The most important thing is getting any information we can on the guy. How'd the funeral go?”

“Most people consider Jacobson's murder an act of anti-Semitism.”

“Pretty understandable.”

“I'm meeting Jacobson's daughter at seven.”

“Your former girlfriend, you mean,” Huovinen said, a twinkle in his eye. Either Simolin or Stenman had spilled the beans. “How has she held up?”

“Pretty well.”

“Then watch your step.”

11

A water bus full of tourists was gliding under the Degerö bridge. The canal was so narrow that only a couple of feet remained on either side of the vessel, and the waves it created sloshed up the stone banks. A little further off, two boats were waiting to enter the canal. The tourists waved at Lea and me good-naturedly. We were standing side by side on the bridge, leaning against the railing. I got momentarily lost in nostalgia, and was on the verge of lowering my hand to her shoulder like I used to. Luckily I realized what was happening, and stopped myself in time. Huovinen's words came back to me:
Watch your step
.

“It looks exactly the same. It smells the same, too,” Lea said. A gust of wind tousled her dark hair. For a brief instant, distant memory clouded the present moment and she was the young girl whom I had dated over twenty years ago.