ROGER KOPONEN IS standing at the window, looking out into the darkness. The blinds between the panes of glass are partway shut, but Roger doesn’t bother to twist them open with the long wand resting against the window frame.
“OK, it’s time,” Chief Inspector Sanna Porkka says probingly, pouring Roger a glass of sparkling water. The beverage is room temperature; some idiot left the crate of water bottles on the break room floor instead of stocking them in the fridge to cool. Roger’s eyes remain glued to the window.
“Excuse me, but we have the lead investigator on the line now,” she reiterates, and now Roger glances back lazily.
“Then I guess we’d better get started,” he says, before returning his gaze to the snow-dusted treetops. He stands there, hands behind his back, eyes locked on the emptiness where his traumatized mind may be trying to see the meaning hiding behind the sting of agony. Roger’s stance reminds Sanna of a dictator holed up in his secret bunker, pondering his next move. A moment later he spins around and walks slowly over to the table, anguished and pensive, looking like he’s just decided to pick up the red headphones and launch a nuclear weapon.
Then he speaks again: “Lead investigator?” For the first time, there’s a hint of irritation in his voice. Keeping this guy here could grow more challenging by the hour.
“Yes. His name is Erne Mikson,” Sanna says, and starts the video call with a few clicks of the mouse. Apparently the name offends Roger’s sensibilities, because he frowns skeptically. Roger can also hear Mikson’s Estonian accent, which vaguely calls to mind cruises to Tallinn and the boats’ “tax-free” announcements. Porkka turns the laptop toward Roger and rises from her chair to ensure that the parties on the call can see each other.
“Roger Koponen,” Erne’s voice says. His face appears on the screen, and it takes a moment before the grainy image comes into tolerable focus. The voice lags a few fractions of a second behind the image. “First of all, I’d like to offer my deepest condolences on your wife’s passing.”
Roger settles for a laconic thank-you, although the term Erne has used to describe Maria’s death—“passing”—must strike him as absurd.
“I’m Chief Inspector Erne Mikson, and I’m leading the investigation.”
“So I’ve been told.” Roger takes a sip of his raspberry-flavored mineral water. The temperature of the beverage seems to make no difference to Roger, prompting a sigh of relief from Sanna.
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do to make things any easier right now. We have to jump right in and make sure we catch the perpetrator.”
“How?” Roger asks, but it sounds as if his tongue catches for a moment in his throat. Then he gulps audibly and continues: “What happened to Maria?”
“You can have a look at the patrol’s report in a moment. The cause of death will be discovered during the postmortem, which will be conducted without delay.”
“Goddamn it.” Now Roger is speaking at a near hiss. In the space of a few seconds, he has turned from a deer caught in the headlights into a predator bearing its fangs. “You’ve seen Maria’s body, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“So then tell me what happened to her.”
“We don’t know yet—”
“Fuck! Tell me something! In your own words! Was she shot? Strangled? Was she . . .” Roger lowers his quavering voice, and his trembling fingers clench into fists. “Was she raped?”
“As I said, the cause of death remains unknown. No indications of sexual violence have been detected yet. But the investigator at the scene has found similarities between—”
“Similarities to what?”
“One of the books from your Witch Hunt series.” Erne pauses, gives Roger a moment to process this information. “Or more than one. I don’t know, because unfortunately—”
“What fucking similarities?” Roger barks. Sitting across the table, Sanna has no trouble identifying with his outburst. Her colleague in Helsinki is speaking in riddles, even though Koponen deserves to hear the unvarnished truth.
“May I call you Roger? I’m going to send you a photograph now. I understand it’s . . . What you will see is shocking. But we have cause to suspect that the perpetrator has been inspired . . . that he has copied his method from your book.”
On the screen, Roger sees Erne lower his hands to the keyboard. He doesn’t reply; he breathes heavily and waits. A moment later, a bright bing sounds. Sanna is just getting up from her chair to help Roger open the attachment, and then she sees him raise his hand to his mouth in a way that lets her know there’s no need.
“What the hell?” Koponen’s eyes have widened into saucers. The hand wanders from the mouth, over the nose, and grips the furrowed brow. Sanna hasn’t seen the picture, nor does she, despite her burning curiosity, think it would be appropriate to circle the table. She’ll know how the woman died soon enough.
“I’m sorry to have to show this to you. But could you confirm that you described a female victim in exactly this same way in the first book of the Witch Hunt trilogy?”
“Does Maria . . . Is Maria wearing a black dress?” Roger asks, and in a flash he has regressed into the cautious, fearful man who just a moment ago was looking out the window into the disconsolate February darkness.
“Yes,” Erne answers.
“Are her nails painted black?” Now Roger’s voice sounds as if he has made a firm determination to keep himself together. But his eyes are fixed on the image of his dead wife taken at the scene of the crime.
“Yes.”
“Goddamn it,” Roger whispers, and grabs at his hair, lets his head tilt backward as if another hand is pulling his hair. Then he sits up straight and takes hold of the computer screen with both hands. His Adam’s apple bobs briefly up to his chin. “Have you . . . have you been down to the shore?” he asks, even whiter now.
“The shore?”
“Yes. The shore! Have you been . . .”
“Our investigator found tracks, and we have reason to believe that the perpetrator entered the property from the ice. . . .”
“Haven’t any of you read the goddamn book?”
Seconds pass without either one of them speaking.
“What’s at the shore, Roger?”
“If some goddamn lunatic wanted to reconstruct the scene exactly the way it’s described in the book, then Maria isn’t the only one. . . .”
“What do you mean? What do you mean, she’s not the only one?”
“Because there were two witches the whole time. And one of them is buried under the ice.”