Helsinki homicide: Cold Trail

by Sipila, Jarkko

  “What can you tell us about the body?”

  The mood seemed somehow tense, so Kannas decided to stick to the facts.

  “The body is at the medical examiner’s office, so they will provide more detailed analyses, but it was lying next to the dining table, and there was blood and hair on the corner of the table. A naked-eye estimate: I’d say the gray color of the hair matches the hair on Karppi’s head.”

  “So he hit his head on the table.” Takamäki said. It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes, it’s pretty rare for a table to hit someone in the head,” Kannas jibed, but the joke flopped. “There were no substances on the floor that would directly indicate slipping. The deceased’s medical history is unknown, so it’s impossible to say whether he had a propensity for fainting or some other condition that could have caused the incident.”

  Takamäki looked at Kannas. “So at this point we know that Repo was inside the home at some point and that Karppi hit his head against the table for one reason or another.”

  “The cause of death will be revealed during the autopsy,” Kannas said. “I’d estimate the time of death to be morning, maybe between nine and eleven. It’s also possible that he had a heart attack and lost his balance and... Well, there’s no point speculating. The guys are combing through Repo’s dad’s house now, and after that we’ll take a look at that car Joutsamo found down the street, the one stolen from the swimming pool. They promised to call right away if the prints matched Repo’s.”

  “Was there a cell phone or landline in Karppi’s house?”

  Kannas thought for a second. “There was a cordless phone in the living room, but we didn’t find a cell phone.”

  “I’ll find out whether he had one,” Kohonen announced.

  “Let’s get the info on calls made from the landline just in case Repo used it,” Joutsamo continued.

  Takamäki thanked Kannas and added, “So the situation is that we have reason to suspect Timo Repo of homicide. Of course it’s also possible that an outsider had been there, but Repo remains our main line of investigation. We’ll decide on the classification of the crime once we have more facts, but as of now we’re looking at murder.”

  The others nodded.

  “And one more thing. Up till this point, our efforts have earned us an F-minus. Let’s try and do a little better.”

  “What about the press?” Joutsamo asked.

  Several reporters had asked about Repo’s hunt that day.

  “I’m still working on that,” Takamäki said.

  * * *

  The wipers swept the sleet from the car’s windshield. Suhonen was waiting at a red light at the corner of North Shore Drive and Maneesi Street. It wasn’t an intersection per se; it was a pedestrian crossing signal. A revolving ad display circled lazily in front of a red-and-yellow brick structure dating from 1840, North Shore Drive 18. Liisa Park was on the right, and behind it stood the War Museum. Suhonen had read somewhere that this was Helsinki’s Jugendstil architecture atits best.

  No one picked up, and Suhonen tossed the phone onto the gray passenger seat. Goddammit, Salmela! Okay, it was possible that his SIM card could have expired by now.

  The lights changed, and Suhonen stepped on the gas.

  He hadn’t felt like hanging around the station, where everyone seemed down about their zero-result manhunt. When a case didn’t move forward, police had too much time to think. That’s when it was better to go out onto the streets and see if you could find something there.

  Suhonen had been tooling around Kallio and Sörnäinen, hoping that he would accidentally run into a familiar face. Someone who would be able to tell him something. He had popped into six different bars for a coffee, and now he had to piss like nobody’s business.

  On the right, at the corner of North Shore Drive sand Kirkko Street, rose a handsome building with a tall, round corner tower. It was designed by Theodor Höijer in the 1880s. Suhonen had once staked out one of the sailboats in the nearby marina from in front of this residence and remembered the street-side plaque well. It stated that the lindens fronting the building had been planted by the ambassador of Imperial Japan in the autumn of 1943 as an emblem of the friendship between the peoples of Japan and Finland.

  A little further up Kirkko Street stood the Ministry of the Interior. Maybe they’d let him use the bathroom if he flashed his badge. Then he’d be able to say that for once the ministry had offered genuine assistance to an officer in the field.

  Suhonen’s second phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “Is that Suikkanen?”

  “Is that Juha?”

  “No, it’s Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Huh,” Suhonen growled. “What the fuck?”

  “‘Is that Juha?’ sounded like code language, is all. My code name could be Scarlet Pimpernel from here on out.”

  “I’ll give you a scarlet nose if you don’t get to the point.”

  At the corner of Customs Square, Suhonen turned the car from the North Shore Drive extension onto Alexander Street. He passed a low, one-story brick building on the right.

  “I’ve got an address,” Saarnikangas croaked.

  “For Repo?”

  “I think he’s there.”

  “What is it?”

  Saarnikangas cleared his throat. “Hmm, system’s kind of shutting down here, short-term memory loss. Early onset of Alzheimer’s.”

  “Stop using so much junk,” Suhonen growled, turning his car onto Maria Street. On the right, up ahead, was Maria Street 9, which stood out from the street’s other, older, more beautiful buildings. It was a corrugated metal structure built in the sixties. The only good thing about it was the Ace of Spades karaoke bar, the premier karaoke bar in Finland, where not just anybody dared to take the mic.

  “Goddammit,” Juha cried. “You just said what I was supposed to remember. Junk. You promised me a couple of packs. I need them.”

  “Once I have Repo.”

  “You don’t understand,” Saarnikangas said irritated. “I need it so I can pay this one guy. Plus a C-note.”

  “Money, too?” Suhonen said. He was sure that Saarnikangas was taking him for a ride. But he had a lousy hand, and it was best to check what Saarnikangas was holding. A few Subus and a C-note didn’t make much of a dent in the state budget. “Okay,” Suhonen said before the junkie could start elaborating.

  “Okay? Like Okay-Okay?”

  “Where are you?” Suhonen asked, his voice hard.

  * * *

  Sanna Römpötti and Anna Joutsamo were sitting in the second-story kebab joint at the Pasila train station.

  “How is it?” the reporter asked.

  “These always taste the same. Does this place belong to some bigger chain? Someone who supplies the lamb to all these restaurants?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Römpötti said, plastic-forking chunks of meat from a pita swimming in garlic sauce.

  “Listen,” Joutsamo said. “The food here isn’t the reason I wanted to meet you.”

  “Really?” Römpötti asked, although she had guessed what was on Joutsamo’s mind as soon as she called.

  “Repo,” Joutsamo said.

  “The escaped convict? What about him?”

  Joutsamo hesitated again. She knew that with Römpötti she didn’t have to say You didn’t hear this from me, but the situation was still delicate.

  “It’s the original conviction. I read all the papers and spoke with the lead investigator from the old case, and at least to me, it feels like it’s on really shaky ground.”

  “Innocent?” Römpötti asked directly.

  “I’m not saying that, but it sparks some questions.”

  “Like what?” Römpötti asked, pulling a pen and notebook from her bag.

  In ten minutes, Joutsamo repeated the same points she had brought up not long before at police station, and Römpötti jotted them down.

  “This is a big deal,” Römpötti said, once Joutsamo was finished.


  “Don’t you think? At least those are questions that should be raised.”

  “Yeah, especially since Fredberg, the current chief justice of the Supreme Court, was one of the members of the appeals court bench.”

  “Was he?” Joutsamo asked. Suhonen had brought her the copy of the verdict he had found in Repo’s cell, but Joutsamo hadn’t noticed Fredberg’s name.

  “Yes. For that TV interview I went through all of Fredberg’s life sentence convictions. Of course we didn’t analyze them the way you did. There were thirty of them, but I definitely remember the name Repo.”

  “I have the verdict. I’ll have to check it out.”

  “Just picture the headline, Supreme Court Chief Sentenced Innocent Man to Life.”

  “Immediate resignation,” Joutsamo nodded.

  “Most definitely. How’s the Repo case progressing, anyway?”

  “Haven’t found him yet, even though we’ve been working our butts off.”

  “Has he headed out of town?”

  Joutsamo considered a moment before answering. “We have strong indications that he’s here in the greater Helsinki area.”

  “What kinds of indications?” Römpötti fired back.

  “Hey, we gotta have some secrets, too,” Joutsamo chuckled. “No, it’s genuinely information that I can’t divulge without endangering the operation.”

  “Aww, I wouldn’t tell anyone except a million of my closest friends.”

  * * *

  Suhonen found a small space in front of a red stucco building on Korkeavuori Street and parallel-parked his Peugeot in it. His urge to piss had disappeared after he dropped by the burger joint at Kasarmi Square. He hadn’t ordered any more coffee.

  Suhonen got out of the car and waited for the number 10 tram to rumble past. He leapt across the road, trying to dodge the puddles. The double towers of the neo-Gothic Johannes Cathedral rose before him. Saarnikangas had told him he was inside the hundred-year-old church. What the hell, Suhonen thought. At least it was a change from the endless smoky bars.

  Suhonen leapt up two stairs at a time as he strode up to the double doors. The church was shaped like a cross, with the entrance at its foot. Suhonen had never been inside, but ten years ago at the station they had watched the televised service for the two officers who had been shot execution-style on Tehdas Street by an escaped Danish convict.

  The church was bigger than it had looked on TV. The dark, ornate pews, heavy candelabras, and stained glass made the interior gloomy, even though the walls were pale. Five people appeared to be sitting in the hall. Four were at the front; one sat further back. Suhonen immediately recognized Saarnikangas’s matted hair. The junkie was sitting near the central aisle.

  Suhonen sat down next to him.

  “Are you seeking redemption?” Suhonen whispered. “I am the way and the path.”

  Saarnikangas’s eyes were tired. “Who’re you, Jesus Crystal?”

  “Listen, Juha,” Suhonen said gravely. “If you want to check yourself into a clinic, I can get you in. Seriously.”

  Saarnikangas looked at Suhonen. “I don’t think I’m feeling it... I tried once, but I cut out mid-treatment. It’s not for me.”

  “Are you sure?” Suhonen asked. He didn’t want to moralize and preach about a better life, because it wouldn’t do any good. Juha Saarnikangas had an alternative, but the motivation had to come from himself, no one else. Suhonen knew a lot of junkies and crooks who had made it, but many more who had died.

  “Check out that altarpiece,” Saarnikangas asked. “Do you know who painted it?”

  Suhonen shook his head.

  “Ever heard of Eero Järnefelt?”

  “Not on my list of APBs.”

  “Funny,” Saarnikangas said, without smiling. “That was originally supposed to be Albert Edelfelt’s painting Bethlehem, but he crossed swords with Melander, the architect. The architect won, and Edelfelt’s work ended up a couple of years later in a church in Vaasa as an altarpiece titled The Shepherd Kneels.”

  Saarnikangas looked at the tall, narrow painting of three men and a horse gazing up at the Lord standing amid the clouds.

  “How do you know all that?” Suhonen asked.

  Juha disregarded Suhonen’s question. His eyes remained on the painting. “This heavenly vision is oil on canvas and the theme was taken from the New Testament, Acts of the Apostles. The guy who’s on his ass, blocking the light with his hand, is Saul. Old Saul here persecuted Jesus’ apostles and wanted to imprison them.” Saarnikangas’s tone turned biblical. “And suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven: And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But arise, and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what thou must do.”

  Juha turned his gaze to Suhonen. “Saul became the Apostle Paul.”

  Suhonen didn’t reply.

  “Art history, at the university. My short-term memory is shot, but stuff like this I remember.” Saarnikangas attempted a grin, but the expression was sad. “Well, in any case, even though it’s a Järnefelt, for practical purposes it’s a copy of a painting by Vincenzo Camuccini from a church in Rome.”

  Saarnikangas fell silent. Suhonen didn’t have anything to say, either. The few others in the church were still sitting quietly, and no one else had entered.

  “Well,” Juha said, running his hand through his filthy hair. “I’m not here to waste your time. We had a deal.”

  Saarnikangas held out his hand, and Suhonen slipped him two packs of Subutex with a hundred-euro bill rubber-banded around them.

  “Da Vinci’s The Last Supper,” Saarnikangas said quietly. “Lord, who is it? Lord, is it I?”

  Suhonen looked at the altarpiece.

  “Hietalahti Shore Drive 17, the A entrance,” Saarnikangas whispered. “Third floor. The door says Mäkinen. It’s an old servant’s apartment, a little studio. You might want to check it out. He might be armed.”

  Suhonen stood, but Saarnikangas stayed sitting in the pew.

  Saarnikangas kept his gaze down until he was certain that the undercover cop in the leather jacket had exited the church.

  Juha rose, stepped into the aisle, and moved closer to the altar. There was a man in a gray coat sitting in the seventh row, and Saarnikangas sat down next to him. There was a large shoulder bag at the man’s feet.

  “Thank you,” Repo said quietly. “Is this going to cause problems for you?”

  “No worries.”

  “What if the cop comes back?”

  “I can handle him,” Saarnikangas said. “He’s not too bright. I made a reference to that Leonardo da Vinci painting The Last Supper and said, ‘Lord, who is it? Lord, is it I?’”

  Repo gave a slightly perplexed look at the long-haired junkie, who was smiling smugly. “And?”

  “Well, who am I referring to with that quote?”

  “Judas Iscariot?” Repo guessed.

  Saarnikangas pursed his lips. “Agh, you don’t get it either. It was Simon Peter, the most faithful disciple.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Repo said coldly.

  “Look, I gave the cop a clue, but because he’s so dumb he didn’t understand that I’m not betraying you. So he deserves to be betrayed,” Saarnikangas said with a smile.

  “If you say so,” Repo replied coolly. “It is what it is. Thanks for the pad. I needed the sleep. I won’t forget you.”

  “Whatever it is you’ve decided to do, do it soon,” Saarnikangas said, eyeing Repo’s shoulder bag. “Those cops aren’t kidding around.”

  Repo didn’t get it, but began humming a hymn: “Now is the moment of truth, guide us as we seek the path to purity.”

  Saarnikangas put a hand to Repo’s lips before any of the others could turn around.

  * * *

  Hietalahti Shore Drive 17 wasn’t the easiest place to stake out. Suhonen had parked his Peugeot
so that he could see the A entrance, which was located next to a bookstore. The main door of the yellow-stucco, seven-story structure was decorated with three large ornamental circles. The building’s southern windows had a direct view of the shipyards and the terminal for the Tallinn ferries.

  Suhonen had no idea as to whether the building had a basement. It probably did, because the uppermost floor looked like it had been added on to the original 1930s structure. The problem with basements was that they usually provided easy access from stairwell to stairwell, meaning you could use any of the building’s exits, and Suhonen had no idea if the building had doors leading to an interior courtyard.

  Red marquees hung over the bookstore windows. Lights appeared to be on inside, even though it was coming up on 9 p.m. Evidently someone was working late.

  Suhonen had called in the information on Repo’s potential whereabouts to Takamäki, who had decided to call in SWAT assistance. It would take a little while for them to get ready, and Suhonen had been sent to the scene to keep an eye on things. There were several lit windows on the third floor, so he couldn’t deduce anything that way.

  Turunen, head of the SWAT team, called Suhonen’s cell and asked what the status was.

  “There have been a few dog-walkers, but that’s about it. You want me to go in and check things out?”

  “Yeah,” Turunen said. “Check if the main door is locked, and how we can get past it. But no further, okay?”

  “Yup,” Suhonen replied, getting out of the car. He dug a couple pieces of gum from his jacket pocket and tossed them in his mouth.

  It was getting colder, either that or it just seemed colder near the shore.

  Suhonen got to the main door and glanced up and down the street. Empty. The stairwell lights were off, so no one was exiting the building, either. Suhonen tried the door and immediately noticed that it had some give. He pulled out his ATM card and shoved it into the crack. The card pressed in the tongue of the lock, and a few seconds later the door was open.

  Suhonen spat his gum out into his palm and pressed it into the hinge side of the doorjamb. He let the door close carefully. It didn’t go far enough for the lock to click into place. The SWAT guys would be able to open it with a tug.