Lucifer’s Tears

‘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.

For reasons I don’t understand, he’s pissing me off even more than usual. ‘You think you know something about me,’ I say. ‘You think you can manipulate me into some kind of self-revelation, but you don’t and you can’t.’

He looks at me, appraising, and rubs the top of his pen against the side of his head. Another tiny action that seems feigned. He’s careful not to muss his suave politician hair. ‘Why not?’

‘We’re in the same business,’ I say. ‘We look beneath surfaces for the truth. If you’re going to do that with me, you’re going to have to work just a little bit harder, because I see through you.’

He takes a second and sits back in his glossy leather chair, puffs his pipe, sips his mint tea. ‘Please explain.’

‘People are easy to decipher,’ I say. ‘Listen to what’s said on the surface. Ask yourself why they said it. Ask yourself what they didn’t say, then ask yourself why they didn’t say it. When all those questions are answered, the truth becomes evident.’

‘Simplistic perhaps, but nicely put,’ Torsten says.

I feel like reversing our roles and watching his reaction. ‘Let me give you a little lesson about people,’ I say. ‘Look at them as well as listen to them. Check out their hands and their feet. Hands tell a life story. Muscle and scars speak of hard work and usually outdoor life or the lack thereof. The condition of fingernails, whether they’re clean or dirty or well-kept or maybe bitten goes toward self-esteem. The shoes people wear give away their taste, hence self-perception, and usually reveal their socioeconomic status.’

I got him. He tries not to, but he glances at his Gucci loafers, then his thin, lily-white hands and manicured nails. Then he looks at my boots and stubby hands, almost as thick as they are long, and I’m certain he pictures those hands bouncing Vesa Legion Korhonen’s face off the fence in front of Ebeneser School.

A gift box of Fazer chocolates and a bowl of chestnuts with a nutcracker sitting in it, left over from the holidays, rest on the coffee table. I take a nut from the bowl but leave the nutcracker, give it a one-handed squeeze and break it open. He winces. I’m not sure why I intimidated him. I munch the nut, place the shells in a neat pile on the table.

He’s left speechless for a moment, then says, ‘Well done.’

I made him feel like an effeminate fop and a fraud. I feel awful and find myself apologizing twice in the same day. A rarity for me. ‘Shit,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You didn’t deserve it.’

He nods acknowledgment of my regret.

‘The truth is you’re right,’ I say. ‘I feel terrible guilt because I’m afraid I traumatized my wife to the point that it caused her miscarriage, and I’m terrified that she’ll lose this child, too. I’m scared that she’ll die.’

‘Kate is medicated for the hypertension associated with preeclampsia, the odds of her losing the child are slim. Your child is safe inside her.’

‘The odds aren’t slim enough. The statistics don’t make me less petrified.’

He leans forward and locks eyes with me. For the first time I view him as someone trying to help me instead of as an adversary. ‘Kari,’ he says, ‘I think we’ve made a breakthrough. Our first one. What do you say we start again, and now really begin your treatment.’

I nod.

‘How are your headaches?’ he asks.

‘Bad. A migraine is killing me right now. It hasn’t stopped for weeks.’

‘Describe the symptoms.’

‘They vary. Sometimes my temples pulse and throb. Sometimes it feels like I’m being stabbed deep in the head with a hot knife and an artery is about to explode. Most often though, I feel like my head is being squeezed, like a weight is on me, pushing me to the ground.’

‘This feeling of being stabbed deep in the head is medically impossible, because there are no nerves in that area. If you were about to have an aneurysm, you would never know it.’

I hadn’t thought of that.

‘It’s possible that your migraines are caused by the gunshot wound to your head or another physical problem, but I would like you to consider the possibility that they’re psychosomatic, and that what you’re really experiencing are sublimated panic attacks generated by guilt over your wife’s miscarriage, and consequently, current fear for your wife and unborn child. That might be why the nearer she comes to term, the worse the headaches get.’

‘My headaches are panic attacks that last for weeks?’

‘Possibly. Still, I think you should have tests run to rule out physical problems.’

‘I already promised Kate I would.’

‘Good. Our time is up, and anyway, I think we should call it a day now.’

‘Me too.’

For the first time since our initial meeting, we shake hands.

Chapter 10

Kate will have picked up her brother and sister from the airport by now. I agreed to meet them at five thirty, at a bar in our neighborhood, for a drink before dinner. I’m running late.

I find a parking space on Vaasankatu and walk into Hilpeä Hauki – The Happy Pike – a little bar Kate and I enjoy and consider our local. Most of its sales are from imported designer beers. Its prices are higher than most of the other bars in the neighborhood, but because of it, Hilpeä Hauki has a better clientele, a low-key and less than roaring drunk atmosphere. Kate also likes it because the bartenders are a well-educated bunch, and she can speak English with them. It’s a nice place for us to get out of the house and chat.

Kate, John and Mary are sitting at a corner table. The family resemblance is apparent. All three are tall, thin and rangy, have pale complexions and cinnamon-red hair – Kate’s in a chignon, Mary’s long and pulled back into a ponytail, John’s shoulder-length and also pulled back. Mary is twenty-four but looks older, except for young, dancing eyes. John is twenty-three, but looks younger, except for old, unwavering eyes.

I lean over, give Kate a peck on the lips and introduce myself to the others. John stands, shakes my hand and grins. He’s got a rebel style with a pricey slant to it. He wears a leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, but the leather jacket is soft, expensive and Italian, the jeans Diesels, the boots Sedona West full-quill ostrich. Fancy garb for an academic. I take it he pictures himself a ladies’ man. He’s a little unsteady, appears to have had a few drinks on the plane. Mary shoots John a disapproving glance because of his wobbling, but her smile toward me is warm. She stands, too, leans across the table and hugs me.

Mary is more understated than her brother. She has on a long, dark dress and no makeup, but her excited smile says she’s thrilled to be here. Her plain wool coat hangs on a wall hook beside a Ralph Lauren overcoat, which I assume is John’s. ‘So you’re the man who stole my sister’s heart,’ Mary says.

She seems pleasant. Maybe my misgivings about having them here for an extended stay were misplaced. ‘I think it was the other way around,’ I say.

Kate has her hands folded on her pregnant belly. Her chair can’t quite fit at the table because of it. She’s resplendent in a green dinner dress. She worked hard at finding clothes she likes while she’s pregnant. She smiles. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

They must have just arrived, they don’t have drinks in front of them yet. ‘What can I get everyone?’ I ask.