The woman in red came in following two men closely. Nothing indicated that they knew each other.
Neither Suhonen nor Toukola wanted to make an arrest on the crowded concourse, so they let her exit.
Once outside, she veered right and the officers did the same. The covered ramp descended toward the taxi line and the Helsinki city bus stop. Up ahead was a parking lot packed with cars and inter-city buses. The signs advertised their destinations: Forssa, Hämeenlinna, Kouvola.
Maybe her ride was already waiting, Suhonen thought.
About fifteen yards up was a police van, which Toukola had arranged. A large male uniformed officer stepped out of the passenger’s side and a female officer got out of the driver’s side.
The red-coated woman spotted the cops and glanced both ways, looking for an escape route, but there was none.
They approached the woman, who stopped.
“Good evening,” the big cop said. “We have an issue we’d like to clear up with you.”
The woman didn’t respond.
“We’ve received a complaint from the ship about a shoplifter and you match the description,” he continued.
Suhonen followed the events at a distance. With dozens of passengers around, it wasn’t the most discreet arrest, but at least they could tell Toomas that some attempt at a cover-up had been made. Had she been arrested in the terminal, it would’ve revealed that the cops had been tipped off. This way, at least, they wouldn’t directly jeopardize Toomas’ informant in Tallinn. Their other alternative would have been to station a drug-sniffing dog at the Customs checkpoint, but on short notice they hadn’t been able to find an available dog.
“I no thief,” the woman muttered in a broken accent.
“We’ll just clear that up.”
“No, I have to…”
“This won’t take long,” the cop continued. “We can check out your bag and clothes in the back of the police van there.”
The female officer opened the doors and hopped inside. “This way,” she said firmly. The big cop steered her in through the back doors, then stayed outside to stand guard.
Suhonen and Toukola headed for their car, which they had left in the terminal parking lot. The orders for the uniformed officers had been simple: If the woman was packing dope, bring her to Pasila. If she was clean, let her go.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23
CHAPTER 7
FRIDAY, 8:30 A.M.
PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS, HELSINKI
Suhonen descended the stairs to the Narcotics department. Toukola had called to ask if he’d like to observe Marju Mägi’s interrogation. Of course he would.
The previous evening, Toukola had dropped Suhonen off at his apartment in Kallio on the way back from the harbor. Then he had continued on to the station to take care of some paperwork connected to the case. The uniformed officers had found two ten-ounce packets of amphetamines taped to her ribs.
Once the amount of amphetamines surpassed four ounces, it became felony drug possession. Lieutenant Ristola had arrested Marju Mägi the same night. Toomas Indres had talked about four pounds, but they hadn’t found nearly that much. Perhaps Toomas’ intel was inaccurate, or maybe his informant had exaggerated to make the scoop seem more important.
Except in extraordinary situations, interrogations had to be conducted before 10 P.M., so the police had waited till morning. Twenty ounces of amphetamines didn’t qualify as extraordinary.
Suhonen strode down the hallway to Toukola’s office, the same type of smallish open office the VCU used.
He had showered before work and left his long black hair over his shoulders to dry. A few gray hairs had already taken root.
“Morning. Go late last night?” Suhonen asked.
“I got outta here about midnight,” Toukola said, a baggy white T-shirt hanging off his shoulders.
“She say anything?”
“I tried to soften her up, but she’s clammed up pretty tight. We’ll see what happens today. You want to be in the room or watch behind the glass?”
“Behind the glass is fine.”
The preparations took another ten minutes. Toukola directed Suhonen into a room off a long hallway, and continued to the next door.
Through the mirrored glass, Suhonen watched Marju Mägi adjust her green coveralls. Her dark hair was tousled and her delicate face seemed paler. Her first night in the brig didn’t look like it had gone well.
Behind her, the jailer kept watch.
Toukola stepped in and took a seat opposite her at a gray table with a computer.
Suhonen heard the voice through the microphone. “Good morning,” said Toukola.
She glanced up, but said nothing.
The guard left.
“How are you?” He went on.
She shrugged. Good, Suhonen thought. At least it was a reaction. In recent years, so-called “mummy-interviews” had become more common. In these, the suspect would not even agree to leave the cell, so the guards had to roll them out in a wheelchair. During the questioning, the mummy wouldn’t respond to anything, not one word. Sometimes, they wouldn’t even open their eyes.
“Just want to confirm your identification. Marju Mägi?”
“Yeah.”
Toukola went on with her date of birth, address and other information needed for the record, and was also sure to remind her that the interview would be recorded. Then he informed her of what crime she was suspected and asked if she would need a lawyer present. She didn’t-in Northern Europe, requesting a lawyer for the first interview was rare, and some thought of it as an admission of guilt. The woman had suddenly learned to speak fluent Finnish.
“Tell me about the incident,” Toukola began.
To Suhonen, Toukola’s tone of voice seemed tired, almost bored. Was it fatigue or strategy, he wondered.
Marju kept her eyes on the table. “Not much to say. I came from Tallinn by ship. The police claimed I was a thief, took me into the van, and found the packets.”
Good, Suhonen thought.
“The amphetamines were in your possession?”
“What, you stupid? If the stuff was taped to my side, doesn’t that mean it was in my possession?”
Toukola was quiet for a moment. “Yes, you’re right. It was a stupid question.”
Suhonen didn’t think it was stupid, and of course, neither did Toukola. She had just confessed to possessing twenty ounces of amphetamines. That would earn her two-and-a-half years behind bars.
“Where did you get the drugs?”
The woman stiffened.
“Can you tell me where you got the drugs?”
Mägi thought for a moment. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to answer.”
“Why not?”
She didn’t respond.
Suhonen thought about Toukola’s strategy. With this approach, the interviewer was able to determine that she had acquired the drugs from someone.
“Who were you supposed to bring the drugs to?”
The woman remained silent.
“Can you tell me who you were bringing the drugs to?”
Again, a silence preceded her response. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather not answer.”
“Why not?”
Silence.
At least it was now clear that she was a mule, Suhonen thought. He guessed correctly what Toukola would do next.
“Interview concluded at 8:53 A.M.,” Toukola said into the microphone.
He stopped the recording on the computer. “Marju, the interview is over,” he said softly.
The microphones to the observation room were still live and Suhonen heard them continue to talk.
“You were in possession of twenty ounces of amphetamines. If it’s the usual 20–40 percent grade, it will mean two-and-a-half years in prison. If it’s 80 percent, you’ll get four to five years.”
Her expression was dour.
“If you tell us whe
re you got it and where it was going, it’s possible you could get a suspended sentence. I can’t promise anything, but we can speak with the prosecutor on your behalf,” Toukola said, pausing to let his words sink in.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t be stupid again. You’re a cop-you know how these things work. ”
“Yes, I know,” Toukola said. “But you’ll have some time to think about it in your cell.”
“Can I take a shower?” Mägi asked.
“Don’t know. You’ll have to ask the guards. They’ll put you on the list. Usually you’re allowed two to three showers a week.”
“I didn’t take one yesterday.”
“And you might not tomorrow, either. Yard time is one hour a day on the roof of the station.”
“Do I get my things back?”
“Nope.”
“Not even books?”
“At least not your own,” Toukola said. A couple of Estonian books had been among her things. “Ask the guards if they have anything.”
“Can’t you help?”
“If you help me,” he answered, and rose without waiting for a response. She’d have time to think it over in her cell. Here, time was on the cops’ side. Toukola pressed a button on the wall, summoning the guard in. “The interview is over. Take her back to her cell.”
Marju Mägi stood up and the guard escorted her out. Toukola let them go first, then swung in behind.
She asked the guard about the shower. “The list is full. Maybe day after tomorrow,” he said.
The suspect was led to the right and Toukola turned left into the observation room.
“Well, what’d you think?” Toukola asked.
“Doesn’t know anything. A clean mule.”
“My thoughts exactly. She might be able to tell us
where she got it and where it was going, but nothing more.”
Suhonen shrugged. “We should’ve followed her further, but I get it. No sense getting all hysterical over twenty ounces.”
“Well, I’ll let her wilt in her cell a couple days and then we’ll see what she has to say. Jail is a grim place for a young woman. She’ll say something just to get her books back, at least off the record. Hours are a lot longer in jail.”
“I spent a night in there once,” Suhonen said.
“Really?”
“We were trying to figure out how jail affects suspects and their statements, so I agreed to be the VCU guinea pig and spent twenty-four hours in a cell. It was a few years ago, but the only thing we concluded was that time slows way the hell down. The boredom wears some down, but for others it just toughens them up.”
“Well, we’ll see which group Marju Mägi fits into.”
Suhonen’s second cell phone rang. He glanced at the display: Eero Salmela.
* * *
Roge was sitting behind the wheel of a matte black ’74 Chevy Nova. He had a broad, flat face with a ponytail and was large, though clearly not the colossus his passenger Niko was. In the back seat sat a third Skull, Osku. All were wearing black leather vests. Niko’s patches indicated he was a senior member-the other two were prospects.
“That the right car?” Niko asked.
“Yep. That red Alfa Romeo.”
“Good, let’s roll then,” Niko said. He stepped out of the Nova.
The Alfa Romeo was parked in the driveway of a rickety yellow ranch house encircled by a leaf-bare hedge. Beside it sat a rusty Volkswagen Beetle, which appeared to have once been blue.
The three swaggered down the long dirt driveway. The elephantine Niko lumbered along in the middle. On his right, lagging back a bit was the bull-like Roge, and on the left, little Osku, sporting a goatee that only made him look more like his beard’s namesake.
As they reached the Alfa Romeo, a man of about thirty with a blond shag of hair and a jean jacket walked out of the front door of the house. He closed the door behind him before noticing his visitors.
“What the hell?” he blurted, stopping in front of the door. The trio was about ten yards away. They kept coming.
“We want to talk to you,” Niko growled.
“About what,” the man stammered, his eyes darting about for an escape route. There was none and the door behind him was now locked.
Roge approached from the right and swung his arm back, snapping an eighteen-inch chain from his sleeve to his hand. Without a word, he lashed the back of the man’s left knee.
The man cried out and stumbled backwards. Niko caught him and slammed him against the door. “You little shit!”
Osku landed a hard side-kick in the man’s ribs. “Fuck!”
The man slumped to a sitting position in front of the door. “What is this?” he sputtered. “What’d I do?”
“The blonde at the bar last Tuesday,” Osku snarled. “That was my girl you tried to pick up. I told you to back off, but you didn’t.”
“I didn’t…”
“I told you to back off!”
“I didn’t…”
Roge flogged the man’s shins with the chain.
“Stop! Fuck!”
Niko squatted down in front of the man.
“Hopefully you learned something today. You hit on one of the Skulls’ women, you suffer the consequences,” he said, then thundered, “You fucking get it?!”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it,” he murmured.
“Good. And if you go to the cops, we’ll come back, nail you to the living room wall and burn this house down.”
“No, no… I won’t,” he wailed.
Niko stood, turned and walked away. Roge and Osku followed. As they reached the Alfa Romeo, the bull-like Roge took one last swing with the chain, shattering the passenger side window. “Just a reminder!” he shouted. The man was still lying in a heap at the door.
Their footsteps quickened on the way to the car, and the lumbering Niko was already out of breath. Roge and Osku didn’t pass him, however.
Roge swung into the driver’s seat and tossed the chain into the passenger footwell before Niko could sit down. Osku slid into the back seat.
Roge stepped on the gas and laughed. The adrenaline was still pumping in their veins.
“Shit, he sure learned his lesson!”
“You got that right,” said Niko. “How’d it feel, Osku?”
“Great. Looked like the guy must’ve bleached his hair, though. It was still brown back at the bar. Ha-haa!”
Niko turned and shot a look at Osku. “It was the same guy, though?”
“Yeah,” he answered hesitantly. “Pretty sure it was.”
“Pretty sure?”
“Yeah. Yes, it was him.”
Niko turned his gaze back to the road. “Alright. Your word is good enough for me.”
Osku was satisfied.
“Drive back to the office,” Niko commanded. Larsson will be there around noon. You guys haven’t even met him yet.”
* * *
Detective Lieutenant Takamäki was sifting through a batch of unsolved cases. The list seemed to grow by the day, and though they were mostly routine crimes, that was only the police’s view. The victims likely had a different opinion.
If the performance objective of the Helsinki Police Department was a solid ‘B’, the actual grade usually was somewhere around a ‘C-’ or a ‘D+’. The overall percentage of solved cases had declined sharply in the 1990s, though violent crimes continued to be solved at a satisfactory rate. The reason, of course, was that with violent crimes, most victims were able to identify who had hit, kicked, stabbed or raped them. If the victim was unable to communicate, that usually meant that the crime was more serious, and police allocated plenty of resources for those cases.
Takamäki’s cell phone rang. He instinctively looked at the display: unknown.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Hey there,” said a woman’s voice.
Takamäki recognized the caller before she could identify herself: Sanna Römpötti from Channel 3 News. For
the past twenty years, she had worked as a crime reporter for various media outlets.
“How are you today?” Takamäki inquired before Römpötti could ask him anything. That was a first.
“What, have you switched to some specialized intelligence unit investigating the mood of the media?”
Takamäki chuckled. “Nah, just interested. You promised to teach me ballroom dancing. When do we start?”
Now it was Römpötti’s turn to laugh. The previous winter, the TV reporter had been selected for the popular television show Dancing with the Stars, and had agreed to participate. Römpötti had never really understood herself why she had consented. She did remember that she had drunk two glasses of wine before the call came. Afterwards, it had been too late to enter a plea of temporary insanity. Along with her dance partner, Römpötti had made it to the final four pairs before the dance-ignorant masses dropped her.
“Listen, Kari,” she said. “Anytime.”
Takamäki was somewhat disconcerted. “Aah, let’s look at our calendars. Shall we?”
She got to the point. “About the Skulls.”
“What about them?”
“This week the judge levied three-year sentences on our ‘dynamic duo’ for that pizza shop extortion.”
“Right,” said Takamäki. “Alanen and Lintula.”
“Have you read the court’s ruling?”
“No,” the detective lieutenant said candidly. “But I’m quite familiar with the details-it was our case, after all. What about it?”
Römpötti paused briefly. Takamäki wondered if she was surprised he hadn’t read the court’s ruling. He simply hadn’t had the time.
She went on, “Well, in court, the prosecutor argued for stiffer sentences because Alanen and Lintula were members of the Skulls, an organized crime ring. But the court rejected the argument because it determined the gang hadn’t been founded as a criminal organization. Do you have any comment on that?”
Takamäki paused for a moment. “Is this an interview?”
“No. Just gathering background information.”
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