Lucifer's Tears (18 page)

“Sure. If you tell me about your top-secret mission.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because explaining about Arvid would lead to a question about the reason behind my involvement, and the answer is Ukki. I’m not prepared to go there with Milo. “It’s just not your business.”

“You’re an annoying fuck,” he says.

“Funny,” I say, “I’ve had the same thought about you.”

This gives him pause. “I’ve been doing the Filippov case legwork,” he says, “which is why I was up all night.”

At long last, he approaches the reason for our clandestine liaison.

“Iisa Filippov’s life insurance policy makes her worth eight hundred and fifty thousand, dead,” he says.

“It’s not a pittance, but not exactly a fortune either these days.”

“This afternoon, I spent some time going through her phone, making calls, finding out who her friends are. Everyone spoke well of her.”

He must think his detailed account of routine police work builds my anticipation. It only makes me miss the days when you could smoke in bars. “Glad to hear it.”

“And neither her husband’s nor her own personal bank accounts show signs of abnormal transactions.”

I sip coffee, work on my tolerance management skills.

“Last night,” Milo says, “while I was trash-diving at Filippov’s house, I looked in the windows and saw Linda there with him. They left together and I decided to tail them. They went to Linda’s apartment. I stayed and surveiled them.”

“Hoping to discover what?”

“I got an idea that if they collaborated in the murder and he used protective clothing while he committed it, they could have stowed it in her place.”

“Why wouldn’t he have disposed of it immediately after the killing?”

He shrugs. “You never know with people. I trash-dived Linda’s dumpsters and came up empty.”

He’s boring me shitless. My mind drifts to Ukki. I picture him executing a Communist with his little suicide pistol.

“Something the matter?” Milo asks.

“Nope. Please continue.”

“So I sit outside her building all night, in case they try to sneak out to dump the stuff. Nothing happens. Early this morning, they left together-I guess to work-so I broke in and black-bagged her apartment.”

My attention snaps into focus. “What?”

His coat is beside him. He takes a nylon wallet out of a pocket, unfolds it, sets it on the low table in front of us to show me a lockpick set. Seven picks and two torsion wrenches. “I busted a burglar once,” Milo says. “In return for letting him walk, he gave me his picks and showed me how to use them. It’s pretty easy.”

I shake my head, disgusted. “So you committed breaking and entering.”

“It’s a hobby with me. I don’t steal anything, I just like to see how other people live, take a peek into the lives of strangers.”

More sharing of personal details I don’t want to know. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I like to see the look on your face when I tell you about my hobbies.”

I didn’t know I had a look on my face. “Do you tell other people this shit?”

“ No. Just you.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.” He changes the subject. “Linda Pohjola is fucking hot.”

I nod. “She looks like Bettie Page.”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“She collects 1950s pinup magazines and movies. A lot of it is S amp;M and bondage, fetish-type stuff. She also has an excellent lingerie collection, which she scents with perfume.”

I take this to mean she consciously impersonates Bettie Page. “So you break into apartments and sniff women’s undergarments.”

“Not necessarily, but in this case, I had to search her underwear drawer. You know the old joke that goes, ‘What’s a Russian ass-shaker?’”

It’s a classic. “Yeah. It doesn’t shake and it doesn’t fit in your ass.”

He grins. “That’s the one. Well, lovely Linda has a non-Russian ass-shaker. A big green double-donged dildo. Big end for pussy and small end for ass.” Milo starts to sing a Beach Boys’ tune. “I’m pickin’ up good vibrations. She’s giving me excitations.”

I want to see if anything causes him shame. “How did Linda’s dildo smell?”

“Like soap,” he says. “She washes it.”

My tolerance level just maxed. “You didn’t ask me to come here so you can tell me about your proclivity for voyeurism and Linda’s underwear and dildo.”

He’s having the time of his life. His eyes sparkle, their dark circles have a liquid sheen. He folds up his lock-picker’s wallet, puts it back in his pocket, and puts a digital audio player in its place on the table. “I found her MP3 and bumped this over to my iPod. Listen to the second-to-last track,” he says.

I put the earbuds in and listen. I hear smacks, followed by high-pitched grunts and squeals. Slurping sounds, like a blow job. Muted low moans at intervals, some of which are from a male voice. I’m nearly certain it belongs to Filippov. It goes on for eight minutes. Milo has a recording of Iisa being whipped to pieces. I stop the machine.

“No, keep listening,” Milo says.

A Nine Inch Nails song, “Closer,” from The Downward Spiral album, starts. It’s a dirgey anthem to self-hatred and sadomasochistic sex.

This isn’t the studio version. It’s a home mix. The sound track from Iisa Filippov’s torture session has been dubbed over the song. Her blunted cries syncopate with the song’s rhythm. It’s sickening, makes my stomach churn.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Milo says, “and ingenious. Linda and Filippov have sex while they murder Iisa and make a recording, so that later they can fuck along to the sound of Iisa dying. I’m picturing them killing her, that dildo in Linda’s cunt and ass. Filippov’s dick in her gorgeous mouth. If you listen close, it sounds like they come together when Iisa dies and goes quiet.”

I listen again. He’s right. The idea is so appalling that for a moment I sit stunned.

“‘Closer’ may be the best fucking song of all time,” Milo says, “paralleled only by Led Zeppelin’s ‘Kashmir.’ You ever fuck to the rhythm of ‘Kashmir’?” He hums the bass line, makes little grinding motions with his crotch.

In fact, I’ve fucked to both songs, but that’s not his business. “To your credit,” I say, “you were right. Filippov and Linda colluded in Iisa’s murder, but you fucked everything up. Now we have the evidence, but it’s inadmissible in court. What, Sherlock, are we going to do with it?”

I don’t wait for his answer. Something hits me. Milo is unpredictable in the extreme. “Give me your pistol.”

It’s in a quick-release holster in the small of his back. He grins, hands his Glock 19 over to me. I look around to make sure no one sees, pop the clip and rack the slide. A round flies out. He’s ready for anything, carries it with one in the chamber, cocked and locked. I pick the ejected bullet up off the floor. It’s crosshatched, as is the one at the top of the clip. He’s loaded up with dum-dum rounds. Teaching him how to make them was a serious mistake. I turn the pistol over in my hands. It has a selector switch at the rear left of the slide that my Glock lacks.

I want to scream at him but keep my voice down. “You maladroit imp. You mental fucking pygmy. You installed a three-round-burst selector.”

His smile is smug. “No I didn’t. It’s a full-auto switch. Making the three-round-burst selector was harder than I thought. I got the schematics to the Glock 18, which has full auto-fire capability. The models aren’t too different. I had to do some hand tooling on the slide and barrel, but made it work.”

“I told you not to fuck with your service pistol. What did you do that for?”

He sticks his chin out, defiant. “Maybe because you’re not my fucking boss.”

“Take it out.”

“No.”

“I’d like to turn you in for breaking into Linda’s apartment and jeopardizing this case, but that would botch everything, and she and Filippov would walk.”

Milo says nothing, just stares at me.

“I’ve had just about fucking enough of you,” I say. “I’ve treated you as a professional, and in return you’ve been arrogant, conceited and childish. I outrank you, and whether you like it or not, I’m going to be the boss of you. We can change the nature of our relationship. I can call you detective sergeant, and you can call me inspector. I have twenty years more than you as a cop, and you’re going to treat me with the respect I’ve earned.”

He sneers, grits his teeth. We stare at each other. He clears his throat and holds out his hand. “My pistol.”

I give it back. He does some minor disassembly, removes the switch and puts a little screw in its place to cover the hole it left. He puts the loose round back in the clip, racks the slide to rechamber it, flicks on the safety and re-holsters the pistol.

I hold out my hand. “Give me the switch.”

He hesitates, frowns, does it. I hear a series of distant popping sounds. The door to the bar opens. A woman yells, “Someone’s shooting on Helsinginkatu!”

Milo and I grab our coats, get up and put them on as we run.

We follow the sounds of sporadic gunfire. Big booms that I’m pretty sure are from a high-caliber, short-barreled pistol. The noise takes us to Ebeneser School. A small crowd on the sidewalk peeks into the schoolyard from behind the ivy-covered fence that I smashed a man’s face off of two days ago. Helsinki residents aren’t used to Arctic cold. They shiver and stamp their feet in the snow. We show our police cards. A woman tells me the shooting is coming from inside the school. I call it in, request backup.

This is a nightmare scenario. Finland has suffered three school shootings. The first in 1989, in Rauma. A fourteen-year-old shot two fellow students. The second in November 2007, at Jokela High School, near Tuusula. A sixteen-year-old gunman killed eight and wounded twelve before turning the gun on himself. It rocked the nation. Then, not long after, in September 2008, it happened again in Kauhajoki. Ten people murdered before the shooter blew his own head off. Finland seems to be following the U.S. schoolshooting trend. Parents are terrorized. And now, here we are again.

Not long ago, such situations fell under the province of Karhuryhma-the Bear Team-or, as they’re nicknamed, the Beagle Boys. They have SWAT units, handle riots, special ops and counterterrorism. In the past, in a case such as this, normal police would have waited on the Beagle Boys to bring in snipers and hostage negotiators. The Finnish National Police, however, made a recent decision-because schoolkids can’t wait while they’re being shot to pieces-that the first officers on the scene must respond in the event of a school shooting. The responsibility falls to me and Milo.

We enter the gate and scurry to the front door. My heart pounds and blood roars in my ears.

Milo looks calm enough. His face doesn’t betray how he feels inside. “How do you want to handle it?” he asks.

“Have you tried out your modified pistol?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

“Then don’t. If it misfires, you or someone else could die.”

“It works.”

Adrenaline makes my hands shake. I draw my Glock. “You haven’t talked down anyone with a gun. I have. If possible, let me handle it.”

I don’t say, but I’m certain he knows, that I tried such a thing once, not long ago. I failed, and my friend blew his brains out before I could stop him.

I open the front door. Milo crouches and darts through it. I don’t crouch. My bad knee won’t allow it. There’s no point anyway. Thirty feet down a hall decorated with crayon artwork by students sits Vesa Legion Korhonen with a boy of about eight clutched in one arm. He has a chrome snub-nosed. 357 Magnum pressed to the child’s head. A bottle of Finlandia vodka rests on the floor beside him.

I level my Glock at his head and walk forward.

“You,” he says. “Dis is pwovidenthial.”

“Vesa,” I ask, “what are you doing, and why are you doing it?”

“I am saving souws,” he says. “Da childwen’s and my own. And now youahs.”

With peripheral vision, I see Milo to my right and behind me. He circles farther to the right, close to the wall of the hall, trying to keep Legion’s attention on me and away from him.

“You made me dwink da whoe bottle. You hewt me,” Legion says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

The boy is motionless and quiet. A dark stain spreads around his crotch. My own bladder wants to let go. I tell the child to stay calm and not to move.

“Put yooah gun down,” Legion says.

“No.”

“I wiah shoot dis boy.”

I lower the Glock to my side, but inch closer. With my bad knee, I can’t move fast. I have to get within arm’s reach of Legion if I’m to have any chance of restraining him. Given his. 357, though, I can’t imagine how I might accomplish that.

“Have you hurt anyone?” I ask.

“Oh, yeth. Many.” He chugs vodka.

Milo continues to slink along the wall. He’s almost at a right angle to Legion now.

“What would it take to get you to let the boy go?” I ask.

“Hmm,” he says. “Wet me think. I know. Shoot youahthelf.”

“Why?”

“You toad me, ‘Bottaw to wips and dwink.’ I’m tewing you, gun to head and puu twigger.”

Fuck. I don’t know what to do. I put the Glock to my temple. It pounds from the migraine. I’m still inching forward, just a little more than three feet away from him now.

Legion jams the Magnum harder against the boy’s head. The child whimpers. “Shoot youahthelf,” Legion says again.

I’m at a loss. I might consider shooting myself, if it would save the boy’s life, but there’s no reason to think my suicide would change anything. I wait, terrified.

“Do it,” Legion says and drinks again.

The boy squirms. Legion holds him tighter. Legion turns his face toward him. The back of Legion’s head faces Milo.

A piercing sharp crack. For a brief instant, I think I accidentally shot myself, or Legion shot the child. But Legion’s head jerks and slumps. His gun arm drops, his hold on the boy releases. I kneel down and gesture to the boy. He gets up and falls into my arms.