Cold Trail hh-4

by Jarkko Sipila

  “He’s doing pretty well. Squeaked by with a broken arm.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Takamäki wondered if he should have lied after all and said Jonas had sustained a concussion. Would that have lit a fire under the Espoo investigator?

  “Any information on the driver?”

  “Umm…we’re looking into it,” Solberg said. “Of course.”

  “Were there any eyewitnesses?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to share any information about the case with you at this point. The police are investigating the matter, and it will definitely be resolved. The only thing you can do at this point is trust us.”

  Takamäki counted to five before responding. “Has any action been taken in this matter?”

  “Of course. The responding unit wrote up its report, and I’ve been assigned to investigate.”

  “And what steps have you taken today in this case?”

  “Preliminary investigative measures.”

  This time Takamäki made it all the way to ten. “So you’ve read the original report and that’s it. In other words, nothing.”

  Solberg tried to pacify him: “Please calm down, sir.” He sounded like he had spent time in the field and was seeking authority from the voice he had used to give orders to the public.

  “I’m as calm as I possibly can be,” Takamäki said, thanking his luck that the conversation was taking place over the phone.

  “Good. Could you please repeat your name for me?”

  “I’m Jonas Takamäki’s father. Kari Takamäki.”

  Solberg was silent for a moment. “You mean the lieutenant from Helsinki Violent Crimes Unit? I thought there was something familiar about your voice.”

  “The one and only. Does it make a difference?”

  “Not really. Except that I can tell you I have eighty open investigations on my desk. Today I’ve been conducting interrogations on three old cases, so maybe you can see why this case hasn’t moved forward a whole heck of a lot today. The patrol that was at the scene didn’t get a single statement from a witness who saw the vehicle’s license plate. I was basically thinking I’d place an ad in the neighborhood paper and try to get some eyewitnesses that way.”

  “Why are you so forthcoming with Lieutenant Takamäki but not Mr. Takamäki?”

  “A fellow policeman understands, a father wouldn’t.”

  The response disarmed Takamäki. The investigators in charge of run-of-the-mill crimes had their hands full. When cases were thrown in the laps of overworked investigators without any preliminary work, most would remain shrouded in darkness, even if there initially had been some chance of solving them. No one had time to even perform the preliminary steps properly. With white-collar crime, the Metropolitan Helsinki Inter-Municipal Group had gotten to the point where they reviewed all cases together and categorized them as urgent or non-urgent. This allowed them to dedicate sufficient resources to the cases that demanded rapid responses. The same sort of classification would work with run-of-the-mill crimes as well. Using similar categorization, some precincts had achieved some positive results with misdemeanors, but it had required that the initial investigative steps had been conducted properly.

  “Has it occurred to you that there might be surveillance camera images of the incident?” Takamäki asked.

  “Surveillance camera images? From where?”

  “The shopping mall, for instance.”

  “Are there?”

  “I don’t have any interest in getting involved in the case, but the images do exist. I have some good news and some bad news about them. The bad news is that the images are from exterior cameras that are erased every twenty-four hours.”

  “And the good news?”

  “I went and picked them up. I have the photos.”

  Solberg thought for a second. “Under what authority?”

  “Let’s just say it was unofficial collegial assistance.”

  “So, the media’s favorite lieutenant didn’t trust his colleagues. He just had to go and solve the case all by himself,” Solberg jabbed. “Helsinki Homicide Investigates Collision between Cyclist and Car in Espoo. Now that would make a good headline.”

  This time Takamäki silently counted all the way to fifteen. “Yeah, well, but isn’t it a good thing that someone’s actually investigating it? Are you interested in those surveillance camera images?”

  “Sure, I’m interested, but this case isn’t getting any special treatment just because a lieutenant’s son is involved.”

  “I’m not expecting special treatment, but how about a proper investigation? I could drop off a flash drive with the photos around 5:30 this afternoon. I’m tied up with a case of my own here.”

  “Sorry, office hours end at 4:15, but give me a call tomorrow. I don’t have any interrogations scheduled, and I might just have time to take a look at those surveillance camera images.”

  “Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Takamäki said, and lowered the receiver. This time he decided to count to twenty, and out loud, before he did anything else.

  Joutsamo walked in as he hit sixteen. “What’s up? Are you meditating or something?”

  “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” Takamäki recited.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You know a cop at Espoo by the name of Lauri Solberg?” Takamäki asked.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” Joutsamo said, confused.

  “In that case it doesn’t matter,” Takamäki said, his voice now calm.

  Joutsamo eyed her boss as he turned to his computer.

  “Umm, Kari, the meeting’s supposed to start now.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah, of course.” Takamäki replied.

  “Does Solberg have anything to do with Jonas’s hit-and-run?” Joutsamo asked.

  Takamäki stood up and walked past her. “Suhonen here yet?”

  “Yeah,” Joutsamo said, more perplexed than ever, following her lieutenant into the corridor.

  The conference room was just down the hall. Takamäki could see Suhonen and Kulta in the corridor. The men were counting together out loud. “Nine… ten…eleven…”

  “What the hell?” Takamäki wondered, before he saw Kohonen doing chin-ups from a bar rigged up in the conference room doorway.

  “Twelve,” Kulta counted, but Kohonen seemed to be slowing down. “One more!”

  Kohonen strained at the bar, trying to pull her chin up to it. “No…problem,” she huffed, as her face turned the same shade of red as her hair.

  “You got it, you got it!” Suhonen encouraged.

  Kohonen struggled, and finally managed to complete chin-up number thirteen.

  “Only thirteen, huh,” Kohonen panted on the floor. “I ought to be able to do the same fifteen as Suhonen here.”

  “How many does the lieutenant have in him?” Kulta asked.

  Before Takamäki could answer, Joutsamo intervened.

  “He just made it to twenty over in his office. Now let’s start this meeting.”

  * * *

  Salmela was sitting in his rusted-out Toyota van in the Hakaniemi public market parking lot. He had backed the van up so that the rear was toward the brick building.

  Whereas the finer folk did their shopping at the Market Square at the southern harbor, Hakaniemi Square had traditionally been a working-class marketplace. This history still lived on in the labor unions that kept watch over the square from the surrounding office buildings. And red flags flew in honor of the working man every Mayday, when crowds of thousands gathered at the square before their traditional parade through Helsinki’s streets.

  Salmela had no political convictions, but he did believe that taking from the rich was just fine. And the same went for the poor, too.

  Kallio, a neighborhood of grim apartment buildings, rose behind the square on one of the city’s highest hills. Its apartments were small, mostly studios or one-bedrooms. It had been a distinctly working-class area for decades, but was now headed down the same
path as New York’s SoHo. First students and artists displaced the working class, and then the rich bought up housing that was conveniently located close to the city center. The hundred-year-old Market Hall behind the van was solid but attractive, and the area’s working-class spirit had been preserved in the interior. Salmela didn’t care for the place, though. The red brick façade reminded him too much of the exterior of Helsinki Prison.

  The market was closed, and Salmela was eyeing the grim view. Everything was gray. Couldn’t they put a fountain in here or something? Salmela clearly remembered the days twenty years ago when he and his buddies used to roll drunks in the area.

  Salmela leaned forward far enough to check the giant Pepsi-logo clock on the building to the left: 3:02 p.m. The asshole was late, even though Salmela had sworn him to be on time.

  The criminal eyed the cars in the vicinity, looking for any indications of a police presence. An overly curious, circling gaze, a man sitting alone in a parked car, or a supposedly random loiterer were danger signals.

  An old woman dressed in a black fake fur was walking her little Dachshund at the edge of the square. Salmela wondered whether she could be a police officer. Did the female undercover officers take theater classes or something to teach them how to act? He’d have to ask Suhonen about it someday in a nice roundabout way.

  Goddammit, Salmela laughed to himself. Had he really gotten that paranoid? Oh well, better paranoid than in prison.

  The Pepsi clock now showed 3:04 p.m. Salmela would wait two more minutes, and then he was out of there. At that instant there was a knock on the passenger window, and Salmela immediately regretted having stuck around . He could tell from the man’s eyes that he was on something stronger than booze. The door was locked, and Salmela didn’t feel like letting the emaciated junkie into his car. He gestured for him to come around to the other side.

  Juha Saarnikangas looked like he was in pretty bad shape as he circled around the front of the van. His brown hair reached down to his shoulders and probably hadn’t been washed in a week or more. His green army jacket looked foul. He also had a nasty-looking scar on his cheek that Salmela hadn’t seen before.

  Salmela rolled down the window. “What’s up?”

  Saarnikangas’s heroin-decayed teeth turned his smile into a grimace. “Hey, man. Good to see you.”

  “No, it’s not. What’s so urgent?”

  “I’ve got some really good stuff for you,” Saarnikangas said, trying to maintain the smile.

  “Sorry,” Salmela said tersely. “I’m not buying anything. Shop’s closed.”

  Saarnikangas’s expression grew serious. “Hey, hey, come on, man! You don’t even know what I’m selling.”

  Salmela pulled a cigarette from his pack and listened, mostly out of pity. He used to buy all kinds of stolen goods from Saarnikangas, but not anymore.

  The junkie continued his spiel: “I’ve got a Compaq 6220 right out of the box. Retails at more than a grand! I’ll give it to you for a hundred.”

  Salmela blew smoke into Saarnikangas’s face.

  “All right, fifty. Please.”

  “I’m not buying.”

  “Come on, thirty… Fuck, man, I need some dough.”

  Salmela’s interest was actually piqued by the time they got down to thirty, because that was almost nothing for a laptop. Juha must be really desperate.

  “Look, asshole, you said you had something important to tell me. Not that you wanted to unload some junk.”

  Salmela started up the Toyota.

  “Come on, man, at least give me a smoke,” Saarnikangas begged.

  Without saying a word, Salmela rolled up the window and drove off. He heard a thunk as Saarnikangas kicked the side of the van, and he could see the junkie giving him the finger in the rear-view mirror. If there hadn’t been any bystanders nearby, he would have stopped the van, gotten out, and beat Saarnikangas’s ass. Instead, he just flicked on his blinker and turned south out of the parking lot. The ugly complex belonging to the Federation of Trade Unions rose up at the end of the street.

  Salmela was annoyed that he had wasted his time on Saarnikangas. The question crossed his mind of whether his son, who had been shot a year ago, would have been in the same condition if he had lived. The prognosis had been similar.

  * * *

  There were no windows in the conference room. Takamäki, Suhonen, and Kulta had mugs of coffee; Joutsamo had tea. Kohonen wasn’t there, she was busy writing up a report for an old case. The team had reviewed the original Repo file and concluded that the exercise hadn’t been very productive. They had invested a decent amount of effort in the process but had achieved nothing. Tracking an escaped prisoner was clear cut-you either succeeded or failed, and this time the results were pretty evident.

  “The guy’ll get caught in some raid sooner or later,” Suhonen said. “It’d be nice to get a real case, so we could do some real work.”

  “All right, now,” Takamäki said. He wasn’t sure how serious Suhonen was, but he could sense a level of frustration. The danger was that it would spread to the others.

  “Looks like all we have is this Saarnikangas,” Kulta said. “It’s the only name in this case. I talked again with the guard who allowed Repo to escape, but he didn’t have anything new to give me.”

  “Has anyone been back to the father’s house?”

  Takamäki asked. “He’s got to be sleeping somewhere… If he doesn’t have any friends, then let’s check the old places one more time.”

  “We can go by there again,” Joutsamo said. “But this looks like it’s headed for passive investigation pretty fast. No point dedicating much more effort to it.”

  Takamäki tried to drum up enthusiasm. “We’re not giving up just yet. There’s one trick we haven’t tried yet.”

  “Give it to the papers?” Joutsamo guessed.

  Takamäki nodded and read from a handwritten draft. “The headline reads ‘Helsinki Police Seek Tips on Escaped Murderer.’”

  Kulta smiled. “Not likely to make it to press in that format.”

  “It’s not supposed to,” the lieutenant retorted. “The rest goes more or less like this, ‘On Monday morning, Timo Repo, serving life for murder, escaped from his father’s funeral…’”

  Joutsamo interrupted, “Do we have to say that he fled from the funeral?”

  “Let me respond with another question,” Takamäki said. “Why should we keep it a secret? It’s not significant in terms of our investigation, and we have to give them some details. If we send out a press release with no details, the papers will ignore it, which means we won’t get any response.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, this goes on to say that Repo left the Restaurant Perho and headed toward downtown Helsinki. Since then, police have not received reports of any sightings, and are now asking the public for help. Then there’s a description of him.”

  “Aren’t you going to send a photo?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Not yet,” Takamäki said.

  “Why not?”

  “It might get us another round in the media a couple days from now if this one doesn’t work. I did put here at the end that Repo was convicted of murdering his wife in Riihimäki in 1999. The police do not consider Repo particularly dangerous.”

  “Why does it say ‘particularly dangerous?’” Kulta asked.

  “Should we put ‘completely harmless?’” Takamäki retorted.

  “Somewhat dangerous, potentially dangerous, a smidgen dangerous?” Kulta mused.

  Takamäki grunted. “I can drop the ‘particularly’ if we all agree that the guy isn’t dangerous.”

  “Yeah,” said Suhonen. “The thing that still gets me about this case is, why did he check out? He’s already got eight years behind him. There’s gotta be some reason, and that’s still the big mystery here.”

  “The reporters will probably ask that, too,” Kulta reflected. “And don’t tell them ‘No comment,’ either.”

  Takamäki chuckled. �
��I won’t. I’m perfectly capable of saying, ‘We don’t know.’”

  “And then their next question will be, how do you know he’s not dangerous if you don’t know the motive for his escape?” Joutsamo added.

  “Well, that’s why I have ‘particularly dangerous.’”

  Now it was Kulta’s turn to grunt. “Okay, leave the ‘particularly’ in.”

  “Did we have anything else?”

  “I’ve got a deck of cards over in my desk if anyone’s up for a round of poker,” Suhonen said.

  “Texas Hold’em,” Kulta suggested.

  Takamäki stood before Joutsamo got the words out. “I don’t know if it means anything, but when I went through his papers up in Riihimäki, something about the case started to bother me.”

  “What?” Takamäki asked.

  “I don’t know, but at least the fact that it was considered a cut-and-dried case right from the start. Doesn’t seem like the detectives even tried looking into any other alternatives.”

  “Ainola over at the prison reviewed the paperwork and said Repo definitely was the perpetrator,” Suhonen said.

  “I’m not saying I have any facts to back me up. I just have a feeling that things aren’t exactly the way they should be.”

  “They all think they’re innocent,” Kulta said.

  Takamäki looked at Joutsamo. It wasn’t like her to raise something like this if there was nothing to it.

  “Well, try and think, maybe it’ll come to you. We’ll see at that point. I’ll send this out to the media and let’s go find this Saarnikangas, see if he can tell us something. Let’s keep our eyes and ears open, people.”

  * * *

  The clock on the fourth-floor editorial offices of Iltalehti read 3:34 p.m. Times from around the world were supposed to be displayed by a row of clocks, but according to them, the time in London, Tokyo, and Los Angeles was the same as in Helsinki. All that was left of New York was the sign; the clock itself had disappeared.

  Marja Juvonen was playing solitaire on her computer in the rear corner of the quiet newsroom. Her thoughts, however, were on the previous night’s party at the Lux nightclub. Her headache wouldn’t let her forget, even though 600 mg of ibuprofen was keeping it at bay.