Helsinki Homicide: Vengeance

by Jarkko Sipila

  “You should’ve hired some pros from Estonia.”

  “Haven’t you ever thought of switching sides?” Salmela ventured, finishing off his water. “You’d be quite the expert.”

  Suhonen chuckled. There were certainly plenty of officers—or former officers—who had shifted to the dark side, but they hadn’t fared well. Traitors always got harsher treatment than other criminals. “Nope. This works just fine for me.”

  “Low pay and long hours.”

  “At least it pays the bills and I choose the long hours.”

  The banter went on for some time and Suhonen was glad they had plenty to talk about. Perhaps he should hold off on the proposal for a day or two. It was possible he could ruin the whole plan if he pushed Salmela too hard or too early.

  Infiltrating the Skulls wouldn’t be easy; they’d need a detailed game plan. One idea would be to devise a “robbery” where Salmela would get the money to pay his debt. Maybe that would elevate his status and allow him to penetrate the gang. From the pen, Salmela knew Larsson—the gang’s recently-released leader—so it wasn’t out of the question. Of course, a fake robbery would be a complicated trick since it would require publicizing false information, but it could be done.

  “So, guess where I’m working at?” Salmela asked.

  Maybe this could be the opportunity, Suhonen thought. Earlier, Salmela hadn’t wanted to talk about it. “You said you were cleaning and I picked you up in north Helsinki, so it’s probably some company over there. Judging by the smell of detergent on your clothes it’s a pretty filthy place.”

  “You got that right,” Salmela chuckled. “Filthy for sure.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “I cleaned the Skulls’ shitter today.”

  “Huh?”

  After hearing about the day’s events, Suhonen was stunned. Salmela decided not to mention the nature hike in the forest, however, since he didn’t want to involve his friend in it. He remembered the letter he had left on the sofa—that would have to be burned.

  Suhonen tried to keep a poker face. There was no longer any need for Salmela to infiltrate anything—he was already on the inside, and in a role where he could access any part of the club house on a daily basis without suspicion.

  “So you’re their slave now,” said Suhonen.

  “You could put it that way. But I’m alive.”

  “They threaten you?”

  “No,” Salmela snapped. “This is how I’m gonna pay up. It’s not completely fair, but it works for me.”

  Suhonen knew his friend had left something out. Of course, threats had been part of the deal. Somehow he had to get Salmela bitter enough to offset his fear of the gang. Or get him to fear the police more than the gang, but that was a poor alternative, Suhonen thought.

  “Listen, Eero,” Suhonen began. “You know that Estonian drug shipment that was supposed to get you out of debt?”

  “What about it?”

  “I asked Narcotics about it. Guess how much speed they found on your mule?”

  Salmela was confused. “The four pounds, of course.”

  Suhonen shook his head. “One and a half.”

  “What? Not possible.”

  “She had twenty ounces on the dot. The bags were taped to her sides.”

  Suhonen reached into his breast pocket and pulled out her mug shot and a document listing the confiscated goods. Salmela turned on the dome light and looked at the picture for a long time. Afterwards, he read the document.

  “Fuck. They ripped me off,” he snarled. “Damned Estonians. Charge me for four and send me one-and-a-half. Were they the ones to rat out the mule too? If you hadn’t said anything, I would’ve never known.”

  “There’s another piece to this story. You remember Vesa Karjalainen?”

  “The junkie? Yeah.”

  “Well, he was found dead this morning on the bathroom floor of the train station. OD.”

  “Not surprising.”

  Suhonen decided it was time to up the ante.

  “I’m going to give you a couple facts. One: I chatted with his girlfriend, and apparently, he was flat broke. Two: the narcotics cops who busted Mägi with the drugs also saw Karjalainen coming off the same boat.”

  Suhonen pulled out a screenshot of Karjalainen at the harbor and handed it to Salmela, who was still dumbfounded. Suhonen pushed on.

  “Three: Just before he died, Karjalainen went to settle a debt with some friend, which is why he was at the station. Four: I searched his apartment myself and found an ounce and a half of speed.”

  Salmela was floored by what he heard; his ears were red.

  “And five: I spoke with Karjalainen’s girlfriend during the search. She had nothing to do with any of this, but guess who picked him up just before he went to Estonia?”

  “Who?” Salmela asked, raking his fingers through his hair.

  “She didn’t know their names, but she knew they were Skulls and gave me a description: one fat guy and a couple younger ones. Can you put the pieces together?”

  “Son of a bitch!” Salmela was seething. He felt the throbbing start at the base of his skull. “They scammed me and had me foot the bill for everything. Goddamn sons-of-bitches.”

  Salmela had financed the drug shipment and taken the downside risk. But the Skulls had reduced their risk by splitting the shipment into two. It still wasn’t clear to Suhonen whether Mägi had been deliberately smoked so the larger—and possibly stronger—shipment would make it through. Karjalainen’s overdose indicated a potent batch. If that was the case, Mägi had been intentionally sacrificed for something she had done in Estonia.

  Suhonen was pleased at Salmela’s reaction. Now he had only to channel the man’s anger in the right direction.

  “Fuck,” Salmela went on. “I don’t suppose you’d care if I take a shotgun to work tomorrow morning and rid this world of those shitheads. Come pick me up around noon and throw me in jail, but let me burn down their goddamned shack first.”

  That’s one option, Suhonen thought, though not such a good one.

  “Listen, Eero,” said Suhonen quietly. “I have a proposal for you to think about.”

  Suhonen and Salmela continued to converse in the parking lot for another half an hour. Afterwards, Suhonen drove his friend home to Salmela’s apartment, a tall eight-story building on the corner of Sture Street in Kallio.

  The rain had picked up and Suhonen stopped the car in front of stairwell F. The curb was packed with cars, so he double-parked. Salmela got out, bade his friend goodbye, unlocked the frosted-glass door on the ground floor and went inside. Suhonen sped off.

  Neither man noticed the Fiat Ducato van parked on the other side of the street. Juha Saarnikangas sat in the front seat, the collar of his army jacket flipped up. Some teenage druggie was supposed to bring him two laptops, for which Juha had promised to pay a hundred euros. The kid was late, but it didn’t matter anymore. This was much better.

  Juha knew both Salmela and Suhonen, but hadn’t been aware that they knew each other. That was valuable information.

  * * *

  It was nearing eight o’clock and Lieutenant Takamäki was sitting on the couch at home. He had been watching Channel 4 news, which was no less depressing than the others: only gloomy economic stories. From a policeman’s perspective, that wasn’t all bad—recessions reduced alcohol consumption, which, in turn, lowered violent crimes. As understaffed as they were, however, the VCU wouldn’t feel a reduction of a few percentage points.

  He was thankful that news broadcasts were short.

  The forty-eight-year-old Takamäki lived in a townhome in Espoo’s Leppävaara district. His wife was out and the older of his boys was doing homework in his upstairs room—or so Takamäki hoped. More likely, he was listening to music or playing video games.

  The door opened and his younger son squeezed in with a hockey bag over his shoulder and a stick in his hand.

  “Hey,” Joonas called out from the door. “Anything to
eat?”

  “It’s on the stove. Stick it in the microwave if it’s cold.”

  Though Joonas had played hockey most of his life, he wasn’t talented enough for the Espoo Blues junior traveling team. Now he only played in a recreational league. As far as Takamäki was concerned, three practices a week for a sixteen-year-old were better than six or seven.

  Takamäki sifted through the pile of mail on the table: magazines and bills. Nothing especially interesting. The television was on commercials.

  Joonas came into the living room with a plate of food and sat down on the sofa next to his dad.

  “How’d your day go?”

  “Not bad,” Joonas shrugged. “Just hung around at the mall. Oh yeah, got my math test back on Friday. B+.”

  “Pretty good,” said Takamäki. “And practice?”

  “Just goofed around again.”

  “Uh-oh,” Takamäki said. Their coach wasn’t able to control the group of teenage boys, all of whom had quit the elite team for a rec league. Practices didn’t work without discipline.

  “He tried to get us to do skating drills, but Ripa and the others said they wanted to scrimmage—so we scrimmaged. But it was pretty weak.”

  “So Ripa’s the boss?” Takamäki said. Through the years, Ripa had played hockey with Joonas from mites onward and had quit the traveling team at the same time.

  Joonas shoveled down his chicken pasta without responding.

  “Listen, Dad,” he began. “I need a new phone.”

  “Is that so.”

  An iPhone ad was flickering on the screen.

  “That 3G one there. Ripa’s got that one.”

  Takamäki was about to say “is that so” again before deciding to take a more active role. “Where did he get that? Did his dad buy it for him?”

  “No, his brother bought it. He gives Ripa money too.”

  “His brother bought it? Pretty nice brother. Does he have a job? How old is he?”

  Joonas chewed his food as he talked. “Osku’s a little over twenty and he has a job…sort of.”

  Takamäki was interested. A guy in his early twenties buys an expensive phone for his little brother, and he sort of has a job. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing really. I’ve never met him, but Ripa bought us Cokes after practice. Apparently, his brother always has a lot of money and has his own car. He’s moved out.”

  “I believe it. If the guy has the money to buy his own car and a phone for his brother, then I doubt he lives with his folks. But what does he do?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Joonas answered, annoyed. “It’s probably connected to your job, even. He hangs out with that gang, the Skulls, and supposedly was in prison. By the way, Ripa said Osku could get us some phones for really cheap, but I figured I’d ask you first.”

  “That sounds really great. An ex-con selling phones for dirt cheap…”

  Takamäki’s cell phone rang.

  “You could use a new one too. That thing is ancient,” Joonas pointed at his phone.

  Takamäki glanced at the display then slipped into the hallway to talk. He closed the hall door so his voice wouldn’t be heard in the living room.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Nykänen here. You at work, or am I bothering you at home?”

  Takamäki said he was at home. The NBI agent teased him about the old days when they were both still in the office at eight P.M. every night.

  “I’ll get to the point. I think you’ve got something with that case of yours, so let’s get going on it right away. We just have to find a way to get the informant on the inside.”

  Takamäki glanced instinctively through the patterned glass of the door. It would muffle the sound, but wouldn’t prevent his voice from being heard in the living room.

  “Suhonen called about that earlier. He said it’s taken care of.”

  “Good. How?”

  “Listen, Jaakko. If it’s all right, we’ll stop by tomorrow morning.”

  Nykänen understood. “Okay. Too many ears over there, huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  They settled on a time and Takamäki returned to the living room.

  Joonas looked at his dad with curiosity. “You working on a good case?”

  SUNDAY,

  OCTOBER 25

  CHAPTER 16

  SUNDAY, 9:00 A.M.

  HOTEL PASILA, HELSINKI

  There was plenty of space in the restaurant at Hotel Pasila. Reporter Sanna Römpötti had arrived early and fetched herself coffee and toast from the buffet. The stench of Saturday night’s booze still hung in the air over many of the tables, but Römpötti was alert. Last night, she had limited herself to two glasses of merlot, as the meeting ahead promised to be interesting.

  Sami Aronen ambled down the aisle from the bar in wide strides and caught sight of Römpötti. He would’ve recognized the attractive brown-haired reporter from TV anyway, but she had texted him that she’d be wearing a black pantsuit and a white blouse. On her chest was a rather large silver brooch with a black pearl. Römpötti didn’t care much for the brooch, as it made her look matronly. But there was a reason for her choice of jewelry.

  Aronen greeted her politely, and she suggested that he get some breakfast. He accepted, and hung his leather coat over the back of his chair.

  Römpötti couldn’t help but notice the back muscles beneath the man’s black sweater as he turned away.

  She was sipping her coffee when he returned with some orange juice and a croissant. Behind her back, a streetcar rattled past the window.

  “I’m glad that this worked out,” she began.

  Aronen smiled. “When the media calls, the citizens come.”

  The gangster glanced around: no cameras in sight and Römpötti was clearly alone. If the reporter had backup, they would have to be among the hotel guests.

  “Right, right,” Römpötti smiled, stroking her hair. She had intentionally left an extra button open on her blouse.

  “I just now put the name and the face together,” said Aronen. “You were the one on that dance show last winter.”

  Römpötti laughed. “Yes, I’ve been hearing about that all year. Did you watch it?”

  “I watched part of one and saw the pictures in the papers, of course. In that samba episode—or was it rumba—you had on that short black skirt?”

  Römpötti confessed. “I didn’t actually choose it myself; they have a stylist who picks the costumes.”

  “Good stylist, but it can’t be that hard to pick out clothes for a body like yours.”

  “Thank you. But let’s talk about you a little…”

  “You’re much more interesting.”

  Römpötti cut the flattery short with a stern look then drank her coffee in a way that was just short of flirtatious. The gesture worked every time with men.

  “Alright, then,” said Aronen. “We’re just talking about background info, right?”

  Römpötti nodded. “We can do a proper interview on camera later.”

  “Maybe,” Aronen said, smiling again.

  Römpötti wondered how to proceed. Aronen’s story was an interesting one: from the peacekeeping forces to organized crime. But she didn’t want to start with that.

  “So, um,” she began haltingly. “The police have deemed the Skulls a criminal organization. Is that true?” The question was dumb, but it would help her get the conversation going. Maybe.

  Aronen shook his head. “Don’t listen to the police. They exaggerate everything for their own purposes. We’re not a criminal organization.”

  “Quite a few members are serving prison sentences, though?”

  “It’s none of the group’s business what people do on their own time. We’re not responsible for others’ actions.”

  Römpötti latched onto his statement. “On their own time? Is there a difference then between your own time and the gang’s time?”

  “Well, you could say that. Maybe you could come visit our offices some ti
me. You’d see there’s quite a lot of work involved in maintaining it.”

  “What do you do on your own time?”

  “Whatever I feel like. Right now I’m building a motorcycle.”

  “Aha. That’s interesting. Will you show me sometime?”

  “We’ll see,” he said, withdrawing somewhat.

  Römpötti could see it was too early to talk about the man himself. Better to stay on generic topics.

  “How does the club fund its activities?” she asked.

  “Everybody pays modest membership dues. Just like country clubs.”

  “How do members make their money? Illegally, according to the police.”

  Aronen ran his hands over his bristly hair. The questions were stupid, but the woman definitely had style. Nice tits and a thin shirt that was almost transparent. “Yeah, yeah. The cops say whatever’s convenient at the time. The club is not responsible for the actions of its members. Quite a few cops have been convicted in the past few years and that doesn’t make the police department a criminal organization.”

  “I suppose not,” she said. “You’re an interesting character.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. How did you end up joining the Skulls?”

  He looked her directly in the eyes.

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “Now it’s my turn to ask the questions.”

  “So ask,” she said.

  “You want to get a room upstairs?”

  Römpötti was at a loss for words.

  “If you really want to know what kind of men we are…”

  “Excuse me?” she coughed.

  “Come on. I can read your eyes.”

  Römpötti smiled, but her expression betrayed disgust. “Listen, Sami. It’s not a terrible suggestion, but…”

  He cut in. “If you do it, I’ll go on camera. Although afterwards, you probably won’t have any more questions. But I’d give it to you tomorrow too…the interview.”

  Over the years, Römpötti had received numerous similar proposals from politicians, policemen and other officials, but this was the first one from a career criminal. She wouldn’t trade sex for an interview, though she knew several of her colleagues who had. To her knowledge, however, none had done so with a criminal.