Helsinki Homicide: Vengeance

by Jarkko Sipila

  “Uhh… Listen, Sami. Don’t get upset, but I’ll have to think about it.”

  Aronen was silent while he sipped his orange juice. “Well, you thought about it?”

  Somehow, she had to get him to do a proper interview. She couldn’t give him a flat no. “Not now.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to think about it more. And maybe we should get to know each other better before jumping into the sack.”

  “Okay with me. But I’m done here.”

  “Well, how about if I call you.”

  Aronen stood up and took his jacket. “Okay. Think about it and call me. Thanks for breakfast.”

  He headed off in the same direction he had come from.

  Huh, Römpötti thought. She glanced at the bulky brooch on her lapel. She had feared it would attract his attention, but apparently her breasts had done a better job at that. The purpose of that extra open button had been to keep his eyes off the hidden camera.

  Hopefully the camera and microphone had been working. The lens was hidden in the pearl and the microphone just next to it. A wireless receiver was hidden in her purse on the floor.

  Not much there, but at least it was something. She’d have to consider whether she could use any of the material, since Aronen had only wanted to talk about background. Of course, he knew he was talking to a reporter.

  The proposal at the end couldn’t be aired, though it was a good illustration of the gangster mindset. Römpötti was glad there wasn’t a second camera to capture her expression when he dropped the proposal. That would have definitely ended up on the big screen at the newsroom’s Christmas party.

  A waitress came to the table and interrupted her thoughts. “Excuse me. Your gentleman friend must not have been a guest at the hotel and he left without paying.”

  Römpötti dug her wallet out of her purse. “I’ll pay for the both of us.”

  As the waitress turned away, Römpötti set her purse on the table, opened it and stopped the recorder.

  * * *

  “How many in the Helsinki PD know about Salmela?” asked agent Aalto dryly.

  Aalto, Nykänen, Suhonen and Takamäki were sitting in the same NBI conference room as yesterday.

  “Salmela has been the subject of many investigations over the years, so presumably quite a few know him,” Takamäki replied. “But nobody except for the two of us knows about his connection to this case. We’ve spoken with the VCU’s Captain Karila, as well as Assistant Chief Skoog about the operation, but we haven’t mentioned Salmela by name.”

  “Good,” said Aalto. “For security reasons, from here on out we’ll refer to him by the code name Salmiakki.”

  Suhonen laughed. Salmela becomes Salmiakki? What do they pay these agents for? Certainly not for coming up with good code names.

  “Do you have a problem with the code name?” Aalto demanded.

  “Not at all. It’s genius.”

  “Good,” said Aalto.

  Suhonen had briefed them on the main points of his visit with Salmela. Incensed over the betrayal, Salmela—now Salmiakki—was seriously considering cooperating with the police. Everyone considered his custodial job to be a brilliant stroke of luck that would speed up the operation.

  “Let’s go over Salmiakki’s motives more closely,” said Aalto, glancing at his papers. “Does he have a desire to clear his conscience?”

  “I doubt it,” Suhonen replied. I’d guess he just wants to get out of the gang, and now he wants revenge, too.”

  “Does he have much of an ego?”

  Suhonen wondered about the question then realized why Aalto was going through the list.

  “I don’t think he’ll need to be picked up for meetings in a limo,” Suhonen said.

  “Finland is too small for limos,” Aalto said. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police once had an informant from a biker gang whose vanity demanded constant attention. Among other things, the Mounties had to chauffeur him back and forth to meetings in a limousine.

  Suhonen had heard about the incident while abroad at a seminar on criminal gangs. Apparently, Aalto had attended the same one.

  “Salme… Uhh, Salmiakki is a long-time criminal, primarily running stolen goods. He’s divorced, done time, and his son was shot to death in a drug deal gone bad. I believe his story; he wants out of the game, but can’t because of his debt. As a result, he has to depend on someone stronger, and since the Skulls betrayed him, the cops can step in.”

  “Not exactly levelheaded, then,” Aalto remarked.

  “Not exactly,” said Suhonen. “But he’s not dumb, either. And don’t bother appealing to his sense of justice. For him, the opportunity to break out of his current circumstances will be enough.”

  Nykänen interjected. “But he understands that more than likely, he’ll wind up in prison?”

  “Yeah. We went through that yesterday. Salmela…”

  “Salmiakki,” Aalto corrected him.

  “Salmiakki knows he’ll take the rap for the twenty ounces—for his own security. It wouldn’t look good if we busted everybody else and he got off scot-free. I promised him we’d make things comfortable for him in prison.”

  Aalto frowned. “We can’t promise him anything.”

  “We talked about it,” Suhonen reworded. “But it’s kind of awkward if he’s expecting results and all he gets is talk.”

  “We’ll try to help him afterwards, of course,” said Nykänen.

  The word “try” was a big problem for Suhonen. If an informant put his life on the line for society, it wasn’t enough for the police to just “try.” The system should have clear rules.

  Aalto went down his list. “At any rate, it’s clear that we’ll be overseeing the case. The fact that Suhonen is so close to the subject is a clear conflict of interest.”

  Takamäki nodded. “We’ve talked about that.”

  “That way we can be sure the situation will be handled professionally, and that the informant has a genuine desire to talk to the police. He won’t be doing this just to please Suhonen anymore, but only for the sake of revealing important matters to the authorities. That works for his own benefit, too.”

  This case might even work out, thought Suhonen. If he didn’t believe that, he would never have given up his own informant. True, Salmela’s head injury had already driven him to the sidelines, so he wasn’t privy to much valuable intel anymore. He spent most of his time at the corner table of the Corner Pub. But Suhonen’s primary concern was Salmela’s welfare. The operation would provide a chance, however slim, for Salmela to get out—not through the front door, but through the back.

  Aalto went on, “I’ll be one of his handlers myself. Another one, a specialist, will come from my own group. Both of us will attend all meetings with Salmiakki. We’ll pay all of his expenses in cash and his real name will go in the NBI’s safe. Does this Salmiakki happen to have a dog?”

  “No,” said Suhonen, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the thermos.

  “Pity. Walking the dog is always a convenient way to meet. We’ll think of something else. For security reasons, it’s imperative that NBI agents are the only ones to meet with Salmiakki. Is that clear, Suhonen?” Aalto stressed.

  Suhonen nodded.

  “I have the informant’s address and phone number here. Do you have any idea where Salmiakki is now?”

  “I’d bet on three spots. He’s either at home, at the Skulls’ compound or on the way there,” said Suhonen.

  “You don’t have Salmiakki under surveillance?”

  Takamäki shrugged. “No. We don’t have enough resources for that. And there’s been no need for it.”

  Aalto’s expression was grave. “So let me get this straight. Your informant is at the headquarters of a criminal organization with no security measures?”

  “Why should there be?” Suhonen asked. “I don’t have time to babysit them all. These guys are criminals—they don’t like being followed. They come to me when a competitor tramples on their toes o
r they want to get back at someone. The third reason is when another criminal is completely out of control and the related police activity is bad for business.”

  “Pretty old-fashioned thinking,” Aalto remarked.

  “Maybe so, but that’s how you get street intel. Maybe you guys should invest some time in traditional police work yourselves.”

  Aalto looked over at Nykänen, who seemed uneasy. “The NBI takes care of organized crime. You take care of the street crimes.”

  Suhonen wanted to ask him where, exactly, organized crimes occurred. If not in the streets and alleys, then where? The NBI could have all the white collar criminals they wanted.

  “One more thing we should make clear, so we all understand,” Suhonen said. “Under no circumstances does Salmiakki want to wind up testifying in court. We can only use him for getting intel, which will guide further police operations.”

  Nykänen nodded. “We’ve been thinking the same thing. With Salmiakki’s help, we’ll know where to be, and when, but nobody else will know about his role.”

  “Any questions?” Aalto inquired.

  Takamäki cleared his throat. “Meetings. Where and when?”

  “Here at NBI headquarters. I’ll let you know when,” Nykänen said. “Anything else?”

  Suhonen drank the last of his coffee. “Are you guys going to be taking the drug case too?”

  “No,” said Nykänen. “Our objective here is the Skulls and anyone affiliated with them, especially Mike Gonzales. Narcotics will continue to investigate the drug trafficking case. We can combine the cases later as necessary.”

  * * *

  The Skulls’ compound was quiet. Salmela was alone at the bar, wiping down the counter. From a custodian’s perspective, the previous night had been rather mellow—the place didn’t look much different from the way he had left it.

  He had arrived at the compound at just past nine. With walking, the bus commute had taken nearly an hour. The previous night, Salmela had skipped the Corner Pub, bought a six-pack of beer and watched TV. He had burned the letter to Suhonen. It was irrelevant now. The conversation with Suhonen replayed continually in his head, but he didn’t let it bother him. Nowadays, things just happened, and he didn’t have much control over them.

  Roge, who was on guard duty that morning, had opened the door. Salmela hadn’t earned the code for the keypad yet, and likely wouldn’t for a long time.

  Roge had wanted to talk about last night’s hockey games, but that fizzled quickly since Salmela didn’t know the scores. Soon, Roge got bored, turned to his billiards, and Salmela hung his jacket in the broom closet and got to work. The toilet was an easy task now that the first big cleaning was out of the way.

  Salmela could tell by the smell of the ashtrays that someone had been smoking weed. A few spent doobies confirmed it. He stuffed the butts in his pocket. By saving a few weeks worth of remnants and rerolling them, he could have a couple new joints to sell. That would fetch him a few euros.

  At the corner of the bar was a plastic garbage pail half filled with empty cans and bottles. If nobody emptied it, Salmela planned to do it himself and keep the deposits.

  The steady crack of the billiard balls stopped and Salmela looked up. Roge was chatting with a bald, tattooed man whose back was turned to Salmela, but he recognized him as the same Skull he had met in prison.

  Roge said something and Tapani Larsson turned to look at Salmela. Larsson nodded and strode briskly toward him.

  Salmela considered his options quickly: bottles, both full and empty, were all about, but Larsson likely had a gun, and Roge certainly did. He’d have to make do with words, and if there was trouble, he’d either survive or not. He was powerless. Others made decisions for him, just like in prison.

  Larsson approached the other side of the bar.

  “Hey there,” the man flashed a grin. “I guess we’re old friends.”

  “Yeah,” said Salmela. “Helsinki Prison, right?”

  Larsson nodded. “I remember you. You did a few jobs for us—and very well.”

  “Still am.”

  “Gotta pay your debts, huh?”

  Salmela wiped the counter. “I’m thankful I can settle them like this. I do good work.”

  “Hopefully… One thing—were you here yesterday already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you cleaned the toilet?”

  “Yeah.”

  Larsson clapped his hands a few times. “Goddamn. You should get ‘employee of the year’ for that. The air even smells fresher in here. I don’t know what kind of poison you use, but you sure do fine work.”

  “Thanks.” The praise had seemed genuine. There hadn’t been much of it in recent months—or in recent years. Come to think of it, not much in the last forty years.

  “Hey, Eero,” said Larsson.

  Salmela was surprised that the gang boss even remembered his first name, much less used it. “Yeah?”

  “There any coffee here?”

  “Not made. I’m not sure where it’d be. I haven’t cleaned the cabinets yet.”

  “Will you find some?”

  “If it’s here I’ll find it.”

  Larsson cracked a smile. “Good. I’ll have a little milk with mine. And if there isn’t any, knock on the office door and ask Roge to go get a truckload. We don’t drink Nescafe here,” he laughed.

  In prison, Nescafe was the most sensible choice because no valuable grounds were lost at the bottom of the pot. Mixed in a cup of hot water, every last drop of caffeine was consumed.

  Larsson slipped into the office just as Salmela’s phone rang in his pocket. He snatched it up before the first ring was over and answered. On the other end was a man’s voice, asking first if this was Eero Salmela.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Suhonen’s friend. My name’s Aalto and I’d like to meet with you.”

  “Call back later.” He’d have to remember to turn off his phone when he was at work.

  “I’ll call you at about three in the afternoon to give you instructions. Is that okay?”

  Salmela glanced around. Nobody seemed interested in his conversation. “Sure.”

  “Good. I’ll get back to you,” the man said.

  Salmela shut off the phone, put it back in his pocket and went back to cleaning the counter. Oh yeah, the coffee, he remembered.

  A black-haired man wearing a white sport coat over a black T-shirt came through the saloon doors at the top of the stairs. Osku followed him in and got a nod from Roge.

  The man’s eyes scanned the room and stopped on Salmela for a moment.

  The goateed Osku directed the stranger to the office door and knocked. Somebody barked something from inside, but Salmela didn’t catch it.

  Osku opened the door and Salmela heard him ask if it was okay if Mike Gonzales came in.

  Apparently it was. The black-haired man disappeared into the office. He heard some brief conversation and Osku ordered Salmela to make a couple of extra cups of coffee.

  The door closed, muffling their words. He found a pack of filters in the cabinet and a brick of Presidentti coffee. The coffeemaker was next to the sink.

  In the back room, Larsson greeted Gonzales.

  “Do you know the guy who was standing by the bar?”

  “No,” Gonzales replied. “New recruit?”

  Larsson shook his head. “New janitor, an ex-con. Name’s Eero Salmela. He was in prison the same time as I was. Ask around a bit and see if you can find out what he’s up to nowadays.”

  “In what respect?”

  “Just generally. Who he hangs out with, who he meets.”

  “Sure. I’ll put someone on it.”

  Gonzales drew a small notepad out of his breast pocket and wrote, “Eero Salmela?”

  * * *

  “So we’re off the case, then?” Suhonen asked. Takamäki was taking his turn at the wheel. The rain persisted, jamming up the ordinarily lazy Sunday traffic on Beltway Three.

  “Somehow I got t
hat impression when Nykänen said they’d call us if they need us. But let’s give them some space. Stay away from Salmela, at least for now.”

  “Yeah,” said Suhonen. “Of course.”

  Takamäki wasn’t very reassured by Suhonen’s tone of voice.

  “Helsinki PD still has the drug case, of course. I’ll probably go chat with Narcotics about that,” Suhonen continued.

  “And we still have an open investigation on that train station death, was it Karjalainen?”

  “Yep. We’ve requested his phone records.”

  “Careful, though. Don’t give them the opportunity to push the blame on us if something goes wrong.”

  “If something goes wrong, you’ll be carrying Salmela’s coffin with me.”

  The car circled a massive interchange onto Tuusula Road.

  “By the way, do you know a Skull by the name of Osku, probably pretty new?” asked Takamäki.

  Suhonen looked at the lieutenant. “Osku Rahkonen. New recruit, about twenty years old. Why?”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “The database has quite a bit on him, but his background is pretty typical. He’s from the Kilo district of Espoo, or at least he’s lived over there for some time. I remember reading in some report that his father has a rap sheet for assault and battery. The kid followed in the dad’s footsteps, wound up in juvie for aggravated assault, and there he met his buddy Roge, or Roger Sandström. Of the two, Roge is bigger—built like a bull. But I wouldn’t say Osku’s the brains. I understand neither has much to brag about upstairs, which makes them great candidates for the Skulls. So, why you interested in Osku?”

  “His little brother Ripa plays hockey with our Joonas. Supposedly, this Osku has lots of money.”

  “Wouldn’t doubt that,” said Suhonen.

  “He bought Ripa some fancy phone and now Joonas has to have one.”

  The car zoomed under an overpass. A lighted sign on a brick building displayed the temperature: 41° F.