Fredberg tried to pacify him. “Don’t hurt my wife. Leena, stay calm. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“…who would you send to prison, Judge Fredberg?”
Fredberg didn’t answer. He tried to think of who this man was, but couldn’t come up with the answer.
“Answer me,” Repo shouted. “If I slit your wife’s throat, who would you send to prison?”
Fredberg hesitated. “You, because you’d be guilty, but I wouldn’t be able to judge the case, because it would be a conflict of interest. What is it you want? I have money.”
“If I wanted money, I would have robbed you,” Repo said. “Do you know who I am?”
Fredberg shook his head. “No. Should I?”
“Yes. You sentenced me to life in prison for the murder of my wife eight years ago in the Kouvola Court of Appeals. Timo Repo, nice to see you again.”
For a long moment, Fredberg wondered if he should lie and say he remembered the man. Maybe it would be best to keep up the conversation.
“I’ve seen thousands and thousands of cases over my career. Unfortunately I can’t remember all of them.”
“Have you ever made a mistake?”
“As a judge? I don’t think so. Everyone is innocent until proven otherwise.”
“But you did make a mistake!”
“Did I?” Fredberg said. He thought about how he could surprise the knifed man, but under the circumstances it would be impossible. Fredberg was in decent shape and believed he could beat the intruder in a struggle. But the knife at his wife’s throat dampened his enthusiasm.
“You sentenced me to life in prison for murder.”
Fredberg was still unable to connect the man to any of his cases. He was a little ashamed and afraid, because admitting this could lead to catastrophe.
“What mistake did I make?”
* * *
Suhonen left the silver-gray Peugeot on Mannerheim Street across from the Swedish Theater. It was parked illegally, but Suhonen didn’t care. He stepped out of the car, locked it with the remote, and headed into the Chaplin Bar.
Four black men were scrapping on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Suhonen didn’t get involved in the Somalis’ argument, but was pleased to note that the refugees had evidently successfully integrated into society, because the men were screaming at each other in Finnish.
Suhonen stepped into Chaplin. There was a bar at street level and a billiards room in the basement. Suhonen wove between tables toward the basement stairs. A blond guy with a long-haired woman tattooed on the back of his hand was sitting at one of them, alone. Suhonen tried to place the guy but couldn’t. He definitely looked shady, though.
The basement billiards room was divided into two areas: smoking and non-smoking. On the smoking side, there were about ten billiard tables; on the non-smoking, five. Saarnikangas had said he’d be in non-smoking. There was also a big screen TV and a bar on the smoking side.
The link between tobacco and the game invented in France five hundred years earlier was apparent. The tables on the smoking side were full, while on the non-smoking side there was no one but Saarnikangas. He had racked the balls and was just about to break when Suhonen stepped into the doorway. Behind the billiard table stood a lonely-looking pinball machine.
Saarnikangas noticed Suhonen and didn’t strike. Suhonen stepped up to the table. “You had something to tell me,” he said in a serious voice.
“Chill,” Juha said. “That last tip was a good one, wasn’t it? I’d guess Repo wasn’t there, but some other bad boys were.”
Suhonen wondered whether he had a disagreement with someone from the criminal crew, maybe Salmela.
“You had something to tell me,” Suhonen repeated.
“Should we play a round?” Saarnikangas suggested. “You can’t be in that big of a hurry.”
“Actually, I am,” Suhonen said. “I gotta go to bed.”
“Then I don’t think I’ll tell you anything.”
“I’ve got chalk in my pocket.”
Saarnikangas didn’t get it. “Huh?”
“I’m going to draw your outline on the floor in a second,” Suhonen said. He felt like smacking the druggie in the head with one of the billiard cues and putting an end to his games. Instead, he took off his leather jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “What are the stakes?
“If you win, I talk. If I win, I get one more pack of Subu…”
Suhonen snorted. The guy was incorrigible. On the other hand, he seemed to know things, for instance about the apartment they just raided, so it was a relationship worth cultivating.
“You’re on.”
The tattooed guy from upstairs walked up to the pinball machine. “You guys probably don’t mind if I punch the machine a bit, do you?”
Suhonen shrugged and prepared to break.
Tattoo Guy dropped a two-euro coin in the South Park pinball machine, which, as was only befitting, came to life with a fart. He hit the flippers and the machine squawked, “They killed Kenny. You bastards!”
Suhonen’s break dropped a stripe into the corner pocket and he continued. His next hit sank a second ball.
“I am not gay,” announced the pinball machine. Mr. Hankey the turd howled softly in the background, and the machine farted at a steady pace. Evidently Tattoo Man knew how to play, since Mr. Hankey yelped in delight and announced “Multi-ball!” But the noise from the machine didn’t distract Suhonen.
He sank the balls one by one, without Saarnikangas ever getting a chance to hit. At the same instant as the winning shot, the eight ball, dropped into the left center hole, the pinball machine popped out a free ball and yelled, “Kick ass!”
“All right, let’s talk,” Suhonen said, glancing at the blond guy, who was concentrating on his game. “But over here to the side.”
“You coulda let me hit a couple too,” Saarnikangas complained, as Suhonen dragged him away.
“You had something to tell me,” Suhonen said.
Saarnikangas was still carrying his stick. “Yeah, well about Repo. I saw him later that evening after you had left the church. We had some coffee, and he seemed a little confused. I decided to call you just so you don’t think I’m mixed up in his crazy scheme in any way.”
“What scheme?”
“Well, he was talking about some sort of revenge he was going to take on the chief justice of the Supreme Court. He had apparently unjustly sentenced him to life in prison in appeals court.”
“What do you mean, revenge?” Suhonen asked. His eyes were on Pinball Guy, who was concentrating on his game. The machine made so much noise that he wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation.
“Well, I was a little surprised too, but I’m pretty sure he’s serious.”
“How so?”
“When he went to take a leak at the café, I took a look in his bag,” Saarnikangas said.
“What was inside?”
“A knife, rope, cable ties, electric wires, and sticks of dynamite,” Saarnikangas listed, leaving out the pistol and phone he had stolen.
Suhonen looked dead-seriously at Saarnikangas. “Are you positive?”
Saarnikangas nodded. “Sure. And you know his background?”
“What background?”
“Before his wife’s murder he was in the military. Some sort of explosives expert in field ops. Probably knows how to use dynamite.”
* * *
Suhonen turned off the Western Expressway at the Lauttasaari interchange, where the road rose up to an overpass and circled southward across the expressway. The car’s tires hadn’t been changed for winter yet; Suhonen drove slowly down the snow-covered street. The sleet continued to fall.
Once he passed the apartment buildings, Suhonen turned the car westwards onto Lauttasaari Road. He recalled that this was the spot, where Soviet army captain Ivan Belov had been shot in November 1944. Finland had by then exited World War II, and was being supervised by the Allied Control Commission. Belov was shot by a sniper
, who was never caught, and the Soviets threatened military action. The Finnish government responded by setting up one of the largest manhunts in its history. That incident had been explosive at the time, and so, apparently, was the present one.
It had taken one phone call for Suhonen to get the address of the chief justice of the Supreme Court, and he had headed straight from the bar the couple miles west to Lauttasaari. He thought it was better to go check things out first rather than send over a patrol. Suhonen hoped he’d make it to the house before Repo.
An elementary school stood on the left, with a park behind it, where a monument, a 76mm anti-aircraft cannon from WW II era, rose up from the bedrock. Suhonen had staked out this place from the nearby woods in the ’90s, when one drug gang had used the cannon’s base as a cache.
Suhonen had wondered whether he should call Joutsamo and tell her about the visit to Lauttasaari. The tip was worth checking out, of course, but Suhonen felt that at this point it was enough that he’d go have a look. Joutsamo might easily overreact, and if Saarnikangas’s tip was nothing more than a lure for Subu, a quieter approach was better, since they were looking at the chief justice of the Supreme Court. In any case, he’d have to call in a patrol to watch the place for the night-and probably for the next days, too. But it was still better to check things out first.
Suhonen turned the Peugeot right and drove under the expressway into a graffiti-scrawled tunnel. The marina brought back good memories. On one summer night in the mid-eighties, Suhonen and Salmela had been on the shore hucking rocks at an empty buoy thirty yards out. The bet had been that the one who didn’t hit the buoy had to swim around it. Fifty throws later, both found themselves in the water. The shore was so full of boulders that they had scraped their legs and sides raw.
Suhonen passed a complex of low-slung townhouses. Fredberg’s house was twenty or so yards away. In between there were woods and some sort of hedge. Suhonen drove past the house and turned into the soccer field parking lot.
After pulling on a black ski cap, he walked back down past the house and to its far end. The streetlamp illuminated the relatively small front yard. No footprints could be seen in the snow. The place looked silent and peaceful. For a second Suhonen wondered whether he should ring the doorbell. Maybe it would be best to circle the house first.
There was no point trying to peek in any of the windows, because there were curtains drawn across all of them, and he found the same on the left side of the brick house. He found no footprints, but the snow was coming down pretty hard.
Suhonen made it to the edge of the back yard. Part of the yard was covered in stone pavers; the centerpiece was a large brick grill and a wooden table set. The other side of the yard looked like it was filled with berry bushes.
Suhonen tried the back door, but it was locked. Shivers ran up and down his spine when he noticed the hole that had been cut into the window.
The curtain on this side of the house was drawn too, so Suhonen couldn’t see inside. For a second he wondered what to do, but then decided to stick his hand through the hole and open the back door. But first he opened his leather jacket so his Glock would be easily accessible. The gun stayed in its holster for now.
Suhonen was careful not to cut his hand on the sharp edge of the glass. He got a grip on the door handle and twisted down. The door opened outwards. Suhonen slowly drew the curtain to the side. The living room was dark, but it looked enormous. Suhonen immediately noticed the woman lying on the sofa. The position she was in was somehow unnatural: her hands and legs were together. It only took Suhonen a second to realize she was bound, but was she alive? What had happened in the house?
Even though the soft carpet muffled Suhonen’s footfalls, he crept over to the sofa. The woman watched him approach, and Suhonen hoped she wouldn’t scream. Her eyes were full of terror. Suhonen raised a finger to his lips.
She didn’t make a sound.
Suhonen made it over to her and whispered, “Police. Shhh.”
Despite his instructions, the woman immediately spoke, luckily at a whisper, “That crazy man has my husband. He’s going to kill us.”
“Stay calm,” Suhonen said, pulling his switchblade out of his pocket. He cut the ropes from the woman’s hands and legs.
“Out,” Suhonen ordered. “And quietly.”
He slipped his knife back into his pocket and took his pistol. The woman had made it to door when the living room lights blazed on. The sudden brightness momentarily dazed Suhonen. He noticed the woman pause.
“Go!” he ordered.
“Stop!” a man yelled inside the house, but the woman ran out the back door.
Suhonen saw two men of approximately the same build, both dressed in black. One was wearing a suit, the other pajamas. Suhonen recognized the one in front as Fredberg, chief justice of the Supreme Court, and the one in back as the escaped convict Repo.
“Police,” Suhonen announced loudly, aiming his weapon at Repo. “Stay calm.”
“Kiss my ass!” Repo shouted.
Only now did Suhonen notice the harness wrapped around Fredberg; it had been strung with light-brown tubes bearing red triangles. Explosives, probably dynamite. Electric wires led from the sticks to a detonator in Repo’s hand.
“Stay calm!” Suhonen shouted back. At least he had played for enough time to get the woman out of the house. “Everything’s all right.”
“I’m going to blow him up!”
“If you do, I’ll shoot you.”
Repo was surprised by the police officer’s aggressive stance. He began to laugh. “You’re tough for a cop!”
“Timo Repo, this game ends now. Put the detonator on the floor and let him go.”
Repo glanced at the pale Fredberg. “Look, judge, some folks even recognize me!”
Suhonen’s gun remained trained on Repo. He could see Repo’s forehead through his sights; the escaped convict was less than thirty feet away. He would definitely die if Suhonen pulled the trigger. The problem was that Suhonen wasn’t sure about the detonation mechanism-often hostage-takers used devices where the bomb was set off not by pressing a switch, but by releasing it.
“Repo, listen! This is your final chance. Let’s end this now.”
Repo’s eyes drilled into Suhonen. “I don’t have any reason to die, but I don’t have any reason to live, either. If you want, I’m happy to end this now. You really want to?”
Suhonen’s finger gripped tighter around the trigger. There was not an iota of give left. One tiny tug and the bullet would leave the barrel and pierce Repo’s forehead. But what about the detonation mechanism? The chances were about fifty-fifty. If Suhonen shot and releasing the button triggered the explosives, Suhonen would die too. The odds were on Repo’s side.
Repo closed his eyes. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
Suhonen had an impulse to rush for the door. That way maybe his legs would get lacerated, but he might save his head. He didn’t follow through on the impulse, though.
“Repo, stop.” Suhonen lowered his weapon. Repo muttered something Suhonen couldn’t make out.
“No one needs to die. Let’s just calm down here,” Suhonen said.
Repo opened his eyes, his gaze was intense. He didn’t say a word.
“Peace and love and all that,” Suhonen said. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to head out that door, and we can talk more soon by phone.”
“You can’t leave,” Fredberg wailed.
Repo smiled. “Listen to the judge, officer. He’ll slap you with a police misconduct conviction if you leave him here with me alone.”
Suhonen tried to lighten the mood. “Sure, I can stay. I don’t have anything against it. There’s probably some expensive cognac around here somewhere. Let’s light a fire, pop open a bottle, and watch a late-night talk show. But I’m going to keep this Glock in my pocket. Is that okay? Huh?”
“Out,” Repo ordered coldly. He was unsure about what to do, but he needed to get the police officer out of
there no matter what. It felt like the simplest solution, since the woman had already slipped away.
Suhonen obeyed and walked out the back door. He could have tried to stay inside, but he needed backup. As soon as he was on the patio, he broke into a run. He wondered where the chief justice’s wife had gone. He found Leena Fredberg out on the street in her nightgown, sobbing and shivering by the mailbox. Suhonen gave her his coat and started walking her down the snowy street to his car.
The undercover officer pulled out his phone and called the Emergency Ops Center before he did anything else. The gist was that there was a hostage situation on Marina Road. An ambulance and lots of backup were needed on the scene.
The second call was to Takamäki, whom he woke up. Suhonen informed his lieutenant that he had good news and bad news. The good news was that Repo had been found. The bad news was that he was holding the chief justice of the Supreme Court hostage.
Takamäki said he’d be there in fifteen minutes.
Suhonen told him to dress warmly.
CHAPTER 19
THURSDAY, 2:05 A.M.
LAUTTASAARI, HELSINKI
“Briefing!” Takamäki growled. The lead van had room for four: Joutsamo, SWAT chief Turunen, and on-duty lieutenant Helmikoski were inside with Takamäki. Joutsamo was sitting in the rear left at the computer, next to her boss. Turunen was across from her, and Helmikoski had spun the swiveling front seat backwards. The van’s sliding side door was open with Suhonen and a couple of uniformed sergeants standing outside; wet snow was falling on them.
The van was parked at the edge of the soccer field, where Takamäki had set up the command center. Four police vans were parked nearby. The target was less than a hundred yards away, behind a small grove of trees. About twenty officers from the cities of Helsinki, Espoo, and Vantaa were on the scene, and more were streaming in.
“Suhonen, you start,” Takamäki said. “Tell us what happened.”
“Sure,” Suhonen said from outside the van, wiping the snow from his beanie. “This evening I got a tip from the field that Repo might be inside this house. I came to check it out and entered through the back door, which had already been broken into. Fredberg’s wife was tied up in the living room, and I freed her before Repo and Fredberg came in. The wife escaped, and then Repo and I had a pretty intense conversation.”
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