THIS MORNING, THE auditorium at police HQ is like another dimension: a lively, brightly lit cell in the otherwise drab body of a government building. Erne seats himself on the outermost chair at the long table, the only one still free. Sporting his blue uniform, Jukka Ruuskanen stares straight ahead without making the slightest sign of greeting Erne as he takes his seat. It’s a stressful situation for everyone, but Ruuskanen has been standoffish and full of himself for years. It seems like an eternity has passed since the camaraderie and drunken escapades of the two men’s academy days.
Microphones and recorders of all sizes and colors are strewn across the table. Beyond them open up rows of seats, which have been filled by a groggy but attentive audience. Flashes go off; the largest cameras are transmitting footage live to websites and television. Erne can’t remember a time the auditorium has ever been this full; the case has an extraordinary number of compelling elements. Erne coughs. His mouth feels dry, and no water has been set out on the table. He swipes his nose and catches on his fingers a whiff of the cigarette he smoked five minutes ago.
“All right, folks, it’s eight o’clock. Let’s get started,” Ruuskanen eventually says, and the murmur dies. Meanwhile, the glare of the camera flashes intensifies, as if starting the event has in some way made the police officers sitting there more photogenic.
“I’m Jukka Ruuskanen, chief of the Helsinki Police Department. To my left are Deputy Chief Jens Oranen and Joonas Lönnqvist from National Police Board headquarters.” He pauses to look out at the cameras snapping in front of him. For a moment, Erne is sure Ruuskanen has forgotten his existence. But then he finally shifts his gaze to Erne: “And to my right is Detective Superintendent Erne Mikson from the Helsinki Criminal Investigations unit and investigative lead on the case.”
Erne feels the cameras turn toward him and accelerate their tireless documentation. Now it’s official; once again, he has given a face to the investigation, to the mistakes that will be made and the potential lack of results. The flashes reveal the furrows in his face and emphasize the years that have accumulated in them. Erne knows he looks frail. Time has done its job, but acknowledgment is also due to Rumba, the paper-rolled Estonian poison he’s been inhaling into his lungs over the years, perhaps in greater amounts than pure oxygen.
Ruuskanen begins his summary of the events of the previous night. The sweat is running down Erne’s back, and his armpits are drenched. He turns toward Ruuskanen only to avoid looking out at the lenses that are ogling him like big black eyes.
Roger Koponen . . . wife . . . police . . . Ruuskanen speaks laconically. Erne isn’t listening; he could catalog these same details by rote. Instead, he studies the men sitting on Ruuskanen’s other side, who have donned the dark blue uniforms of commanding officers, which would look perfectly appropriate at a formal ball. Erne is the only one onstage who has felt free to toss on black jeans, a dress shirt, and a tweed blazer that has seen better days. They are his uniform, the work wear of the Estonian errand boy. Erne is also the only member of the group who will have to take the reporters’ calls once the press conference ends; the other three will return to their politicking and activities that have nothing to do with actual police work. Jens Oranen is clearly younger, but the other two commanding officers are Erne’s age. One might make the assumption that Erne slipped off the track at some point, got stuck in place. But Erne has always felt that he’s advanced precisely the way he’s wanted. At the age of fifty, he is exactly where he wants to be, doing the work he dreamed of as a little boy. Even so, during moments like this, a certain career anomaly and aberration are plain.
“. . . and questions regarding the investigation itself will be taken by the investigative lead,” Ruuskanen concludes. Several hands shoot up in the air before he has even reached the end of the sentence.
“Do the police have any suspects at this time?” asks a woman sitting in the front row. Erne knows she works for public broadcasting. As usual, the questions begin from the most obvious, but Erne knows from experience that they will grow trickier as the briefing progresses.
“We have a description of a suspect in the Kulosaari homicide. At this point, I can say that the suspect is a white male and a native Finn,” Erne says, lowering his gaze to the microphone. He has been ordered to release this morsel of information; the Minister of the Interior made it clear he wanted to nip any speculation regarding foreign terrorists in the bud.
“So there are no suspects?”
“As I said, we have a description. No one has been arrested in connection with the case, and we will continue searching for this individual based on information we acquire during the investigation.” Erne clenches his fingers into a fist. The halogen lights on the ceiling feel like they’re growing brighter.
“What about the killing of the police officer in Juva? Are you certain the perpetrator is a different individual?”
“Considering the distance, it’s extremely likely.”
“Could it be more than one perpetrator working together?”
“At this point, that is not out of the question.”
“Had Roger Koponen or his wife received threats in the past?”
“We are not aware of any such threats.”
“How were the victims in Kulosaari killed?”
Erne blinks a few times. This is when he needs to call on that famous poker face. “Due to investigative reasons, we cannot—”
“Is the MO similar to the killings in the woods outside Juva?”
“As I indicated, I cannot—”
“Do you suspect the method of killing is based on Roger Koponen’s works?”
There it is. The inevitable has happened, despite the efforts expended to keep details of the crime tightly under wraps.
“At this point I cannot nor do I want to take a stance on the methods used in these homicides.”
Erne knows he hasn’t answered the question. The audience, which consists of professionals who throw curveballs for a living, isn’t satisfied.
“Were the bodies burned in the woods?”
His hands are sweating. The word is out. Ruuskanen presses his knuckles into Erne’s ribs, leans toward Oranen, mutters something in his ear, and then nods at Erne.
“Yes. The victims’ bodies were found burned,” Erne says. He reaches for his water glass only to realize none was ever brought out. Every word makes his voice box hurt. Over the next few seconds, the orchestra of cameras, laptop keyboards, and whispers swells to a roar.
“People are burned in Koponen’s book. Isn’t this a clear parallel?”
“Our investigators are currently reviewing Roger Koponen’s literary works. If there is a connection between the homicides and the contents of those books, we will strive to find it and make use of it during our investigation.”
“Is there a literary template for the Kulosaari murders?”
“Answering that question would contradict what I just said.”
“Are we talking about a serial killer here?”
“At this point, those criteria have not been met.”
“Do the police have any reason to believe this man will strike again?”
“No.”
Ruuskanen and Oranen exchange whispers again. More hands rise, even though no one is calling on audience members to ask any more questions. No immediate reprieve is in store for Erne.
“Why are the police—”
The question ends when the lips of the scraggly-bearded man posing it stop prematurely. For the first time during the press conference, the room is still. The reporter’s gaze is glued to his laptop screen, as are those of everyone else. Then a disbelieving murmur starts to spread and rises to wholly new levels. The journalists grab their phones and start tapping at the screens. Those still in the dark peer over seat backs to spy on the screens of those nearby. The faces in the audience are shocked, disbelieving. Excited, even. The initial drowsiness has lifted.
Ruuskanen bites his bottom lip and glances around as if demanding an explanation for the sudden change in mood. Erne pulls out his phone; he hasn’t received any new messages from his team.
“What’s going on out there?” Ruuskanen growls. It’s apparent from his voice that he’s supremely irritated at being the only one out of the loop.
“A video was just uploaded to Roger Koponen’s YouTube account,” the public radio journalist says in a loud voice. “A video of his wife.”
Erne wraps his fingers around the fat microphone. He shuts his eyes and sees a face distorted in an unnatural smile drawn onto his retinas.