He points at one of them. “That’s a Nazi Hitler Youth dagger. The inscription reads BLUT UND EHRE -Blood and Honor. There’s a good story behind it.”
I don’t want to hear any of his long-winded stories at the moment. However, I’m becoming somewhat interested in him as a person. An ammo-reloading setup is on the other edge of the table. Empty shotgun shells and lead shot I don’t recognize are piled around it.
“What’s the fascination with war and guns?” I ask.
“It’s a hobby I picked up from my father. I inherited his collection of militaria.”
He waits for me to inquire further about his father and said “militaria.” I don’t. “And these shotgun loads. What are they?”
He sips beer. “Beehive rounds. Shells loaded with razor-sharp darts instead of normal shot. They’ll take a man’s whole leg off.”
“I see.” I change the subject. “Nice computer.”
“It’s an Apple MacBook Pro notebook with a seventeen-inch monitor. Expensive as hell.”
“You seem to have top-notch computer skills. With your big big brain, you could be earning a lot of money. Instead, you became a cop. You spend your time building toys that inflict death. Why?”
“I want to help people.”
He doesn’t smile when he says it. Strange, but I think he’s being honest. The worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves.
My phone rings. It’s Kate. “Kari, why aren’t you home?”
She sounds near tears. I check my watch. Nine thirty p.m. “I’m sorry, Kate. I’m still working. I’m just around the corner and I’ll be home soon.”
“The school shooting is a headline on BBC World. The report said a maniac forced you to put a gun to your head and tried to make you commit suicide. I’m upset. Please come home now.”
“Kate, I’m fine, and I’ll be home soon. I promise.”
“I love you,” she says.
“Me too,” I say and hang up.
I think of preeclampsia, hypertension, obstetric catastrophe. Fear runs through me. “Okay, Milo, spill it. I have to go home. No drawn-out stories. I appreciate the drinks, and after today, I think we deserve them, but keep it short.”
He puts on his hurt look, doesn’t say anything. He starts his computer and plugs a memory stick into it. We drink beer in silence while the computer boots up. I watch him. He’s pissed off because we went through a life-altering experience today-he needs friendship and offered his hospitality-and I’m declining it. I would give him what he needs if I could, but my first responsibility is to Kate.
He opens a video file. “I found this in Linda’s computer,” he says. “It was shot in her bedroom.”
Even though Linda and Iisa impersonated each other, Filippov is-I presume-with Linda, because the video was shot in her bedroom and was in her computer. They strip. He dons an industrial toxic-cleanup respirator and long black vinyl protective gloves. She kneels in front of him beside the bed. He grabs her by the hair and ears. She sucks his cock, sticks the big green double-donged vibrating dildo in her cunt and ass and masturbates with it. He’s rough with her. She’s not giving him a blow job as much as he’s holding her head like a bowling ball and fucking it. She tremors and orgasms. He spreads his legs. She sticks the dildo up his ass and deep-throats his dick. He grunts and comes, collapses onto the bed, dildo still in place. She swallows, looks up at him with profound satisfaction, with gratitude and bliss. End video.
From within their black holes, Milo’s eyes reflect triumph. “They like weird S amp;M. I think she was at the crime scene, and while Iisa died, they enacted the sex game we just watched.”
“Given the audio recording,” I say, “it must have gone down that way. Get some rest. We need to figure out how to use your illegally obtained evidence to build a case against them. Let’s meet in the morning and talk about it.”
I stand to go and put on my boots. He stays quiet. “You did a good job today,” I say. “I’d like to stay here and drink with you, but my wife needs me.”