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We’re going to find a dead woman’s partner, automatically a prime suspect. No one answers the door, but it’s open and there are noises coming from upstairs. Who wouldn’t think he might try to kill himself once he realized what he had done?”
    “OK. So what was he really doing when you went in?”
    “Well, he was covered head to toe in rubber, he’d put handcuffs on himself, he was looking at those magazines and…gratifying himself.”
    “Easy collar since he already had cuffs on,” I said, but for some reason Ström wasn’t amused.
    “So there are materials in the lab, Armi’s body is with the medical examiner, and your boys are interviewing the neighbors,” I continued. “Have you notified Armi’s parents?”
    “What kind of idiots do you take us for? We had to call a damn doctor to calm down her mother. Some of the neighbors left for their summer cottages for the weekend, so their interviews will have to wait until Monday. So yeah, the wheels are turning even without your supervision.”
    “I don’t doubt it. Do you still want to interview Hänninen? Because you’re not questioning him without me present.”
    “I’m going to eat now and then go back to the crime scene. Come back at eight, and we’ll continue then.”
    We talked for a minute more about practical matters: how long they were going to hold Kimmo, and what legal requirements had to be met. Ström was adamant that the evidence was sufficient to keep Kimmo in custody indefinitely. I disagreed. Idecided to go to the Hänninens’ house to check in with them. I’d call my boss from there.
    As I walked along the familiar birch-lined lane, I considered why I didn’t believe Kimmo was the murderer. It wasn’t because I liked him—I had liked murderers before. Something just seemed off. And I intended to find out what.

3

    A strange quiet hung over the Hänninen residence. The yard was spotless, as if a cleaning company had come with a giant vacuum to suck up all traces of the previous day’s festivities. Risto answered the door wearing an expression of exhaustion and grief. The others were sitting in the large living room. Annamari Hänninen was drinking cognac, with Marita’s arm wrapped around her. Antti stood next to the picture of Sanna on the mantle. He didn’t even say hello.
    Annamari lifted her eyes from her glass.
    “Oh, Maria, how is my Kimmo holding up? When will they release him? I’ve been trying to call Eki Henttonen to ask him to help too, but…”
    “Eki is out sailing and probably just isn’t answering his phone. Don’t worry; he’ll be back by tomorrow night. Kimmo is doing just fine given the circumstances, and they can’t hold him for more than forty-eight hours. Where are the kids?”
    Marita explained, “My parents took them to Inkoo. They left about half an hour ago and took Einstein too. We thought it would be best if they left for a while. Sanna’s death was such a terrible shock for the boys, and I don’t know how they’re going to take losing Armi now too.”
    Was wearing a long-sleeved black outfit on a hot summer day normal for her, or had she put it on out of respect for Armi? In her dress, Marita was a thin black line, drawn with a slightly trembling brush down the pale blue wall of the Hänninens’ living room. Like Antti, Marita was naturally thin, but what on Antti was muscle, on Marita was only tendons.
    I gave an abbreviated account of both my discovery of Armi’s body and Kimmo’s story. Talking about the rubber suit and S&M magazines was difficult, despite their essential role in the evidence the police had gathered so far. Apparently Annamari was not aware of her son’s sexual tendencies—what parents ever are?—because she began to shake uncontrollably.
    “Oh my God, what am I going to tell Henrik? I have to call Ecuador. What does this mean about Kimmo if he was doing that? Weren’t things good for him with Armi?”
    During my first year in high school, Annamari had been my