Snow Angels

31

I go out to the common room. Valtteri is still sitting at his desk, still staring at nothing. “How did it go with Seppo?” he asks.

“Not well.”

Abdi is a possibility but a long shot, so I don’t mention it. Most likely, this will end with Seppo or Peter or both tried and convicted. “Did search and arrest warrants come for Eklund?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

I wish Valtteri would go home. “Then let’s pick him up,” I say. We take a squad car and I drive. It’s snowing hard-wind drives it toward us in blinding sheets. My head hurts from the whiskey, my mouth is still sour. My hangover magnifies everything: the hiss of tires slicing through snowdrifts on the road, the drumming of the windshield wipers. The headlights penetrate the dark, light up the falling snow and the glare burns my eyes. Even the silence between Valtteri and me seems amplified.

In the passenger seat beside me, he drums on the dashboard with chewed fingernails. He grinds his teeth and bites his lip. I doubt if he knows he’s doing any of it. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and barely recognize myself. I can’t help but think that in our current conditions, we’re not fit to be dog catchers, let alone law enforcement officers. But I’ve investigated enough crimes to know this is almost over. Soon, Valtteri and I can rest, maybe in time for Christmas. When Kate’s cast comes off, I’ll take her somewhere warm on vacation, maybe the Canary Islands. I can make this up to her. We’ll put all this behind us.

The recurring image of Heli’s burned body resonates through me, makes me shiver. The significance of my sister and ex-wife dying within a few yards of each other seems too great to ignore. I ask myself who might remember Suvi’s death thirty years ago, and who might also have hated Heli enough to not only kill her but to destroy her with fire. Only a few old men who helped recover Suvi’s body might even remember where she died. And Dad. He was at that very spot on the lake just a few days ago. He has emotional problems and a violent streak, but I never thought he gave a damn that Heli left me. He never had room for the pain of other people.

I remember Valtteri’s reticence when I told him to find out where Dad was when Sufia was murdered. It hurts me to think of it, but maybe pursuing Seppo and Peter is the wrong track. I have to ask. “Do you know anything about my father you haven’t told me?”

He looks at me, emotionless. I can’t read anything in his face. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life and I’m a policeman. I know lots of things about people.”

“Is there anything I should know?”

He sighs. “Some things are best forgotten, sometimes hurtful things best never known.”

I’m scared, but I press it. “Is there something about my father I don’t know that has a bearing on these murder cases?”

He shakes his head, indulgent, as if he suffers a fool. “No.”

“At the beginning of this, you said we shouldn’t look at family, like you were trying to protect me.”

“I said we shouldn’t waste time investigating family when we know they’re innocent.”

I don’t point out that Heikki wasn’t innocent. “Would you tell me if there was something?”

He stares straight ahead. “I’m not sure.”

Time passes. “Do you believe in God?” he asks.

We’ve never discussed religion before. “Yes.”

“My faith teaches that what my son Heikki did, committing murder and suicide, condemns him to hell without hope of redemption. Do you believe that?”

I wish I could find words to console him, but I don’t have them. I answer his question as best I can. “I think our God is one of forgiveness, and that there’s always hope for redemption. If Heikki asked for forgiveness in his last thoughts, I believe he received it.”

“I wish I could believe that too,” he says. “Heikki always loved hunting more than anything. I thought he was a born outdoors-man. Now I think he just liked killing things.”

We ride on in silence. From the foot of the mountain, even through the snowstorm, I can see the multicolored lights of Christmas decorations in the glass front of the Eklund winter cottage. When we pull up the drive, I realize Peter must have had it professionally done. They’re as elaborate as those of any department store. We get out of the car, and I look down the mountain into the dark. Below us, Kittila is almost hidden from view, the lights of the town blurred, nearly obliterated by the pouring snow.

We walk up to the house, and I ring the bell. Peter doesn’t answer. I twist the knob, the door is unlocked. Beside the massive hearth stands a Christmas tree nearly as tall as the one in Kittila’s main square, and even more garishly decorated. Christmas music booms through the house. Bing Crosby croons “The First Noel.”

Peter comes out of a second-story bedroom, wearing pink silk pajamas, closes the door and locks it behind him, puts the key in his pocket. “What the fuck are you doing here? Get the fuck out!” He doesn’t stutter-he’s drunk.

“We have a warrant,” I say.

He trots down the stairs to head us off.

I hear a muffled cry. It sounds like it came from the room he just left. “Who the fuck was that?” I ask.

We start toward the stairs. Peter blocks our path, tries to keep us out of the room. He’s upset, near tears. “You can’t go in there, that’s Daddy’s room.”

“You were in it.”

Another muffled scream.

“Give me the key,” I say.

He doesn’t want to. I shove him against the wall. He takes the key from his silk pajama pocket and hands it over. Valtteri cuffs his hands behind his back. I go upstairs and unlock the door.

Two girls are in the room. One is about seventeen and naked. She’s manacled spread-eagle to the bedposts with four sets of velvet-lined handcuffs. She’s got a red ball gag in her mouth, fastened around her head with nylon straps. If the other girl is in her teens, she’s only just barely. She’s wearing jeans and socks, but her shirt is off. She sits on the edge of the bed, her arms folded tight across partially formed breasts, rocks back and forth. She stares, vacant, at an invisible fixed point in front of her.

I look around, take in what’s happened. Peter’s father set up “Daddy’s room” with a digital video camera on a tripod, connected to a computer and a big monitor on the wall, so he can watch himself fuck and record it at the same time. I see the keys to the restraints on top of a dresser, beside a collection of dildos, vibrators and lubricants. I take the gag out of the girl’s mouth and unlock her. She sits up, starts crying, jabbers fast at me in Russian. She’s so upset that she doesn’t even think to cover herself.

I tell her to slow down. She speaks a little Finnish, I speak a little Russian. I piece the story together. She came from Kuoloyarvi, a village not far across the border, to do some prostitution and get some money from the holiday tourists. It’s a common tale. A lot of Russian hookers come to Levi, raise some cash and go back home. They can make as much in a week by hooking in Finland as they can by working at a straight job for a year in Russia. She takes care of her little sister and brought her along, she says, because there wasn’t anyone else to look after her.

Peter cruises the bus station, picks them up there. He seems like a nice guy, is good-looking, has nice clothes, a nice car. She says she doesn’t have a place for her sister to stay yet. No problem, he says, she can have something to eat and watch movies while we attend to business. He brings them here, shows the kid the fridge, parks her in front of the TV.

He brings big sister here to Daddy’s bedroom. He wants to tie her up, make a video. He offers extra money. He’s still smiling, makes it sound like fun. She thinks it will be okay. He ties her to the bed and gags her. He fucks her in the ass, not part of the deal. He doesn’t use a condom. Then he drags little sister into the room, takes off her shirt, makes her suck his cock while big sister watches. Big sister wails and sobs, tears at her cheeks with her fingernails, cuts herself. She screams that he didn’t even wash his dick before he stuck it in little sister’s mouth.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed next to big sister. Valtteri stands in the doorway listening, Peter behind him.

I walk out into the hall, shake my head and look at Peter. “Boy, you’re in big trouble.”

Panic sets in. I see it in his eyes. He turns and starts to run. I don’t know where he thinks he’s going in handcuffs and pink pajamas. I guess he’s so drunk he doesn’t know either.

Valtteri takes a step forward and grabs him by the collar of his pajama top. He jerks Peter toward him, then punches him in the back of the head. Peter reels, hits the balcony railing, teeters on the edge. He’s about to fall to the floor, twenty feet below. Valtteri makes no move to help him.

I reach out and catch Peter, pull him toward us, away from the railing. Valtteri delivers a devastating punch to his face. The crunch of cartilage is loud and sickening. His nose shatters, flattens against his face. He issues a high-pitched squeal. Valtteri punches him in the head again. Peter falls to his knees.

I never could have imagined this scenario. I don’t know what to say. “Valtteri?”

“I can’t abide violence against innocent women,” he says.

There’s movement behind me. The little girl comes out of the bedroom into the hall, still topless. She kicks Peter between the legs. He screams. She positions her leg for another kick. I don’t try to stop her, can’t make myself do it. She kicks him in the face, further crushes his already broken nose. He shrieks in agony and collapses to the floor, hands chained behind him.

He makes a perfect target. She delivers another kick to his crotch with a stockinged foot. He vomits, pulls his knees up to his stomach, tries to protect his testicles from further violence, cries like a baby. She goes back in the bedroom, sits down on the bed beside her sister, stares at the invisible fixed spot again.

Peter’s nose requires medical attention, but I don’t feel inclined to get it for him yet. He was a handsome boy, maybe too handsome, so pretty he was almost effeminate. Valtteri and little sister cured that problem, but then again, no doubt Daddy will have a plastic surgeon put it back the way it was. I leave him on the floor of the hall. Puke drools out of the corner of his mouth. Blood runs out of his nose and puddles on the floor around his head. He’s curled into a fetal position, bawling his eyes out.

Prostitution isn’t a crime in Finland, and neither is procuring the services of a prostitute. Prostitution only becomes a matter for the law when it’s organized, involves human trafficking and slavery. Big sister is at least sixteen, the age of consent in this country, and is taking part in prostitution of her own volition. Little sister, however, is well under the age of consent. Peter has raped and sexually assaulted a minor.

The law states that people entering the country for the purpose of prostitution must be deported. But not today. I’ll get the girls medical and psychiatric care first, and take their statements, but they’ll never return for trial. Daddy will buy Peter a good lawyer, and in the end, Peter might walk on the rape and assault charges.

I call for EMTs and search while I wait. I find cocaine and Rohypnol, the date-rape drug, and pills which I think are probably GHB or ecstasy. I check out Daddy’s computer. Some of the video files are encrypted, some aren’t. I guess Daddy had the sense to encrypt his videos, but Peter found the key to the secret lair, used the equipment and didn’t have the brains to cover his ass.

There’s footage of him having sex with a variety of people, some male, some female, some adults, some children. In a folder labeled BROKEN ANGELS, I find downloaded kiddie porn, Japanese videos of violent sex with abused and damaged children. Peter is already a convicted sex offender, and possession of child pornography is a serious crime here. In essence, Peter’s fucked, and Daddy can’t help him without incriminating himself.

Two ambulances arrive, the sisters and Peter travel in separate vehicles. Through driving snow, Valtteri and I trail behind them in the cruiser without speaking. At the hospital, I find a nurse fluent in Russian. She translates and I take statements from the girls. We sit in the waiting room and I take a short nap, until a doctor says we have to leave Peter because he has a ruptured testicle. Both the testicle and his nose require surgery. He won’t be able to walk for a week. I suggest he test Peter for HIV/AIDS, because he has unprotected anal sex with prostitutes from Russia, where the disease is rampant.

I’m not worried about leaving Peter unguarded. He’s temporarily crippled and anyway, I have his passport. He has nowhere to run. We drive back to the station. “He resisted arrest,” I say, “and it was your duty to stop him, but you overreacted and you were going to let him fall over the rail. You almost killed him. And there was no need to hit him like that.”

He stares straight ahead, repeats what I said to him a few days ago. “If you feel like you have to report what I did, I won’t hold it against you.”

I’m not sure if he’s mocking me. “I guess we’re even now,” I say, “but are you sure you’re ready to be on duty?”

“I wouldn’t have let him fall.”

I don’t press it.