Helsinki Homicide: Against the Wall

by Jarkko Sipila

  “Forensics found a list of debts in the Kannelmäki apartment. We have a good candidate for a suspect. He owed Eriksson fourteen grand.”

  “Who?”

  “The list says ‘Juha S,’” Takamäki said. “I want you and Suhonen in my office in five. They also found about half an ounce of what appears to be meth.”

  CHAPTER 10

  BOARD OF CUSTOMS, EROTTAJA

  WEDNESDAY, 2:45 P.M.

  Customs Inspector Nyholm sat in his desk chair. Out the window, he could see the courtyard and hotel windows on the Boulevard. Occasionally, some eye candy walked by, but he just stared into space.

  Nyholm rubbed his eyes and cursed to himself.

  Snellman and that cop hadn’t said why he had to look into Jerry Eriksson. Nyholm had actually recognized the detective lieutenant—he had seen Takamäki on TV and in the newspapers. The policeman’s cold eyes had seemed to look right through him.

  And now he had to track down Eriksson’s connections to Customs. Where would he begin, Nyholm mused, laughing aloud.

  He knew where he could start. Exactly where.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  The phone rang and Nyholm inadvertently answered with “bitch.” It suited: the caller was his wife, who replied, “Excuse me?” He didn’t apologize for his rudeness.

  “Stop at the store on your way home.”

  “I can’t. Meetings.”

  “Again?” she said coldly.

  “That’s the custom here,” Nyholm replied. “How’s the girl?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her.”

  “Really,” he said, his voice filled with sarcasm.

  “I’ll be better off here alone anyway,” she snapped and hung up the phone.

  Nyholm groaned. He’d have to stop at the store. She was probably talking about liquor, not groceries. He tried to forget his wife and focus on the matter at hand. He’d have to be sharp.

  He picked up his desk phone and pushed speed dial for the head of intelligence in the southern region. He had to get some field agents involved so his efforts would seem sufficient. Hopefully nobody knew Eriksson.

  * * *

  Joutsamo knew she should already be in Takamäki’s office, but she had to make the call.

  “Oinonen,” a man answered in a hurried voice.

  “Anna Joutsamo from the Violent Crimes Unit. You have a minute?”

  The man on the other end laughed. “Sure. Just waiting for the train here, so nothing to do but talk on the phone and read classics.”

  Joutsamo drew a picture of the man in her mind—your typical long-winded cabby. The kind who always had something to say, whether passengers liked it or not.

  “I’m calling to check on one of your passengers.” Joutsamo had a copy of Eriksson’s receipt in her hand.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “On Monday night, between 9:33 and 9:46 P.M., you gave a ride to a younger guy in a hooded sweatshirt. Do you remember where you took him?”

  “Monday, huh? Today’s Wednesday, right? Heh, the days just sort of blend together in this job,” Oinonen said and thought for a moment. “Guy with a hoodie… Yeah, now I think I remember. He flagged me down on Helsinki Avenue in Kallio. Over there by Tenkka, as I recall.”

  “The Tenkka Bar?” Joutsamo clarified and jotted the name down in her notepad. Tenkka was one of the few institutions in what was a rough neighborhood. Most of the bars and pubs changed ownership so often that there was no sense of tradition. They just got people drunk on inexpensive beer and cheap vodka.

  “That’s the one. What’s this about?”

  “It’s a case I’m working on,” Joutsamo skirted the issue. “Was he alone?”

  “Yep, nobody with him.”

  “What about before he got in the cab? Anyone else with him?”

  “Well, there were others milling around on the street, but this guy with the hoodie was definitely alone. As far as I could tell.”

  “Good,” Joutsamo remarked, though it would’ve been better had he had a companion. It would’ve been one more lead to follow up on.

  Joutsamo noticed Takamäki standing in the doorway, looking impatient. She nodded.

  “How’d the trip go, then?”

  “I tried to strike up a conversation, but nothing. The guy didn’t say a word. He was kind of in his own

  world. He didn’t seem so drunk or high that he’d have been nodding off. You know, for a cabby at that hour, the night is still young.”

  “And where was he headed?”

  “Yeah. Now that was a little strange. When he first got in, he said to go to Oulunkylä. But then when we got there, he asked me to keep going further north towards Beltway One and Pakila. All of a sudden, when we got to Pirjo’s Tavern, he told me to stop and he got out. Seemed to me like the trip was cut short. It wasn’t because he didn’t have the money, though. He paid with a fifty, if I remember right.”

  “Do you remember if he had a cellphone? Did he call anyone during the trip?”

  “I don’t think he called anyone,” Oinonen said. “But now that you mention it, he might have been fiddling with a cellphone. It’s also possible that it was an iPod or something. It was dark out and the back seat is even darker, so it was tough to see. But I do remember that he really wanted a receipt. He asked for one.”

  “Okay,” Joutsamo said and jotted a note on her pad: Why receipt?

  Joutsamo continued, “I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station to make a formal statement. It doesn’t have to be right away, but we’ll let you know.”

  “Awright, must be a pretty serious case?”

  “I’ll let you know when you get here,” Joutsamo said, to arouse his curiosity. “And please, don’t mention this conversation to anyone.”

  “Okay,” the man said, and the call ended.

  Takamäki was at the door again. “Any progress?”

  “Some. Apparently, at 9:30 P.M., Eriksson took a taxi from Helsinki Avenue to Oulunkylä, just over a mile from the crime scene.”

  “A taxi?” Takamäki wondered. “Well, let’s go to my office. Suhonen’s waiting for us.”

  Joutsamo was still thinking about the conversation. “Damn. I can’t remember if there are any security cameras in that area.”

  “That wouldn’t help if he was in the taxi alone.”

  “No, but it’s possible that Eriksson met the killer somewhere else before going to the garage. They could have met at Pirjo’s Tavern and gone from there. Maybe the security camera could’ve caught a glimpse of a potential suspect.”

  “It’s worth a shot, but let’s go talk to Suhonen.”

  * * *

  Suhonen was perched on the window sill in Takamäki’s cramped office. As usual, he kept his leather jacket on. The detective lieutenant took his seat behind the desk, and Joutsamo sat in the chair by the door.

  A bookshelf against the wall was filled with different colored folders, containing case files. A diploma on the wall proved that Takamäki had participated in an international FBI course on profiling. Mr. Kari Takamaki, it read. A couple missing dots over the “a,” but at least they hadn’t called him Ms.

  Outside, the morning wind had ushered in another low-pressure system. Beneath the street lamps, the sleet was driven nearly sideways.

  Takamäki showed them a letter-sized printout of a photograph. “Forensics found this in Eriksson’s apartment. It was taped to the bottom of a desk drawer.”

  Joutsamo examined what appeared to be a photo of a note. In capital letters, someone had written, “JUHA S. 14,000 DUE NOV 15,” followed by a couple of exclamation points.

  “In the same drawer, Forensics found what they believe to be a bag of amphetamines.”

  “Was Eriksson dealing?” Joutsamo said, more thinking aloud than asking a question.

  Takamäki glanced at Suhonen, who added, “And why would he hide the note in his own home? Was he worried that someone would raid his apartment?”

  “All good question
s,” Takamäki said.

  “Were there any prints on the note? When can we get a handwriting analysis?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Not sure,” Takamäki said. “Kannas will take care of it… Suhonen, tell Anna.”

  Suhonen was still sitting on the windowsill. “This Juha S. is the informant who told me about the body.”

  “Wow,” Joutsamo let go.

  “Right,” Takamäki said.

  “Let’s take him in,” Joutsamo said immediately.

  “Good idea,” Takamäki said.

  “Naah,” Suhonen stalled.

  Joutsamo looked at Suhonen. “I don’t suppose Saarnikangas told you that he owed the victim almost fifteen grand?”

  “No, he didn’t. Nor did he tell me where he heard about the body.”

  “Right,” Joutsamo continued. “Maybe you should have asked him where he saw the body, not where he heard about it. Or maybe even where he killed him.”

  “Looks like probable cause,” Takamäki said.

  Suhonen raised his hand, gesturing for some quiet. “Then why would he tell me about it?”

  “To throw us off track.”

  “Naah,” Suhonen said again. “I know this guy a bit. I can’t say well, but still… In my view, he’s not a killer. He’s more like a pawn, though he’s not as dumb as most junkies. He’s a kind of survivor, who always gets out of trouble by squeezing through some crack.”

  “So you’re saying he’s not capable of murder?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Everyone’s capable of murder in the right circumstances. Still, it seems to me that if Saarnikangas were in debt, he’d try to resolve it somehow, not bury it by shooting the guy.”

  Joutsamo shook her head. “Seems to me we should take him in and interrogate him. If, like you say, he’s some kind of low-class junkie, then he’ll talk within a few days.”

  Takamäki turned back to Suhonen.

  “I think we should wait for more details from Forensics. The DNA evidence and what not,” Suhonen said. “I agree that Juha knows more about this case than he told me. I could try to get it out of him.”

  “I disagree.” Joutsamo said.

  “With what exactly?” Takamäki asked.

  Joutsamo looked at Suhonen for a moment.

  “Alright. This case started with your intel, so let’s see where you can go with it. Let’s try Suhonen’s way, for now at least. But we definitely shouldn’t tell Saarnikangas that we know about the debt,” Joutsamo said.

  “Of course. I thought maybe we should use some old-fashioned police work, but blended with a little modern technology?”

  “What do you mean?” Takamäki asked.

  “Well, a phone tap and a GPS tail.”

  “A tracking device?”

  Suhonen nodded.

  Police tracking devices could be easily attached to any automobile. Every twenty seconds or so, it sent out a signal with its location, which was picked up by police computers, or even a field officer’s cellphone. Narcotics had used them with great success. The cops no longer needed five units to follow a suspect’s vehicle. Instead, its location arrived automatically. Narcotics had made an art of planting the devices inconspicuously; it only took about twenty seconds, and the device was nearly invisible.

  The tracking device could also be built into any interchangeable car part. A Finnish company had developed the technology, and now foreign police departments and various intelligence organizations had taken a keen interest in it. Everything related to the device had been declared a state secret in Finland.

  “We’d know where he was at all times. He drives an old Fiat van. Let’s watch and listen before we arrest him and show our hand. If Saarnikangas is actually the culprit, I don’t think he did it because of the debt.”

  “Anna?” Takamäki turned to her.

  “So he drives an old van, huh? According to Kannas, the tire tracks they found were from a van, and they were worn out… But your way is fine with me. It’s not like we have to hurry to prevent a crime or anything. But when you plant the tracking device, check out those tires.”

  “Okay,” Takamäki said. “Phone tap and tracking device.”

  “And the tires,” Suhonen added.

  CHAPTER 11

  MATINKYLÄ, ESPOO

  WEDNESDAY, 3:05 P.M.

  Markus Markkanen was lounging on the sofa in front of a blaring TV. The sports channel was showing a rerun of an NHL hockey game, but he wasn’t watching, just staring past the screen.

  His “ex”-wife Riikka was in the kitchen making coffee.

  “Want some?” Riikka called.

  There was no answer.

  “Hey,” Riikka called again. “Coffee or not?”

  “I don’t think so,” Markkanen drawled.

  He turned his blank stare toward the kitchen. Riikka was measuring coffee into the filter. A shapely woman in her thirties, her perky breasts seemed to stand at attention beneath her white T-shirt. Markus and Riikka had been together, or, more accurately, had been drinking together in the same circles since the late nineties. They quickly took to one another, and Riikka had gotten pregnant unexpectedly. Eetu was born in 2000.

  Although Markus had spent a year in prison, the marriage had endured. A few years ago, it had ended in name only, but the relationship had continued. They told the boy that his daddy had gone to workabroad for the year. The last few years had been better, thanks to money. Since he had been working for Lindström, they had much more of it. Money didn’t just soothe the family; for them, it actually created happiness.

  “Maybe I will have some,” Markkanen said, sitting up on the sofa. He was wearing gray wind pants and a black T-shirt. He surfed through the channels absent-mindedly, but couldn’t seem to find anything interesting. Eetu had gone to a friend’s house after school.

  “You have anything going on today?” Riikka wondered.

  “A meeting at four.”

  “With Lindström?”

  “Yeah,” Markkanen grumbled. She knew his line of work, but they didn’t talk about the details.

  “Why do you let him boss you around?”

  “He doesn’t boss me around,” Markkanen snapped.

  “Does too. Come here, go there, take care of this, do that. For all that you do, you should be able to run his business yourself.”

  “Do you remember who paid our bills when I was doing time?” Markkanen asked, though he knew very well that she remembered.

  Riikka fell silent, and they listened quietly as the coffeemaker gurgled. Markkanen had always suspected that Riikka had paid Lindström back with something other than legal tender. They had never talked about that, though. And never would. If something had happened, it was in the past.

  “Listen,” Riikka said, sliding onto the sofa next to him. “I need some money.”

  He wanted to ask what she needed it for this time, but he dug out his wallet and counted out three hundred.

  “That enough?”

  “Yeah,” Riikka said. “It’s a really gorgeous blouse.”

  Markkanen laughed silently when she kissed him on the cheek. He’d have to remember to shave before leaving.

  “You know, we should go on a vacation somewhere warm,” Riikka suggested.

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, it’s so depressingly dark and cold here.”

  Markkanen stood up. Riikka remained sitting.

  “Where you going?”

  “To get some coffee.”

  His cellphone rang in the hallway, and he had to rummage through the pockets of his jacket to find it.

  “Hello,” Markkanen answered.

  The caller was Lindström. He sounded angry. “Where are you?”

  “Why?”

  “You were supposed to be here at three.”

  “You said four.”

  “Shut up! Get over here now.”

  “Okay,” Markkanen replied.

  Riikka watched him from the sofa, gloating. “No…he doesn’t boss me around. No, no…”


  “Shut up,” Markkanen said, pulling his jacket on. About to leave, he called out, “Remember to take Eetu to hockey practice tonight.”

  The ice rink was only minutes away from home, but still too far for the kid to walk with a heavy hockey bag.

  * * *

  It was almost four o’clock and Suhonen was standing at the turnoff onto Vuolukivi Street in the Pihlajamäki neighborhood. Pale, sixties-style four- and eight-story towers loomed overhead.

  Rocky Pihlajamäki was the first Helsinki suburb built in the sixties to be officially preserved by the city. The Finnish Historical Board had also requested protection for it, though Suhonen wondered why. The Historical Board had also worked to preserve the “Sausage House,” a monstrosity of a building just across the street from the Helsinki Railway Station, named for the sausage-shaped ring encircling the second floor. For the people of Helsinki, the Sausage House is an institution. For visitors, it’s a curiosity.

  Suhonen’s cellphone buzzed. Raija again. This time he decided to answer it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she wanted to meet.

  “Hi,” Suhonen said, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

  “Hi,” she said back. “Why don’t you answer your phone?”

  “Been busy at work. You know the drill.”

  “Yeah. I know,” she answered coolly.

  Raija was quiet for a moment and Suhonen wondered if she was calling to complain or just to chat.

  “Listen, I just called because I left that teapot of mine at your place. I want it back.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, the one I bought last spring. I forgot it in the rush.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s what you’re calling about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I’ll just bring it to your office when I get a chance,” he said, feeling his temper flare. “Sorry, gotta go. More work.”

  He hit “End Call” and watched as a couple of pot-bellied men lumbered into a local bar. A gaudy sign in the window advertised free karaoke and billiards. Suhonen felt like joining them. He didn’t care for karaoke, but billiards and beer would be just fine. It would soften his stale mood.