I don’t like where this is going. “Yeah.”

“She gets Heikki to cut the words into Sufia’s belly-damning evidence-so that if she has to, she can blackmail Seppo into marrying her, insurance in case he falls in love with another young beautiful girl. She also has the boy gouge out Sufia’s eyes, a way of punishing Seppo because he loved them. Afterward, she pushes Heikki over the edge to suicide by rejecting him, forcing him to the realization that he committed murder and will suffer eternal damnation for nothing, and so all the evidence against her is gone. It’s a well-executed murder. She just didn’t count on being murdered herself for revenge.”

“That’s about it,” I say.

“And then the father of the victim,” she says, “who pretends to be a doctor, is actually a former torturer, a deranged man. He kidnapped your ex-wife and burned her to death to exact retribution for the loss of his daughter.”

“I think so.”

“But if that’s not the way it happened, it could have been your father, because your distraught coworker said cryptic things about him, and your father is the only one who would remember where your sister died.”

“I don’t want to think that, but I have to consider everything.”

“But just in case it wasn’t your father either, the murders might be the result of a sexual cabal, involving several people, for reasons unknown.”

I can’t understand why she’s doing this. “You’re not being fair. You’re trying to make me sound stupid.”

“And yet you’re close to solving this case and you’ll be here with me for Christmas dinner.”

She’s backed me into a corner, made me uncomfortable. “I know you’re angry, but you don’t need to insult me.”

“Who’s your next suspect? Your mother? Where was she at the time of the murder? Maybe she set this diabolical plan in motion, waited years for the opportunity to exact revenge on the people who hurt her son. It could have been me. Jealous of your ex-wife, I seduced Heikki and we murdered Sufia together as a cover for our final intent. I drove him to suicide to erase all traces of my crime, then destroyed Heli with fire. Maybe it was Pirkko Virtanen, and stabbing her husband to death was the final act in her murder spree.”

I’m not just insulted, I’m furious, but I don’t want to show it because this is my fault. I’ve let this case interfere with our relationship. She has cause for her anger and I can’t muster a worthy response. “You have no right to talk to me like this,” I say.

“Let’s look at what you’ve got here. A theory about a copycat murder. Why? Because your ex-wife can’t spell in English and two women killed sixty years apart both had genital deformities. I read about the Elizabeth Short murder on the Internet. Yes, there are a few similarities in the cases, but the differences far outweigh them. You’ve got Abdi Barre, a grieving father with a bad personality who said a few untoward things. Nothing suggests he’s a killer who’s been hiding in this country for the better part of twenty years. Your sister and your ex-wife being killed in the same approximate location was most likely coincidence. Stranger things have happened.”

I’m trying hard not to yell at her. I’ve never done it before and I don’t want to start now. “All right genius, since you’re the cop all of a sudden, you figure out the murders and explain them to me.”

“Before, you talked about finding the most elegant solution. Let me tell you what I think happened. Sufia had the semen of two men in her mouth. There was no sex cabal. She had two lovers. She was a slut and sucked them both off within a few hours. Heikki’s suicide note said he or she made me do it. He meant Seppo. They killed Sufia together, for love or money or whatever, and then, for some reason we don’t know, Seppo killed Heli. Maybe he’s just fucking crazy. You don’t seem to have thought of that.”

“That leaves too many things unexplained,” I say. “I’m looking for the truth.”

“Then I’ll give it to you. You’re an emotional mess. You look like shit. Last night, I watched the strongest man I’ve ever known fall apart because he never came to terms with the death of his sister, and probably never truly dealt with the fact that his ex-wife left him. Instead of grieving for her, you’re demonizing her rather than admit to yourself that you loved her and she hurt you. You’re tearing yourself apart.”

She takes my hand, puts my palm on her belly. “The truth is in here. You have two children growing inside me and you’re going to be a good and wise father to them.” She puts my other hand against her cheek. “And here you have a wife who loves you. You need to heal, to give these murders to another investigator and to be here with me so I can take care of you.”

I love Kate so much. Sometimes I wish I could crawl inside her, be a part of her, flow in her veins, drown in her blood. I wish I could say this to her.

My cell phone rings. It’s the national chief of police, so I answer. He tells me they searched Seppo’s Helsinki residence. A computer contained a number of true-crime files downloaded from the Internet. They also found a copy of The Black Dahlia, the novel by James Ellroy, based on the murder of Elizabeth Short, and also a video of the movie based on the book. I tell Kate what he said.

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” she asks.

I don’t respond.

“You can’t, can you?”

I shake my head no.

She sighs and holds my hand. We sit in the quiet for a few minutes.

“When it’s over,” she says, “I’ll be here, and I’ll help you put yourself back together.”

I realize that I know how to end this. I know it’s irresponsible and I shouldn’t do it, but I’m equally certain I’m going to do it anyway. I go to the sauna to be alone, to prevent myself from telling Kate what I intend to do.

33

THE NEXT MORNING, I put on a sweater and wool socks and step out to the back porch for a cigarette. The weather turned even more severe overnight and the cold hurts me, like somebody threw a handful of razors in my face. It almost drives me back inside. The thermometer reads minus forty, like it was a week ago today when Sufia was murdered, but now the bitter cold is accompanied by a driving wind that makes it almost impossible to bear. By the time I finish my smoke, my ears are numb and burning.

I have two funerals to attend today. I put on a black suit and a thick, full-length wool coat over it. My dress hat is made of heavy fox fur. I pull down the inner ear flaps and steel myself for a miserable frozen day.

At the police station, I bring Seppo up from his cell to my office and call Valtteri in to join us. Seppo looks bad, but he doesn’t cry or beg, and his lack of emotion surprises me. I suspect he’s gone through so much that he’s numb inside. I pour us all coffee and we sit around my desk. Seppo and I light cigarettes.

“Seppo,” I say, “unless something changes, you’re going to be convicted of double homicide.”

His expression stays flat. “I know.”

“Both your girlfriend and your wife are going to be buried today, Sufia at eleven this morning, Heli at four this afternoon.”

He nods.

“I don’t know if you killed them or not. Do you want to confess and make things easier for yourself? If you do, you’ll shave time off your prison sentence, still have some good years left when you get out.”

He sips coffee. His voice doesn’t change as he replies. We could be talking about what we’re going to have for lunch. “I didn’t kill them.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“If what you tell me is true, I want to help you, not because I care what happens to you, but because I want to see justice done. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I have an idea. It’s risky, but if you agree, we’ll try it.”

He takes a drag off his cigarette. “What is it?”