I sigh. I have no interest in his holier-than-thou attitude.
Torsten lets the question about his manhood go and offers me coffee, makes himself a cup of herbal mint tea. He lights his pipe. I light a Marlboro Red. “Would you consider your protective feelings toward children excessive?” he asks.
“Is such a thing possible?” He hates it when I answer his questions with questions.
“Your answer is an answer in itself. Could we discuss why that might be?”
I look out his bay window at the sea. The harbor isn’t quite frozen solid yet. Chunks of ice float in it. Beyond them, I watch the whitecaps break for a moment. “If you like.”
“Your sister, Suvi, froze and drowned when you were skating on a lake together and the ice broke under her. Your father had placed her under your protection. Do you still think of it often?”
“Daily.”
“Yet, your father was on the scene. He was drunk and failed to come to her aid. He was the adult, the caregiver. The blame resides with him.”
I light another cigarette. “I blame him, too.”
“He let your sister die and he beat you as a child. You’ve never expressed hatred for him. Not even anger.”
“I used to be angry,” I say, “but at a certain point, I grew up and recognized my parents’ humanity. My father is emotionally damaged. His parents beat him far worse than he ever did me.”
“How do you know? Has he told you?”
Dad’s parents were the antithesis of Mom’s folks-Ukki and Mummo-whom I loved so much. “He didn’t have to, some things you don’t have to be told. When we visited them, which wasn’t often, his father-my grandfather-hurt me, too. The atmosphere in the house was morbid. My father’s parents were Lutheran religious fanatics. Laughter was forbidden, and they kicked-literally-us children out of the house for laughing. I can only imagine what they did to him.”
He makes some notes on a pad. “Perhaps you’re making excuses for him.”
I look out at the sea again. It comforts me. I say nothing.
“How is your wife’s pregnancy going?” he asks.
I’m glad to change the subject. “She has preeclampsia, but she has no headaches, visual disturbances or epigastric pain-symptoms that suggest imminent danger-so given the circumstances, it’s going okay.”
“Could we discuss her miscarriage? You’ve been reticent to do so in the past.”
No, we can’t. I thought I had made that clear to him. “I thought we were here to talk about a duty-related incident.”
“I’m sorry, Kari, but indirectly, we are.”
“How so?”
“You’re here because of severe trauma. You pursued the Sufia Elmi investigation-forgive me for imposing my opinion-and it was beyond your emotional ability. You told me that you believe your errors in judgment led to deaths that could have been prevented.”
He’s right. It was beyond my emotional ability. The case taught me several things about myself and life that I don’t like. I found out I’m obsessive and reckless. I discovered that justice doesn’t exist. I solved the crime, but failed all the people involved, including myself. I thought I had escaped my past, but found out that a part of me remained a beaten child who believed he killed his sister.
I picture my ex-wife’s little scorched body. Hairless. Faceless. “Facts are facts,” I say. “I fucked up. We’ve covered this ground before.”
“Yes, but we haven’t covered other related ground. Your wife begged you to recuse yourself from the investigation, but you refused. I’d like you to consider the possibility that you blame yourself for her miscarriage, and that this, more than what you consider your failures during the investigation, is causing you extreme guilt.”
He makes more notes.