Behind God's Back

14

The next day one more investigator joined the case when Detective Jari Oksanen returned from vacation. Oksanen was nuts about cars, and one of the driving forces behind the police rally club. He drove a customized Audi with an exhaust modification that must have been illegal, because the thundering and popping of the engine preceded his car by a hundred yards. I could hear it in my office when Oksanen turned onto Radiotie, accelerated the final yards, and plunged into the parking garage.

At the morning recap, I explained to Oksanen where we were with the case. He was as full of pep and energy as his over-tuned ride. All I had to do was channel that energy in the right direction. Oksanen required a little more steering than Stenman and Simolin, who carefully considered their every move. On the other hand, Oksanen’s spontaneous blundering sometimes led to surprisingly good results. Either that, or he was exceptionally lucky.

We listened for a minute to Oksanen’s most recent Formula One report, then forced the conversation back to work matters. I was just getting started when there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, Huovinen stepped in.

“Got some interesting info.”

Huovinen was smiling so broadly that whatever it was couldn’t have been very serious.

“Takamäki’s team solved the Seeds of Hate case. The kidnapped professor wrote the letters himself.”

“Huh? Why?”

“He hit on one of his students at a party and went home with her. Her boyfriend walked in on them, clobbered the guy, and tossed him out in his underwear. The bloodied professor was looking for a cab when he ran into a patrol, and couldn’t come up with anything except that he’d been kidnapped. He’s married to a hot-blooded Spaniard, and didn’t want to get busted for stepping out on her. To make the case seem more believable, he wrote a few racist threats the next day and sent them to relevant targets.”

Oksanen guffawed.

“How did they figure that out?” Stenman asked.

“The boyfriend who kicked the professor’s ass chucked the professor’s stuff in a dumpster, where someone found it. Rocky’s fingerprints were all over it. He’d had a previous assault conviction, so the police paid him a visit, and that was all she wrote.”

“That professor’s going to be sorry once the papers get hold of that story,” Oksanen said, still chuckling.

I briefed Huovinen on the status of my case, and he went on his way.

Simolin had gone through all of Jacobson’s telecommunications data; it hadn’t revealed anything new. Max’s phone hadn’t been found, but the call data had already been requested. The examination of the killer’s Golf had proved to be an investigative dead end, and the Estonian police didn’t have anything new for us. The divers from Search and Rescue had hunted for the weapon on both sides of the bridge without any luck. The dives at the other bridge, the one that crossed the canal near the Tammisalo marina, were just beginning. The sketch that Jacobson’s neighbour’s kid had drawn of the killer had been shown on the ten o’clock news, and it was in both tabloids and the Helsingin Sanomat the next morning. Even though the picture was good, it hadn’t generated a single solid tip.

Max’s murder had also made the papers, despite the fact that we had agreed that it wouldn’t be reported until tomorrow. From the information included in the articles, we deduced that the leak had been either the security guard or the harbourmaster. The tabloids were already talking about the second “Jewish killing” and wondering if the victims’ Jewish background was just a coincidence. I drafted a brief release and sent it off to the STT, the national news agency.

In other words, the fourth day of the investigation had started off in somewhat depressing circumstances. Like you had blown a month’s salary on lotto cards and ferociously scratched one after the other, only to have them all turn up blank.

“You think Oxbaum’s murder is connected to the Jacobson killing?” Oksanen asked.

“One way or another,” I said. “The National Bureau of Investigation promised results from the ballistics tests this afternoon. Then we’ll know.”

Oksanen had his own, completely new theory about events.

“What if Oxbaum shot Jacobson?” he enthused. “If Jacobson threatened to reveal something that would be bad for Oxbaum.”

“Who killed Oxbaum, then?” Stenman asked. “Both were shot with a.22 calibre weapon, and Oxbaum had a 9 mm.” Stenman found Oksanen’s habit of thoughtlessly bandying about theories annoying.

“The description doesn’t match Oxbaum; neither does anything else,” I said. “I believe he felt guilty about Jacobson’s death and thought that he had put other people’s lives at risk. That’s why he wanted to meet me. But the killer got there first.”

“And just in the nick of time,” Stenman said.

“That’s quite the conspiracy theory,” Oksanen said. “Did anyone besides you see this canoe guy?”

“The kayak was stolen from the marina, and it turned up at the West Harbour. Presumably the killer had a car there that he used to continue his journey. Unfortunately not a single eyewitness has turned up. No fingerprints were found on the kayak, or anything else that would help the investigation.”

“Of course not.” Oksanen sounded resentful, as if he thought it was unfair that the criminal hadn’t left any clues behind. And maybe that is what he thought; who knew?

“You and Jari start by paying a visit to Oxbaum’s secretary. Go through Max’s office and bring in the computer and anything else necessary so we can check it out,” I said to Simolin. “Arja and I will go see his wife. Simolin, you can also put your Estonian connections to use and get us more information on Baltic Invest. Tell your buddy on the force there that our killer might be Estonian; maybe some suitable candidate will come to mind.”

“What about your brother?” Simolin asked uncomfortably.

“What about him?”

“How should we treat him?”

“The same as anyone else. Just do your job.”