Helsinki Homicide: Against the Wall

by Jarkko Sipila

  “Good… I’m going to Thailand for a couple weeks.”

  “What?”

  “I bought a last-minute ticket…leaving tomorrow night… Maybe things will settle down.”

  Stupid, Markkanen thought. Running scared. He answered in a calm voice, “Okay, that might be a good idea, but first set up a meeting between Saarnikangas and me. I still need him.”

  “For what?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know,” Markkanen said.

  “Guess so.”

  “But go talk to him in person; his phone could be tapped. Tell him to be at the Corner Pub at eight o’clock tonight.”

  “The Corner Pub at eight,” Lydman repeated. “Okay, I’ll do it, but then I’m gonna be gone a couple weeks. In the meantime, clear things up with the Skulls. This is your mess.”

  “Of course,” Markkanen assured him. He asked for a number for the hit man, and Lydman gave it to him, but pointed out that the line wasn’t secure. Lydman said that he and Korpela used a special code in case the phones were tapped. Markkanen was to suggest a meeting at the Ruskeasuo Teboil, but it would actually take place in the parking lot of the Tali bowling alley.

  Markkanen hung up and started the car. He’d have time to think on the way to Helsinki.

  Before hitting the road, he called his wife. He directed her to take Eetu, and leave town for a few days. She was confused at first, but then she agreed. She was to take all the money out of hiding, pick up the boy from school and sign in at the Turku Caribia Spa-Hotel under her maiden name. At least the boy would have something to do there. Markkanen promised to be in touch by Sunday evening at the latest.

  Taking risks with the Skulls was a bad idea.

  * * *

  Suhonen was sitting in the police cafeteria, forking macaroni casserole into his mouth. The lunch room was half-full and Suhonen was alone at a table for four. He had eaten a salad for starters, and was glad to have something healthy under his belt.

  Takamäki had ordered him to arrest Saarnikangas, but he was in no hurry. According to the tracking device, Juha’s van was still parked in Pihlajamäki, and Lydman’s Mazda hadn’t moved either. Of course, they could have walked or taken a taxi somewhere, but more than likely, both were relaxing at home. Neither was the type to ride the bus.

  The casserole was good, or maybe he was just hungry.

  He should really bring Saarnikangas in after lunch. Lydman could wait till after Juha’s interrogations. Suhonen figured Saarnikangas wouldn’t talk, though. The guy was a survivor who knew better than to squeal on his employers. On the other hand, Saarnikangas wouldn’t do life for no reason.

  His phone rang on his belt.

  He pulled it out and swallowed a mouthful of macaroni. It was the warden of the Helsinki Prison.

  “Hey, Ainola here,” the man rasped. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Never a spare minute around here, but go ahead.”

  “Heard the latest news. You guys got a pretty tough case over there, huh?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m calling about. Some of our guards heard from the inmates that this Eriksson could have been a Customs informant.”

  “Okay,” Suhonen remarked. As a formality, he asked, “How reliable is this?”

  “Just a rumor, but I thought it might be useful.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Suhonen replied and took another bite of macaroni.

  Ainola paused for a moment. “There’s something else. The guy you visited earlier in the week… Eero Salmela?”

  “What about him?” Suhonen mumbled.

  “Are you eating?”

  “Yeah—go on.”

  “This might not be anything, but if you’re interested in the guy, you should know his connections. His drug-running partner Jorma Raitio ended up in the infirmary. Supposedly, he fell down the stairs, but the doctor suspected his knee was busted with a pipe.”

  “Badly?”

  “It’ll need a few surgeries, and even then it might not fully recover. But here’s the interesting thing. According to the same rumors, the Skulls were behind the assault, and Salmela ordered it.”

  Suhonen put his fork down. “So Salmela hired out a hit?”

  “Yeah. In his defense, Raitio probably threatened him first.”

  What in the world had Salmela gotten mixed up in now? He was a thief, but he shouldn’t have anything to do with the Skulls. Suhonen thought about Salmela’s words back at the prison, about someone else getting his back.

  “How well does he get along with the Skulls?”

  “Not sure. Well enough that they carried out his hit.”

  CHAPTER 19

  PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  THURSDAY, 1:20 P.M.

  Anna Joutsamo stepped into Lieutenant Takamäki’s office, but lingered just inside the doorway.

  “Yes?” Takamäki looked up from his desk.

  “Suhonen’s sitting there at his desk reading emails.”

  “And?”

  Joutsamo crossed her arms. “Well, I thought he was supposed to bring Saarnikangas in for questioning.”

  “Oh. Why don’t you say something to him?”

  Joutsamo narrowed her eyes, “He takes orders from you.”

  “But you’re running the case.”

  “Listen, Kari. I don’t want any drama or power struggles.”

  Takamäki grinned. “So you’re passing the buck to me.”

  “You’re the one with the bigger paycheck.”

  Takamäki got up and followed Joutsamo out. The detectives’ squad room was a few steps further down the hall. Joutsamo went in first, and Takamäki turned to Kohonen, who was sitting at her computer.

  “Kirsi, what’s the status on the phone records?”

  “No hits yet.”

  Takamäki nodded. Sifting through the phone list was almost as unbearable as watching hours of surveillance video. Looking for a particular number in a file was relatively easy—matching numbers across various files was more complicated. Computer programs were a big help, but everything had to be double-checked by hand. Prepaid numbers muddied the investigation even further.

  “What about the tap?”

  “Kafka’s team is on it, but nothing so far. All the phones have gone quiet.”

  Mikko Kulta was in the far corner behind his computer, looking like a fourth grader who didn’t want to be called upon by the teacher. He had probably been playing internet computer games, as Solitaire and Mine Sweeper had been deleted from police hard drives.

  “How’s it going?” Takamäki asked, turning to Suhonen.

  “Pretty good,” Suhonen responded, without looking up from the screen. Takamäki noticed he was going through his emails.

  “And Saarnikangas?”

  Suhonen glanced at his cellphone. “His van is at his apartment in Pihlajamäki. I presume he is too.”

  “You gonna bring him in?”

  “As soon as I have some time. I figured I’d apply to become the labor representative for the Helsinki PD.”

  “Huh?” Takamäki grunted.

  Suhonen turned to look at him. “Yeah. I’d be able to monitor everyone’s overtime hours.”

  “I see,” Takamäki paused and added dryly: “C’mon now.”

  “Hey,” Suhonen said, addressing Joutsamo too. “I’m gonna bring him in, but now that the case is public, let’s wait a couple hours and see what happens. Saarnikangas knows we’re watching him, so he’s not gonna use his phone. Yesterday he went to meet Lydman, and I’d like to see where else he’s gonna go…or if Lydman goes with him. ”

  Joutsamo cut in. “As long as he’s not silenced permanently.”

  “Anybody want coffee?” Suhonen asked. “I can put some on.”

  Joutsamo looked at Takamäki.

  “I’ll have some,” said the lieutenant. “Tea for Joutsamo.”

  * * *

  Kalevi Lindström answered the door quickly
.

  “Come in,” he said. The businessman had on gray pants and a matching sweater.

  Markus Markkanen had left his car on Tehdas Street, where snow had covered the vehicles, but the cobblestone street was still slushy.

  Outside, a streetcar rumbled past. In his left hand, Markkanen was holding a plastic bag, which appeared to contain a book.

  “How’d it go?” Lindström asked.

  “Good. No problems,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  “How many were there?”

  Markkanen handed him the bag, and Lindström opened it eagerly.

  “There’s 520 Gs. There were 35 seventy-inch units and 60 fifty-inch units,” he said calmly.

  Lindström walked into the library and poured the bundles of cash onto an oak table. He took one and started counting the bills.

  “There’s twenty bills in every bundle. Ten thousand each,” Markkanen added. Lindström seemed satisfied with the numbers.

  He went through the bills one at a time and arranged them in piles of one hundred thousand euros. Markkanen stood quietly by the door. The counting took a good ten minutes. Only once did Lindström count a pile a second time.

  “Good,” he said, then took one bundle and handed it to Markkanen. “Well done.”

  Markkanen slipped the money into the breast pocket of his coat.

  “That’s the good news.”

  “What do you mean?” Lindström asked.

  Clearly he hadn’t been watching or listening to the news.

  “Eriksson’s been killed.”

  “What? When?” Lindström barked.

  “I don’t know the details. I heard it on the news. He was found dead somewhere in North Helsinki earlier in the week.”

  “Who did this?” Lindström stammered, scraping the money into the bag, as though it were in danger.

  “That’s a good question,” Markkanen said stiffly. “I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened either.”

  Lindström looked Markkanen in the eyes. “Does this have anything to do with…uhh, my businesses or did Jerry have issues of his own?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  “I don’t have any problems, at least not that I’m aware of.”

  “Have we stepped on someone’s toes?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Lindström assured him.

  “Then we shouldn’t have any problems, unless someone’s trying to come after us. Could Eriksson have pissed someone off…or conned ’em?”

  “No, no. I don’t think so. He wouldn’t dare.”

  “What about the Russians?” Markkanen asked. He didn’t know much about that part of the business, but it was safe to say that they were behind much of the trafficking and tax fraud, since the majority of their shipments ended up in Russia.

  Lindström thought about it. “They’ve never said that we had any problems… No, no, no. Everything’s okay on that front.”

  “Those crates that stayed in Finland aren’t…”

  Lindström cackled. “Skimmed off the top? No, they’re part of the deal. It’s completely legitimate.”

  Interesting racket, Markkanen thought. Apparently, Lindström was paid in kind for his part.

  “Well, Eriksson could’ve had personal problems. In any case, we’ll have to keep our eyes open. If something happens, let me know right away. I’ll ask around.”

  Lindström nodded, his forehead knit. “Okay…alright.”

  Markkanen looked at Lindström, now a tense and worried man. Was this his Achilles heel, then? On the business end, Lindström was a tough cookie, but when it came to the rough stuff, he started to crack.

  * * *

  Suhonen’s unmarked Peugeot was sitting at a red light near Pasila Police Headquarters. He was waiting to turn onto Veturi Street toward Hartwall Arena, if only the light would change. The snow had made a mess of traffic.

  His phone was charging on his lap. Two red dots flashed on the display, both in motion, albeit slowly. Suhonen had checked out a car from the police garage to find out where they were going. In the passenger’s seat lay an SLR camera with a telephoto lens.

  The dot for Saarnikangas’ van had started to move about a minute before the one for Lydman’s Mazda. Suhonen had checked the phone tap, but there had been no activity. Unless their simultaneous departures were coincidental, Lydman and Saarnikangas were obviously using some other phone line or messaging system. Suhonen tried to remember if he had seen a computer in Saarnikangas’ apartment. He wasn’t sure.

  It looked like Saarnikangas was getting onto Beltway One, heading west. Lydman had turned north onto Mannerheim Street. Soon, he’d be on the Hämeenlinna Highway.

  The light turned green, and Suhonen made a right. Traffic was jammed up on the south side of the massive Hartwall Arena. He had a roof light in the glove box, but he didn’t want to use it.

  Ten minutes later, Suhonen reached the north end of Veturi Street. The dots began to overlap at the end of Pakila, near Central Park. Suhonen knew there was a parking lot next to the warming house and trail access, but he doubted they’d be going for a hike or a ski. From Helsinki Central Park, one could hike, or in the winter, ski 600 miles of trails due north, all the way to the fells of Lapland.

  The parking lot was busy enough not to attract attention, yet remote enough for a private meeting.

  Suhonen guessed he was about ten minutes away.

  * * *

  As Lydman shifted his weight to his left, the wet gravel in the parking lot grated beneath the snow.

  “Now listen,” he said, opening the zipper of his black coat.

  “The answer is no,” Saarnikangas said. He kept his hands in the pockets of his army jacket.

  About fifty cars were in the parking lot. Lydman’s Mazda and Saarnikangas’ van were on the eastern end, away from the others. Nearby were a small hockey arena and a huge hill that had been built from garbage and compost.

  “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”

  “Still, I ain’t agreeing to anything. Nothing.”

  “Fuck, then it’s your time,” Lydman growled and slipped his right hand inside his jacket. “Here and now.”

  Petrified, Saarnikangas took a step back. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Lydman was carrying.

  “Should I do it right here or you wanna go lie in the ditch? That’d be easier for me.”

  Saarnikangas looked around, but nobody had noticed his plight. Should he call for help?

  “Listen, listen…” he stammered. “Take it easy, alright?”

  “I’ll take it easy when you stop dicking around and start listening,” Lydman snarled. He kept his hand inside his jacket.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Number one. Yesterday at the Corner Pub you said some cop had been asking about Eriksson. Has he or anyone else been in contact with you again?”

  Saarnikangas shook his head. “No. I’ve been in my pad all day long. Nothing.”

  “Good. The news said they found the body a couple days ago. If they knew something, they would’ve arrested you already. So they’re probably just looking for background info on Eriksson, and you just happened to be in his circle somewhat.”

  “Somewhat,” Saarnikangas repeated.

  “Number two,” Lydman continued. “There’s no reason to panic—this was planned so that nobody gets caught. If one of us happens to get arrested for some reason, the deal is that nobody will say a word. Nothing. Answer every question with ‘no comment.’”

  “No comment.”

  “What? You fucking with me?”

  “No-o. Just practicing,” Saarnikangas forced a grin.

  “The ditch is right over there.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “You know if this goes to court, the court records will show every word that was said in the interrogations and on the witness stand. Who said what and who didn’t comment. People read that stuff.”

  Saarnikangas nodded.

  Lydman went o
n. “Number three, and this is the last. Today at eight o’clock, you’re gonna meet someone at the Corner Pub. He has a job for you, and you’ll do it like a good boy.”

  “Who?”

  “His first name is Markus. He’s about six two and 220 pounds.”

  Saarnikangas knew that, aside from the name, those features would fit about fifty percent of the customers.

  “What is this job?”

  “He’ll tell you then.”

  “Oh, this again? I dunno. I don’t want to get mixed up in anything else. Ever since I cleaned up my act, everything’s gone to hell.”

  Lydman looked at the miserable junkie.

  “Listen, once you’ve taken care of this, you can join a monastery for all I care.”

  Saarnikangas imagined a future of long, lonely days behind protective walls, but he wasn’t picturing a monastery.

  He paused. “By the way, one more thing…”

  * * *

  As he entered the parking lot, Suhonen spotted Saarnikangas’ van and two men talking next to it. He swung the Peugeot behind an SUV about 200 feet off.

  There was no time to waste. He grabbed the camera and a small plastic bag and got out of the car. The SUV provided enough cover that the men wouldn’t notice him. He dug a loose-fitting brown vest out of the bag and pulled it on. On the back, large block letters spelled out, “Bird Photographer.” The same text appeared on the front. The vest gave him an excuse to take photos just about anywhere.

  Suhonen circled the SUV and pointed the camera towards Saarnikangas’ van. The image in the viewfinder was fuzzy until the automatic focus kicked in. The lighting was a bit dark, but the quality of the lens and the additional reflected light from the snow helped. He zoomed in and snapped a half-dozen photos on rapid-fire. Suhonen had a good perspective; their profiles were clear enough that he could easily recognize both Saarnikangas and Lydman.