“Why are you here?” Saska asked him.
Sweetness had been staring at the hanging girl, mesmerized. Finally, he reached out and touched her with his index finger. The rope snapped and she fell. An arm broke off. Only ash was left on the bone and it swirled away in the breeze. Sweetness watched as if in a dream state. Death fascinated him. A forensics tech started to yell at him. I poked the tech in the chest with my cane and told him to fuck off. He fucked off.
“I’m a French policeman,” Moreau said, “and I’m here at the behest of Veikko Saukko, who has some influence with the French government. It’s been almost a year since his daughter was shot and killed. His confidence in the Finnish police has waned. And so here I am.”
“It’s my case,” Saska said, “and a major reason I haven’t made any progress is that he refuses to cooperate with me in any way.”
“He’s an eccentric racist. You are half Gypsy. He calls you ‘that thieving Gypsy.’ He believes you steal when you come to his home. However, he likes me, because as a former soldier, I have killed many non-white people. He considers this the most admirable of attributes. I believe all these murders, beginning with the kidnap-murder of his family, are connected to this series of murders, and to the murder of Lisbet S?derlund.”
“Have at it,” Saska said. “I need help. I would appreciate it, though, if you share your findings with me.”
“Consider it done. If I solve the case, I will ensure that you receive the credit.” Moreau turned to me. “I think you should meet Veikko Saukko. It might lend perspective.”
“I was hoping to,” I said. “I’ve decided that the way to solve this case is through the interviews of a few key individuals. Some might call them interrogations, and the application of pressure may be somewhat more aggressive than is considered standard. Let’s say, with extreme prejudice. We’ll begin soon. You’re welcome to accompany us if you like.”
“You intend to go on a rampage?”
“Call it what you will.”
Saska frowned, disapproving.
“I have little choice,” I said, and pointed at the victims. “Look at these women. This can’t go on. People are being murdered almost daily. It must be stopped.”
To Milo and Sweetness, I said, “You have girlfriends, of a kind. You drink with them. That breeds loosened tongues. Don’t tell them our business.”
Milo smirked. “You mean like the way you don’t tell Kate our business.”
His point was valid. I ignored it. “Just keep your fucking mouths shut.”
I thanked Saska, told the others I would call them later, then went home to check on Kate.
I took a circuitous route, gave myself time to think.
As a young beat cop, I spent a lot of nights cruising these streets, watching Helsinki in the wee hours. The drunks drifting home after the bars closed. I watched a city awash in pain. I saw people run without direction, scream, beat their heads with their fists. Their pain and frustration shone and sparkled, beacons of anguish and insanity.
I played surrogate father to a young man so broken inside that he drank vodka upon waking and could drive a knife into a man’s heart without a thought. I spent my time examining women tortured and burned. I was lucky that I felt almost nothing. I remembered what it once was like to have emotions. Those poor tortured souls that felt were the ones who suffered.