Snow Woman (18 page)

The wind was blowing sharp crystals of snow from the branches of the fir trees; they raked our faces like a stiff bristle brush. A magpie took flight from the top of a tree but couldn’t stay aloft for long, settling instead on a branch high in a birch tree fifty feet away. It swayed there, cawing something that sounded like magpie cursing. I had once listened to Einstein arguing with a magpie sitting in a tree. One of them howled and the other cawed. I’d been completely sure they understood each other.

Down the road, a man who looked like a retired sea captain was dragging a bushy, snow-colored Samoyed away from the trunk of a tree. The dog clearly had found the most interesting scent in the world and wasn’t willing to leave it for anything. Although I’m generally what you’d call a cat person, I’ve always loved big, furry dogs. I couldn’t pass the Samoyed without scratching him behind the ear. Instantly he smelled Einstein on my boots and turned to sniff first me and then the scent of golden retriever on Eva’s clothes.

“Elina was a great therapist,” Eva continued once we turned down the lane toward Espoo Central Park. “She was always present, and she really listened. When our therapy relationship ended and we became colleagues, we got to know each other better. We were never really friends though because Elina was so reserved. She didn’t talk much about herself, her feelings, or her life. She mentioned Joona Kirstilä occasionally, and it was clear he was important to her, but that was it.”

“Could you imagine Elina committing suicide?”

Eva shook her head, and her wide mouth pursed in doubt. “What was the actual cause of death?”

“A drug and alcohol interaction left her unconscious, which led to hypothermia and death. It’s hard to say whether anything in the case was premeditated.” I considered mentioning the letter Aira had found in her purse. Because I still wasn’t sure it was genuine, I decided to keep my mouth shut.

“That’s a pretty chancy way to kill yourself. It seems more like a cry for help, like she was expecting to be found. But that doesn’t sound like Elina. She wasn’t the suicide type even though there was something about he
r . . . L
ike, I don’t know, hidden rooms under her calm public persona where she locked away all her sorrows. Sometimes she would crack those doors, but only for a second.”

“What did you see through the doors?” I asked.

“A tension between a need for solitude and a need for connection. Elina didn’t have any family except Aira. I had the feeling she wanted a child but also couldn’t quite face the idea. Her relationship with Joona was typical. They were close, but she didn’t want to be too close.”

That description sounded familiar. I had been the same way. Actually, I still was. Part of the reason I married Antti was because he understood and shared my need for solitude. A child would change that. A child would always need someone around. Since Palo’s death, I’d started thinking about my maternity leave as a break from work, a time without murderers and desperate attempts to squeeze half-truths out of people. Yes, with a child things would be different, but maybe in a good way.

Although just a few days earlier I’d ordered Antti to keep the news about the baby to himself, I suddenly found myself telling Eva. “We’re actually expecting too.”

“Congratulations! We wondered a little why you drove to the New Year’s Eve party. What week are you?”

“What is it no
w . . .
Eighth, I guess. I’m due at the end of August. It was a pretty big surprise because I had an IUD. I haven’t really wrapped my head around the whole idea yet.”

“That’s a lot of stress all at once—a coworker dying and a surprise pregnancy,” Eva observed.

“You’re telling me. But maybe that’s exactly what this whole cruel system is about: birth and death side by side.” I shook my head. “Geez, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so melancholy. Should we head back?”

I walked Eva to her house in Mankkaa. Kirsti was horrified that her wife had slogged nearly six miles so close to her due date, but Eva cheerfully dismissed her worries. I said good-bye to them and decided to walk the last mile and a half back, hoping Antti would have a meal ready when I arrived.

Like Eva, I didn’t feel like walking along the busy main road, so I started weaving down the back lanes. Suddenly I stopped. A man stood leaning against the fence in front of a row house, compulsively picking stray hairs from the shoulders of his coat. Pertti Ström. But he didn’t look like the Ström I knew. This man’s shoulders were slumped in exhaustion and his head hung down. His whole bearing was utterly resigned, which was totally at odds with Ström’s typical self-confident, boorish personality. I stood there watching him, wondering whether I should go talk to him. Then it struck me. Why on earth was he leaning against a fence in Mankkaa looking like he was waiting for someone? He lived two miles from here. Was he waiting to interview a witness? But it was Sunday, and I was relatively sure Ström had the day off too.

Nervously he glanced at his watch. Then the door to the row house opened and a boy of about seven peeked out.

“We’ll be there in a minute, Dad. Jenna can’t find her swimsuit.”

Ström’s shoulders instantly rose to their usual arrogant level, and the gruffness of his voice was familiar as he yelled into the house behind the boy, “Don’t even try it, Marja. Give Jenna the swimsuit!”

Jenna, Marja, and a boy about seven years ol
d . . .
It clicked into place. Ström was waiting for his kids. What was the boy’s name? Jani? I’d caught a glimpse of the children’s pictures in Ström’s wallet once when he bought me coffee after an important arrest. Imagining Ström having warm feelings toward anyone was a stretch—although of course he was attached to his kids. Then I remembered the way Ström had cried with me over Palo’s death.

Now it became clear that Ström’s relationship with his ex-wife was worse than his relationship with me: their conversation about when the kids should come home had turned into a shouting match. “Eight at the latest. They have school tomorrow!”

“What the hell? If we go to the meet, we won’t be back until nine at the earliest! They’re big kids now. They can handle staying up a little late one night! Come on, Jenna, let’s go already!”

“You aren’t the one who has to wake them up tomorrow morning! If Jenna can’t find her swimsuit, she just won’t go swimming.”

Finally Jenna came out, triumphantly dangling a pink bathing suit from one finger. Seeing Pertti Ström’s features in the face of a ten-year-old girl was amusing. Then, embarrassed about spying on a colleague’s private life, I slipped behind the nearest house.

On Monday morning, everything seemed almost normal at work. Only the picture of Palo, which had been cut out of a newspaper and taped with a black border to Palo and Pihko’s office door, served as a reminder that everything had changed. Pihko was nowhere to be found, and Ström wasn’t around either, but Taskinen was sitting behind his desk, his face ashen and strained. The smile that appeared when he saw me was surely the first of his day.

“Back to work?”

“I had to come in eventually. What’s new?”

“Nothing major. We need to divide Palo’s cases between us. I doubt we’ll be getting a replacement anytime soon. Be ready for an interview about the hostage incident later this week. It’s going to be a big mess.”

“You’re telling me. I’ll keep working on the other Nuuksio case for now. And I’ll probably head up to Oulu tomorrow night.”

“Kari Hanninen, the psychologist, sent his regards and said he would always be at the disposal of such an enchanting female specimen.” Taskinen could barely get the words out without laughing. I mentally forgave Hanninen his irritating comment. At least it had made Taskinen laugh.

I was just about to pick up the phone to ask Dispatch for Leevi Säntti’s number when the ringer beat me to it.

“Tarja Kivimäki, Finnish Broadcasting. Hello. I see you’re back at work after this second shocking incident in Nuuksio.”

“Yes. Do you have any new information about Elina Rosberg?” I said.

“Unfortunately not,” she answered. “I imagine you’ve had other things on your mind lately as well. That’s what I’d like talk to you about, Maria. I can call you Maria, can’t I? Well, anyway,
Studio A
is doing an in-depth report about all the shootings over the past few years. We’d like to interview you, and I’d be the one to do it.”

“But you don’t work for
Studio A
anymore,” I said.

“I’ve been thinking about moving back. I’m getting tired of doing the news, and there are a few reasons I’d like to get away from reporting on politics.”

“I don’t think I can,” I said. “First, I’m not really excited about talking about my coworker’s death publicly, and second, you’re still technically a person of interest in an open case I’m investigating.”

“Am I? Could we at least meet? Dinner, tonight. I’ll buy.”

“No, you won’t. As I said, you’re still a person of interest. But OK, we can meet. Name the time and place.”

When I hung up the phone, I felt like a blood-sucking parasite. I had no intention of giving Tarja Kivimäki an interview. But I did intend to trade for information, and that would be easier done at a dinner table than in an interrogation room.

Next I called Leevi Säntti, who was fortunately at home and not on the road preaching. I introduced myself with as much authority as possible and hoped Johanna hadn’t told him that I was the one who’d recommended her lawyer.

“What are you calling about? Has m
y . . .
u
m . . .
wife murdered someone else?” he said.

“What do you mean someone else?” I asked, although I knew exactly what Leevi Säntti meant.

“She murdered our child by having an abortion. And this is what it’s led to. Once you step onto the path of sin—”

“Mr. Säntti, your wife is only one of several persons of interest in the case. I’d like to meet with you in Karhumaa.”

“Of course. I understand how police procedure works.” Leevi Säntti’s phone voice was intentionally pleasant and manipulative in a similar way to Kari Hanninen’s.

Ending the call, I knew I should phone Hanninen too, but I couldn’t force myself to do it yet. Over the past few days I’d spent hours wondering whether Palo and Malmberg would still be alive if the police commanders had listened more closely to Hanninen. Whenever I thought about it, anger began rising from beneath the agony. I wanted someone to blame for Palo’s death, someone I could scream at, someone to punch and kick. It didn’t matter that Malmberg had fired the shot that killed Palo. I had been killed there too—if I had been in the cabin in Palo’s place, the same thing would have happened to me and my inch-long baby.

When I went down to the cafeteria for lunch, people stared at me as if I were a freak. I had sometimes heard my suspects talk about this: anyone involved in a dramatic death, whether directly or not, bore a mark that aroused simultaneous disgust and curiosity. Of course, it was worse for suspects than witnesses or police officers, but still.

At last a female patrol officer came over to chat, dragging a couple of others to the table, so I didn’t feel so isolated anymore. Still, I knew I was a living reminder of the side of our work we preferred to put out of our minds.

Fortunately I had a routine to follow after lunch. The work that had piled up the week before still had to be dealt with, and I had meetings to arrange and reports to type up. But whenever I came upon a case Palo and I had worked together, I felt like pushing it aside. With the restaurant break-in, I was almost out of my chair and on my way to ask his opinion when I remembered he was gone.

How did Pihko feel? Had HR already cleaned out Palo’s desk? Had the family pictures pinned to the cubicle divider been removed? Had they taken his things from the closet and emptied the box that housed his famous medicine cabinet? I didn’t want to look yet.

Managing to squeeze in time after work to stop by home to change clothes, I set off for Cucina Raffaello, where I was to meet Tarja Kivimäki. On the bus, I caught myself eying a tightly secured baby stroller. The baby, only a few months old, was sleeping peacefully. Its father, a thin, long-haired guy tattooed down to his fingertips, kept adjusting the blankets and picking up the pacifier. He looked strangely familiar.

At the next stop, a heavy guy who seemed mildly drunk stepped onto the bus carrying a clinking plastic bag. He greeted the tattooed father animatedly.

“Hey, Nyberg! Shit, dude! I haven’t seen you since you got out. What are you doing in Espoo?”

“I got a wife and daughter here. And don’t yell so loud. You’ll wake the baby,” Nyberg said.

The rotund man lifted an unsteady finger to his lips and whispered that he was going to sit in the back so he wouldn’t bother the baby. The sack clanged dangerously against a railing as the man tottered toward the rear bench.

He didn’t stay quiet for long though. “Did you hear those pigs shot Markku Malmberg? That dude was crazy as shit. I was there that time he smashed one of Soininen’s fingers in the weight room.”

Nyberg didn’t answer. He just dug a pouch of tobacco out of a pocket and started rolling a cigarette. When a cry from the stroller interrupted the ritual, the father rushed to comfort the baby. With her quiet again, he quickly returned to his task, then shoved the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey, driver, is the next stop Tapiola? That’s where I get off,” the man with the bag announced. As he stepped off the bus, he noticed the cigarette hanging from Nyberg’s mouth and rushed back aboard to bum it. Strangely, the driver and other passengers didn’t seem to mind the two minutes it took them to exchange the cigarette and reminisce about how good the coffee had been in prison. Maybe the men’s previous address had something to do with their reticence.

When I arrived, Kivimäki was already sitting in a rear booth with her tape recorder on the table. As I ordered a glass of mineral water, I realized I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. In fact, I felt somewhat nauseated.

“So have you recovered from last week?” Kivimäki asked with false perkiness.