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think.
    He bent down next to the body, extended a quivering hand, and slid the bill of the man’s cap aside. He froze when he recognized the man’s face and saw the bullet hole in his forehead.
    “Shit,” he gasped, springing back to his feet.

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 5
    PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS
    TUESDAY, 2:00 P.M.
     
     
    Detective Mikko Kulta, a muscular man wearing a loose-fitting blue sweater, sat at his desk typing out a report at a leisurely pace. Not far off, fellow detectives Anna Joutsamo and Kirsi Kohonen occupied themselves with other police business. Suhonen’s chair was empty as usual. Joutsamo’s radio was on: once again the headlines trumpeted the poor economic conditions. Layoffs and defaulting companies had been at the top of the news for months.
    Thanks to his headphones, Kulta missed the depressing newscast.
    He yawned, saved his interview transcript with the click of a mouse, and took the headphones off. Then he ran his hands through his short, pale brown hair, stretched his back, and cleared his throat.
    “You know what?” Kulta said. “Solving these violent crimes is too easy.”
    Joutsamo and Kohonen looked up from their desks.
    “Really,” Joutsamo said dryly.
    “Yeah,” he went on. “Just look at the statistics. About eighty to ninety percent of all violent crimes are solved, but only thirty percent of property crimes. And out of all the thefts in downtown Helsinki, only about three percent are ever solved.”
    Kohonen and Joutsamo glanced at one another.
    “Stats don’t lie,” Kulta concluded. “Property crimes are more difficult to solve.”
    Joutsamo snorted. “I can have a chat with Takamäki about moving you to a more challenging position. Hey, maybe you’d like to join the guys over at Itäkeskus.” Itäkeskus was an eastern suburb with a giant shopping mall of the same name, notorious for petty thefts and violence.
    “I didn’t mean that, but just think about the case I’ve got right now.”
    “You’re talking about Sandberg’s assault and battery?” Kohonen asked.
    Kulta nodded. “A man calls 911 at 2:30 in the morning asking for help. He says his wife has beaten him with a potato masher, and she’s got a knife in the other hand. A squad car heads out, and they take the drunk woman into custody. She’s charged with domestic assault, so the case is transferred to us. So I interview her, and she confesses to everything, complete with a motive. The husband claims he’d been out drinking with his friends that night, but the wife could smell perfume on him.”
    “Because of the smoking ban in the bars,” the red-haired Kohonen interrupted. “Used to be that you couldn’t smell anything but smoke after a night out.”
    “Now don’t you start complaining about smells,” Kulta remarked. “Every time you go horseback riding, everyone here knows all about it.”
    “Oh, and what about your gym bag…” Kohonen shot back.
    “Okay, cut it out,” Joutsamo interrupted.
    It was quiet for a moment, then Kulta continued.
    “So, case in point. Violent crimes practically solve themselves. Now, what if somebody had broken into Sandberg’s garage and stolen, say, the rims from his car. Almost without question the case’d never be solved. They’d be lucky if a patrol car ever made it out there.”
    Joutsamo and Kohonen glanced at each other again, shaking their heads. They could never be sure if Kulta was being serious.
    “Listen, Mikko,” Joutsamo began, “Go ahead and finish your transcript, and while you’re at it, you can ponder why it’s always you who gets the cases that seem to solve themselves.”
    Kohonen laughed aloud.
    “She who laughs last has the slowest wit,” Kulta smiled.
     
    * * *
     
    Markus Markkanen was sitting on the sofa at home, watching billiards on TV. His feet were kicked up on the coffee table, and he wondered when he would pick up a pool cue again. In his youth he had played quite a bit, but then again, he had been involved in