MIKAEL ENTERS, CARRYING two paper bags. The smell of greasy pita bread, butter, garlic, and cilantro wafts through the conference room.
Nina tears into the foil and Styrofoam. “Lamb for Rasse—”
“I had lamb too.” Mikael snatches the sandwich out from under Rasmus’ nose, and Nina observes the division of the spoils out of the corner of her eye. Micke isn’t a bully in the classic sense, even though his physical presence and verbal dexterity would allow it. Rasmus, on the other hand, with his shedding scalp, bald spot, and stooped posture, is too easy a target. Sometimes it almost seems like he wants to be treated like a doormat, as if he believes it’s the only reason for his existence.
But now Rasmus shoots Mikael a look tinged with resentment. Then he reaches over, grabs the other paper bag, and carefully rustles it open.
“Evidently Jessie just couldn’t stay at home,” Mikael says, grabs hold of his foil-wrapped pita with both hands, and takes a big bite.
“How do you know?”
“I heard Erne yelling into the phone. She headed out to the Korkeavuorenkatu scene.”
“No wonder. She was on the phone with the victim when it happened.” Nina continues watching the men for a second as they stuff their faces with lamb pitas.
“You think it’s a coincidence?” Rasmus asks, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Mikael turns to look at him. “Jessica has been at the center of events this whole time. Then Erne orders her to stay at home. Under strict police surveillance. But the bloodshed follows her there too.”
Nina nods and looks at Mikael. Rasmus is no doubt right. Of everyone, he’s been the one who’s been most on top of everything from the start, not least of all because he’s done the groundwork better than anyone else working from the station.
“I just hope she’s safe,” Nina eventually says, arms folded across her chest. She has always liked Jessica, her integrity and absolute commitment to doing what she thinks is best in a given situation. Nina has tried to get to know her better from time to time, but for some reason, Jessica has wanted to maintain a certain distance from her colleagues. Although she’s managed to do it politely, without hurting anyone’s feelings.
“Jessica’s a big girl.” Mikael nods at the board and the new photograph Rasmus has just put up. “Irma Helle.”
“Victim number seven.”
“The group is heterogeneous in a lot of ways,” Nina says, walking over to the board.
“Like what?” Mikael asks.
“Well, in the first place, two of the victims are still unidentified. Two are men. And finally: three were wearing identical dresses. Four, if we count Laura Helminen as a victim. There’s no common denominator here.”
“Maria Koponen ordered five dresses. What if Sanna Porkka was dressed in one of the dresses before she was burned at the stake? Has anyone even looked into that?” Mikael asks.
“We’d better check it out.” Nina writes down the question on the board. “The sizes of all of the dresses are noted in Irma Helle’s order book. We can check if one of the dresses was made to Porkka’s measurements.”
“The fact that Sanna Porkka was the one who set out to drive Koponen to Helsinki has to be a coincidence,” Mikael says doubtfully.
“Is it? Aren’t you the one who spoke out against making such dangerous assumptions earlier today?” Rasmus says, drawing a murderous glance from Mikael. Rasse has found a whole new side to himself, a brashness that makes Nina smile in satisfaction. She loves Micke, but she gets a kick out of the rare occasions someone takes him down a peg or two. Especially when the shots are fired from a completely unpredictable direction. “How could Porkka’s foolproof participation have been planned, in your view? According to my recollection, the decision to bring Koponen to Helsinki was made spontaneously, by Erne.”
“Who is now suffering pangs of conscience about his decision,” Nina interjects.
“Exactly.”
But Rasmus is on a roll: “Remember, Porkka was driving Koponen. A man who at this moment is suspected of having played a major role in the killing spree. Koponen could have somehow influenced how and by whom he was driven from Savonlinna to Helsinki in the middle of the night—”
“Motherfucker!” Mikael suddenly shouts. He stands up and spits his food out into his palm. “What the fuck . . . ? My teeth are falling out.” He rubs his cheek for a moment, then pokes a finger into the half-chewed sandwich in his hand.
“What is it now?” Nina asks.
“There’s a rock or something in this.” Mikael shoves his forefinger into his mouth and a moment later holds up what looks like a bit of white bone for the others to see.
“That’s insane.”
“You lost a tooth?” Rasmus says, surprised.
“No . . . I didn’t,” Mikael says as his finger prods every corner of his mouth. A moment of silence falls. Then Rasmus shoves his sandwich away, looking nauseous.
“They’re in mine too.” Rasmus hawks into his fist.
“What? They’re what?” Nina takes her own sandwich from the table and opens the foil wrapper. She hears Rasmus’ retching, and his reaction spreads to her.
Mikael stands, hands clasped behind his neck. “The man burned in the woods. Mr. X’s teeth.”