ROGER KOPONEN SITS at a table, fingers wrapped around an empty water glass, staring at the forehead of the woman sitting across from him. The social worker who has just stepped out informed him that she’ll be waiting in the next room if Roger wants to discuss what happened. Chief Inspector Sanna Porkka from the Savonlinna police force reaches for the glass pitcher and pours him more water. Porkka is a forty-two-year-old single woman and lifelong resident of this eastern Finnish city whose life revolves around her police work, hunting, orienteering, and three old Finnish hound bitches.
“I should probably start heading back to Helsinki,” Roger says, his glazed eyes not budging from the spot where the ceiling hits the wall.
“I understand,” Sanna says, then calmly leans back in her chair. “But first we’ll need you to blow into the Dräger. I’m assuming you had some alcohol with dinner. . . .”
Koponen’s tone is incredulous: “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Actually, we’d prefer you’d spend the night in Savonlinna, just as you planned.”
“Why?”
“The news you just heard would be a big blow for anyone. You have a long drive in lousy weather ahead of you, and there’s nothing you can do in Helsinki tonight to help.”
“True. I suppose it’s a little late for that.” Roger’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. He smiles faintly, but only with his mouth. In every other way, his expression is pained. Sanna knows that the family members often behave in strange and erratic ways due to shock; you can rarely deduce anything useful from their reactions. But glazed, unmoving eyes, pallid skin, and accelerated breathing indicate genuine distress.
“Have they caught him?” Roger asks now with a little more determination, his trembling hands raising the glass of water to his lips. Sanna takes a quick glance at her notes to check how much the victim’s husband has been told. Apparently Roger Koponen has been informed that his wife has died at their home in the Helsinki neighborhood of Kulosaari and that the police have probable cause to suspect that it was a homicide. Then her thoughts refocus on Koponen’s question.
“Excuse me, but do you have some reason to assume that the perpetrator is a man?” she asks, doing her best to avoid a cross-examiner’s tone. At this point, the police have no reason to assume Roger Koponen had any part in his wife’s death, but fully excluding the possibility may become notably more difficult if careless mistakes are made during questioning. The truth of the matter is, Porkka has no role in the investigation; her sole task is to keep an eye on the celebrity author who has just lost his wife. The temptation to ask him some basic questions is too overwhelming, however.
“I don’t know. Isn’t it pretty likely?” Koponen says slowly, lowering his glass to the table. His eyes brighten a bit, as if he is proud of his observation. Sanna purses her lips and nods. He’s right, if the matter is considered from a statistical perspective. In nine out of ten cases in Finland, the murderer is a man. The ratio is even higher if the perpetrator and the victim are strangers to each other.
“Our only aim now is to catch the perpetrator. And the police in Helsinki think the place you’d be of most use is at this computer. Here, in Savonlinna, at this station, where we’ll do our best to make you comfortable. Not in your car, tired and in shock, where you’ll pose a threat to yourself and possibly other travelers on the road.” Sanna purses her lips again and hopes she projects enough empathy. Then she taps in the password for the laptop.
Koponen frowns. “How am I going to be of use at a computer?”
“The lead investigator in Helsinki, Chief Inspector Erne Mikson, would like to talk to you. We’ll set up a video call,” Sanna says calmly, folding her hands on the table. Roger Koponen blinks a few times, as if this proposal is utterly absurd. Nevertheless, his body language does not speak of outright opposition.
“A video call?” Roger mutters, appearing to furiously ponder the idea.
“As I said, our only goal is to—”
“You said ‘aim.’”
“Excuse me?”
“A second ago, you said your only aim is to catch my wife’s killer. Not goal.” Koponen scratches his eyebrows with a fingernail; a flake of dead skin floats down to the table and comes to rest next to the glass.
“Right. You’re right. I did.” Sanna tries to smile understandingly. She considers whether she ought to give him some time alone to compose himself. But there’s no time. Just half an hour ago, she received word that the suspect is still at large. The minute hand on the square wall clock pulses a notch ahead, coming to a brief rest on top of the twelve.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Sanna says. After a few seconds, Koponen nods his apparent approval.
Sanna shuts the door behind her and gestures to the officer on duty to keep an eye on it. She glances at the young social worker standing near the deafening grind of the coffee machine and heads for her office.
“Is he ready?” Erne Mikson’s weary voice asks over the phone. A car engine hums in the background.
“He’s pretty shaken.”
“We have to talk to him.”
“I know.” Sanna walks over to the window. The bare birches staring back from the darkness wave their wispy branches at the warmth inside.
“Of course we’d prefer to do it face-to-face,” Erne says, and Sanna hears the rustling of foil. There’s a pause as the jaws at the other end of the line concentrate on chewing gum. In the end, the hoarse voice continues: “Somehow it feels a little disrespectful to talk through a screen to a man who just lost his wife, but . . . we have to get as much information as possible immediately.”
“Gotcha.” Sanna’s word choice makes her feel like an insecure adolescent who understands the language of adults but doesn’t know how to speak it.
“Fifteen minutes and I’ll be online. Take good care of him in the meantime.”
“Sorry. There’s one thing . . . ,” Sanna interjects before her colleague in Helsinki cuts off the call.
“Yes?”
“Koponen . . . he says he really wants to see his wife. Maybe even a photograph from the scene . . .”
“Of course,” Erne says after a brief silence. The hum of the car engine stops and Sanna thinks she catches the sound of spitting. Then a car door slams shut, there’s the click of a lighter, and a deep inhale as Erne draws the smoke into his lungs. “Of course he fucking does. But trust me when I tell you you’re going to want to hold him off for a little while.”