CHIEF INSPECTOR ERNE Mikson leans back in his chair and rubs his wrists. His desk is covered in random printouts from the Internet. Snippets of text and images he found with a quick search. Malleus Maleficarum. The term refers not only to a French black-metal group, but also to a book about witch hunts published in the fourteen hundreds: The Hammer of the Witches. According to Wikipedia, this guide of questionable repute collated by the inquisitor Heinrich Kramer provides detailed instructions on how to interrogate, torture, and punish suspected witches. A little digging reveals that a Finnish-language translation of the book is available, and a copy is currently being rustled up for the unit.
A moment ago, Erne got off the phone with his boss, who at the end of the call promised more resources for the investigation first thing in the morning. The text that was written on the roof has deepened the enigma surrounding the murders, especially since there is no mention of anything like it in Roger Koponen’s books. This means that the two homicides were carried out faithfully following the fiction imagined by Koponen, but the text drawn on the roof of the house that served as the scene of the crime feels like a joke made on a whim.
Erne pops a piece of nicotine gum out of the blister pack and into his mouth. The fruity taste fades fast, and a burning sensation spreads across the back of his throat. The wind has finally died, leaving the open-plan office unsettlingly silent.
“Jessie,” Erne says, swallowing down the prickling sensation.
The voice carrying through the phone’s speaker is tired but determined: “Is there anything new?”
“I’m going to talk to Koponen again here in a minute. We came to the conclusion that it would be best for him to start heading to Helsinki immediately. Someone from Savonlinna is going to drive him.”
“I understand.”
“We’re getting reinforcements in the morning.” Erne can sense his young detective’s impatience. He has gone against his principles and called a subordinate even though he doesn’t really have anything new to report.
“Good.”
“You guys go home. I’m going to need you early tomorrow. Tonight we’re going to concentrate on tracking the suspect with patrols and dogs. We’re going to catch that asshole.”
“You think so?”
“Of course,” Erne says self-confidently, and picks up one of the drawings he has printed out. It is clearly medieval in style and depicts normal people conversing with horned beings. Devils, maybe demons. The image next to it is more realistic in technique; in it, a woman with bound ankles is being hanged from her arms, and stern-eyed men in dark garb are addressing the prisoner. It is doubtless a depiction of some sort of arbitrary trial. Or torture. In any event, the woman looks terrified.
Jessica’s voice reaches him amid the diabolical scenes: “If you say so.”
“What?”
“We’ll go get a little sleep.”
“See you in the morning,” Erne says distractedly, and hears Jessica end the call. He clicks open the photographs of Maria Koponen and the woman the CSIs have given the macabre but apt nickname Ice Princess. Her pale, beautiful face is tranquil, as if she has been sleeping for a hundred years and will someday wake.
Erne picks up a few of the medieval drawings of bonfires. Of women being burned at the stake. Cheering crowds. Flames. Agony. It all looks so familiar; similar images were used on the covers of Roger Koponen’s books.
All of these crimes were committed by the Inquisition, the body of the Catholic Church established to combat heresy. Erne shivers. Witches never existed, of course, but even so, all of this has actually happened. Innocent women were murdered at the Inquisition’s command. And now someone has started copying those abominable crimes. Is it a sadist who has struck on a theme for his murders in the medieval opus and Roger Koponen’s thrillers? Or could the perpetrator be so delusional that he imagines he is doing good, ridding the world of witches?
Erne sighs deeply and shuts his eyes. The thermometer bings: 37.7. The information alone makes his temples break out in a cold sweat. He has been taking his temperature for months, more or less compulsively. At the worst, Erne was shoving the thermometer into his armpit two to four times an hour and marking over fifty readings in his notebook in a single day. In hindsight, it has all been completely pointless. Now he knows it was never any use. The doctor promised to call with the results of the biopsy tomorrow. The scheduled time of the call is any time during the workday, as if it were impossible to set a more precise appointment for a call involving such a serious matter.
Pompous fucking quacks.