Helsinki Homicide: Nothing but the Truth

by Jarkko Sipila

  Shit. He’d have been a first-class soldier. As always, the thought soothed him. He pictured himself in the trenches during the Winter War, fighting the Soviets, the softly falling snow punctuated by exploding grenades. Someone next to him caught a bullet in the head and keeled over. His rifle sight panned from Russkie to Russkie, felling each one with a single shot.

  Why couldn’t he be in a war right now? He’d briefly considered the Foreign Legion, and maybe it still wasn’t too late. He was only twenty-three years old. Might get shipped off to some African country to mow down spooks. Fuck. Boot camp would be rough, but he’d manage. He had no problem with the push-ups. Then he’d march down Paris’s Avenue des Champs-Élysées with a Foreign Legion kepi perched on his head. The old man would have been proud, if he hadn’t gone and croaked.

  Nyberg opened his eyes to the toxic green of the cell walls glaring back. He rose nimbly to a seated position on the bunk. Goddamn. That fucker Salmela had to learn his lesson—one he wouldn’t forget. One he’d remember in the fires of hell.

  They’d caught up with him. Fucking cops had appeared outta nowhere and slammed him to the pavement. Name, rank and serial number. They were supposed to get nothing more, and they hadn’t. That’s what they had all agreed.

  The Viet Cong used shock therapy in the Rambo flicks, but the cops hadn’t resorted to that yet. They could wire his nuts and he still wouldn’t talk. What a shitty attempt at sweating a suspect, he thought. Trying to spread rumors that he was a nark—nobody in the pen would believe that. Rambo hadn’t cracked either, and went on to take his vengeance. He would too…just had to bide his time and keep his trap shut. Don’t comment, don’t even speak, don’t listen to their promises. Police suspect or prisoner of war, the two were one and the same.

  As Nyberg lay back down and closed his eyes the murder crept back into his mind. For an instant he felt the fear of his deed, but a rush of power washed away his uncertainty. He wouldn’t talk.

  * * *

  Takamäki, Joutsamo, Kohonen, Kulta and a couple of other cops from Takamäki’s team had gathered in the conference room. Takamäki had phoned his undercover man Suhonen, but got no answer. He had left a message.

  “Let’s run through this quickly,” said Takamäki. He had a reputation for running efficient meetings to bring everyone up to date. “At 4:33 P.M, someone called 911 to report a gunshot. That likely pegs the time of the murder at around 4:32.”

  “Nice that someone called,” said Kulta.

  Takamäki shot a glare from beneath his brow. “Mikko, if you got something important to say, then say it. But if it’s just your everyday bullshit, then keep it to yourself. Alright?”

  “Alright.”

  Kulta had a habit of blurting out thoughtless remarks, but now was obviously not the time.

  Takamäki went on, “The caller was a man by the name of Konsta Sten, from the second floor of the building. Within four minutes, the first officers arrived on the scene to find a corpse lying just inside the apartment door. The victim was later identified as Tomi Salmela.”

  Since Salmela’s background was not necessarily known to everybody, Takamäki reeled off a list of facts that Kirsi Kohonen had mined from the database. “Salmela was eighteen years old with plenty of drug, theft and assault convictions, but nothing particularly serious. A two-bit junkie,” he summed up. “Based on his rap sheet, he’d seem a hell of a strange target for a contract hit, but clearly we don’t know enough. What we do know is that the trigger man was this Esa Nyberg. With his street enforcer background, it would seem logical he’d promote himself to a contract killer sooner or later.”

  “The guy’s some kinda military freak,” said Joutsamo.

  “Have we searched his place?” asked Takamäki.

  “We don’t know where he lives yet,” said Joutsamo. “No permanent address on record, though we have a few leads. We’ll figure it out when we get a minute.”

  “Okay,” said Takamäki as he glanced toward the door. Suhonen was stepping into the conference room.

  “Hey,” he droned. “Sorry to bust in on your meeting.”

  Suhonen’s specialty was the surveillance of violent criminals and organized crime rings.

  “Right,” said Takamäki. “I left you a message…”

  “Yeah, I heard about the case already. I was with a buddy of mine putting away my bike for the winter. No reception. Back on the grid now, though.”

  “You got something?”

  “Yeah, but go ahead. I’d rather listen first.”

  Takamäki nodded. He was glad Suhonen had arrived. With as much time as he spent undercover, Suhonen had access to just the kind of street intelligence that was so desperately needed when the motive was still unclear.

  “So. Things started to come together pretty quickly once Joutsamo recognized Nyberg on the security footage. The SWAT team took him down in Töölö at the entrance of an apartment building. He’s not talking. They found a pistol in his jacket pocket, but we don’t know yet if it’s the murder weapon.”

  “So why kill Salmela?” Suhonen asked, knowing he’d get no answer.

  Takamäki grinned. “That’s what I wanted to

  ask you.”

  “Well, I did meet him once.”

  The others looked dumbfounded for a moment. “Huh?” Joutsamo finally managed.

  “Sure. We had coffee together at the Ruskeasuo Teboil station about a year back.”

  “And?” said Joutsamo.

  “Well…he didn’t mention having a target on

  his back.”

  Joutsamo glanced at Takamäki, who shrugged. He trusted Suhonen to volunteer details if they were relevant to the case. If for one reason or another, Suhonen didn’t care to comment, then he had good reason. The man had so much intel that even the lieutenant didn’t know all of his sources.

  “But let’s get back on track,” said Takamäki in an attempt to avoid a squabble. He could talk one-on-one with Suhonen after the meeting.

  “I didn’t realize we had ever gotten off,” said Kulta.

  “Right,” said Takamäki dryly. “Tomi Salmela was shot in the middle of the forehead. We know Nyberg is the trigger man, but the motive is unknown. The victim has a bit of a record, too…” he said, glancing at Suhonen. The recap felt pointless, but it was important for Suhonen to be on the same page as the others.

  Takamäki paused and an absent look came over his face. “The footage,” Joutsamo prompted.

  “Right,” he said. “The outdoor camera on the convenience store recorded a dark Mazda 323 arriving around 4:27 P.M. Nyberg immediately gets out of the passenger side, and enters the building through an entrance next to the store. Six minutes later, he returns, gets back in the passenger seat and the car takes off. We couldn’t identify the driver from the footage. Obviously, whoever it was has to be tracked down.”

  “We get the plate?” asked Suhonen.

  “Too fuzzy. Kannas promised to try some image enhancement software once they get done with the crime scene.”

  “Was Salmela in the apartment alone?”

  “As far as we know, yes,” said Joutsamo.

  “Did you find anything else there?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Some dope, a couple bikes and some electronics,” she said. “Just based on a quick look, anyhow. We haven’t received the report from Forensics yet.”

  “No money?”

  “None.”

  “Do we know whether Nyberg took anything?” Suhonen asked.

  Takamäki shook his head.

  “Well,” Suhonen reflected for a moment. “I suppose you all know who this Nyberg’s been hanging out with for the last few years.”

  “We do. That’s why the buzz over this case,” said Joutsamo, as she took a printout off the table. “Korpi, Risto Mika. Age 35, first-class career criminal. Spent fifteen years of his life in prison so far, mostly on drug and assault charges. Did his first stint for manslaughter at the ripe age of eighteen. Been out on the streets
for the last three years.”

  Suhonen nodded his head. “You might add that he has no remorse, is incapable of empathy and extremely dangerous. A complete shithead if you want it straight up.”

  “So we should send him straight to jail,” said Kulta. “Without passing Go.”

  “That’s right,” said Takamäki.

  * * *

  Suhonen sat drinking coffee in Takamäki’s cramped office on the third floor of Pasila police headquarters. Outside, the yellow streetlights were just now flickering to life. The birches on the distant slope still clung to their leaves. Takamäki was hastily tapping something out on the computer. Nobody else was in the room.

  Kulta, Kohonen and two other on-duty officers had gone knocking on doors in the buildings near Porvoo Street to ask if anyone had happened to see the Mazda, perhaps even part of the plate number. Anything that would help them move the search along.

  Joutsamo had stayed back to draw up the paperwork for the wiretap—surveillance was to start immediately. First permission from the court, then send the papers to the NBI’s wiretapping central, which would reroute any calls directly to the wire tap room of Pasila police headquarters.

  A couple of phone numbers belonging to Korpi had been found in the police databases. Most likely the phones had been ditched long ago, but it was worth a try.

  “Listen to this,” said Takamäki, and he began to read the text on his screen: “Helsinki Police Department Press Release. Homicide on Porvoo Street. On Sunday, September 17, at about 4:30 P.M., a young male was killed in an apartment located at Porvoo Street 21. The crime is being investigated as a murder and the police have arrested a suspect. The suspect was observed arriving in front of the building in a dark colored car, which remained parked there during the time of the murder. Anyone with information on this matter or on the car in question should contact the Helsinki Police Department Violent Crimes Unit. And then the contact numbers. Sound OK to you?”

  “Pretty standard fare. Won’t win any literary awards.”

  “Eyewitnesses are what we really need,” said Takamäki as he glanced at the clock. Half past eight. The copy would make the morning papers by a nose. The TV stations wouldn’t be interested in an ordinary shooting, at least not one based on such a lackluster press release.

  The release was a purely tactical tool to fish for witnesses. If the driver of the Mazda wasn’t still at large, they wouldn’t need to release any information for several more days. Any eyewitness accounts would need to be screened for accuracy, which is why he had omitted the exact make of the car. Takamäki clicked “Send” and the report went out to media outlets automatically.

  “Going, going, gone,” said the lieutenant before falling silent for a while. “So, coffee at the Teboil station, huh?”

  “Right,” said Suhonen, flicking his ponytail as he turned away from the yellowed, dimly lit landscape out the window. “I bought the kid a donut too.”

  Takamäki waited in vain for him to continue. For some reason this case was a sore spot for Suhonen, and of course the lieutenant wanted to know why. The man walked a fine line between the worlds of cops and criminals.

  “Glazed or jelly-filled?”

  Suhonen chuckled. “Pretty sure it was glazed, maybe even some sprinkles. But this comes on condition of total confidentiality. I’m serious, what I’m gonna tell you can’t get out to anybody else, not even Joutsamo. I guess that meeting at Teboil is already out there, but we gotta keep the background under wraps. Agreed?”

  “Of course,” said Takamäki.

  “This Tomi Salmela’s dad Eero Salmela was also there at the Teboil. Eero is an old buddy from my stomping grounds in Lahti. We’re still friends, but these days, or years, actually, we’ve been on opposite sides of the law. He hawks stolen goods so he’s privy to a lot of street talk.”

  “So one of your informants then?”

  Now Takamäki understood the reason for Suhonen’s long deliberation. These sorts of relationships were highly guarded secrets, and rarely divulged to anyone.

  Suhonen nodded. “One of the best.”

  “Is he involved in this case somehow?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve tried calling a few times, but no answer.”

  “That doesn’t sound too good.”

  “Well, no, but not necessarily terrible either. In his line of work, it’s not always a good idea to carry a cell.”

  Takamäki thought momentarily. “Wonder if the shooting has something to do with the dad? Seems like Korpi’s style to bump off an informant’s kid for revenge.”

  “Who knows, but I doubt anyone knows about our connection. Aren’t you the one who’s always telling us not to assume? Just make conclusions based on the facts.”

  “Has he said anything to you about Korpi recently?”

  Suhonen shook his head.

  “I think you’d better look a bit further into what Eero’s kid was up to.”

  Suhonen was about to answer when his phone rang. The caller was anonymous. “Yeah,” said Suhonen into the receiver.

  Takamäki couldn’t make out what was said on the other end. Suhonen nodded, “Yeah, I called earlier…right, right. I understand…let’s meet soon. Right…but not the Corner Pub. Someplace quieter… OK, sounds good. Half hour. Later.”

  A sober-faced Suhonen slipped the cell phone back into his jeans’ pocket.

  “It was Eero.”

  “I figured as much. Does he know?”

  “If he does, he didn’t let on.”

  Both were quiet for a moment.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll want the police chaplain along,” said Takamäki.

  CHAPTER 3

  SUNDAY, 9:15 P.M.

  THE PARKING LOT AT THE HELSINKI ICE ARENA

  Suhonen backed his Peugeot 206, an unmarked loaner from the station’s garage, into a spot at the south end of the ice arena’s parking lot. He killed the engine and headlights, but left the keys in the ignition. An old U2 hit was playing on the radio.

  The parking lot was nearly vacant: only a few cars remained, and of those, the nearest was a hundred feet from Suhonen’s Peugeot. No pedestrians were about.

  Suhonen glanced at his watch. Salmela was late. The undercover cop listened to Bono singing about Bloody Sunday. This Sunday hadn’t been much different, even if on a smaller scale than the namesake of the song. In 1972, British soldiers fatally shot thirteen demonstrators in Northern Ireland. Suhonen had no memory of the incident, since he had only been four at the time, but it got him thinking of the first time he had met Salmela. Suhonen couldn’t remember exactly, but he had been younger than ten for sure.

  He spotted a rusty blue Toyota van turning into the parking lot, the same kind Salmela usually drove. Suhonen had never bothered to find out who it belonged to, but it was unlikely it was Salmela’s, at least not on paper.

  Salmela parked the van a few spaces away, cut the engine and hopped out, his cigarette already lit. The forty-something’s hair was short and raked back over the top of his head. His features were rugged. A brown leather coat with a graying lambskin collar hung from his shoulders.

  Suhonen flicked off the radio and rolled down the window. The cool autumn air swept across his face.

  “Can’t smoke in the van—wouldn’t want you guys lifting DNA off the butts,” said Salmela as he took a drag.

  “We can get it off of a lot less nowadays.”

  “Still, wouldn’t want to make your job any easier.”

  Salmela seemed nervous, which made Suhonen wonder what was in the back of the van.

  “Rough day?”

  “Nothin’ I ain’t used to. Had to help a buddy move,” said Salmela with a grin. The tip of his cigarette glimmered in the darkness.

  “Why don’t you have a seat in the car here.”

  “Can I smoke in there?”

  Suhonen knew it was against the rules. “Sure,” he said.

  He’d been trying to figure out how to break the bad news to Salmela, but there was no
easy way. Salmela rounded the car to the passenger side, swung in, cranked the window down halfway and ashed his cigarette on the rim of the glass.

  “Nice Pug.”

  “Just a rental. They must wax it pretty regular.”

  “Yup. Keeps the value up.” Salmela drew his cigarette down to the filter and flicked the butt out the window. “So why the big rush? What’s up?”

  Suhonen was quiet for a moment. A green tram went gliding down the track toward downtown. Suhonen kept his gaze locked on the glow from the windows of the tram. “Eero…bad news.”

  The softness in Suhonen’s voice got Salmela’s attention. “Sounds pretty bad… Since when do you call me Eero? There a warrant out on me, or what?”

  “I wouldn’t be this serious about something

  like that.”

  “What then?”

  “Today there was a homicide…”

  Suhonen watched the muscles in Salmela’s face ball up.

  “Don’t tell me. Can’t be…”

  “Tomi’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  Salmela was visibly shaken. He took a deep breath and buried his head in his hands. Suhonen patted him on the back a few times, but the gesture seemed pitifully small.

  “How?” Salmela asked, straightening his back. His hand scrambled at his jacket pocket for a cigarette.

  “He died quickly…didn’t suffer.”

  Salmela’s voice became icy. “How?”

  Suhonen had initially intended to stand behind confidentiality laws, but quickly changed his mind. “He was shot in the entryway of his apartment. A bullet to the forehead.”