Inspector Puhujalava was already nosing around the crime scene when we arrived, having got wind of our impending involvement through that mysterious means that he had that enabled him to prevent most of the really serious crime in Mikkeli. Investigation and analysis might not be his gift, as it was Hannu’s, but organization and prevention certainly were.
“So, Kuitunen ran to you for help, did he, Viitanen?” The tall inspector wore his usual sour expression, revealing none of his thoughts. “Good to see you, Ville.”
Hannu almost smiled. “Did you expect anything less?”
“Certainly not; I’ll still keep him on the suspect list, though.”
Hannu twitched his eyebrow, but left it to me to ask, “Why on earth would you suspect Junnu, of all people?”
“I expect we can find some reason.” The inspector gestured at the murder room. “It’s obviously a crime of passion, and anyone’s susceptible to committing those if sufficiently roused.”
“Then why am I still alive, my good Puhujalava? I’ve certainly exercised your ire on a number of occasions, to say nothing of various others of greater or lesser moral fiber with whom I’ve had to associate.”
Inspector Puhujalava smiled tightly. “Don’t imagine I haven’t considered it. Irksome as you may be, however, you’ve never managed to rouse me to that blindly murderous state so often described by perpetrators of such crimes; I cannot say why others have restrained themselves, but that is my reason.”
A silent moment or two passed before the inspector queried, “Well?” At Hannu’s quizzical look, Puhujalava continued, “Usually by this point you’ve told me no less than fifteen points of identification for the murderer, sometimes even including his very name. Or do they all match Kuitunen too well?”
“If they did, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you,” Hannu snapped back acidly. “For all the mess they made of it, though, our murderer has left surprisingly few clues of any sort, which would argue in favor of premeditation, as would the warning note Sigerson received.” Before the inspector could voice the objections forming on his lips, Hannu continued, “And yet, and yet, and yet the sheer violence of the crime as evidenced by both body and room simply scream that this was a crime of hatred--not passion, mind you, but hatred in such a degree as is rarely to be found in our more restrained era.”
“Tell that to the Anarchists,” Inspector Puhujalava snorted.
“Sigerson was a foreigner, though, and a man of business who tried to stay away from any... local unpleasantnesses... in his endeavors. For such a man to have engendered such wrath against himself is most peculiar, to say the least.”
Puhujalava frowned. “You said ‘few clues of any sort’; what clues have you found?”
Hannu pointed at a few fibers caught on a loose joint on an upended table. “From the killer’s attire, though what portion is more open to speculation than I’d like. Also--” Hannu carefully lifted the remnants of a down-stuffed cushion that had been shredded almost past recognition “--the killer was careless enough to cut himself in his excesses.” Several of the feathers were indeed bloody.
“Is that all?”
“Aside from the facts that he has a limp, is around six feet in height, and weighs around twelve stone, yes.” Hannu frowned. “Again, not terribly much, is it?”
“Not much is still more than we had.” The good inspector knew better than to question the data he’d been given. “Seen enough?”
Hannu shook himself. “Quite. My thanks. Come, Ville.”
After we left, Hannu hissed between his teeth in a rare sign of frustration. “Our Junnu is in a tighter spot than I’d anticipated,” he confessed as we made our way onward...
