Helsinki homicide: Cold Trail

by Sipila, Jarkko

  “Nope. How?”

  “Someone broke into a locker at the swimming pool and took the keys from the coat pocket. The car disappeared from in front of the pool, but the wallet was left untouched in the locker.”

  “My first instinct is insurance fraud. The owner’s behind on the payments and had to get rid of his wheels.”

  “I don’t know, but it’s a new approach, anyway.”

  Joutsamo thought for a moment. Of course the MO would fit Repo. He was not an expert at stealing cars, so it would be easier to take the key than to look for a car without an ignition block and try to hotwire it. “When did this happen?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, this afternoon or evening.”

  Joutsamo nodded. Probably wasn’t Repo, but if it was, he already had an hours-long head start. Plus, the car’s license plate and description had already been sent out to all units, so Joutsamo didn’t need to take any action. Of course tomorrow she could ask the responding patrol if they had gone to the swimming pool and retrieved a surveillance camera image of the thief.

  “Hey,” Joutsamo said to Kohonen. “You wanna go grab a drink at the Hotel Pasila bar?”

  “I thought you were never going to ask. As long as we don’t talk shop or get pony-faced.”

  Joutsamo’s curiosity was piqued. “Pony-faced?”

  “Well, right after I had turned eighteen, I was at the disco with a bunch of my friends from the stables. We had been there drinking all night, and then I noticed this really familiar-looking person standing in front of me. I tried to walk around her, and bam!—I slammed into the mirror face first and shattered it to bits,” Kohonen grinned.

  “Okay,” Joutsamo laughed. “No getting pony-faced. I want to get your views on this old murder conviction of Repo’s.”

  CHAPTER 11

  WEDNESDAY, 12:45 A.M.

  TUOMARILA, ESPOO

  Takamäki drove his Toyota station wagon into the small, empty, tree-ringed parking lot in the Helsinki suburb of Espoo. There were no houses nearby, but several dumpsters of various colors stood in the clearing. Not everyone had bothered to throw their trash inside; some lay on the ground, too.

  The thermometer read 35° F, and the sleet had eased off. Takamäki turned off the engine. He hadn’t been able to sleep; the Sello surveillance camera images had been eating at him. He had to see if he could find the car based on the address.

  Takamäki turned on the Toyota’s dome light and examined the images of Jonas’s accident in the weak glow. He made a note of the point of contact between the gray car and the bicycle, in front of the front left tire.

  Takamäki climbed out of the car and locked it. Other than the sounds of his car locks clicking, Tuomarila was completely quiet.

  Takamäki looked around again. Tahko Lane began across the street from the parking lot. He crossed the street and started climbing up the dirt road.

  Tuomarila was a residential area located between downtown Espoo and Finland’s wealthiest municipality, Kauniainen. Takamäki remembered having come to look at an apartment here years ago, but his family had ended up a few miles closer to Helsinki, in the Espoo neighborhood of Leppävaara.

  According to the address info, Manner, who had the lease on the car that hit Jonas, lived on Tahko Lane. The online maps showed his house as being located just below the crest of the hill. The neighborhood was a mix of single family houses and townhouses. Takamäki assumed that Manner lived in a single family house, because the address didn’t include any letters or apartment numbers.

  At its foot, the slope rose steeply. Takamäki remembered the area as having been much more forested and sparsely populated, but it had since been built up into a townhouse slum. Takamäki grunted as he passed a posh brick complex that sloped back along the contours of the terrain. Okay, so maybe the neighborhood wasn’t a total ghetto after all.

  After a hundred yards, the grade eased off. Good jogging terrain, Takamäki thought. Over in Leppävaara they didn’t have such long, steep climbs.

  The address Takamäki was looking for gleamed from a cube-shaped lamp on the corner of a brick-red garage. The brick house had two stories and three big windows on the street side—they were dark. The streetlamp in front of the house illuminated the front yard, which consisted of the driveway and a handful of bushes. The acre-sized backyard looked like it was undeveloped and forested.

  Takamäki continued past the house as if he were a local resident coming home on the late bus. He noted a blue BMW in the garage. Takamäki was disappointed, but a few more steps revealed another car on the far side of the beemer: a gray Toyota. The street light wasn’t strong enough to illuminate the license plate.

  Takamäki’s pulse quickened. He walked far enough past the house that he couldn’t be seen from the windows and glanced back once more. There was no one around. Takamäki slipped into the woods. He crouched down and listened for a moment. He was out of breath, but it wasn’t the climb that had winded the habitual jogger.

  Still crouching, Takamäki carefully edged past a large spruce. He saw the Toyota between the trees, about ten yards ahead. It was parked nose first in the garage, and Takamäki was to its right. He’d have to circle between the brick house and the garage in order to get a look at the left side.

  Enough street light made it through the branches that Takamäki didn’t have to move in total darkness. He stopped for half a minute to listen. Silence. The garage was open from three sides, and firewood had been stacked along the back wall. Takamäki crept closer, keeping low. A branch cracked under his foot, and he stopped. He smiled at himself, because there was no way anyone could have heard it. There weren’t any security guards around.

  He was now about five yards from the car. Luckily, the house had only one small window in the side facing the garage. Takamäki guessed it was a ventilation window for either a bathroom or a storage room.

  Takamäki rose back up to a hunch and started rounding the garage to get to the car. A spruce branch scratched his cheek. He brushed the back of his hand against his face and noticed a drop of blood.

  The brush reached right up to the edge of the garage. He was only a couple of yards from the car, but he’d have to get over to the left side. Touching the vehicle would be a bad idea, since it was a late enough model that it probably had some sort of alarm. Takamäki continued around behind the garage. The gravel crunched under his shoes. He glanced into the backyard. It looked open, but he couldn’t make out the details in the dark.

  Takamäki made it to the rear edge of the garage and warily glanced in. Still silent. The car was within arm’s reach, but there was so little light that Takamäki couldn’t tell whether or not there was a dent in it. He pulled out a flashlight and his cell phone. He opened up his camera app and gingerly stepped forward.

  A powerful light burst on, momentarily blinding Takamäki. He expected some sort of alarm, but none came. The light was attached to the wall of the house at a height of seven feet. If it had an alarm, it was a silent one. Takamäki guessed it was equipped with a motion sensor, but the light was so bright he couldn’t tell.

  He put his flashlight back in his pocket and took two steps closer to the car. The light made photographing the car easier.

  He could hear a dog bark inside, and based on the sound, the pooch was a big one.

  Goddammit, Takamäki thought. He quickly bent down toward the car and saw a dent and scratches near the front tire. Some of the blue paint from Jonas’s bike had even been left behind on the body.

  Takamäki snapped two pictures with his cell phone. Then he heard the door open around the corner, in the front yard.

  “Caesar, what is it?” said a man’s voice. The dog barked a couple of times.

  Takamäki made a rapid retreat behind the garage. For a moment, he considered stepping forward. In all likelihood, the guy was guilty of reckless endangerment, causing bodily harm, and fleeing from the scene of an accident. And the victim had been Takamäki’s child. He had verified the facts he had set o
ut to verify. But maybe the real reason was that he wanted to ask the guy why he hadn’t stopped to help the victim.

  Maybe the guy needed a lecture about taking responsibility.

  Or maybe what he really needed was to get his butt kicked.

  “Is it the foxes again?” Takamäki heard him say, and the dog barked a final time.

  Takamäki cautiously backed up along the edge of the garage and behind the big spruce. Maybe this wasn’t the right moment for a conversation.

  “Caesar, quiet! I don’t have time for this. Now go to sleep,” the man growled and closed the door.

  Takamäki’s heart was pounding, and he stood still for a few minutes before backing deeper into the forest.

  He stayed in the trees until he made it back to the quiet dirt road. He decided to take the longer route to return to his car, so he wouldn’t have to walk past the house.

  Maybe he should leave these gigs to Suhonen from here on out, Takamäki thought.

  * * *

  The Hurriganes’ “Get On” was playing in the bar, but not as loud as Suhonen thought the seventies rock classic deserved to be. A tip he’d heard in a Kontula bar had brought the undercover detective to this dive in the run-down Puotila shopping center in eastern Helsinki. He had no problem hearing the conversation at the next table.

  “Hey, did you hear about that guy in the Skulls?” said a rat-faced guy with a buzzed head and an Arsenal tracksuit. He took a long swig of his beer before continuing. “He had to play Russian roulette to be able to get out of the club.”

  His audience of one had a green sweater, a thick walrus moustache, and hair that fell down into his eyes. Suhonen also noted his large hands. Suhonen guessed his age was somewhere in the vicinity of forty to fifty, about ten years older than his buddy in the Arsenal tracksuit.

  “And he had shitty luck. The dude pulled the Nagant’s trigger, and of course he died. The rest of the Skulls got out of there, and the cops chalked it up as a suicide.”

  “There wasn’t anything about it in the papers,” said Moustache Man.

  “’Course not, because the cops said it was suicide. They don’t report cause-of-death investigations to the press,” replied Arsenal Fan.

  Suhonen could have stepped in and informed them that the story was a crock of shit. He had heard it three weeks ago and had, of course, checked all the suicides among known motorcycle gang members and hang-arounds for the past six months. There hadn’t been a single one. Numerous suicides had been committed with handguns in general, but nothing indicated that the story was true. Suhonen was more inclined to believe that the gang had started spreading the tale themselves purely to reinforce their reputation.

  “Those Skulls are totally nuts. You don’t want to stick your nose too far into their business.”

  “Heard anything from Foppa lately?” asked Arsenal Fan.

  “Visited him a couple of weeks ago.”

  “What about his old lady?”

  Moustache Man grunted. “You should know...”

  “I should know what?”

  “How she’s doing. You’re over there all the time. Everyone knows that…”

  Arsenal Fan went quiet. “Does Foppa know, too? I’m kinda tripping about that.”

  “I didn’t tell him, and we didn’t really talk about her anyway.”

  “Okay, good,” the buddy replied, taking a swig of his beer.

  Suhonen was drinking a Coke and considering his next move. The mention of Foppa’s name gave him an opening. Suhonen made his decision quickly and rose with his glass. His odds were low, but sitting at the bar was starting to get old... There had been no sign of Saarnikangas. His dark mood suited his role.

  “Hey, guys,” he said without smiling, and sat down at their table. Arsenal Fan and Moustache Man looked at the intruder without saying a word.

  “You were talking about Foppa. I know him.”

  Neither one said anything until Moustache Man figured it was best to announce, “So do I.”

  “Good,” Suhonen said. “That’s what it sounded like a second ago.”

  “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “No,” Suhonen replied, his voice clearly softer. “You guys were talking loud enough for half the bar to hear. Not smart.”

  Moustache Man eyed Suhonen intently. “Where do you know Foppa from?”

  “Did time in the same block.”

  “Which one?”

  Suhonen felt the urge to smile, but it didn’t suit his role. Moustache Man had tossed out a control question.

  “East block, third floor.”

  “What were you in for?” Arsenal Fan asked, a little shyly. Suhonen figured he was wondering whether the stranger had heard the story about him taking care of the wife.

  “Occupational mishap. Two years, two months for aggravated assault. Got caught on a surveillance camera I didn’t know about.”

  Arsenal Fan and Moustache Man nodded sympathetically, but clearly a little uncertainly.

  “Who are you looking for?” Moustache Man asked.

  “How so?” Suhonen’s tone was so coy that the other two could tell he was definitely looking for someone.

  “An enforcer like you in a neighborhood pub. Drinking a Coke. You think we’re stupid?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid. And this Coke is warm. Suikkanen,” Suhonen said. His motivation was clear: by introducing himself first, he brought himself to the same level as his drinking buddies.

  “Suikkanen.” Moustache Man savored the name. “Never heard.”

  Suhonen flashed a cold smile. “You’re not supposed to have.”

  “Yugi,” Arsenal Fan said, extending a hand.

  Moustache Man eyed his buddy coldly, and Yugi pulled his hand back. Moustache Man introduced himself: “Eki.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Suhonen said, giving another smile.

  “I’m going to ask repeat the question, if you don’t mind,” Eki continued. “Who are you looking for? Who’s in trouble?”

  Suhonen stroked his chin. “No one would be in trouble if everyone just paid their debts.”

  Arsenal Yugi and Moustache Eki were silent. Both were pleased that neither had any debts to speak of. The enforcer in the leather jacket seemed like a bad guy, one you didn’t want to spend a whole lot of time around.

  “Juha Saarnikangas.”

  “Juha?” Yugi let slip. Eki gave his friend an evil look. Now there was no point denying it, even if they wanted to.

  “They said in Kontula he might be here.”

  “How much does he owe?” Eki asked.

  Suhonen shrugged. “It’s none of my business.”

  “What is your business?”

  “Finding him.”

  “And then what?” Eki asked.

  “Now, that’s none of your business.”

  “Why would someone send a torpedo like you after some small-time junkie? That’s a pretty stacked deck.”

  “You want to join in?” Suhonen asked, looking intently at Eki. “Would it be more even then?”

  “I’m not too fond of your tone.”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  Yugi had taken a swig of his beer and now managed to get a word in. “I don’t give a shit about the guy. He stole a wallet from some twelve-year-old kid in Tallinn Square once, goddammit. I was having a drink and happened to see it. It was completely out of control, and I ran the clown down. When I brought the wallet back to the kid, who was bawling his head off, the cops were there, and I had a hell of a time explaining what happened. Luckily they believed the kid that I wasn’t the one who took it. In the end they even thanked me.”

  Suhonen nodded. “Touching story. But where can I find him?”

  Yugi continued, “He was here about three hours ago, but he shot up in the john, and the bouncer threw him out. Got banned from here for a month, for a change. I think he’s crawled back to some hole for the night. I doubt he’ll be out again.”

  “What hole?”

  “I don�
��t know. He’s got some bitch here somewhere nearby, but he’s always hanging around the Itäkeskus Mall parking lot in the morning, checking to see if someone left their car door unlocked and their stuff inside. That’s where I’d look for him if I had to.”

  “And would you?”

  “I won’t,” Moustache Man said quickly.

  Suhonen ignored Eki’s response. “A C-note if you tell me where to find him.”

  “I don’t have to do anything else?”

  “All I need is to know where I can find him.”

  Eki tried to curb his buddy’s enthusiasm. “Think for a second about what you’re getting mixed up in.”

  “I’m not getting mixed up in anything except helping someone give the idiot what he deserves.”

  “You’re drunk,” Eki said, standing up. “Sorry, I’m not interested in this conversation anymore.”

  Suhonen gave Moustache Man a hard look as he rose.

  “No worries. I already forgot,” Eki said, heading in the direction of the bar.

  “Good,” Suhonen growled, writing down the number for his off-the-record line on a scrap of paper he found in his pocket. The prepaid phone couldn’t be traced back to the police.

  * * *

  Joutsamo saw a knife. Not some gleaming dagger; just a rusty old all-purpose Mora. She realized she was in an empty, windowless room. A lone light bulb dangled from the ceiling. A second knife fell from somewhere, and then a third. Soon the floor was covered in knives. They reached up to her ankles, her knees. Joutsamo wanted to run, but she couldn’t move.

  She woke up in a sweat. She had kicked off her blanket and was sprawled in bed in her T-shirt and underpants. She looked at the red lights on her clock radio: 3:32 a.m.

  She lay there for a moment, breathing. The windows of her one-bedroom Töölö apartment gave onto the large interior courtyard. The curtains were drawn, but yellow light from the yard gleamed in through the gap.

  Her nightmares had returned. Joutsamo wasn’t able to predict when they came, and it made going to bed unpleasant. Violence had been stored to her mental hard drive. At times Joutsamo wondered whether she should go back to Narcotics or transfer to other duties. But something about violent crimes fascinated her. Maybe it was that evil was so unpredictable. People committed senseless acts for such trivial reasons. Joutsamo had always been interested in the motives behind a crime, especially if one was never found.