We thank him. He tells us the background info for Vesa Korhonen is already in. He attended Ebeneser School as a child, has no priors, has dysphasia but no history of mental illness, lived a quiet life with his parents, ran his own business out of their home. Where he got the pistol remains unknown. Legion just came out of nowhere. It happens.
Milo and I sit in my office. To avoid departmental conflict of interest, Arto brings in a detective from Vantaa to interview us and write the report. Our phones keep ringing, interrupting us and slowing us down. Most are media, and we don’t answer unless our phones display the names of callers we know. Mom calls. Then my brother Jari. Then Timo, another brother. I don’t hear from my oldest brother, Juha, but he’s working in the Norwegian oil fields and probably hasn’t heard about the shooting. Kate might see me on TV and worry. I call her, tell her a brief and edited version of what happened, let her know everything is fine. Her voice shakes. She asks me to come home as soon as I can.
Jyri Ivalo calls. “Nice work,” he says. “I got you a slot in Helsinki homicide, and you make me look better and better all the time. Keep it up.”
“I’ll kill as many school shooters as possible,” I say.
“Good. You haven’t filed a murder charge against Rein Saar. Why?”
“It’s complicated, and I’m a little too busy to explain right now.”
“Just get it done.” He rings off.
The Vantaa cop gets the report written and leaves. I check my e-mail. Pasi Tervomaa has e-mailed me scans of documents containing testimony stating that Arvid was an executioner at Stalag 309. I forward them to Jyri and the interior minister.
I stretch out in my chair and turn to Milo. “I need to get home to Kate.”
“You need to hear the rest of my story,” he says.
“Just fucking tell it.”
He shakes his head. “No way. Not here.”
Moses led his people to the Promised Land. The Jews were exiled to Babylon. I sigh. “Where, then? Anywhere we go, we’ll be mobbed.”
“My house,” he says. “It’s on Flemari, just a ten-minute walk from your place.”
Legion’s death brings back bad memories of other people I’ve watched die. I want to go home. “Okay, but let’s make it quick.”
Two cops give us a ride to Milo’s apartment in a patrol car. We step inside a one-room dump, kneel and take off our boots. I look around. Newspapers, books and mail are scattered everywhere. A sink full of dirty dishes is in a dirtier kitchen. Dirty laundry is in a pile beside an unmade bed. The place smells of must and mildew. Milo shoves a pile of papers off a chair by a big computer table onto the floor. “Make yourself at home,” he says.
He goes to the fridge, brings two beers and a bottle of kossu. He sits on the edge of the table, unscrews the cap from the bottle and hands it to me. “Sorry, I don’t have any clean glasses.”
I take a deep swig and pass it back. “The bottle will do.”
He drinks, shuts his eyes for a moment. He’s been up for almost two days and looks like shit. Between fatigue and adrenaline, it’s a miracle he made the kill shot, put the bullet in the right spot in Legion’s brain. “You need to go to sleep,” I say.
He drinks again, hands the bottle back. “Soon.”
He stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“The scar on your face is cool.”
Trauma is making him strange. “I’d give it to you if I could.”
“Your wife’s name is Kate Vaara. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“ Katevaara, in English, means, for example, highway asphalt erosion. You should tell her that.”
He’s spewing hogwash to release tension. I indulge him and I swill kossu. “I’ll make a point of it.”
Vintage posters from the Second World War hang on the walls. A gun cabinet stands in the corner. A long and narrow glass case with daggers and bayonets from the war-Finnish, German and Russian-rests on the rear edge of the table. I look closer at them.