Raid and the Blackest Sheep

by Harri Nykanen

  “I’m a good listener.”

  “That you are, I must admit… What’d you think of my daughter…and her boy?”

  “You have good reason to be proud of both.”

  “The meeting was a little clumsy…but I suppose anybody would be a little surprised if the old man suddenly popped up after being gone for twenty years.”

  “True.”

  “If I’d let her know in advance, she…she might not have come, though I’d have understood. In the end, I made the choice, not her, and not her mother.”

  The band’s drummer banged out a blinding drum solo that threatened to break the sound barrier.

  “Starting to fucking piss me off…”

  Nygren’s speech broke off abruptly and he clutched at his stomach. His face knotted up in a painful grimace. He tried to stand, but toppled backward, knocking over a neighboring table that had just been set. His breath came in broken gasps, and a continuous wheezing sounded from his lips.

  Raid grabbed the nearest waitress.

  “An ambulance! Quick!”

  He pushed her on her way and bent down next to Nygren.

  “My stomach… Hurts like hell…”

  Nygren’s words dissolved into a groan.

  Raid snatched a pillow off a sofa next to the wall and slipped it under Nygren’s head. Nygren was trembling uncontrollably, but he kept trying to heave himself up.

  “Just stay down,” Raid commanded as he pressed him back into a lying position.

  He held Nygren down for almost ten minutes before the medics dashed in with a stretcher.

  One of them bent down to examine Nygren.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Severe stomach pain,” Raid replied.

  They hoisted Nygren onto the stretcher. Raid followed close behind. The waitress stopped him at the exit.

  “Who’s going to pay the bill? It came to almost a hundred.”

  Raid took a few bills out of his pocket and tossed them over his shoulder.

  * * *

  The hospital cafeteria was a dreary place. Raid sat next to the window, drinking his second cup of coffee. Seated near him were two patients dressed in hospital gowns. A young woman behind the counter was lining up packages of cookies. She looked at Raid and pointed to a clock on the wall. A couple minutes till nine.

  “We’re closing soon,” she said, just to be sure. “You want anything else?”

  Raid bought a chocolate bar and an orange juice and went into the waiting room where about ten people sat. A black woman had two children—an infant in her lap and a boy of about three or four running up and down the hallway. At least the runner didn’t seem to be in need of any medical attention.

  An older woman waited across the room, her body wrapped in a peculiar-looking fabric, a huge knit hat covering her hair. In her lap, she held a faux-leather tote bag. Every now and then she muttered something, but so quietly that Raid couldn’t catch it.

  There were also two young men in the room, one of whom had a bruised and bloodied face. The other was apparently just his companion. A drunk with bronzed skin sat apart from the others wearing a thick, gray ulster and a ratty hat. He had something against the youngsters.

  “Ought to strangle those kinda punks in the cradle…not let ’em grow up and start trouble…”

  “Go hang yourself, gramps.”

  An ambulance pulled up to the main entrance with its sirens blaring, and two nurses ran out to meet it. A bloodied man emerged on a stretcher. Though the crown of his skull was hemorrhaging blood, he was conscious and shouting in a loud voice.

  “Gimme back my damn shotgun and I’ll end this right now. I ain’t gonna sponge off these right-wing assholes. Better off dead than unemployed.”

  The man was fighting so hard to right himself that blood and some peculiar sludge spurted out of his wound and splattered at the youngsters’ feet. The beaten guy’s friend bent down to have a closer look.

  “Fuck! That’s a blob of brain there.”

  “Yeah, right,” said the other.

  “Look!”

  “Fuck, it’s just goop or snot, or something.”

  “Didn’t you see he had half his head missing? He was yelling for his shotgun—probably shot himself in the head. That’s brains, man, how much you wanna bet.”

  The man’s shouts grew fainter as the entourage retreated down the hallway.

  Raid walked to the window. Outside, it was raining. The hospital was high on a hill with the town spread out below. Just in front of the hospital was a grassy field, and beyond that a fire station and an auto repair shop. From there, apartment buildings sprawled into the distance. A few scattered cars scudded along the rain-soaked streets.

  “What the fuck…that dude is shitting his pants. Shit is dropping out of his pants onto the floor!”

  The kid hopped up and marched over to the receptionist’s desk.

  “That wino shit his pants. How’s anyone supposed to sit here with that awful smell?”

  The receptionist peeked out from behind the glass.

  “We don’t have custodians on duty at this hour.”

  “I sure ain’t gonna clean it up. You work here—do something about it. I can’t breathe in here.”

  The stench began to spread throughout the room. The black woman gathered her children and moved off to the hallway about fifty feet away. The boys went into the entryway.

  Only the perpetrator was unfazed by the uproar. He wagged his trouser leg and the last of his load tumbled onto the floor. The incident inspired a pensive, somewhat melancholy statement from him.

  “In the end, we all turn to shit. Only the soul has to be cared for…has to be kept clean.”

  The receptionist finally saw fit to intervene. She came out from behind the counter and looked at the mess.

  “The restroom is just across the room. Did he have to do it here?”

  “Yes, actually, in that very spot. That there’s the protest of a private citizen and former taxpayer. You’ve held me up here for half a day, with no end in sight. Mocking a man who served in the war…”

  The drunk’s eyes clouded over and tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Not even treated like a human anymore…”

  Just then, a stout man in a white coat strode briskly into the room. There was no mistaking his profession. In his breast pocket was a plastic badge with the name Dr. Rimpinen.

  “Who here is with Nygren?”

  “I am,” said Raid.

  The man sniffed the air and whisked Raid into the adjoining room.

  “Are you a relative?”

  Raid nodded.

  “Weren’t you aware that he has advanced stomach cancer?”

  “How advanced?”

  “I’d give him a few weeks to a few months to live. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Only for a short while. He’s been given some powerful pain killers…strange that he didn’t tell you. He received care in Helsinki and they put him on continuous pain medication…”

  “Just a short while,” said Raid.

  The doctor led Raid into Nygren’s room. It was small, and shared with five other patients. In between the beds were plastic curtains on casters. The doctor nodded and left.

  Nygren seemed to be sleeping, but when Raid touched his hand, his eyes popped open.

  “How you feeling?” asked Raid.

  “Been better; just don’t remember when.”

  “Why didn’t you take your meds?”

  “I thought I could do without. I couldn’t. I gave up.”

  “Suppose you’ve given up on our trek, too.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What’d the doctor say?”

  “Whatever he said, I’m getting outta here, and you’re gonna help me.”

  “How?”

  “Carry me out, for all I care.”

  The nurse peeked in the room and pointed at her watch. Raid nodded.

&nbs
p; “Come back after midnight. There’s nobody but nurses and an on-call doctor then. They won’t be able to stop us,” Nygren said.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes…but one thing.”

  “What?”

  “The pain medication will wear off by early morning. I’ll need more for the trip.”

  “I don’t suppose aspirin would work.”

  “Morphine. I need morphine.”

  * * *

  Raid came back just after midnight. He left the car as close as possible to the main entrance and studied the hospital for nearly ten minutes. Through the main glass doors, he could see the lobby, the receptionist and a couple of patients.

  He left the car doors unlocked and walked straight inside, passed the receptionist and continued on toward Nygren’s room. Before the receptionist realized what had happened, Raid was a ways off, and she ran after him.

  “You have to sign in here,” she said.

  “I’m not a patient. I came to see my uncle.”

  “Clearly, visiting hours are over. The patients are asleep.”

  “Doctor Rimpinen called me. Said my uncle has only a few hours to live.”

  “He did? He didn’t say anything to me…he’s busy at the moment. What was the patient’s name?”

  “I know where he is.”

  Raid turned and walked off. This time, the woman didn’t follow.

  Nygren lay beneath the sheets, fully clothed, and upon seeing Raid, wrested himself upright. The lights woke up the patient in the adjacent bed and he began to mutter something about morning.

  “It’s not morning, go back to sleep,” said Raid.

  Nygren hung onto the edge of the bed and accustomed himself to being upright. He took a couple of trial steps and felt his vigor returning.

  “Feels good, let’s go.”

  “Sit down for a while. I’ll go get some of that aspirin for you.”

  Raid headed down the hallway and stopped in front of a door on the left. The sign read, “K. Rimpinen.” A sliver of light shone through the bottom of the door.

  Raid opened the door to see K. Rimpinen enjoying a pastime he had apparently devised for the long hours of the night. A young nurse lay half-naked on the examination table. Her clothes were still on, but they were undone and raked aside. Her large breasts shuddered in time with Rimpinen’s thrusting. The woman saw Raid first. She was so bewildered as to be speechless. His sudden entrance had ruined the moment and Rimpinen’s enthusiastic efforts were going to waste.

  “Good evening!” said Raid in a loud voice.

  Rimpinen was so startled he nearly fell off the examination table. He tried to jerk his pants up, but had little success in a supine position. The nurse finally regained her faculties and pushed Rimpinen off.

  Rimpinen got his pants up and patted his tousled hair back into place.

  “Sorry, but your patient needs some pain killers,” said Raid.

  Rimpinen glanced at the nurse, who was wriggling her bra up her waist, then he followed Raid into the hallway.

  “What patient…and who the hell are you?”

  Then he remembered.

  “You’re Nygren’s relative.”

  “He needs some pain medication for the trip. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

  “The man is terminally ill. He can’t go anywhere.”

  “Doesn’t a dying man get to decide where to die?”

  “We’re talking about prescription pain-killers—they’re extremely powerful drugs. I can’t just hand them out to anybody.”

  Raid took a gun from beneath his coat and pressed it against Rimpinen’s temple.

  “Here’s my prescription.”

  Rimpinen looked at the gun. It took a moment before he realized the delicateness of the situation.

  “The pharmacy is on the second floor.”

  Raid followed him up the stairs. A sturdy-looking metal door barred the way to the pharmacy. Rimpinen took a large key out of his coat pocket.

  “This is a serious crime, I hope you understand that.”

  Raid followed him into the pharmacy. The morphine and other powerful drugs were in a locked cabinet, and Rimpinen took out a second key.

  “These come in tablets or in a liquid for syringes.”

  “Both.”

  Rimpinen took a box of both.

  “The syringe,” Raid demanded.

  Rimpinen took a syringe and a box of needles off a shelf.

  “Thanks.”

  Raid closed the door behind him and locked Rimpinen inside.

  When he heard Raid’s approaching footsteps, Nygren came out to join him. Together, they walked into the waiting room. Raid gave a wave to the receptionist, and by the time she was able to react, they were already outside.

  “You rest in the back seat. We’ll have to get as far as we can before they report us to the police.”

  “I won’t slow us down. Step on it.”

  12.

  When Lieutenant Kempas arrived at the physical rehab center, Jansson was suffering through one of the lectures. The topic was menopause and the accompanying psychophysical changes. Jansson could hardly believe his eyes when the speaker dug out a tube of personal lubricant, which had helped when her own secretions had started to dry up.

  For once, Jansson was relieved to see Kempas.

  “Sorry to interrupt such an interesting lecture.”

  They went to the cafeteria. Kempas bought a small coffee and brought it to a window table. He was dressed in a suit with a pinstripe pattern that was genuine 1960s vintage. The tie was wine-red with a small checked pattern.

  Jansson almost felt pity for him. He knew Kempas was divorced, but even if he hadn’t, he would have guessed. It was obvious that no woman had a say in what Kempas dressed himself in.

  “I figured we’d better meet. I was in Kuopio and this happened to be on the way.”

  “Leino and Lunden were already here.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “I told them I haven’t heard anything new.”

  “I wanted to hear it myself.”

  “Now you have.”

  “Why did Raid call you?”

  “Just wanted to pass on a message.”

  “Right…that they wanna be left alone. Doesn’t make sense. If they wanted to be left alone, why’d they blow off Sariola’s fingers and a piece of his shoulder?”

  “I didn’t hear about that.”

  “Sariola’s in the hospital in Kuopio. I went to see him but he’s not talking…well…he is, but not enough.”

  “Where did the shooting happen?”

  “At Nygren’s place near Kuopio. The property is actually owned by one of his friends.”

  “What was Sariola doing out there?”

  “He’s not saying.”

  “Sariola and Leino already tried to pry some money out of Nygren. Doesn’t it make sense that this was another attempt? They just bit off more than they could chew.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Is there a warrant out on Nygren?”

  “Yes, for attempted murder. Same goes for Raid.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Nope. We searched the place, but didn’t find anything. A neighbor saw Nygren and Raid on the day of the shooting. He claims he doesn’t know anything about it, but I could tell he was lying.”

  Kempas looked at Jansson expectantly.

  “In other words, the situation has progressed quite a bit since we last talked. Do you think Raid will contact you again?”

  “Hard to say.”

  Kempas watched a legless war veteran roll past the window.

  “We’ve all lost something in this war. Some a leg, some an arm, some their soul…their future.”

  A text message appeared on Jansson’s phone. He pulled it up on screen: Need backup? Huusko.

  Jansson glanced around and spotted Huusko in the upstairs lobby. He tapped out a response: Not yet.

  Kempas watched Jansson quiet
ly as he did this.

  “Are we on the same team here?”

  “Yes,” Jansson replied.

  “Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

  “No?”

  “You have something against me?”

  Jansson took a moment to consider why Kempas’ attitude always sparked defiance in him. He decided not to answer.

  “Do you know why people don’t like me?” asked Kempas, his keen eyes seeming to burrow into Jansson’s.

  “What people?”

  “My co-workers.”

  “I wouldn’t say they don’t like you.”

  “It’s because I’m a cop 24-7. I’m serious about my work. Amateurs dislike professionals because they don’t like to be reminded of what could be possible if they took their work seriously. Nobody wants to hear the truth.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you’re in the same boat as I am…well over fifty and still a lieutenant while our captains and even their superiors are far less competent than we are.”

  “Being a captain doesn’t interest me.”

  “That’s exactly it. Do incompetent cops have to be promoted just because they want to be?”

  “You don’t get ahead unless you want it.”

  Kempas ignored Jansson’s comment.

  “I’ve been in hundreds of department meetings, management seminars and training sessions. You wouldn’t believe the trivial stuff they vacillate over, the way they dodge the truth and praise people who don’t deserve it. If someone dares to tell the truth, everyone else is too afraid to listen. They plug their ears like little kids. The truth is too bitter a pill for most.”

  “What do you mean by ‘the truth?’”

  “That the entire system is based on praising worthlessness and incompetence. Competence and zeal are viewed as dangerous.”

  Kempas searched Jansson’s eyes for support, but came up empty.

  “Everyone thinks—maybe you do too—that I’m bitter because I haven’t gotten further than I have. That’s not it. I don’t want to get any further. I’d rather solve one tough case right than wear a captain’s stripes for the rest of my life. That’s why I’m dangerous. And that’s why I’m laughed at. The harder you laugh, the more they pat you on the back.”