Snow Angels

Abdi’s Fi

“May I have my technician make Sufia ready for you?” Jorma asks.

Abdi peers at Jorma over fingers like tendrils. “No.”

Jorma wrings his hands, as if absolving himself of responsibility.

We walk downstairs to an embalming room in the basement. A machine hums. Sufia is naked, on the same kind of table as the one used during her autopsy. The machine is draining the remainder of her blood. The embalmer is sipping a Pepsi. He looks shocked to see us, like we’ve violated his space. He shuts off the suction machine.

In silence, we look at Sufia. The torment she suffered, the hurt done to her, both pre- and postmortem, is as clear as if the story were written down. Still, I’ve never seen a body look less human, so devoid of life. I can’t understand why Abdi insisted on this.

Hudow chokes back a scream. Abdi puts an arm around her. She turns her head and vomits on the floor. When she’s done, she stands upright and tries to salvage what remains of her dignity. She speaks in broken Fi

Jorma folds his hands in front of him. “That’s not necessary.” Abdi looks at me. “Now, in the presence of myself, my daughter and her mother, you will tell me how you intend to prosecute the investigation of our daughter’s murder, and how her murderer will be punished.”

He wanted to make a point and he’s done it well. Since my first glimpse of the crime scene, this case has held tremendous gravity for me. Now though, I feel like all our lives depend on it. I look at Sufia, then at Abdi and Hudow. Her head is held high. She’s regained her composure and looks like a font of strength and nobility.

The smell of vomit mingled with chloroform is overwhelming. I try not to react to it. I give Abdi what he wants and start at the begi

When I’m finished, Abdi asks, “How is it possible that you do not know if Sufia was raped?”

“As I told you, and as you can see, there has been excessive damage to the genital area.”

Abdi bends over Sufia’s body, looks for himself. “As I hope you realize, Sufia underwent the rite of womanhood as a child. Had she not been raped, she would be intact. It is clear that prior to being assaulted with the bottle, she was not intact. Please do not ask me to be more explicit in the presence of her mother. She is not intact, therefore she was raped.”

Abdi wanted truth, but now we’re on new and dangerous ground. I can’t find it in myself to tell him what I know about Sufia’s sexual relationships. I’m afraid it might be more than even he can bear. “I can’t discount the possibility that Sufia might have had sexual intercourse of her own volition.”

Hudow looks down, looks around. The embalmer is cleaning up the floor with paper towels. “I know people say things about daughter,” she says. “Those things not true. We no watch movies, not want see, but Sufia actress. Movies acting. Sufia good girl. Abdi and I no like her be in movies, but we proud for who she was. I proud her. She keep her good even around bad people.”

“I need not say more,” Abdi says.

I can’t destroy her beliefs and I wonder if Abdi shares them, or if the scene we’re playing out has been in some measure a charade designed to maintain them. “I will proceed accordingly,” I say.

“This man, are you certain of his guilt?” Abdi asks.

I want to be careful here. I don’t want to make a false promise, raise false hopes. “I can’t say with certainty, but the evidence gathered thus far is convincing.”

“Given your professional expertise in these matters, please express your opinion in terms of a percentage.”

Abdi inspires truth. “Better than ninety.”

“How will he be punished?”

“If convicted, and if no mitigating circumstances weigh in his sentencing, he’ll likely receive life in prison.”

“Mitigating circumstances?”

“Incapacity, such as mental illness.”

“In this instance, how long would his prison term be?”

“In my experience, five to seven years, perhaps served in prison, perhaps in a mental hospital, the cure of his illness a prerequisite to release.”

Hudow raises her hands, turns her face upward. A ceiling with a bank of fluorescent lights is above her, but she beseeches the heavens. She wails. “Look my angel. This no justice.”

Abdi puts a consoling arm around her. “Hush,” he says, “your screams will bring her grief.”

He turns back to me. “And if there were no mitigating circumstances, how many years would this man serve in prison?”

“Life means life,” I say, “but in common practice, murderers serve ten to twelve years, after which they receive presidential pardons and are released.”

“Look at Sufia,” Abdi says. “Do you believe that a sufficient penalty?”

I don’t need to look. “No.”

“Inspector Vaara, see to this man’s punishment, pallid though it may be. In the Koran, Surah 5:45 tells us: ‘Life for life, eye for eye, nose for nose, ear for ear, tooth for tooth, and wounds equal for equal.’ In Islam, it is permitted that the closest living relative exact justice in such a matter, but in this country it is not permitted. I abide by the laws of this country, and as such, you must act as my surrogate. I hold you responsible. Now, leave us alone with our daughter, all of you.”

I leave, feeling like I may be punished if Seppo walks free, like somehow I’m already being punished, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.

11

I RESPECT ABDI’S GRIEF, but melodrama won’t solve his daughter’s murder. Routine police procedure will. Seppo’s car is in the police garage. I park next to it, take the cameras out of my fishing-tackle boxes and start snapping photos.

The BMW is a gorgeous vehicle, graphite with satin chrome exterior trim and star-spoked wheels. I open all the doors, walk around it and look for anything inside that might stand out. This car just says money. The interior is leather trimmed with matte black stainless steel and variegated poplar. It has automatic climate control and a LOGIC7 sound system. To avoid touching anything, I use a flashlight and a mirror to look under the seats. I find no evidence, but see three subwoofers. They give me an idea.

This kind of work makes me feel confident, in control. I can use this time to be alone, to do my job in peace. A rack under the dash holds around twenty CDs, mostly techno crap. I lift fingerprints from the steering wheel and dashboard, then go back to my car and choose music appropriate for this type of work. I decide on Miles Davis, Kind of Blue. I load it into the LOGIC7. The garage throbs with cool jazz.

I divide the interior into quadrants and go through the car inch by inch. In the backseat, I find pubic hair, fibers and small semen stains. I don’t find blood, so I use Luminol in the area of the semen, but just a touch. Traces light up. My mood is much improved. I’ve gotten everything I could ask for and more. Now maybe Seppo and I will have something to talk about.

It occurs to me that I haven’t checked on Kate today. I feel guilty and hit the speed dial on my cell phone.

“Hi Kari,” she says.

“Sorry I haven’t called. This investigation is keeping me busy. How are you?”

“Fine. I was hoping I would hear from you. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for last night.”

“For what?”

“For breaking the table.”

“It was an accident, and anyway, I don’t care about the table.”

“For behaving like a child over a broken leg.”

“Jesus Kate, you lay on the side of a mountain worrying about our child-our children-in screaming pain. Anybody would have been traumatized.”

“Well, I’m not anymore. I’m getting used to the cast and crutches. Mrs. Tervo came by today to check on me. She brought me smoked whitefish and potatoes with cream sauce for lunch. They were delicious. Thanks for calling her and for moving the bed.”