MALLEUS MALEFICARUM. MALLEUS Maleficarum. Malleus Maleficarum.
Jessica is sitting at her desk. Yusuf is next to her, leaning in to see. The computer screen is open to Roger Koponen’s YouTube channel, on which a dramatic video was uploaded just a moment before. The vertical, slightly unsteady footage has clearly been shot with a phone. It shows Maria Koponen at her familiar place at the head of the long table, lunatic grin on her face. “Imagine” is playing in the background, in addition to which it’s possible to make out a didactic, flat male voice mingling monotonously with the rush of white noise. Malleus Maleficarum. The voice repeats the words over and over in an unvarying tone. The video is sixty seconds long; all you can see is the face of the dead woman. It was presumably shot only minutes before the perpetrator called the police. Either that or else the call had already been made when the footage was shot.
“Fuck. What a creepy voice. Is it a recording?” Yusuf asks.
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“How long will it take for YouTube to take down the video?”
“It doesn’t matter. The video has already been seen, downloaded, and disseminated.” Lips pulled tight, Jessica scrolls down. Despite his global success, Koponen’s channel has only several thousand followers, but the video has spread like wildfire. There are hundreds of comments.
A sound approximating a whistle emerges from Yusuf’s mouth. “Goddamn. Erne warned us we were heading into a shit storm, but he didn’t see this coming.”
“How could he?”
Jessica gulps; the sight is chilling. Most of the commenters view the whole thing as a joke, some sort of belated Halloween prank or a marketing stunt for the writer. But the minute-long recording is long enough for viewers to tell that something is very wrong. Maria Koponen isn’t breathing. In addition, she exudes an ineffable finality, something almost impossible to fake. Despite this, the comments are anything but empathetic. People can be so cruel. And stupid. Winston Churchill is said to have once remarked that the strongest argument against democracy is a brief conversation with the average voter. These days you could replace the second half of the quip with a glance at the comments field in social media.
“What do you want to do?” Yusuf asks.
“Call IT. We have to find out the IP address the murderer used to log in to Koponen’s YouTube account.”
“OK.” Yusuf exhales and is about to make a discreet exit when Jessica drags her face away from the screen.
“Yusuf . . . somehow I’m getting the sense that heading out to Neurofarm is a waste of time. Will you ask Erne to send one of the guys from the NBI instead since they offered their assistance?”
Yusuf nods and continues on his way.
Jessica scrolls back up to the top of the screen and clicks the replay button. She has already watched it three times, and it’s unlikely the rerun will reveal anything new. The footage is relatively steady, but the slight shakiness reveals that the camera was not supported against the table; whoever was doing the shooting held it in his hand. Malleus Maleficarum. Malleus Maleficarum. The repetitive voice is chilling, but Jessica doesn’t mute the sound. She has to hear it over and over; she has to try to understand what the man who entered the house has been trying to communicate through his actions and the video. Jessica looks at the woman’s face, frozen in its wide smile, and the eyes seem to be simultaneously crying for help and jeering at her malevolently.