Helsinki Homicide: Against the Wall

by Jarkko Sipila

  Some junkie was arguing with himself under a streetlight. Then again, who would really know if he had an earpiece under that mop. Bright neon lights and signs for cut-rate beer flashed from the bar windows, luring thirsty customers. The Corner Pub was offering a half liter for €2.50.

  Saarnikangas cut across to the south side of Helsinki Avenue. The Corner Pub was situated next to an Alepa grocery store. Juha saw a familiar figure standing in front of the entrance, already dragging on a cigarette. He was wearing a black beanie cap and a dark overcoat. A bouncer’s ID tag glinted on his chest.

  * * *

  Suhonen could see from the map that Saarnikangas had left the van at Brahe Soccer Field. He was pretty sure the guy didn’t have sports on his mind—he must be heading to one of the nearby bars or someone’s apartment. Given the narrow streets, this wasn’t a good spot for a car-to-car conference.

  Nor was he sure whether Saarnikangas intended to meet anyone. His phone had been idle. Maybe the guy just wanted a beer, but if that was the case, there were quite a few bars closer to his apartment in Pihlajamäki, even one just across the street.

  Suhonen ran a red light, crossed Helsinki Avenue and headed back up Fleming, which was shadowed by tall apartment buildings. The structures, like most of their kind in this part of the city, were about six stories high, the façades ranging between cement, brick, and stucco. The first vacant parking spot was in front of number 14, near a tattoo shop. The nose of his car blocked a third of the gate to the building’s courtyard. He didn’t care—cars could squeeze by, and at this hour, there were no delivery trucks about.

  Suhonen hurried down the hill toward the grocery store on the corner.

  “Hey, what’s the big hurry,” said a man stepping out of a doorway onto the sidewalk.

  Suhonen shot a dirty look at the younger man, who was barely half his weight. The man took a step back.

  “Well, shit, I guess it’s none of my business.”

  You’re damn right, Suhonen thought, but didn’t say anything. The air was getting colder, and he zipped up his leather jacket, continued on to the corner store, and took a quick glance around the corner.

  * * *

  “Listen,” Lydman snarled, a cigarette butt in his hand. “I already told you, I’m not interested. Understand?”

  “Well, no,” Saarnikangas protested.

  Lydman was a good four inches taller and looked threatening in his black coat and beanie cap. He took a drag on his cigarette, and his gaunt cheeks hollowed even further.

  “Oh, you don’t? Maybe all that smack’s fried your brain cells.”

  “Not all of ’em. And what do those steroids do to your brain, anyway? Certainly not making it any bigger.”

  Lydman took a step toward him. “You fucking with me?”

  Juha felt like laughing. Absolutely he was fucking with him. Was Lydman really that stupid?

  A woman well over two hundred pounds stumbled out of the bar. Her makeup was overdone, and her smile looked more like a grimace. She extended her hand to Lydman. A few coins clinked as they changed hands.

  “Thanks, Princess.”

  The woman waddled off a few yards before Juha said anything, “Princess?”

  “It’s her nickname,” Lydman said and shrugged. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. And try listening this time. You’re the genius who sent me to that gas station…”

  “I said I don’t want to hear it. Not one word! I sent you there because that’s what I was told to do.”

  “Who told you to?”

  Lydman didn’t answer.

  Juha felt like he was hacking at a brick wall with a spoon. Maybe upping the ante was in order. “Hey, you don’t know everything.”

  “Hah,” Lydman sneered. “Didn’t I just tell you I don’t want to?”

  “This is different,” Juha muttered. Lydman was quiet for a moment. “A narcotics cop has been asking me questions about someone.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “Could be yours too.”

  “You threatening me?” Lydman said quietly.

  “No, just trying to explain.”

  “You’re one irritating dick. I’ll give you a two-second head start before I kick your ass.”

  Juha took a deep breath. “I went to that garage and found a dead body. The guy who did it was still there, and he told me to ditch it somewhere.”

  Lydman’s expression remained flat, and Saarnikangas guessed that he still needed clarification.

  “Say something! You got me this job.”

  “You take care of it?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course,” Saarnikangas said. Yet another of his plans was unraveling because he didn’t dare tell the truth.

  Lydman studied his face. “You’re lying.”

  “Of course I took care of it,” Juha insisted. He stared helplessly at Lydman’s cigarette as it burned down toward the filter. When the last bits of tobacco went up in smoke, Lydman would go inside and his time would be up. This hadn’t gone the way he had hoped.

  “I don’t care what it takes, deal with it,” Lydman said, taking a couple steps backwards.

  “Thanks for your understanding.”

  Lydman’s expression was icy. “You don’t understand shit. You truly don’t get it, but that’s your problem.”

  Saarnikangas was silent.

  “Did you say the pigs were already asking about this guy?”

  Saarnikangas nodded.

  “If you fucked this up, you better crawl into some hole and shoot yourself. But apparently you’d fuck that up too. Let me be precise. If you say one word to the cops, I’ll kill you…slowly.” He flicked his cigarette onto the sidewalk.

  * * *

  Suhonen watched Saarnikangas and an unidentified man chatting in front of the bar. Juha seemed fairly relaxed, but the bigger man’s body language betrayed his anger. Seemed like fists could fly at any moment.

  The conversation lasted a couple of tense minutes. No bouncer would have acted that way if he were just dealing with a routine customer arguing that he was, in fact, sober enough to get in.

  In the end, the big guy shoved Saarnikangas, who had the good sense to back down and walk away. The bouncer stayed behind and fished another cigarette out of his pocket despite the sleet, which had just begun to fall.

  Looked like Saarnikangas was walking back to his van.

  Though he had been to the Corner Pub many times, Suhonen didn’t recognize the bouncer. He wanted to get a closer look at his face.

  It took him a good minute to get to the entrance of the bar. He walked casually. No hurry nor trouble, just a cheerful guy with a light buzz.

  “How ya doin’,” Suhonen flashed a smile and gave a quick wave from about fifteen feet off.

  The bouncer narrowed his eyes, took a hard drag on his cigarette, and managed a nod.

  “Wet and cold, the perfect combo,” Suhonenwent on.

  “It’s warmer inside.”

  Suhonen got a good look at him, but the face wasn’t familiar. He took note of the tattoos, which emerged from beneath the collar of his jacket. “A little glögi in here would make it warmer yet.” He patted his stomach.

  Suhonen stepped inside. Now this place should have been listed for preservation on the register of historic places, he thought. The bar had gotten its start during the recession of the early nineties, Finland’s first severe one since the Great Depression. The downturn had been triggered by the collapse of the Soviet Union, Finland’s key trading partner. At its worst, unemployment had reached almost twenty-five percent, leaving plenty of idle customers with unemployment checks to spend. During the recent boom years, business at the Corner Pub had been relatively slow. Now, amidst the new financial crisis, it was picking up again.

  The bar was just inside the door, so within three steps you could have a drink in your hand. The wooden tables were covered with cigarette burns, but the smoking ban had taken care of the familiar clouds of smoke.

  The place
was almost full, and some of the customers still had their coats on. The jukebox crooned out Elvis’ “Love Me Tender,” but the patrons seemed more focused on their drinks.

  Suhonen found room for himself at the counter, and the bartender, a fifty-something man with a bushy mustache, came to take his order.

  “Coffee.”

  The barkeep nodded and shuffled off. In half a minute he brought back a steaming mug.

  “One euro.”

  Suhonen gave him the money. “Is that bouncer new here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t seen him before,” Suhonen said, and tasted his coffee. Stale.

  The bartender grunted and turned to another customer.

  Suhonen looked around to see if there were any familiar faces. He glanced at his phone: the red dot was moving along the East Highway through Kulosaari. He wondered if Juha was headed back to his apartment in Pihlajamäki. He’d know soon enough.

  The bouncer came back inside and snuck behind the bar. Suhonen followed him out of the corner of his eye. Without taking off his jacket, he made a beeline for the employee phone, which was attached to the wall next to the coffeemaker.

  Now this was interesting. Why would a guy use a landline if he had his own cellphone? Running out of minutes probably wasn’t it.

  The man stood in front of the phone, blocking Suhonen’s view of the keypad. The call took about three minutes, and Suhonen tried to think of a way to figure out the number. Of course, the easiest way would be the redial button. The number would show up on the screen. In order to do that, though, he’d have to get to the phone somehow.

  The bouncer made another call. This one only lasted about fifteen seconds and Suhonen figured he had only done it to clear the previous number from the phone’s memory.

  Suhonen checked the time: 5:22 P.M. With that, they’d be able to pinpoint the call from the bar’s phone records, as long as Takamäki would sign the warrant. That wouldn’t be a problem, since they had obtained warrants for phone booths on lesser grounds.

  The bouncer went back to the entryway and stood between the two sets of doors. This guy was definitely an interesting character, Suhonen thought.

  CHAPTER 14

  TEHDAS STREET, HELSINKI

  WEDNESDAY, 5:27 P.M.

  Markus Markkanen had called directory assistance with no luck. The number Lindström had given him was either unlisted or prepaid.

  Markkanen was sitting in his boxy, blue 300-Series BMW in front of an elegant Art Nouveau building on Tehdas Street. The ’90s Beamer was in need of a wash. The sleet had turned to wet snow, though it was barely below freezing.

  A police cruiser crept past, heading east toward the Russian embassy.

  Markkanen decided to make the call. Now was as good a time as any. He picked up his cell and dialed the number. It rang three times before someone picked up.

  “Hello?” a voice said hesitantly.

  “Is this Nyholm?” Markkanen asked.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Marko.”

  “Marko, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Markkanen said. “I have some business with you.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “First let’s hear if you’re Nyholm.”

  After a brief silence on the other end, he spoke up, “Yes.”

  “Good,” Markkanen said. That Nyholm had revealed his name was a key victory…a glimmer of trust. “Listen, Nyholm. We have a friend in common.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Eriksson.”

  Nyholm’s speech quickened. “Eriksson. Right. What about him?”

  “He’s traveling and asked me to take care of some things in the meantime.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He didn’t say. He left in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Is he in any trouble?” Nyholm asked.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “Don’t know that either,” Markkanen said. “But back to business…”

  “Listen Marko, how do I know Eriksson sent you?”

  Markkanen hesitated a moment. “Because he asked me to contact you.”

  “So you’re telling me. He didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Probably didn’t have time.”

  Nyholm paused. “Eriksson has a tattoo. He said he only tells his closest friends about it…”

  “Right,” Markkanen interjected.

  “So let me ask you… What does he have tattooed on his left shoulder?”

  Oh shit, what the hell was that ink? They had gone to sauna once with Lindström at the luxurious Palace Hotel penthouse. Markkanen remembered the hookers, but… Seemed like it was a number. Yeah. That’s what it was. “It’s a number. Must be an eight.”

  “Correct,” Nyholm responded. “And why was Eriksson so pissed off?”

  “Aaah... It had something to do with hoops. Some star from Los Angeles had the number eight, but right after Eriksson got the tattoo, the player changed it to something else.”

  “That’s good enough,” Nyholm said. “So, you know Eriksson...”

  “Yep,” Markkanen managed. He wanted to take a deep breath. Skeptical bastard.

  “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What do you mean?” The question slipped out before Markkanen realized he should have ignored the comment. He would have rather had this conversation face to face, where at least he could read the other guy’s expressions and body language. Street smarts had taught him how to react to get what he wanted.

  “I mean just what I said.”

  “Let’s get back to business.” Markkanen said. “You know I’m handling Eriksson’s stuff, which is why I called. I know he had a little arrangement with you, and all I need is some information.”

  There was silence on the other end. “Why can’t Jerry take care of it?”

  Markkanen spoke in a calm voice; he knew he had already won. This was Nyholm’s last attempt at resistance.

  “Jerry’s traveling, so I’m taking care of it... Nothing more. Business as usual.”

  “You say your name’s Marko?”

  “Yup. Markus actually, but you can call me Marko.” Markkanen eased up a little. He was pleased that at least for now, there had been no need for threats. “Listen… I need some info on a few shipments.”

  “Well… Alright,” Nyholm relented.

  “A ship named ‘Colleen’ is scheduled to arrive in Kotka tomorrow carrying twenty containers of rubber gloves, amongst other things,” he said, glancing at the notes Lindström had written for him. “They were sent from China, bound for Russia. I need to know whether the containers are going to be inspected or have shown up in any reports. You know the drill.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Markkanen read off the tracking numbers, which would allow Nyholm to pinpoint the cargo.

  “I’ll check, but…”

  “But what?” Markkanen asked, already eager to celebrate his victory.

  “This isn’t a one-sided deal. How much do I get?”

  He thought for a moment. Lindström hadn’t told him what the going rate was.

  “Time for an inflation adjustment”, Nyholm said, “I need twenty-five percent more, so make it an even ten Gs a month.”

  Markkanen thought for a moment. So Eriksson had coughed up eight grand, and now the guy was demanding ten. It wasn’t his money, though. What did he care. “Sounds fair.”

  “Listen,” Nyholm said quietly on the other end. “We’re gonna have to keep a low profile for a while, and this can’t be happening very often.”

  “Why?”

  “Eriksson seems to be a hot name right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, some homicide detective was here today asking questions about him.”

  Markkanen closed his eyes and felt a shiver run slowly down his spine. He forced a calm voice. “What was he asking about?”

  “I don’t know
the details. They seemed to be interested in his connections to Customs.”

  Markkanen cursed to himself. “Okay, let’s just be careful. How you gonna let me know about the cargo?”

  “For tonight only, we can use the prepaid phones. I’ll send you a text that’ll say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. ‘Yes’ means that you have a problem. Then I need you to open up a free email account and tell me the username and password. After this, all our exchanges will go through that account. Don’t send any emails, though. Just save your messages as drafts. We’ll both have access to the account, so we can check the draft messages to communicate.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And cash only. I’ll post a draft email on the account telling you where to send it and how,” Nyholm instructed.

  The call ended.

  The job was done. Markkanen thought he had done pretty well, though he felt uneasy hearing about the cops. But he could deal with that too.

  He started the car. The wipers struggled to clear the snow off the windshield.

  * * *

  Eero Salmela was lying on the bottom bunk in his cell. The junkie on the top bunk was asleep, breathing heavily. At one end of the cell was a small window. The bright lights from the yard cast an outline of the window onto the ceiling. The bars were sharply defined.

  Salmela couldn’t sleep, and he looked at his watch. The glowing hands read quarter after ten.

  At dinner, Salmela had heard about Raitio’s tumble down the stairs. Apparently, his left knee was in rough shape. So far, the prison hospital had been caring for him, but surgery was inevitable. According to the rumors, his knee would never recover, and he’d limp for the rest of his life.

  Shitty deal, Salmela thought. But shit was part of the job description, and always had been. Even that had its limits, of course. Once again, his thoughts returned to his own son, who was shot dead over a drug deal two years ago. That wasn’t fair. A petty dispute that cost a young man his life. Of course, Lauri had chosen his own path, but why hadn’t he at least taught the kid some street smarts. Back when he was twelve, Eero had shown his son a few slick kicks on the soccer field. In the same way, he had taught him to whittle without cutting his own fingers.