Lucifer's Tears

by James Thompson

  She sips champagne. “Iisa.”

  “Why did you kill Linda?”

  Her Bettie Page facade has disappeared. She’s all business now. “First things first.” She points at Filippov. “Like the old man said, you’ve got your killer. After this brief discussion, I’m going to get up, walk out of this hotel, embezzle the assets from Filippov Construction—which rightfully belong to me anyway—and never be heard from again. If not, I’ll expose everyone involved.”

  It may be the most reasonable way out of this mess for all of us. “If your story satisfies me, it’s a deal. Tell it fast.”

  She kills half a glass of champagne to steady herself. Her voice changes, I presume from a facsimile of Linda’s to her own. “I had agreed to meet Rein at his apartment on Sunday morning. I decided the easiest thing would be to just sleep in Rein’s bed and wait for him.”

  “You were going to watch him fuck another girl?” I ask.

  She nods. “About five a.m., I hear the door unlock. I think they’ve arrived early and hide in the bathroom. I hear two voices, Linda’s and a man’s. I’m wondering what the hell Linda is doing in my lover’s apartment with some guy, so I wait and listen. She sucks his cock and shoves him out the door.”

  “No one saw you?”

  “No, I’m good at this game. After the guy left, Linda called Ivan so she could gloat about their plan to murder me. She got off the phone and started getting ready, laid out her toys. I came out of the bathroom, took the taser, snuck up behind her and zapped her with it.”

  It’s all clear to me now. “You decided to punish them both. You tortured Linda with cigarettes to disfigure her beyond easy recognition, tasing her occasionally to keep her under control, and made her tell you their plan in detail.”

  “And after she did, I put on the protective clothing, so Ivan couldn’t tell the difference between us, and waited on him.”

  “Torturing with cigarettes wasn’t part of the plan. Didn’t it piss him off?”

  “I told him I got excited and overzealous. He accepted it.”

  “And your lover, Rein Saar. You were willing to let him be framed and go to prison?”

  She shrugs. “I was in a bit of a predicament. At the time, it seemed like it was him or me.”

  “So you just acted out the murder, as explained by Linda.”

  “And afterward, I put on Linda’s clothes, did my look-alike thing with makeup and hair, mimicked her voice and pretended to be her until we got to Filippov Construction. Then I switched from Linda’s voice to my own and said, ‘Surprise.’”

  I can picture it clearly enough. She only had to fool him long enough for them to drive to work. He was in such a heightened state of excitement after the murder and completion of a dreamlike sex act, it wouldn’t have been hard to deceive him. How could he suspect he killed Linda, not Iisa, after just sharing such an act of demented intimacy?

  “I’m surprised he didn’t murder you on the spot,” I say.

  “He knew he wouldn’t be able to cover up a second murder. We struck a bargain to sell Filippov Construction, take my life insurance payment, split it all and never see each other again.”

  “And pretending to be lovers when I saw you and Ivan here at Kämp on the evening of the murder?”

  “As when we spent the night together in Linda’s apartment, we were maintaining a facade.”

  “Didn’t you want him punished for planning your torture and murder?”

  “I tricked him into torturing and murdering the woman he loved. I felt he was sufficiently punished.”

  “And recording the murder, even setting it to music?”

  “Part of Ivan’s aforementioned punishment. They had intended to do so when they murdered me, for their further listening enjoyment while they fucked. I simply completed the plan, so that Ivan could listen to the sounds of his lover dying again and again, guiltridden, as he mourns her.”

  Even after all my years as a cop, the darkness inherent in human nature still shocks me. Sometimes I feel I’d like to take Kate and our child to live deep in the forest, away from the beasts we call humans. Somewhere peaceful and safe.

  “Did you know Linda was your half sister?” I ask.

  She cocks her head, uncomprehending. “Half sister? Impossible. She used to have sex with my father.”

  “I think that’s why she wanted to murder you. During our last chat, you told me that her fetish was self-negation, that she wanted to be other people. I’m guessing that was because of the self-loathing incest caused her. Your father had an affair with her mother, but didn’t know it resulted in a child. Linda’s mother wrote to him and told him, and he committed suicide out of grief.”

  Her breath catches, but she doesn’t interrupt and so must want all of this bitter truth. I also want her to have it, and I give it to her. “You received unconditional love from your father. Linda had to suck her daddy’s dick to get it. She must have hated you for it. You were cruel to your husband, but she loved him. You had everything she wanted. With you dead, she could become you, a new and improved version, and Linda, the unwanted and abused child, could cease to exist, once and for all.”

  She stands, expressionless. I have no inkling of how she feels. “I believe our business is concluded,” she says.

  “Not quite. I need the videos.”

  “I’m keeping them.”

  “Nope. That’s the deal-breaker. I’ll let you embezzle the money and disappear, but if you don’t give me the videos, or if I find out you made copies of them, I’ll find you and prosecute you for your sister’s murder.”

  She eyes the door, anxious to leave, considers the ramifications. “They’re buried in snow, triple-wrapped in freezer bags. Walk four paces off my back porch, turn left and take four more paces, and dig. Are we done now?”

  “Disappearing isn’t as easy as you might think. If you’re lying to me, I’ll track you down and see you punished. I doubt it would take me more than a couple days.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Then yes, we’re done.”

  I watch her walk away and wonder how she can live with herself. I suspect she won’t be able to, and I may find myself investigating her suicide. She may not pay for murder, but she stands punished.

  Arvid is busy scarfing Filippov’s meal. I say to him, “The crime is solved and the case closed, but you’re going up for murder.”

  He washes down steak with champagne. “Au contraire, quite the opposite. I faced extradition to Germany and a lengthy trial for accessory to murder. Now that I’ve committed murder in Finland, I’m not liable for extradition until my trial here is concluded. While I await trial in this country, as an old and frail man, and a war hero to boot, I’ll be released on my own recognizance until I’m convicted and sentenced. You’ll be the investigating officer in this case, a number of important officials want the truth buried, and I’m sure that between us all, we can delay my trial for some years. Years I don’t have. I’ll be in a grave before it goes to court.”

  This smacks of pure and crystalline genius. I can only shake my head in wonder and amazement.

  “Besides,” Arvid says, “with Ritva gone, I don’t have anything left to live for, and I wanted to kill one more goddamned Russian before I die.”

  He pulls Linda’s plate over. I don’t wait for him to ask. “Sautéed hare, globe artichoke, fava beans and roasted pine nuts over pasta. How are you going to explain why you shot a suspect in my case?”

  “Over the past couple days, I’ve been busy making phone calls. To the president and various ministers and generals. Out of respect for my service to my country, they’re willing to take my calls and listen to an old man ramble for a few minutes. I intend to claim that Filippov was a Russian spy and saboteur involved in the Arctic Sea affair, and I killed because it was my patriotic duty. As phone records will show, I learned of his involvement through chats with highly placed government officials, who regularly take me into their confidence in the hopes of gaining insight
into weighty matters through the sage wisdom of a revered elder. Because the killing of Filippov involves issues of national security, my trial must be conducted in a closed courtroom, the details never released to the public. In addition to my achievements as a war veteran, I’ll pass into the annals of Finnish history as one of its greatest heroes.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything,” I say.

  He wolfs pasta. “Yes, I have.”

  “Fancy silencer on that pistol,” I say. “Where did you get it?”

  “I bought it yesterday. No law against it. Should we order dessert?”

  I smile and shake my head. “Sorry, there’s no time. You have to go to jail soon.”

  He nods agreement.

  “All this ‘boy’ and ‘son’ and ‘call me Ukki’ stuff. You’ve been playing me all along, haven’t you, preparing for this moment?”

  He leans forward and folds his hands on the table in front of him. “Boy, I said you were naïve beyond words. Not this specific moment—I didn’t know for certain that I would kill this Russian bastard beside me until yesterday—but yes, I planned all along to use you to keep me from being extradited to Germany after Ritva was gone. But it wasn’t all a lie. You really are a good boy, and in truth, I’ve come to feel affection for you. And I did save your ass, didn’t I? It’s not as if I’m not grateful for all you’ve done for me.”

  “And everything you told me about the Civil War and the Second World War and about my grandpa. Was it all one big lie?”

  “No, I told you the truth about Toivo and myself at Stalag 309. About the rest of it? Well, let’s say the exact truth about this country’s history is going to die with me. I believe it’s for the good of the nation.”

  Maybe he’s right about that. My cell phone rings. It’s Kate. “Kari,” she says, “I’m in labor. Could you come home and take me to the hospital?”

  My heart thumps in my chest from both fear and joy. “Are you sure? You’re not due for nine days.”

  She laughs, lighthearted. “The baby disagrees. My water broke.”

  “I can be there in half an hour. Is that too long?”

  The panic in my voice makes her chuckle. “It’s fine, dear. I’ll see you soon.” She hangs up.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got a baby on the way, and I have to take my wife to the hospital. That means you have to go to jail now.”

  He reaches over and pats my arm. “Congratulations, son. And please do call me Ukki. I like it. If you were really my grandson, I would be proud.” He takes his pistol out of his coat pocket and lays it on the table between us. “You better take that.”

  I put it in my own pocket and call for a cruiser.

  46

  I DRIVE HOME AS FAST as road conditions will allow, pull up in front of our door, call Kate and tell her I’m here. She says I don’t need to come upstairs and get her. John and Mary will bring her down. For once, I’m glad for their presence. Kate didn’t have to be alone while she waited for me.

  They pile into the Saab, and we set out for the hospital together. Kate is calm and smiling. I’m a nervous wreck. The car skitters and shimmies. I picture having an accident, and Kate giving birth in a freezing car by the side of the road.

  But we arrive at Kätilöopisto hospital without incident. I help Kate inside. We get her checked in. John carries Kate’s hospital travel bag. Kate packed it weeks ago, just in case. It has everything she thought she might possibly need to make herself comfortable. Massage aids: tennis balls, a rolling pin, frozen juice cans. Comfort aids: a heat pillow, aromatherapy, socks for cold feet. Clothes and toiletries for after the baby is born. She brought extra, in case there are complications because of her preeclampsia and her stay is longer than the normal two days.

  We opted to not bring a camera. Kate said our memories would suffice. She would prefer to maintain a bit of decorum and not have her sweating and grunting recorded for all time to come. I offered to attend childbirth classes with her and be her coach, but she declined. She said she couldn’t picture me huffing and puffing along with her, and holding her hand would be enough.

  An orderly and I situate her in a bed in a private room in the maternity ward. John and Mary don’t try to intrude, and they go to the waiting room, for which I’m grateful. I sit in a chair beside Kate’s bed and try to maintain an air of composure I don’t feel. Over the next few hours, Kate’s contractions come harder and faster. At first, they had come about once every fifteen or twenty minutes and lasted for about thirty seconds, and they’ve gradually accelerated to every three or four minutes and last sixty seconds. Kate doesn’t complain, seems to take it in stride, says she doesn’t even need the comfort aids she brought with her. I ask her occasionally if the pain is bearable, and she answers that it isn’t that bad at all.

  To take her mind off her contractions, I do something uncharacteristic and tell her stories. I begin with the cases I’ve been working and tell her in exquisite detail about the Filippov affair and how it ended with Arvid shooting Filippov to death in a restaurant she manages. I pause the tale when the midwife comes in to check on her, then tell Kate about how Arvid helped Ritva die, and then he managed to save me and himself, and punish the guilty. Strange childbirth talk, but the tale is so morbid and bizarre that it holds her rapt attention. I leave out the possibility of heading up a black-ops unit for the moment.

  A day ago, Kate wanted to hear stories about my childhood, so I tell her some, but pleasant ones. About how, when I was a kid, Dad and his friends would get together, drink and sing waltz and tango songs accompanied by an accordion. I tell her about how we went to a dog show once. My brother Timo looked around and said, “It’s been raining cats and dogs,” even though the ground was bone-dry. “Look,” Timo said, “there are poodles everywhere.” Kate hee-haws despite a tough contraction.

  The doctor comes in to check on Kate occasionally, and finally says it’s time to get down to business. The baby’s head is crowning. He tells Kate to start pushing. She says she wants this over soon and pushes like hell. It works. After only about an hour, our child, a girl, is out and into this world. The doctor gives her a slap. She sucks air and squeals, and he cuts the umbilical cord. Kate flops back against her pillows, exhausted. From her first contraction at home until now, her labor lasted sixteen hours.

  A nurse takes our baby, who resembles a bullet-headed frog covered in blood and viscous ooze, wipes some of the mess away, wraps her in a blanket and hands her to me. I’m nervous at first, afraid I’ll make a mistake, hold her too tight, drop her. Irrational fears. But they fade within seconds, and I realize that I love this little bullet-headed frog as much as anything in the world.

  The doctor tells me that Kate’s delivery was one of the easiest he’s ever seen. No complications, no vaginal tearing, no nothing. Kate didn’t even require an episiotomy. Kate begins contractions again, and within a few minutes expels the placenta and the umbilical cord. And it’s over. All my fears came to nothing.

  I hand the baby to Kate, and she asks me to get John and Mary. I bring them into the room. We exchange hugs and share joy. For the first time since they arrived, I feel that they truly are part of my family, and it gratifies me.

  John and Mary go back to the waiting room to give Kate, me and our bullet-headed-frog privacy. Kate and I sit in the silence for a while, bask in our moment. After about half an hour, Kate tells me she’s tired and wants to sleep. She wants me to sleep, too. I don’t want to leave, but know it’s for the best.

  I talk to John and Mary. John wants to come home with me. Mary says she’s slept while waiting, and she’ll stay in case Kate needs something. Mary tells me not to worry, if anything happens, she’ll call me straightaway. For a woman who doesn’t like me, she’s working hard to be my friend.

  47

  WE GET BACK to my place. John crashes on the couch. I go to bed, and for the first time in I don’t remember how long, I have no headache and feel no anxiety, and sleep the sleep of the dead.

  I wak
e up in the middle of the afternoon and check my cell phone. I kept it on silent while I slept. I have seventy-two missed calls. Press, police and God knows who else are trying to contact me to find out how it came about that in my presence, in the restaurant of the city’s finest hotel, a ninety-year-old Winter War hero put a bullet in the brain of a Russian businessman whose wife had recently been murdered.

  I go back to the hospital to be with Kate, but she’s sound asleep. I hold our baby, enjoy the quiet and sit next to her. Finally, I decide Kate may not wake for hours, and go back home to get something to eat. Mary continues to wait, in case Kate wakes and needs something.

  I find John in the kitchen, a bottle of kossu in front of him. He’s not tanked, just drinking. “I guess you know I told Kate about myself and everything you did for me,” he says.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Are you pissed off at me?”

  “No.”

  “Can I give you a brotherly hug to congratulate you on the birth of your child?”

  It makes me laugh. “If you have to.”

  He stands and gives me a hard squeeze. “Want to have a drink with me?” he asks.

  I sit down with him. “Sure.”

  He fetches me a glass and pours me a drink. We nurse our vodkas and share a comfortable silence, something I wouldn’t have thought him capable of.

  My phone rings. It’s Jari. “Hi, little brother,” he says. “I haven’t spoken to you since we left your house in a rush. I’m sorry about that.”

  It amuses me when he calls me “little brother,” since I’m almost twice his size. “It’s okay, just a little culture clash. It happens.”

  “I wanted to check on you. How’s your migraine situation?”

  “Better today. Kate gave me a healthy baby girl this morning, both of them are fine, and my headache went away.”