Raid and the Blackest Sheep

by Harri Nykanen

  His wife, perceptive as she was, had always maintained that beneath his façade of modesty, Jansson was an exceptionally vain man. He double checked to be sure that no nose hairs were visible and slathered his chin liberally with aftershave.

  He slipped on some casual slacks, a thick blue sweater and a sporty-looking windbreaker.

  Jansson was waiting in front of the door at seven minutes till seven. The dance was just starting, and people were milling about in the lobby. Jansson edged a bit further away from the door and waited under a maple that was growing in front of the building. He didn’t want there to be any witnesses to their meeting.

  Anna came around the corner at two minutes till. She had on jeans and a thick pea coat.

  She slipped her arm casually under Jansson’s and pulled him along.

  “Beautiful weather. Feels like August.”

  Jansson was quiet. Though he enjoyed her touch, he felt tense.

  “What was your question?”

  “Once a cop, always a cop. Straight to the point.”

  “Does it concern Huusko?”

  “No…it’s about my ex-husband.”

  The road to town was lit, but beyond that were fields and forests. About a quarter of a mile away, the lights of the nearest farm were visible. The sky was bristling with stars.

  “What about him?”

  “I’ve been wondering how to put this without you misunderstanding.”

  “Just tell it like it is.”

  “We would have divorced even if he never found out about Huusko. I would’ve never gone so far with Huusko if my marriage hadn’t already been over.”

  The lights of a passenger plane approached from the north, swept overhead and continued southward. Anna stopped.

  “Wish I was headed south on that plane, away from all this lifeless gloom.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He’s threatening me… I don’t know what to do…”

  “What do you mean by ‘threatening?’ Has he threatened to hurt you? Or something else?”

  “He said I’m in trouble if I don’t agree to his demands.”

  “And what are those?”

  “When we divorced he was quite well-to-do… The flat in Helsinki went to me, and I’ve been renting it out ever since I moved here. Now he’s in financial trouble and wants me to sell the apartment and split the money.”

  “If he’s threatened you, you can press charges against him.”

  Anna took Jansson’s hand and pressed it between hers.

  “Must everything be so formal… Couldn’t we take care of it…kinda off the record…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If for example a detective lieutenant called him… I think it might scare him…”

  “You mean me?”

  “Yes.”

  Jansson’s expression turned dour.

  “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  “Of course, you’d be compensated for your trouble… I plan to sell the flat and can make a pretty nice profit on it right now…”

  Jansson’s expression went from dour to surly. In one fell swoop, the romantic surge he had felt in his chest faded away. Anna’s lips were set in a smile full of promise, but her charm no longer worked.

  Jansson pried his hand away from hers and said with unnecessary gruffness, “You can’t buy a policeman, at least not me.”

  Anna realized she had made a mistake.

  “I’m sorry… I’m just afraid of him… I only meant to ask for advice. From an experienced officer.”

  “My advice is that you contact the local police department directly.”

  Inside, the first waltz of the evening began to drift outside.

  “How about if we go inside,” said Jansson.

  Anna didn’t reply, but followed him nonetheless.

  9.

  Raid awoke at seven in the morning and checked the vicinity of the house. Afterwards, he went to the sauna to wash up. There was still a trace of warmth in the stove’s water basin. After breakfast, he inspected the car: checked the oil and radiator fluid, kicked the tires and carried the bulk of their luggage into the car. Nygren’s shotgun was within reach the entire time.

  The neighbors were up as well. The farmer was towing hay bales out of the fields into the barn. Winter was coming, and much faster than city people realized. The bustling put-put of the tractor was the only sound around.

  Raid had spent his childhood in the country and knew the rituals of rural life, the intimate connection people had with the seasons, the weather and work. Every season had its own chores, to be done promptly. Nature rarely forgave delays—frost set in, snow fell, rains flooded and drought gave rise to fires. There was always something to fear. In light of all the dangers that stalked farmers, Raid considered it a miracle that the country could feed itself.

  The neighboring farmer didn’t intend to let the hay go late. He dumped a load of hay into the barn and set off immediately for another load. The rear-end of the trailer tossed wildly on the bumpy road. Then the tractor suddenly swerved like a race car and made off across the field.

  Nygren woke up around ten, looking grizzled and out of sorts. Raid had cleared the kitchen table and set out breakfast for him: juice, yogurt, eggs, bread and coffee.

  “Alright if I pay for my stupidity in silence?” asked Nygren.

  “Sure.”

  Nygren wet his head with water from the wash bucket and dried his hair on a towel. Then he grabbed the glass of juice, gulped it down, and filled it up again.

  “I suppose I said some things.”

  “Right.”

  “My intentions were good, but maybe the goal was a little unclear. Did I quote the Bible?”

  “That too.”

  “I used to read it every day in prison. It can stick with you… Besides, it’s a very wise book.”

  Raid took the coffee off the stove and poured some for Nygren.

  The sky was partly cloudy and the wind was brisk. From the window, whitecaps were visible on the lake. The neighbor’s twenty-odd cows were ranging across the field toward the shore. This was one of their last opportunities to enjoy the open air. Soon, they’d be locked in the barn and strapped to a milking machine for the winter. Poor producers would be weeded out and given an ample dose of voltage for their final meal.

  Nygren shook his head between his hands.

  “This is what I’d call a hangover… It’s hard to be a hospitable neighbor—these country bumpkins are so fond of their liquor.”

  Nygren went to the kitchen cabinet and took a box of aspirin off the shelf. He gulped down two tablets and a chaser of well water.

  “Eat something, it should help,” said Raid.

  Nygren looked at Raid and smiled.

  “Easy boy… This isn’t the first hangover of my life…though it might be the last.”

  The neighbor throttled the tractor back toward home again. He didn’t seem bothered by any hangover. Nygren watched him go.

  “A nice guy otherwise, but likes his liquor.”

  This time the tractor didn’t turn toward the barn, but continued on toward Nygren’s house.

  Nygren followed the approaching tractor over the rim of his coffee cup.

  “What’d I tell you. He’s coming to see if there’s anything left over.”

  Nygren didn’t have the strength to get up and greet him, so he sat and waited. Still loaded with a few bales of hay, the tractor stopped in the middle of the yard. The neighbor didn’t get out, just sat fidgeting with something on the dashboard.

  Raid noticed the neighbor’s averted gaze and climbed upstairs with the shotgun. Carefully, he peeked outside. From above, he could see the bed of the trailer spread out like a banquet.

  Raid went back downstairs. Nygren was gathering what strength he had to greet the visitor.

  “Tell him to come inside,” said Raid.

  Nygren gave him a look, but did as he was told. He cracked the door just enough to sque
eze his head out.

  “Care for some coffee, neighbor?”

  The farmer pushed the sliding window aside.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a screwdriver? Something’s wrong with the ignition.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Even a butter knife would do. Or a little coin…just something to turn this.”

  Raid handed Nygren a knife.

  “Give it to him from the right side of the tractor.”

  Nygren looked wonderingly at Raid, but pulled on his boots and stepped outside. Raid circled around to the back yard via the cellar door. By circling the house, he was able to get within about thirty feet of the trailer’s left side. Nygren stood next to the tractor, chatting with the neighbor.

  “This has never… Something goofy with this…”

  Raid made a swift dive toward the side of the trailer and came up next to it. He saw that the neighbor had noticed him.

  “You takin’ off today already?” the neighbor asked, winking at Nygren.

  “As soon as this hangover lets up…”

  Nygren peered about.

  “Could’ve used the company. Done some fishing or hunting… The rabbits are overrunning the place…”

  Raid circled to the rear of the trailer and carefully opened one of the hooks on the tailgate. Once he opened the other, the tailgate slammed down and Raid could see directly into the bed. Sariola was just behind the tractor with a pistol, his stocky body huddled up on all fours. Lehto lay along the edge of the trailer holding a baseball bat.

  Sariola wheeled and fired at Raid, who managed to shove a hay bale into the line of fire. The bullet struck the bale and buried itself inside.

  Raid stepped aside and saw Nygren and the neighbor diving for cover behind the tractor. Sariola was set to fire again and Raid didn’t wait any longer. He fired one of the barrels from a low angle. Sariola’s gun and a couple of fingers splattered against the back window of the tractor.

  Raid fell back far enough that he could see Sariola over the edge of the bed. Sariola was staggering to his feet while holding his right hand with his left. Blood gushed out from between his fingers and streamed down his sleeve.

  “The bat!” Raid shouted. “Throw it on the ground!”

  Lehto’s bat promptly flew over the edge of the bed.

  “Any more weapons?”

  “No.”

  “Get out!”

  Lehto wasted no time. Sariola didn’t seem to have heard the command. He just swayed on the trailer bed, fighting to stay conscious. Seeing his own blood was the worst thing he knew.

  “He lost some fingers,” Lehto reported.

  Nygren picked up Lehto’s baseball bat, and he and the neighbor came to Raid’s aid.

  “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought he got you.”

  “He got the hay bale.”

  Raid swung himself onto the trailer with his gun at the ready. Sariola had fallen onto a hay bale.

  The neighbor glanced into the trailer with an apologetic expression.

  “They threatened me with a gun…caught me off guard as I was coming in from the fields. I tried to wink, but my face felt kinda stiff…”

  They brought Sariola down and carried him into the kitchen of the house. Nygren got some bandages and wrapped the torn-up hand as best he could. The index and middle fingers of the right hand were severed at the middle joint, and the other fingers were riddled with buckshot. Some of the shot had gotten past his hand and hit him in the shoulder.

  “The vein is severed. He needs a hospital or he’ll bleed to death,” said Nygren.

  “Where’d you leave the car,” Raid asked Lehto.

  “At the edge of the woods.”

  “I’d suggest you drive him to the hospital. The other option is worse for all of us, especially you two.”

  “Alright…alright.”

  Raid slapped him across the face.

  “Got that?”

  “Yes, I got it. Trust me, I’ve had enough. Doesn’t matter if you got a hundred mil… I swear…”

  They lifted the fading Sariola onto the trailer bed and drove him and Lehto to their car. Lehto laid some coats on the back seat and they lifted him inside.

  Raid guided Lehto into the car.

  “On the way there you can think of some explanation that doesn’t involve us.”

  The neighbor offered a suggestion.

  “Hunting accident. Dog knocked over the shotgun and it went off. It’s happened before.”

  Lehto nodded and drove off.

  Raid and Nygren rode back to the house in the trailer. There, the neighbor hopped out of the cab and walked up to them. He had been thinking about the incident.

  “I ain’t got nothin’ against you, and don’t need to know about it. If anyone asks, I didn’t see anything, and I’ll clean the blood off the tractor.”

  Nygren put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Thank you. You’re a good neighbor.”

  The neighbor looked at Raid reverently.

  “Gotta admit you took care of those goons pretty nicely… Doesn’t even work that slick in the pictures.”

  “Thanks.”

  Raid went to clean the blood stains off the kitchen floor. Nygren opened a beer and sat down to watch.

  “Think they’ve had enough?”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Does it bother you that I’m drinking? Got a nice bender going.”

  “No.”

  Raid tossed the bloody rag into the wood stove, where the embers from the morning’s coffee were still glowing. The rag burst slowly into flames.

  “Not much seems to bother you… You blow a guy’s fingers to smithereens, clean up the mess like you were doing dishes, and then you’re done.”

  “Right.”

  10.

  Detective Lieutenant Kempas was flying to Kuopio. Not by helicopter—by an ordinary passenger plane. Leino and Lunden were waiting in the airport cafeteria, and they watched as Kempas exited the plane under the curious gaze of the flight attendant.

  “He’s been digging through the family wardrobe again.”

  Kempas was wearing a narrow-brimmed hat straight out of the 1960s, a long, dark-grey coat, white shirt, and narrow-cut necktie. With his slim suitcase, he looked like a gangster out of a 1960s British thriller.

  In a weak moment, Kempas had revealed that he had inherited his uncle’s estate: about ten nearly unused suits and other clothes. Once they had fallen out of fashion, his wealthy uncle had abandoned the suits to a wardrobe, but Kempas was no slave to fashion.

  “Should we stop at the hotel before going to the hospital?” asked Leino.

  “The hospital first.”

  Lunden took the wheel and Leino slid in beside him. Kempas took the back seat for himself.

  “How’s Sariola doing?”

  “He had surgery on his hand. Just flesh wounds in the shoulder. Nothing serious.”

  “Is he talking?”

  “He claims he doesn’t know who shot him, nor is he accusing anyone.”

  “What about Nygren and his friend?”

  “We’re searching ’round the clock, but nothing. If Nygren has a phone, it’s not in his name.”

  Kempas wrinkled his brow irritably.

  “Nice going. The crooks are having a laugh.”

  “According to Jansson, this Raid called him from a prepaid cell phone and the caller ID was blocked. I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “He’s hiding something. Not sure what, but I can smell it.”

  “How long’s this gonna take?” Leino ventured to ask. “I only ask because the wife is turning forty in three days.”

  “As long as it takes.”

  As Kempas was not in a chatty mood, Lunden and Leino thought it wisest to remain silent. Kempas took a notepad from his pocket and began jotting notes with a look of consternation on his face. Every so often, he underlined a few words with bold strokes.

  “
Is Sariola under protection?” said Kempas without raising his eyes from the notepad.

  “No. We don’t have the authorization or grounds for that. He should be safe here in the hospital.”

  “Either one of you could’ve stayed to stand guard. I only need one driver.”

  In a bad mood, Kempas was like a wife who knew her husband’s every weakness, knew how to hit him where it hurt the most.

  “What about this other guy, Lehto?”

  “We have an APB out on him.”

  “An actual APB... It’d be nice if he were actually found.”

  Irritated by Kempas’ comment, Lunden let out the clutch too fast and he ground the gears.

  “Is that the car’s fault or the driver’s?” Kempas scoffed.

  Lunden recalled a particularly harsh teacher from his grade school years. The cranky old man had employed a similar tone of voice, but had bolstered his message by twisting students’ ears or yanking the hair at the napes of their necks. Lunden swept his hand instinctively across his ear. He remembered all too well how the bullying felt.

  “One thing’s for sure, the car’s a piece of shit,” he said.

  “I doubt you’d make the police racing team either.”

  “I would if I could get some decent sponsors.”

  Kempas’ expression softened. Lunden caught it in the rear-view mirror and commended himself for the quip.

  * * *

  Sariola had been furnished with a private room. He lay on the bed with his upper body in bandages. The thigh on his right leg was also bandaged. On the nightstand was a pitcher of juice, a mug, a banana and a package of salmiakki salt licorice. Kempas took a chair and seated himself next to the bed. Lunden and Leino remained standing.

  “Sorry we didn’t bring flowers. How are you feeling?” Kempas began.

  “Like shit.”

  “A familiar feeling. I’m Detective Lieutenant Kempas from the Helsinki police. I’m not interested in you or even this shooting. I’m looking for Nygren.”

  “Good.”

  “With your help, I can put him in some deep shit.”

  “Even better.”

  “What’s Nygren planning?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”