Lucifer's Tears (7 page)

Kate’s eyes meet mine for a moment. She understands I’m trying to stop the argument and lets me. “I’m a little nervous about seeing them because it’s been so long,” she says. “The last time I saw John was in 2006. The last time I saw Mary was 2005. They’re grown up now, and I wonder how they’ve changed. Still, who would have thought that three poor kids like us would have done so well. I’m running the best hotel in the city and John is becoming a university history teacher. Mary is a doctor’s wife. I more or less raised them. It makes me proud.”

“You have a right to be proud,” I say, “and I’m proud of you.” I check the time, it’s a little after three. My therapy session begins at four. I’ve been attending counseling for eight months now, and dread it more and more as time goes by.

I hesitate. Apologies are difficult for me. “Kate, I meant what I said. You’re going to be a great mother. I was out of line and didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It just came out wrong.”

She squeezes my hand. “I know.”

I limp through the snow toward my Saab. It’s parked near the taxi stand on Helsinginkatu. The street is nicknamed Raate Road, after the scene of a decisive and bloody battle in the Winter War, for the same reason that Vaasankatu is called Hunting Knife Boulevard. It has a bad reputation from bygone days, but not much real wickedness goes on here anymore. It’s true that Kallio has its fair share of the permanently unemployed that live on welfare and spend their days in rakalat -snot bars, as they’re called-drinking cheap beer, but most towns in Finland have their welfare drunks and dives for them to booze in.

I hear shouting down the street. As I close in, I see a man in front of Ebeneser School, a special-needs place for kids with dysphasia. The students there have speech disorders of one kind or another, difficulties with language comprehension or production, most often the result of varying degrees of brain damage. Some can speak but not write, others write but don’t speak. Very occasionally, a child will be able to sing but not speak.

The school is a beautiful off-peach Art Nouveau building constructed around the turn of the twentieth century, fronted by a chain-link fence interlaced with a growth of decades-old ivy, now wreathed in frost. I get closer and see that the screaming comes from a young man waving a half-empty bottle of Finlandia vodka. His rant is biblical and apocryphal in nature, and he has a bad speech impediment.

“Thpawns of Thatan, damned at biddth, you have fawen fwom da Towew of Babel. Bettew dat you had nevew been bodn!”

I get up close to him and look through the fence. Four little bundled-up children stand on the other side of it, terror-stricken but fascinated. I see no supervising adult. It pisses me off. “Listen kids,” I say to them, “I’m a policeman. Would you please go inside.”

The guy bellows an incoherent howl and screams again. “Bettew dat you had nevew been bodn!”

They don’t move. I make shooing motions with my hands. “Run along now,” I say.

They scramble toward the front door. The guy isn’t making any noise now, but he flails his arms, makes frantic gestures, waves the bottle and claws at his face.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“My name is Weejun. Away fwom me, thpawn of hell.”

“Well, Mr. Legion, why were you scaring those kids?”

He gulps a drink from the bottle, wraps his arms around himself, rolls his head back and forth and shakes. He’s coming apart at the seams. He shrieks like a hurt animal, then manages a shrill, understandable utterance. “To save deir souws! Dey awe damned unwess I thave dem!”

I’m tempted to ask him why, if his name is Legion, aka Satan, he wants to save the children rather than see them spend eternity in hell. Then I decide I’m not interested in the logic of the insane. My head throbs-hate boils up in me.

I grab Legion by the neck, smack his face against the snowcovered fence. It gives me a modicum of satisfaction, so I do it again. He’s a skinny little bastard, maybe a hundred and thirty-five pounds. I’ve been working out hard for most of the past year, since we moved to Helsinki. It takes my mind off the headaches. I bench-press more than twice his weight. He starts to cry, his knees start to give way. I grab him by the neck with one hand, hold him up by his head so that his feet barely graze the ground and look close at him. He’s in his mid-twenties and has a bad, close-cropped haircut that looks like a home job. His longish beard is unkempt. His coat, pants and shoes are neat and clean though. I’m guessing his parents take care of him.

His left eyebrow is cut, blood runs into his eye. His nose bleeds. My satisfaction from banging his face off the fence dissipates. He’s crazy as a shithouse rat. I ask myself what to do with him. A final lesson and punishment for his treatment of defenseless children seems appropriate. “You like vodka,” I say. “Enjoy yourself to the max.”

He doesn’t get it. His eyes radiate alarm and bewilderment.

“Bottle to lips, drink until empty,” I say.

He’s done screaming now. Frightening learning-disabled children comes easier to him than dealing with able-bodied adults. He gets the point. “I don’t want to. Don’t make me. It’th too much.”

I pull out an old Finnish proverb that teaches the virtue of patience. “Karsi karsi, kirkkaamman kruunun saat” -“Suffering suffering, makes the crown glow brighter.”

He shakes his head no.

I let go of his neck. “Did I offer you a fucking choice?”

He understands now. Drink, or I’ll keep beating him. He’s in a bad situation. The booze is his best chance for escape. He lifts the bottle, sucks it down as fast as he can. I wait thirty seconds. Alcohol poisoning starts to hit. The bottle drops from his hand and shatters on the icy sidewalk. Another ninety seconds pass. He drops to his knees and looks at me with uncertain eyes. Another minute goes by, he falls backward. Head hits frozen pavement. Scalp splits. Blood runs in a thin trickle onto the ice.

I reach under him, into his back pocket, and find his wallet. His ID reads Vesa Korhonen, age twenty-three. I put the ID card back into his wallet and throw it onto his chest, then call for a police van to cart him off to the drunk tank. I leave him there on the sidewalk, don’t wait for them to arrive. Good afternoon and good night, Vesa Korhonen, alias Legion.

I’m seeing a psychiatrist named Torsten Holmqvist. I didn’t choose him. The police department assigned me to him. His office is in his home, in the fashionable district of Eira, near embassy row. The house, which he told me he inherited, looks out over the sea and must be worth at least a couple million euros. We sit in big leather chairs, on opposite sides of a glass coffee table. I’ve eschewed his couch.

Torsten is a wealthy Swedish-speaking Finn, and certain mannerisms betray his roots. A casual yet confident way of sitting, an affable comportment and easy laugh that I think feigned. A yellow pullover sweater is draped over his shoulders and loosely knotted in front of his pink button-down shirt. He’s in his fifties, his thick hair combed up and back and hair-sprayed, politician-style, a dignified gray at the temples. He smokes a briar pipe. His aromatic tobacco is apple-scented.

His manner and appearance irritate me, or maybe he’s good at his job and knows how to push my buttons, and that’s why he puts me off. Either way, I’ve been in therapy before, and I didn’t like it then either, but it helped me, so I try and work with him. Besides, I promised Kate I would do this. I’m further agitated because I have a murder to investigate, need to speak to a Finnish hero-now an accused war criminal-and I can’t do either of those things while I’m sitting here.

“So,” Torsten says, “you assaulted a mentally ill person. Do you consider that a reasonable and responsible action?”

“He terrified defenseless children-disabled children-it seems entirely reasonable and responsible.”

“You beat him up and poisoned him.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“As a police officer, you know that you can’t rationally defend appointing yourself judge and jury, no matter how reprehensible you found his actions.”

“Listen,” I say. “If it was a situation involving adults, I would agree with you. But no fucking way I’m letting him get away with ranting a frightening, insane tirade at kids. They might be traumatized. Mentally ill or not, he needed to understand that his actions have consequences.”

“You don’t seem to have considered the possibility that the young man may have screamed at the children in order to seek punishment.”

He’s right. I hadn’t considered it. “I did nothing that, under the circumstances, most men wouldn’t have done.”

“I wouldn’t have,” he says. “Do you think that reflects on my manhood?”

I sigh. I have no interest in his holier-than-thou attitude.

Torsten lets the question about his manhood go and offers me coffee, makes himself a cup of herbal mint tea. He lights his pipe. I light a Marlboro Red. “Would you consider your protective feelings toward children excessive?” he asks.

“Is such a thing possible?” He hates it when I answer his questions with questions.

“Your answer is an answer in itself. Could we discuss why that might be?”

I look out his bay window at the sea. The harbor isn’t quite frozen solid yet. Chunks of ice float in it. Beyond them, I watch the whitecaps break for a moment. “If you like.”

“Your sister, Suvi, froze and drowned when you were skating on a lake together and the ice broke under her. Your father had placed her under your protection. Do you still think of it often?”

“Daily.”

“Yet, your father was on the scene. He was drunk and failed to come to her aid. He was the adult, the caregiver. The blame resides with him.”

I light another cigarette. “I blame him, too.”

“He let your sister die and he beat you as a child. You’ve never expressed hatred for him. Not even anger.”

“I used to be angry,” I say, “but at a certain point, I grew up and recognized my parents’ humanity. My father is emotionally damaged. His parents beat him far worse than he ever did me.”

“How do you know? Has he told you?”

Dad’s parents were the antithesis of Mom’s folks-Ukki and Mummo-whom I loved so much. “He didn’t have to, some things you don’t have to be told. When we visited them, which wasn’t often, his father-my grandfather-hurt me, too. The atmosphere in the house was morbid. My father’s parents were Lutheran religious fanatics. Laughter was forbidden, and they kicked-literally-us children out of the house for laughing. I can only imagine what they did to him.”

He makes some notes on a pad. “Perhaps you’re making excuses for him.”

I look out at the sea again. It comforts me. I say nothing.

“How is your wife’s pregnancy going?” he asks.

I’m glad to change the subject. “She has preeclampsia, but she has no headaches, visual disturbances or epigastric pain-symptoms that suggest imminent danger-so given the circumstances, it’s going okay.”

“Could we discuss her miscarriage? You’ve been reticent to do so in the past.”

No, we can’t. I thought I had made that clear to him. “I thought we were here to talk about a duty-related incident.”

“I’m sorry, Kari, but indirectly, we are.”

“How so?”

“You’re here because of severe trauma. You pursued the Sufia Elmi investigation-forgive me for imposing my opinion-and it was beyond your emotional ability. You told me that you believe your errors in judgment led to deaths that could have been prevented.”

He’s right. It was beyond my emotional ability. The case taught me several things about myself and life that I don’t like. I found out I’m obsessive and reckless. I discovered that justice doesn’t exist. I solved the crime, but failed all the people involved, including myself. I thought I had escaped my past, but found out that a part of me remained a beaten child who believed he killed his sister.

I picture my ex-wife’s little scorched body. Hairless. Faceless. “Facts are facts,” I say. “I fucked up. We’ve covered this ground before.”

“Yes, but we haven’t covered other related ground. Your wife begged you to recuse yourself from the investigation, but you refused. I’d like you to consider the possibility that you blame yourself for her miscarriage, and that this, more than what you consider your failures during the investigation, is causing you extreme guilt.”

He makes more notes.

For reasons I don’t understand, he’s pissing me off even more than usual. “You think you know something about me,” I say. “You think you can manipulate me into some kind of self-revelation, but you don’t and you can’t.”

He looks at me, appraising, and rubs the top of his pen against the side of his head. Another tiny action that seems feigned. He’s careful not to muss his suave politician hair. “Why not?”

“We’re in the same business,” I say. “We look beneath surfaces for the truth. If you’re going to do that with me, you’re going to have to work just a little bit harder, because I see through you.”

He takes a second and sits back in his glossy leather chair, puffs his pipe, sips his mint tea. “Please explain.”

“People are easy to decipher,” I say. “Listen to what’s said on the surface. Ask yourself why they said it. Ask yourself what they didn’t say, then ask yourself why they didn’t say it. When all those questions are answered, the truth becomes evident.”

“Simplistic perhaps, but nicely put,” Torsten says.

I feel like reversing our roles and watching his reaction. “Let me give you a little lesson about people,” I say. “Look at them as well as listen to them. Check out their hands and their feet. Hands tell a life story. Muscle and scars speak of hard work and usually outdoor life or the lack thereof. The condition of fingernails, whether they’re clean or dirty or well-kept or maybe bitten goes toward self-esteem. The shoes people wear give away their taste, hence self-perception, and usually reveal their socioeconomic status.”

I got him. He tries not to, but he glances at his Gucci loafers, then his thin, lily-white hands and manicured nails. Then he looks at my boots and stubby hands, almost as thick as they are long, and I’m certain he pictures those hands bouncing Vesa Legion Korhonen’s face off the fence in front of Ebeneser School.