Snow Angels: An addictive serial killer thriller

“What were you dreaming?” Kate asks.

“I don’t remember.”

“I was having the most wonderful dream,” she says. “I was sixteen, before I broke my hip. I was in a ski competition. It felt like I was flying.”

I dread waking up in the morning and look at the clock. It’s two A.M. I pull Kate close and try to get whatever sleep I can.

Chapter 5

THE ALARM CLOCK GOES off at five thirty. Kate doesn’t stir. I have a slice of rye bread with sausage and cheese and wait for the coffee. I haven’t slept enough, but the investigation has to get rolling.

I pull on wool socks and a robe, go out on the back porch and look at the stars while I have a cigarette and drink coffee. The smoke doesn’t bother me, but the freezing air takes my breath and makes me cough. The thermometer on the porch wall reads minus thirty-two. It’s warming up.

I go back inside and get dressed. I usually wear jeans and a sweater, but today I might need to look official, so I put on a suit and drive to work through deserted, ice-laden streets.

It’s a typical small-town police station. Six drunk tanks and two holding pens, my office and a room for the dispatcher, a common room with a couple desks and computers for whomever is on duty. I want the crime report done before the morning briefing.

I sit at my desk and write it, then set it aside until later. If I wait a few hours before entering it into the Finnish crime incident database, it will be too late for newspapers to pick up on it, and I can delay the media storm for another day. I want Sufia’s parents to be notified before releasing the report.

Cell phones are a difficulty in this regard. When people witness crime scenes, or learn of crimes and their details, they often call tabloids and sell information for a nominal reward. When canvassing Marjakylä, I didn’t mention the name of the murder victim. Only the investigating officers, Kate, Aslak, Esko and my parents know Sufia was killed. I’ve told them all to keep quiet about it and managed to stanch the problem.

I download the crime-scene photos from the digital camera into the computer system, so we can look at them during the briefing, then start setting the investigation in motion.

Technically, I should go through the chain of command and call the regional police commander, but I don’t like him and opt not to. The national chief of police and I have a history, so I call him instead. He’s not in yet, so I ask for his cell phone number and call him at home.

He answers. “Ivalo.”

“This is Kari Vaara, in Kittilä. Sorry to call so early.”

“I’m shaving.”

“It can’t wait, I’ve got a situation you need to be aware of.”

Silence.

“We have a murder investigation in progress. A young woman named Sufia Elmi was abducted and killed around two P.M. yesterday. She’s a Somali refugee and she’s also a minor movie star, the kind that’s in the tabloids all the time.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, but it gets worse. The murder has the characteristics of a sex crime, but also of a race crime. It could be both. The girl was butchered. The killer carved the words ‘nigger whore’ on her stomach.”

“Media frenzy.”

“That’s why I called.”

“Got a suspect?”

I hear rushing water. He’s taking a piss while we talk. “I have tire tracks and a lot of forensics.”

“I can send a homicide unit from Helsinki or Rovaniemi. You know how it is around Christmas. I have to check who’s available.”

I’m not getting it yet. “You don’t need to, I’ve got a good start.”

“No doubt you have, but still, maybe you could use some help.”

I’m surprised. No one has ever called my professional capability into question before. “Thanks, but I don’t need it.”

The rushing water stops, his toilet flushes. “Are you sure you want this case?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“It’s something you should consider.”

“Of course I want it.”

“Think about it. Maybe you should step aside for this one.”

Finland is a provincial little country, but people in Helsinki act like they’re sophisticates, while we here in Lapland are backwards-ass country shitheads. Sometimes they call us poron purija, reindeer biters.

“It’s my jurisdiction,” I say, “my case.” My voice is getting louder. I tell myself to calm down.

“There’s a lot riding on this,” he says, “a lot of potential embarrassment for both of us. You might be out of your league.”

“I’ve conducted other murder investigations.”

“Years ago.”

I call him by his first name and work the personal angle. “Jyri, you decorated and promoted me. Don’t tell me you don’t think I can do this.”

“I decorated you for bravery, not your crime-solving ability.”

I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but don’t.

“I promoted you because you deserved it,” he says, “but also because that bullet in your knee ruined you as a patrol officer. It was promote you or retire you. I did you a favor.”

He did me no fucking favor, I earned it. I was a beat cop in Helsinki and answered an armed robbery call at Tillander, the most expensive jewelry store in the city, on Aleksander Street in the heart of the downtown shopping district. It was the middle of a gorgeous summer afternoon.

My partner and I got there fast, arrived as two thieves exited the store carrying backpacks weighed down with jewelry. They pulled guns and one fired a shot at us, then they separated and ran. I chased one of them down a street crowded with shoppers and tourists.

All of a sudden, the thief stopped, turned and fired. My pistol was in my hand but he surprised me. I was still in mid-sprint when the bullet hit me and blew out my left knee, which I had already wrecked playing hockey in high school. I sprawled on the ground. He should have kept running but, for what reason I can’t imagine, instead he decided to kill me.

When he came toward me, I got a shot off first and the bullet caught him in the side. He went down, and for a second we both just sat there on the sidewalk, looking at each other. He raised his pistol to fire again. I told him to lower his gun. He didn’t, and I blew his head off.

It turned out that he and his partner were gangsters from Estonia on a crime spree. They had come from Tallinn to Helsinki on a day cruise. I guess they expected to rob Tillander and go home on the same boat that evening.

“If you take this case away from me,” I say, “you’re taking my career away with it. You might as well have retired me.”

“Your career opportunities ended when you left Helsinki for Kittilä. You requested the transfer, why complain about it now?”