here? Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you something that might change your mind.”
We go up to the common room. It’s empty. I give him my pack of cigarettes and lighter. “Keep them. Have a seat.”
He sits and smokes. I douse the lights and start the PowerPoint slide show of the murder scene. He watches Sufia, I watch him. He shakes, then sobs a little. After a couple minutes, he’s weeping like a child. Finally, he holds himself, rocks back and forth, mutters “No, no,” over and over.
I think he’ll confess now. I freeze the projector on a close-up of Sufia’s ruined face.
“Please charge me,” he says, “so I can have a lawyer.”
“Not yet,” I say. “After the DNA samples come back from the lab.”
“I’d like to go back to my cell now.”
He wanted out of the cell. I guess he didn’t enjoy his taste of freedom. I take him back downstairs.
“Thank you for the cigarettes,” he says.
I slam the steel door shut and the clang echoes through the corridor. “You’re welcome,” I say.
12
I GO BACK TO my office, write a detailed summary of events and e-mail it to the national chief of police. A photocopy of Sufia’s address book is in a plastic sleeve on my desk. I have coffee and a cigarette and browse through it again. I recognize more names familiar from the tabloids. Sufia must have liked to surround herself with famous people.
I start dialing numbers. I introduce myself and say I have a few questions concerning Sufia Elmi. The media picked up on the murder through the national crime incident database and word has gotten around. People express shock. The interviews are all the same. No one knew Sufia well. The men say they went out a couple times, had some fun. The women say they hung out in nightclubs, went dancing, had some fun.
Valtteri comes in. “I called Heli,” he says. “She doesn’t want to see you and asked if I could bring her the keys.”
“Tell her no. Seppo’s car is a crime scene and she had access to it. I have to talk to her.”
“She won’t come.”
“Then arrest her and lock her up.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
He hands me a magazine. “I thought you should see this.” He walks out.
The front page of
Alibi
is splashed with the headline: “MURDER! SOMALI SEX GODDESS SLAUGHTERED IN SNOWFIELD!” When I open the magazine, I’m outraged. Two photos side by side occupy a quarter-page each. One is a still from her last movie, a display of her beauty. The other is a photo from the morgue, her corpse on a gurney in an unzipped body bag. She’s nude and ravaged, once again violated. Smaller but no less grisly photos are underneath.
Jaakko has written an article that refers to Sufia Elmi as Finland ’s Black Dahlia. He’s managed to paint Sufia’s murder as both a race and sex crime and called to mind a legendary Hollywood murder. I wonder if Sufia’s murder will also pass into legend, if she will forever be Finland ’s Black Dahlia. I find this disturbing. It’s as if the tragedy of her death has been forgotten before it was even recognized, trivialized in favor of tabloid glitz and the terrible romance of celebrity murder.
I didn’t want details of the crime released. The fucking diener must have sold Jaakko the photos. I’ll charge him with obstruction of justice.
My cell phone rings-it’s Sufia’s father. We must have been looking at the morgue photos of her at the same time. I answer. “Vaara.”
“Inspector, this is Abdi Barre. My wife is in tears. Can you imagine why?”
I can imagine. “The photos.”
“Her friend called and told my wife that revolting photos of her murdered daughter were published in a filthy magazine. She went to a newsstand and bought that filthy magazine. She is devastated and humiliated.”
“I’ll press charges against whoever sold the photos to the magazine.”
“You have failed to protect my daughter.”
He has my pity, but I’m tired of taking shit from him. “You can’t expect me to
We go up to the common room. It’s empty. I give him my pack of cigarettes and lighter. “Keep them. Have a seat.”
He sits and smokes. I douse the lights and start the PowerPoint slide show of the murder scene. He watches Sufia, I watch him. He shakes, then sobs a little. After a couple minutes, he’s weeping like a child. Finally, he holds himself, rocks back and forth, mutters “No, no,” over and over.
I think he’ll confess now. I freeze the projector on a close-up of Sufia’s ruined face.
“Please charge me,” he says, “so I can have a lawyer.”
“Not yet,” I say. “After the DNA samples come back from the lab.”
“I’d like to go back to my cell now.”
He wanted out of the cell. I guess he didn’t enjoy his taste of freedom. I take him back downstairs.
“Thank you for the cigarettes,” he says.
I slam the steel door shut and the clang echoes through the corridor. “You’re welcome,” I say.
12
I GO BACK TO my office, write a detailed summary of events and e-mail it to the national chief of police. A photocopy of Sufia’s address book is in a plastic sleeve on my desk. I have coffee and a cigarette and browse through it again. I recognize more names familiar from the tabloids. Sufia must have liked to surround herself with famous people.
I start dialing numbers. I introduce myself and say I have a few questions concerning Sufia Elmi. The media picked up on the murder through the national crime incident database and word has gotten around. People express shock. The interviews are all the same. No one knew Sufia well. The men say they went out a couple times, had some fun. The women say they hung out in nightclubs, went dancing, had some fun.
Valtteri comes in. “I called Heli,” he says. “She doesn’t want to see you and asked if I could bring her the keys.”
“Tell her no. Seppo’s car is a crime scene and she had access to it. I have to talk to her.”
“She won’t come.”
“Then arrest her and lock her up.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
He hands me a magazine. “I thought you should see this.” He walks out.
The front page of
Alibi
is splashed with the headline: “MURDER! SOMALI SEX GODDESS SLAUGHTERED IN SNOWFIELD!” When I open the magazine, I’m outraged. Two photos side by side occupy a quarter-page each. One is a still from her last movie, a display of her beauty. The other is a photo from the morgue, her corpse on a gurney in an unzipped body bag. She’s nude and ravaged, once again violated. Smaller but no less grisly photos are underneath.
Jaakko has written an article that refers to Sufia Elmi as Finland ’s Black Dahlia. He’s managed to paint Sufia’s murder as both a race and sex crime and called to mind a legendary Hollywood murder. I wonder if Sufia’s murder will also pass into legend, if she will forever be Finland ’s Black Dahlia. I find this disturbing. It’s as if the tragedy of her death has been forgotten before it was even recognized, trivialized in favor of tabloid glitz and the terrible romance of celebrity murder.
I didn’t want details of the crime released. The fucking diener must have sold Jaakko the photos. I’ll charge him with obstruction of justice.
My cell phone rings-it’s Sufia’s father. We must have been looking at the morgue photos of her at the same time. I answer. “Vaara.”
“Inspector, this is Abdi Barre. My wife is in tears. Can you imagine why?”
I can imagine. “The photos.”
“Her friend called and told my wife that revolting photos of her murdered daughter were published in a filthy magazine. She went to a newsstand and bought that filthy magazine. She is devastated and humiliated.”
“I’ll press charges against whoever sold the photos to the magazine.”
“You have failed to protect my daughter.”
He has my pity, but I’m tired of taking shit from him. “You can’t expect me to
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