“If that’s alright.”
“Well,” the driver said, thinking about the request. “Let’s go, then.”
CHAPTER 19
SATURDAY, 4:25 P.M.
HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA
Takamäki stepped into the room on the second floor of the police headquarters, and greeted everyone. On the weekends, Helsinki District Court sessions were held at the police headquarters.
In the front of the room, on Takamäki’s left, a female judge and the court clerk were seated behind a table on a platform. The judge grunted something at Takamäki, and the secretary next to him smiled.
An aisle down the middle divided the large room; tables and chairs were set in neat rows, and Takamäki chose a seat in the first row.
Takamäki recalled the retirement party they had for a few colleagues the year before in this room, and now the space served as a courtroom. The judge, in her late fifties, wore a brown cardigan and sixties-style glasses. Takamäki wasn’t sure if they were new, old, or retro.
The detective had changed into his suit coat in his office when he went to get the documents Joutsamo had left there. He had hoped to see the sergeant, but she was out on a case with Suhonen.
“Where’s the suspect?” the judge asked, glancing at her watch. The question prompted Takamäki to look at his own watch. He had arranged for Korpivaara to appear at exactly 4:30 P.M. That was still two minutes away.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“I have better things to do than sit here wasting my Saturday.”
The judges had to take their turns at weekend duty in court, just like detective lieutenants.
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter, don’t be shy,” the judge said.
The guard looked through the doorway and let Korpivaara enter first. Nea Lind followed the suspect.
“Be seated and we’ll start,” the judge said.
Takamäki sat down, and Lind and Korpivaara took seats on his left.
“Okay, will the detective lieutenant please make his case?”
“Yes,” Takamäki said. “The Helsinki Police Department requests that Jorma Korpivaara be detained with probable cause as a suspect for voluntary manslaughter. The shortest mandated sentence is more than two years in prison, and we have reason to believe the suspect is an escape risk. Furthermore, it is possible that the suspect may interfere with the investigation if he is released. As far as our case…a woman named Laura Vatanen was killed with a knife in her apartment on Nӓyttelijӓ Street in North Haaga last Wednesday. Jorma Korpivaara is our primary suspect. The evidence, in detail, has been filed with the court. And, naturally, we ask that the case be handled behind closed doors for the time being in order for us to finish our investigation.”
“I see,” the judge said. “And what does the defense say?”
“My client denies the charges,” Lind said, looking the judge in the eye.
“Excuse me?” the judge said. “The documents say the suspect has confessed.”
Korpivaara looked at his attorney, confused. “I did it,” he said.
“Could Ms. Lind please explain what this is about?” the judge asked, frustrated.
Lind looked at Korpivaara. “I…,” she began. The room was silent and everyone’s eyes were fixed on her.
“I apologize. I retract my earlier statement,” she said. “My client confessed during the interrogation.”
“Alright, that’s fine. Do you have any comments about the evidence?”
Lind shook her head.
“Okay. Wait outside for a few minutes and I will make a decision,” the judge said, even though the clerk had already typed it up before the session. A stupid rubber-stamp case for which she was dragged to court on a Saturday afternoon, she lamented.
* * *
Suhonen was driving an unmarked Volkswagen Golf north on the Tuusula Freeway as Joutsamo sat in the passenger seat next to him. Two radios were on; Suhonen was listening to the Rock Radio station and Joutsamo to the police radio.
It was dark outside and snowing; the traffic was light.
Heikela Corporation, Rock Radio’s popular morning show, was replaying the week’s top sketches. Suhonen had heard most of it live, but had missed this one. Heikela, the show’s host, had lost a game of Xbox soccer to Radio Suomipop’s host Jaajo in the fall. It was a widely-anticipated game where the loser had to take part in the Finnish Idol song contest. All week long Heikela had been practicing on air. A veteran rock star was hired to teach Heikela the secrets to voice. Heikela wasn’t hopelessly bad, but he was no pop star either. Suhonen had missed Heikela’s attempt to mimic an electric guitar, in the style of Deep Purple’s Ian Gillan. Gillan’s vocal duel with Richie Blackmore’s guitar in “Strange Kind of Woman” on their Made in Japan live album was legendary. In its dreadfulness, Heikela’s version was almost endearing.
Suhonen came to the huge intersection at the Ring III Beltway. It would be another couple of miles straight ahead to their destination on the north side of the airport. Suddenly the police radio beeped.
“Attention all units. A Siwa store was robbed in Herttoniemi a few minutes ago. The suspect was wearing a mask. Description of the suspect: about 30 years old, dark shoulder-length hair, and a finger missing on one hand.”
“That’s for us, too,” Joutsamo said, glancing at Suhonen.
“Yep,” Suhonen said and got into the right lane. He would flip a U-turn at the airport exit and head back south.
“We’ll head out to the other place tomorrow.”
“What is that place, anyway?” Joutsamo asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get there tomorrow. It has to do with the missing girl,” Suhonen said. “But about the robbery: I know who it is.”
“What?”
“Jouni Rautis. He fits the description to a tee.”
“The finger?”
“Yeah,” Suhonen said.
“How did he lose it?”
“In a bet. He used to hang around the cocaine crowd in the downtown bars. They were snorting in the backroom and placing bets.”
“On what?”
“I can’t remember exactly. It might’ve been about the year Mohammed Ali won the Heavyweight World Championship… Yeah, that was it,” Suhonen said. “I remember now. Rautis claimed Ali won his first title in 1964. In a way he was right, but Ali’s name at the time was still Cassius Clay. So technically he didn’t win his first title as Mohammed Ali until 1974 when he beat George Foreman. In any case, the pot was a thousand euros, and since Rautis didn’t have the money, he bet his index finger.”
“Holy shit.”
Suhonen turned left at the bridge, crossing over and getting back on the freeway.
“The bet was settled then and there. In 18th-century British Navy style, the winner bought Rautis a bottle of whisky, which he drank. Then the guy chopped Rautis’s finger off with a meat cleaver he had found in the kitchen.”
“And the cocaine had nothing to do with it,” Joutsamo commented, shaking her head.
“The hand bled like crazy and someone called an ambulance. Rautis told the police he had cut off his own finger.”
“And they bought it.”
“Yup. Well, as you could see, when word got around, he wasn’t welcome in the VIP lounges anymore. The rest of his life was going downhill, too. He racked up debt and was canned from his job at some bank. But he didn’t give up drugs; he just moved from coke to the cheaper varieties, like meth.”
“That would explain the robbery.”
“I’d guess he owes somebody and was behind. That’s why he couldn’t think of anything better than the grocery store gig.”
Suhonen remembered that Salmela had told him at the hospital about someone aggressively collecting debts.
The speed limit on the freeway was sixty miles per hour, and Joutsamo wondered if they should use the siren.
“No, I know where he lives in Herttoniemi. Let’s pick him up there.”
“Wanna bet?” Suhonen said, grinning.
CHAPTER 20
SATURDAY, 4:45 P.M.
HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA
The taxi from Turku stopped in front of Helsinki police headquarters. Römpötti had directed the driver through the Munkkivuori and South Haaga neighborhoods to Pasila. Despite the clear instructions, the driver had hesitated at a couple of intersections, and precious minutes were lost.
Had she caught the train, Römpötti would’ve made it to the police station easily by four thirty. But the taxi ride was taking longer. She tried to calm down. She handed the driver her card half a mile before the station, to speed things up, but he just set it down.
Once they stopped, he swiped the card.
“Okay, I’ll need your PIN here,” the driver said and handed her the machine that was printing the receipt.
“It’s a business credit card, there is no PIN,” Römpötti said, then tore off the receipt from the machine and signed it. She knew how to print the customer copy, and pressed the button.
“No need to write the departure and destination on the receipt, or sign it,” she said and handed the machine and the receipt back to the driver.
“Okay,” the man said.
“Thanks for the ride,” Römpötti said and got out.
“Have a good day,” the driver said before Römpötti shut the door.
The reporter scrambled up the few steps to the door and stopped at the desk.
“A court hearing is in session. Would you please let me in?”
The officer at the desk knew Römpötti was familiar with the second floor where the hearings were held.
“Yeah, go ahead to the door; I’ll buzz you in.”
Römpötti attempted a smile as she walked the twenty yards to the glass door. The electric lock buzzed, and the reporter yanked the door open, waving to the officer. Römpötti was fifteen minutes late, and the case had probably already been heard, but maybe she could at least be in time to see Jorma Korpivaara when the court’s decision was announced. Even if the case was handled behind closed doors, by law the opening and closing procedures must be open to the public.
Römpötti ran up the stairs and noticed Takamäki standing in the hallway, talking on his cell phone. Korpivaara and Lind sat on a bench next to each other by the closed door. The guard was standing a few feet away. Römpötti’s hand went into her purse.
Before Römpötti could say anything, the court clerk came out to announce that the court had reached a decision. Takamäki got off the phone and greeted Römpötti. Lind nodded, but Korpivaara just looked at her.
Römpötti pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture, startling Korpivaara.
“Why did you do that?” Lind asked her curtly.
“It’s a reflex,” Römpötti replied and looked at the photo. Her new Nokia phone had a decent camera, and now she had a good photo of the suspect. This was why she wanted to make it to the courthouse in time.
Takamäki, Lind, and Korpivaara walked into the courtroom, and the guard and Römpötti followed them in.
The judge looked at the reporter and said, “I see the media is here.”
“Late, but here nonetheless,” Römpötti said, nodding.
“It’s all the same to me. Don’t bother taking your coat off,” the judge said, and the veteran reporter stopped by the door.
“The case is being handled behind closed doors. So I’ll announce my decision—and at this point it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. Jorma Korpivaara will be detained under probable cause for the killing of Laura Vatanen. And now I’ll announce the reasoning, which is confidential.”
The judge glanced at the reporter, who knew she needed to leave the room at this point.
She stepped out, and the guard shut the door behind her. She pulled her phone out. Knowing that Korpivaara would have to be brought out through the doors, Römpötti set her phone to record video. She still wasn’t sure if she was going to cover the story, but in case she did, she’d have a photo and a video clip. The quality might be rather poor for TV, but she’d blur out Korpivaara’s face anyway, so it didn’t matter.
After about five minutes, Korpivaara came out, trying to shield his face with his hand, which only increased his appearance of guilt. As the suspect in overalls was taken away, Lind walked through the door, followed by Takamäki.
Römpötti filmed for another few seconds and then walked over to Lind.
“I need to talk to you about something,” Römpötti said.
* * *
Suhonen stopped the car under a burned-out streetlamp about fifty yards from the Hiihtomӓki Street apartment building. The street was west of the Itӓvӓylӓ Freeway. The Herttoniemi metro station was about a quarter mile away.
Built in the sixties, the brown, four-story cement building had two stairwells and no elevator. It housed forty small studio apartments, the largest being three hundred square feet. Joutsamo recalled a homicide in the building a year earlier. A group of drinking buddies, watching a movie, got into a fight, with two of them stabbing a third. Their plan was to chop up the body, and they went next door to ask for garbage bags. The police soon got wind of the incident.
The detectives got out of the car, and Suhonen noticed something under a street lamp a hundred feet away. A cell phone light flashed and then went dark as it was held against someone’s ear—probably a lookout. Suhonen wondered if a stash of pot was being flushed down a toilet right then in some nearby apartment. Or it could’ve been just a warning call to get the stuff near the toilet.
Rautis was a two-bit dealer, but there was always something up in this neighborhood. Suhonen wanted to keep an eye on the building for a minute, though he knew he was being watched.
Drug dealers didn’t worry too much about the blue-and-white cop cars with sirens blaring; they knew those had already been sent somewhere. But the pair in street clothes looked much more suspicious. Suhonen could’ve passed for a drug dealer himself, but by walking next to Joutsamo in her black jacket it was obvious what they did for a living. The only thing left for the criminals to guess was whether they were police officers or customs officials.
It wouldn’t have made any difference had they walked hand in hand trying to look like a couple, though it would’ve suited Suhonen fine. Joutsamo wouldn’t have minded terribly, either.
This wasn’t a drug raid and dealers weren’t the target, but the criminals didn’t know that. A number of heavyweight dealers operated around Herttoniemi’s apartment buildings. They were highly dangerous because they had a lot to lose, and they were used to violence.
The front door was locked but loose from frequent use. Suhonen dug a piece of wire from his leather jacket pocket and twisted it a few times. It fit between the door and the frame, and Suhonen was able to click the lock open. With a newer lock, they would’ve had to buzz from the tenant directory or call the custodian.
The stairwell was dimly lit. Suhonen glanced at the building directory, though he knew it wouldn’t tell him anything. The names could’ve been outdated, and some people didn’t want their names listed.
Suhonen knew Rautis lived on the third floor.
“Alright, we’ll both take the stairs then,” Joutsamo said when she saw there was no elevator.
Normally, one officer took the stairs while the other rode the elevator, so the suspect couldn’t escape.
“Stairway to heaven,” Suhonen grunted.
Joutsamo gave him a confused look.
Suhonen opened the zipper on his jacket and instinctively made sure his Glock was holstered on his shoulder. He saw Joutsamo do the same. That was good; they were both on top of it without having to say a word.
“How are we getting in?” Joutsamo asked, as they got to the first landing of the winding staircase.
“I’ll shoot the lock if he doesn’t open the door.”
“Be serious,” Joutsamo replied.
Suhonen detected anxiety in her voice—another good sign that she was alert. Hitting a drug dealer’s apartment with a cocky attitude was a good way to get your name on the Police Academy wall.
Suhonen saw Joutsamo glance at him when they got to the second floor. Did she question his approach? Joutsamo and Suhonen hadn’t been together on a case like this for several years. Nowadays the VCU liked to send the SWAT team even for simple arrests, all in the name of occupational safety.
Suhonen was among the old-school police officers who believed they should handle the arrests themselves. Of course, calling in the SWAT guys was a smart move when it came to dealing with nutcases or gangs.
“I’ll do the talking and you cover me. Let’s be careful,” Suhonen said. He didn’t doubt Joutsamo’s ability to react in dangerous situations. She had shot a member of the Skulls in a firefight a decade earlier.
Joutsamo nodded.
They tiptoed up the last steps, so as not to be heard, and Suhonen stopped on one side of the door. Any shots through the door would miss. Suhonen knocked hard.
“Rautis, open the door!”
Joutsamo stood at the other side of the door, her Glock ready.
“Rautis, open up!” Suhonen repeated.
“Who is it?” said a cautious voice from the apartment.
“A friend,” Suhonen replied. He didn’t want the whole building to know the cops were there. “It’s Suhonen.”
“I can’t,” the voice said after a moment’s silence.
“Then I’ll break the door and come in.”
The door stayed shut.
“Ten seconds and you’ll pay for the door.”
Joutsamo heard steps, and someone came to the door.
The lock unlatched and the door swung open to the stairwell. Joutsamo was behind it for a second and couldn’t see Suhonen. She half expected to hear a gunshot and see Suhonen slumped in a pool of blood, but as she stepped out from behind the door she saw Suhonen standing in the doorway with Rautis in front of him.
The skinny young man had a mess of stringy hair to his shoulders. His beard matched his hair but was confined to the tip of his chin. He had on a worn, plaid flannel shirt and dirty jeans.
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