party. Some grade-A pussy was there, and I’m dying to stick my dick in it. Welcome to murharyhmä.’
He gives me a grin and a wink on his way out the door.
Chapter 4
As if I don’t have enough to think about, Jyri, never the bearer of glad tidings, has forced me to consider the possibility that my ukki – grandpa – was a mass murderer. I loved him dearly. Before he retired, he was a blacksmith. He gave me ice cream when we visited in the summers, and always let me sit on his lap. He used to put salt in his beer. He never mentioned the war. I remember somebody asking him about it once – I guess hoping Ukki would share some heroic tales – but Ukki kept mum.
I don’t give a damn about political agendas, but Jyri did a good job of manipulating me. Desire for the truth about Ukki will force me to talk to Arvid Lahtinen.
No doubt there are corpses to be examined. I turned my phone off while talking to Jyri. I wander down the hall to Milo’s office to see if the dispatcher has called, but can’t stop thinking about Ukki. The throb of the migraine renews itself. I open Milo’s door. He’s got a look on his face like I caught him jerking off.
‘You could knock,’ he says.
I have no idea why I just walked in on him. It’s unlike me. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘My mind was somewhere else.’
His service pistol, a 9mm Glock, is fieldstripped, in pieces on his desk. Beside it are a Dremel tool and a box of ammo. A few loose semi-jacketed soft-point rounds are lined up in a row beside a little jar. A desk drawer is open. I get the impression he left it that way so if someone knocked, he could scoop the stuff into it and hide it quick.
Milo’s scowl is justifiable. ‘Well, get your head out of your fucking ass,’ he says.
Milo’s shirtsleeves are rolled up, and I see that despite his small stature, he’s built out of ropey muscle.
‘What are you working on?’ I ask.
‘None of your business.’
Whatever he’s doing must be at least against police procedure, maybe against the law. His discomfiture amuses me. I suppress a grin and wait for him to tell me. We stare at each other for a while.
‘I’m trying to figure out if it’s possible to install a three-round-burst selector switch into a Glock Model 19,’ he says.
‘Why?’
‘Because, as every soldier knows, three-round 9mm bursts take men down, single shots usually don’t.’
‘Three-round bursts often kill, not part of our mandate.’
He gets a cocky look on his face. ‘Show me where it says that in the police handbook.’
There is no police handbook or detailed set of rules and codes. He’s fucking with me. ‘Don’t be a jackass,’ I say.
He says nothing.
‘Well, can you?’ I ask.
‘Can I what?’
‘Install the selector switch.’
‘Yes.’
‘If you shoot someone, they might examine your weapon. If they see the selector switch, you’ll lose your job, maybe get prosecuted.’
‘The switch can be removed and the drill tap filled with a small screw, which no one will ever notice.’
I can’t hide my amusement any longer. I shake my head and laugh. ‘And what about the bullets?’
He grimaces. This must be even worse than modifying his weapon. ‘I’m drilling cavities in the lead tips and filling them with glycerin. When a bullet collides with flesh, it slows down. The liquid inside retains its inertia and releases excess energy by ripping through the front of the bullet. It leaves a jagged slug, and lead fragments continue to tear up tissue. It creates a larger wound than a normal round and causes severe hydrostatic shock.’
I’ve heard of this somewhere before. It comes to me and I tease him. ‘In a thriller called The Day of the Jackal, an assassin fills his bullets with mercury. Why not do the same? That way, when you shoot crooks, you can poison them, too.’
He doesn’t see the humor. ‘Obviously because when they autopsied the body, I’d get caught.’
This kid has a few screws loose. ‘Why not just shoot hollow-point rounds?’ I ask.
‘They expand on penetration but tend to remain intact. Glycerin is more effective.’
‘I see. Let me show you something. Give me a bullet.’
He tosses one to me and I catch it. I take out a pocket knife, notch a cross in the soft lead tip and show it to him. ‘It’s called cross-hatching,’ I say. ‘Some people call them dum-dum rounds. On impact, the bullet deforms and breaks into chunks along the cut lines. You get your big wound channels, multiple exit points, severe blood loss and trauma, and someone would have to look for it in order to detect it.’
He looks both impressed and disappointed. ‘My way is more fun,’ he says, ‘but I have to admit, yours is more practical. Where did you learn it?’
‘My grandpa showed it to me while he taught me to shoot.’
My own words take me by surprise. My ukki, now an accused mass murderer, taught a child how to dum-dum bullets. I suppose a man from his generation – born just after the Finnish Civil War in 1918, and then later a combat veteran of the Second World War – must have thought the generation to come should be prepared for wars of its own.
‘Your grandpa must have been a cool guy.’
‘Yeah, he was.’
I fold up the knife and put it back in my pocket. I think about where I got it, and whatever amusement I feel at Milo’s expense disappears. Valtteri’s son used it to butcher Sufia Elmi. Valtteri said he hid the murder weapon by keeping it in his pocket, because no one would ever look for it there, and so he would have a constant reminder of his failures. After the inquest, I stole the knife from the evidence locker, and like Valtteri, I keep it in my pocket so I won’t forget my own failures.
‘Are you going to tell anyone about my hobbies?’ Milo asks.
‘You realize that, even if you remain a policeman until retirement age, the odds of you having to fire your pistol in the line of duty are about a thousand to one.’
‘You did,’ he says.
Point taken. ‘Just stop doing it,’ I say.
He nods.
With agile fingers, Milo reassembles the Glock in under a minute. He practises field-stripping it. ‘What did the head honcho want?’ he asks.
‘Too much,’ I say.
The visit from the chief intrigues him. I can see he wants to press the issue, but restrains himself.
‘Any
