“He showed up a half hour late, but I was in no hurry. I was just having some coffee,” he explained. “So he comes to the table and I can see right away that he’s high as a kite. Can’t sit still. He’s complaining that he’s hot and he feels like shit. Then he takes off to the bathroom. I stay and wait at the table and fifteen minutes later I go to check on what’s taking so long. Hell, if I hadn’t gone, I would’ve been waiting a damn long time. He was lying dead in the stall. Obvious OD.”
“You call an ambulance?” Suhonen asked, glancing at Takamäki who was listening in.
“Of course, but I didn’t give out my name. I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t have anything to do with it. There are shitloads of security cameras at the train station, so I’m sure I’m on tape. It was completely his own fault. I had nothing to do with it.”
“OK.” Suhonen tried to calm him down. “I’m glad you called. Can I get hold of you at this number?”
“Yeah, at least this week.”
“You know what he’s been up to lately?” Suhonen asked. He intentionally left out the bit about Karjalainen having been spotted leaving the same ship as Salmela’s mule.
“I dunno.”
“Why’d you guys meet?”
“Uhh,” Juha stalled. “He owed me some money and promised to pay up this morning.”
Suhonen wasn’t sure whether Saarnikangas was telling the truth.
“What kind of dope was he on?”
“Speed. Not sure if he took anything else. The jitters definitely pointed to speed.”
“Is there any unusually strong stuff on the streets right now?” Suhonen wondered. An experienced user wouldn’t screw up a dose. Most often, deaths from amphetamines were due to overdose, but sometimes they were caused by contaminants.
“Not sure. It’s certainly possible, but his heart could’ve just given out too.”
“I’ll call you,” Suhonen said and hung up the phone. He updated Takamäki on the conversation and mentioned that the lab should run a comparative analysis between the drugs found on Karjalainen and those found on Marju Mägi.
CHAPTER 14
SATURDAY, 10:50 A.M.
SKULLS’ COMPOUND, HELSINKI
Aronen parked the blue VW Golf in the yard of the Skulls’ headquarters.
“Sami, we need a couple things for the yard,” said Larsson. “A proper fence and barriers that’ll keep out the pigs even if they roll up in tanks. Same with the front gate.”
“Okay,” said Aronen.
“You’ve got the expertise from the Afghan bases, so draw up some plans and pay some firm to do it. They can take care of the bureaucracy if we need permits.”
Aronen gazed at the sky and thought aloud, “If we barricade the yard, they’ll just come from above in choppers.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“The building has a flat roof. Missiles are probably out of the question, but we could put fireproof platforms on every corner topped with piles of tires. Then if we need to, just light ’em up for a smoke screen. And if we could get them from somewhere, we can put a few landmines on the roof. Also, I think we’ll need to do something to those windows so they can’t shoot tear gas inside.”
“In other words?” Larsson asked.
“Strong steel mesh on the outside and replace the windows with bulletproof glass.”
“Do it.”
Larsson walked to the front door. “And something has to be done about this.”
Aronen, the AK-47 swaddled in his arms, looked at Larsson, wondering what the boss had in mind. Preparing for a damn war? At some point, the cops would borrow a few Leopard tanks from the army, slap some “POLICE” stickers on them, and plow through. In that case, they’d need some of those new shoulder-fired anti-tank missiles, which could be fired from inside a building without scorching the room.
“Yeah, we’ll reinforce it,” he responded nonetheless.
With some dynamite and shotgun shells, they could easily build some IEDs, but the anti-tank missiles would be virtually impossible to obtain. If Larsson’s intent was to launch a full-scale urban war against the police, it would be absurd for the whole gang to be holed up in one building. Maybe Larsson just wanted to flex his muscles.
With the AK-47 in his hand, Aronen followed Larsson into the building and they headed up the stairs. Aronen was already counting in his mind how many sandbags they’d need. At least a stack for every window, but that wouldn’t look so good. Maybe they could stash them someplace where they could easily be pulled out when needed.
They nodded to the rookie on guard, who had cut his pinball game short when the pair walked in. The men proceeded to the back room and Aronen locked the assault rifle in a metal cabinet.
“So where’d the AK-47 come from?” he thought aloud.
Larsson stared at him, “Ask Gonzales.”
Yeah, of course, Aronen thought. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and offered one to Larsson, who shook his head. Aronen sat down on the sofa, Larsson at the round table in front of his laptop.
“You know everything you do on the computer can be tracked,” Larsson remarked. “Everything.”
Aronen nodded. Larsson’s eyes were fixed on the screen as he tapped on the keys. Aronen had read some article in the newspaper about computer security, but his knowledge of computers was limited to word processing, email and the internet. He wanted to ask what they should do about the reporter, but Larsson would tell him sooner or later.
“Did you know that the pigs use mostly WIFI in their audio surveillance these days?”
Larsson didn’t expect an answer this time either. Aronen put the unopened beer back in the fridge. It wasn’t even 11 o’clock yet—maybe he could make it to the gym. He got up and decided to scan the building for listening devices first.
Suddenly, a booming voice from the bar startled the men, “Larsson! Dammit! Come outta your mouse hole!”
* * *
Joutsamo was sitting in her chair when Suhonen stepped into the shared office area.
“Well?” she snapped. Lieutenant Kafka had spread the flu to his detectives, so Takamäki had ended up asking his own team to cover. He had promised a long respite for the following week.
“Nothing. Meetings, meetings, meetings and lots of ‘let’s think about it’—just like the Stockholm PD,” Suhonen grumbled.
“Kulta went to check out the bathroom at the train station,” Joutsamo said.
“Good.”
Suhonen sat briefly at his corner desk, booted up his computer, and stood up again.
“Half day today?” Joutsamo hollered as Suhonen stepped out of the room.
“Coffee or tea?” he turned to ask.
“Neither,” she said, and continued to scrutinize her interrogation transcript.
A minute later, Suhonen returned with a steaming cup of coffee. “Little coffee break,” he said, but Joutsamo couldn’t hear through her headphones.
Suhonen settled in front of the computer and pulled up the information on the deceased Karjalainen. His last known address was in South Haaga. Suhonen knew the apartment building, located behind the Central Fire Station.
He picked up his desk phone and dialed Mikko Kulta, who told him they had indeed found Karjalainen in the lavatory, and that he appeared to have died of an overdose. Nothing indicated foul play.
“Did he have anything on him?”
“Didn’t find any drugs. An empty needle, though.”
“What about money?”
“Just an empty wallet.”
“Okay. Bring everything here.”
“Wasn’t planning on putting them in the garbage,” Kulta said.
Suhonen’s thoughts turned to Juha Saarnikangas. The man had said that Karjalainen owed him some money, but none was found. Maybe Juha had raided the wallet when he found the body. Any drugs would have obviously gone the same route.
* * *
Niko killed the Chevy in the side yard of the Skulls’ Compound. The four men got
out of the car as a rusty, beige ’80s Opel Cadet was being pushed into one of the downstairs garage stalls. Salmela had once owned the same car and he glanced at the plates: AFR. The letters matched, but the numbers didn’t.
Niko walked in front, and behind him was Salmela, sandwiched between Roge and Osku.
“Well, Salmela, welcome to our offices,” Niko said in a pompous tone.
Salmela didn’t expect anyone to offer him a beer or challenge him to a game of pool.
“Things went so well out in the woods today that I have a plan to settle your debt.”
Salmela watched the animated Niko with vacant eyes.
“You owe about twenty Gs, so if I pay you, say, two grand a month, then you’ll be paid up in ten months… No wait, two grand is too much,” he mumbled to himself. “Fifteen hundred, so let’s say in one year we’re all square.”
“What do I gotta do?”
“You’ll clean this place every morning. Vacuum, dust, pick up the empty bottles and butts, wash the toilet and all that.” Larsson had told him to get a capable guy to take care of the housekeeping. During their episode in the forest, Salmela had demonstrated his trustworthiness.
“I see,” Salmela managed. “A year?”
Niko’s expression was rigid. “That a problem?”
“No…”
“But you can take comfort in the fact that the pay is completely tax-free,” Niko sneered. “So get to work. The cleaning supplies are over there in the corner closet by the bar. If you run out of something or need anything else, feel free to bring it yourself tomorrow.”
Salmela’s eyes scoured the dim room for the closet.
“Don’t touch the windows,” Niko said, pointing to the cardboard-covered frames.
Roge chimed in. “But make sure to clean the glass on the pinball machine.”
“And one more thing,” Niko said. “What happens in here, stays in here. It’s a short trip back to that cliff.”
* * *
A lanky blond man was sitting on the sofa in the back room, chuckling as Larsson spoke. Rolf Steiner had showed up on his own time.
“You got a problem?” Larsson cut in from the table. Aronen sat further back, observing. The weapons expert was wearing a tank top, and one of his shoulders was tattooed with an arrow pattern in the form of bear claws.
“Yeah,” Steiner shot back. “Your bullshit.”
“Huh?”
“Just listen to yourself,” said Steiner. A long-sleeved Metallica shirt and dirty jeans hung from his lean frame. “None of us have ever talked about branding before. Fuck. What is this, some kind of ad agency?”
Larsson rubbed his bald head. Steiner was a simple guy, but Larsson needed him to buy into the new program.
“Brand is just a word. Hell, forget it. You tell me how to revive this gang.”
“Simple. More toughs out of the pen.”
Larsson nodded. “I agree. But how are we gonna do that? There’s about a half-dozen other gangs in there trying to recruit the same guys.”
“Let’s work out an NHL-style draft with the other gangs.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look. Every gang will get their turn to pick one eighteen-year-old. The weakest group goes first and so on.”
Larsson wondered what Steiner had been smoking this time. “Uh-huh,” he managed.
Steiner peered over at him with his squinty eyes. “I think you spent too much time in your cell. Read too many damn books.”
“Any time in a cell is too much time,” Larsson said. Steiner was right, though. Larsson’s strategy was simple. Most people had some knowledge of the Skulls, and the more they were feared, the better. That way, recruits would perceive them as a more attractive option.
The Skulls didn’t have a problem with name recognition, they were well known. But the quality of their product, at least in Larsson’s opinion, was mediocre at best. They had to become more professional. And what about their image? The Skulls were associated with violence, but more so through prison sentences than by being successful at what they did. Larsson wanted to give recruits the impression that this gang was successful, and joining would mean money and power.
“So tell me, why don’t we have recruits lining up at the door?” Larsson asked.
“Because we’re too boring,” Steiner said. “When’s the last time we had a bash here—where we invited candidates and prospects? We had one last summer, but it’s been pretty quiet since. No? And next time we better have a living buffet.”
In a living buffet, a naked woman lies on the table covered in whipped cream and fruit, which the guests get to eat—with the bulk of the goodies piled on her breasts and bikini area.
Larsson was in agreement and Aronen nodded too. “So how come you’re in this gang, then?”
Steiner’s jaw muscles rippled. “We got a problem?”
“No. I just want to know.”
The question was difficult for Steiner and he took a moment.
“It’s not because it’s fun. Anyone afraid of prison doesn’t belong here. We get money, and of course, trust is the most important thing. I have to be able to trust every man here. No betrayals. That’s what it’s all about. Respect.”
Now it was Larsson’s turn to laugh. “So that’s our brand.”
Steiner lunged to his feet and a stiletto appeared in his hand. “You wanna go?” he snarled. He looked serious.
Aronen crept up from the side and kicked the knife out of Steiner’s hand. He landed a straight right on the man’s jaw and Steiner collapsed on the couch.
“Don’t we have enough to do around here without fighting each other?” Aronen said calmly.
No sooner had he said it than Larsson walked from the table and threw a quick left hook into his gut. Aronen instinctively started to strike back, but he managed to stop himself.
“Conversations between Steiner and myself are none of your business,” Larsson growled. “Remember that.”
Aronen clenched his teeth.
* * *
The Skulls’ toilet was literally shitty and it stunk. Salmela had hung his leather jacket in the broom closet, leaving only jeans and a T-shirt. The ex-con scoured the bowl with a toilet brush soaked in detergent. He was no stranger to this, having worked as a custodian in the brig in his younger days.
Salmela breathed through his mouth to keep from vomiting again. The toilet bowl took five minutes and he moved on to the floor and then the tiled walls. Last would be the sink and mirror.
Fuck this, he thought. Well, at least it came clean.
He drank some rusty-tasting water from the tap. The pipes were due for replacement.
Salmela stepped out of the bathroom and wondered what to do next. He caught sight of Niko at the bar, divvying up fifty-euro notes between Roge and Osku, but quickly looked away. Salmela decided to clean the sticky glass on the pinball machine as he had been ordered.
* * *
A fifty-something maintenance man stood in front of the stairwell in his overalls. The light-brown stucco apartment building, located behind the Central Fire Station, was built in the latter half of the fifties. Above the door, illuminated by the light from the stairwell, was a sign with the number 6. The lamp was crooked. The building was situated perpendicular to the street, and in front of the building was a rocky outcropping with a few pines growing on it.
A blue and white Volvo police station wagon pulled up to the front door. Leaning up against the wall was an orange bicycle with a large chain and padlock hanging from the frame.
Suhonen got out of the passenger side. Johan Strand, an immense uniformed officer sporting a mustache, circled back to the hatch and let out Esko, his German shepherd. The dog immediately heeled beside its handler. Suhonen had requested the help of a drug-sniffing dog.
Further off on the outcropping, a man in a baseball cap walking his collie was closely following the events in front of the building.
Strand also lifted out a heavy pipe, about three feet l
ong and six inches in diameter, with hand grips in the middle.
“I see you brought your own key,” the maintenance man rasped. Strand nodded, a dark wool hat stretched over his bald head.
Suhonen had explained the matter over the phone so the maintenance man asked no questions, just led the policemen into the stairwell.
The dog’s claws scraped on the marble stairs. Karjalainen’s apartment was on the third floor. The maintenance man got out his keys, but Suhonen stopped him.
“Let’s ring the doorbell first.”
It was possible that the police database was out of date and someone other than Vesa Karjalainen was living in the flat.
They heard the muffled chime of the doorbell. Instinctively, the cops took their positions on both sides of the door.
A moment passed before the sound of shuffling came from behind the door. The dog shifted anxiously at its handler’s side.
The maintenance man was standing directly in front of the door and Strand jerked him out of the potential line of fire.
The door cracked open a couple of inches. The security chain was engaged.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Helsinki police,” Suhonen announced and showed his badge through the crack in the door. A woman with tangled blonde hair and a black hooded sweatshirt peered out. Suhonen estimated her age at forty.
“What do you want?”
Suhonen immediately concluded that they were dealing with a repeat customer. An ordinary citizen would open the door without any further questions.
“May we come inside?”
“Why?”
Suhonen wondered how to put it. He couldn’t really say they were looking for Vesa Karjalainen, because if the woman was his wife or girlfriend, he’d end up delivering the bad news. “Vesa Karjalainen?” he uttered.
“Not me,” she said.
“Is this Karjalainen’s apartment?”
“Sometimes. He’s somewhere downtown now.”
Suhonen had a warrant signed by Takamäki to search the residence used by Karjalainen. In Finland, the police could search homes based on warrants executed by a lieutenant, with no further authorization from a judge. In principle, even though he was already deceased, the man could be suspected of drug use. Determining the cause of death also granted them the right to search the premises.
Helsinki Homicide: Vengeance Page 12