16

PETER IS A WASTE of humanity, breathing air somebody else could be breathing. He could have killed Sufia. If so, his friends were probably accomplices. Peter and one of the others could have forced her to perform oral sex, accounting for the two sets of sperm in her mouth. One of them, not inclined toward rape, could have been upset by the spectacle and shed the tears that provided the third set of DNA. I wouldn’t put it past them, but I don’t consider it likely either.

Peter was already getting what he wanted from Sufia, but maybe Sufia wanted more from Seppo than he was willing to give her. Fear that she might destroy his relationship with Heli provides him with one motive. Sufia’s affair with Peter gives him another. Seppo remains the most likely suspect.

Valtteri calls. Seppo wants to talk to me. I go to the police station. News vans from Finland ’s three major television channels are parked in front of it. Reporters and cameramen pile out into the cold, surround me, shine lights in my eyes and start filming. Altogether, there must be twenty of them, and print journalists too. I see Jaakko from Alibi in the crowd. They shout questions. I decline to comment and push my way through them.

Valtteri is in the doorway. “They wanted to wait inside,” he says, “but I wouldn’t let them.”

“Don’t. Except for Jaakko Pahkala. After I talk to Seppo, go get him and bring him to my office.”

The three major Helsinki newspapers, all morning editions, are scattered around the common room. Sufia is on the front page of each. I take a few minutes to read them. Two of them specialize in yellow journalism. Thanks to Jaakko, they pick up on the Black Dahlia theme and compare Sufia’s murder to that of Elizabeth Short, the Hollywood starlet murdered in 1947, whose gruesome killing still remains a source of fascination for murder buffs today.

Only Helsingin Sanomat, a more sober publication, takes a more thoughtful line and focuses on the fact that Sufia is the first prominent black woman to have been murdered in Finland. Even their treatment is confusing. It leaves me unsure if, in some twisted way, they consider her murder an advancement of black women in our society. I check my messages.

Nine Finnish newspapers request interviews, plus STT-the Finnish News Service-and Reuters. At some point, I’m going to have to talk to the press. The story is going international, and if I don’t, they’ll invent something to keep steam behind it. I had hoped that by the time we got to this point, I could tell them the case was solved.

I go down to the lockup to talk to Seppo. I open the port in his door. “I hear you have something to tell me.”

He jumps off his cot. “I figured something out. If I can prove I didn’t kill Sufia, will you let me go?”

“That’s the way it works.”

“Yesterday, when you came down here, you said it had been forty-nine hours since Sufia was murdered.”

“So?”

“When we went upstairs, I saw a clock. It was three then, so Sufia was killed at two.”

“That’s right, Sherlock.”

“I was on the phone around that time, you can check.”

I start to close the window. “I did check. Nice try.”

“Wait.” He pushes a hand through the port, holds it open. “I wasn’t talking on my cell phone. The battery was almost dead, so I used the landline in the room. I was staying in a cabin in the Hullu Poro hotel.”

It’s next to the bar and restaurant. He gives me a name. “I’ll look into it.” I shut the port in his face.

I check out his story. Seppo was registered there. He made a call a little later than he said, at two forty-one P.M., and talked for nineteen minutes. I get the number and call Seppo’s friend. He confirms the conversation.

“How would you describe Seppo’s emotional state during your conversation?” I ask.

“He was Seppo, nothing special.”

“You detected no agitation in his voice?”

“He was happier than I’ve heard him sound for a while.”

“What did you and he talk about?”

He hesitates. “It was pretty personal.”

“Seppo is locked in a cell and about to be charged with murder. Is it more personal than that?”

“It’s about her, then. You arrested Seppo for it?”

“Are you referring to Sufia Elmi?”

“Yeah.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything. “What did you talk about?”

He sighs. “Okay. Seppo talked about that girl.”

“What did he say?”

“Shit. Well, I won’t lie for him. The girl had just left. He went on about how she sucked him and fucked him. That’s all he talked about the whole time. That’s why he called me, to brag about it.”

Now I know where Sufia was abducted. The killer must have driven her straight from the hotel to Aslak’s reindeer farm.

“Did he say if he had feelings for her outside of their sexual relationship?”

“You mean was he in love with her?”

“I mean feelings. Love, hate, whatever.”

“No, I didn’t get any of that.”

“Well, what did you get? What was his attitude, his demeanor, when he discussed Sufia Elmi?”

He doesn’t say anything. I can almost hear him thinking.

“Listen,” I say, “a woman has been murdered. Bringing her justice is more important than your concept of duty toward a drinking buddy.”

“Jesus, you just don’t quit. He called her his nigger. You happy now? He said, ‘My nigger got on her knees.’ He said, ‘Nigger looked up at me with those gorgeous eyes while she sucked my cock. I blew in that beautiful nigger’s face. Nigger whore took it in the ass.’ He went on like that.”

Nigger whore. The words cut into Sufia’s torso. “He used the phrase ‘nigger whore.’ You’re certain.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to know Seppo. He doesn’t mean anything. He talks shit, tries to act like he’s a big man. He does it because he feels small. He’s not a bad guy or I wouldn’t be his friend.”

“Yeah, I’m getting a real sense of his underlying sensitivity. I’ll be in touch.” I hang up.

17

JAAKKO, GOSSIP COLUMNIST and writer of true-crime horseshit, walks into my office. He’s a little guy with a scraggly beard, full of energy. “Thanks for giving me the tip about the murder,” he says.

I finish the last sentence of my report to the national chief of police and e-mail it before looking up. “I did you a favor,” I say, “treated you like a professional journalist. You repaid me by writing about Sufia Elmi with disdain and disrespect. You released details of the crime I didn’t want published, and the photos you printed were exploitative. I just called you in here to tell you that. Now get out.”

He winces like I slapped him. “If you mean the comparison to the Black Dahlia murder, I meant no disrespect. The two killings are similar.”

“Putting a Hollywood spin on her murder makes it seem inconsequential. How do you think publishing those photos made her parents feel? I spoke to her father. They’re devastated.”

He looks penitent. “Can I sit?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry I offended you, but anybody would have published the photos. Alibi even held the presses to get the story in. Sales were up sixty percent. And, well, true-crime stories are a hobby for me. When I heard the details, the Black Dahlia was the first thing that came into my head.”

“Where did you get the crime scene details?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“How much did you pay the diener?” He ignores the question. “I’d like to interview you about the case.”

“I’m busy, go away.”

“Your ex-wife called Ilta-sanomat today.”

I should have expected this. “And?”

“She says she left you for Seppo Niemi, and you arrested him for Sufia’s murder. She says you’re framing him. Care to comment?”

“No.” Something occurs to me. “How did Sufia’s murder remind you of the Black Dahlia case?”