Cold Trail hh-4

by Jarkko Sipila

  “Helsinki Police Department, Violent Crimes Unit,” Joutsamo answered, marking the time of the call in her notebook: 5:47 p.m.

  “Hello,” said the caller, her voice tentative.

  “Hello,” Joutsamo responded.

  “I just heard about that prison escape on the radio,” the woman continued, her tone now more animated. “They read the description, and a man who looks just like that just went into that building.”

  “What building? Where are you?”

  “I’m here in Bear Park. The address of the building he entered is 18 Fifth Street. I followed him into the stairwell, and it looked like he climbed up to the top floor, or maybe the second to the top.”

  “You didn’t follow him any further, though?”

  “I didn’t dare to, because it looked to me like he pulled a gun out of his pocket right there in the stairwell. I’m not positive, but that’s what it looked like.”

  “Good. Do you know Repo from before?”

  “What?” the woman gasped. “How would I know a convicted felon? He just looked like the description. He was walking through Bear Park with this evil glare in his eyes.”

  “Could I get your name, please?”

  “Not a chance,” the woman huffed.

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll try to put me on the witness stand. I thought long and hard about whether I should even call, but I figured it was my civic duty.”

  “Well, thank you,” Joutsamo said, ending the call and the recording. She wondered whether the press release could produce results so rapidly. The description was generic enough to fit many men, of course, but the caller seemed sane enough. Joutsamo wondered where Repo would have obtained a gun.

  Joutsamo walked down to Takamäki’s office, where the lieutenant was just pulling on his overcoat. “You headed out?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Yup, I figured I’d spend some time with the family for a change.”

  “Okay, we’re going to go see if there’s anything in a tip that just came in,” Joutsamo smiled.

  “What tip?”

  “A helpful member of the public called in and said that she saw a man matching Repo’s description entering a building on Fifth Street.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And she said she saw a gun, too.”

  Takamäki looked intently at Joutsamo. “Reliable?”

  “I really don’t know. But for the time being, it’s the only thing we got. I was thinking Suhonen and I would go check it out.”

  “What did she say about the weapon, word for word?” Takamäki asked.

  Joutsamo checked her notes. “The caller thought the man pulled a gun out of his pocket in the stairwell.”

  “And who is this member of the public? Did she give her name?”

  “No, because she thought she’d end up a witness.”

  “Are there any known PTs in the building?” Takamäki asked. Apartments whose residents were known to be dangerous were registered in the Potential Threat database.

  “No.”

  “I wonder what’s there, then?” Takamäki said, taking his coat off. “Okay, let’s bring in a few SWAT men to help out. No point fooling around if it really is Repo and he has a gun. The guy could be desperate. I’ll take the lead from here and call in the SWAT team. You and Suhonen head right over just in case he moves, assuming it is him. Kohonen’s still here, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Joutsamo said.

  “Kirsi can check who lives in the building. Brief her quickly before you go. Let’s shoot for,” Takamäki glanced at his watch, which read 5:52 p.m., “entry by 7:00 at the latest, but as soon as SWAT can spare us the men.”

  * * *

  A caravan of three SWAT vans rolled out from police headquarters at 6:45 p.m. Takamäki was sitting with Turunen, head of the SWAT team, in the lead vehicle. His phone was in hand as the van turned north up Nordenskiöld Street at the Neste gas station . The evening gloom had deepened from gray to black.

  Eight SWAT officers had fit into two vans; the third one was for transporting the target. The vehicles weren’t using their emergency lights.

  Takamäki returned his phone to his pocket.

  “Joutsamo said that the situation at the scene remains the same. No sign of the target.”

  Takamäki and Turunen had had a quick pow-wow in Takamäki’s office, during which the lieutenant had filled the SWAT leader in on the case. Turunen had classified it as a routine search.

  Before the railway underpass, the caravan turned right onto Eläintarha Road and headed toward Töölö Bay. When they got to the Helsinki Street intersection, Takamäki looked at the illuminated fountain in the bay and the downtown’s gleaming city lights behind it. The thought crossed his mind that he really should be at home.

  He snapped back to reality when Turunen started giving orders to his men through his headset. “We don’t know the exact apartment of the target, but it’s probably on the fifth or sixth floor.”

  Turunen rattled off names and tasks. The men were assigned floors and duties. The only one Takamäki knew by name was Saarinen, who was in the second van. He had heard a story about the Jack Bauer look-alike: one day after work, the SWAT guys had decided to spend the evening at a sauna, relaxing and drinking. Saarinen had begged not to come, saying he had promised his wife he’d go home. Eventually the other guys talked him into it, and after making the other guys promise to be quiet, he had called his wife. As he vigorously slapped his palm against his leather jacket, Saarinen explained to her that the SWAT team had gotten an urgent assignment in Oulu, and he was just walking into the helicopter. After the twenty-second call, they had headed off to the sauna.

  Turunen gave out more orders. “Takamäki and I will cover the exterior of the building. Be aware that two homicide detectives are also on the scene: Joutsamo and Suhonen.”

  The adrenaline gradually began to rise in Takamäki’s veins, too. He instinctively checked that his own Sig Sauer was in his coat pocket. He had originally gotten the Swiss-German pistol from a guy he knew at the Equipment Office. The Sig Sauer was smaller than the standard police-issue Glocks.

  The van turned right at the corner of the Brahe Soccer Field toward the Kallio fire station and Fifth Street. They were only a couple of minutes from the target now. Takamäki called Joutsamo and informed her that they were approaching. He and Turunen had agreed that the operation would begin immediately upon arrival.

  A tram was shuddering along in front of them, and the trip seemed to take forever. The Kallio fire station appeared on the right and Bear Park on the left. They had called Fire and Rescue and arranged to have an ambulance at the ready as a precaution.

  Cars were parked in front of the building, but Turunen calmly double-parked the police vans in front of the entrance, as the street was plenty wide. The other vans pulled up behind Turunen.

  The SWAT men had heavy bulletproof vests, helmets, and Heckler amp; Koch MP5 submachine guns.

  “Okay, Saarinen, let’s do this,” Turunen said.

  The hooded police were moving single file toward the door of the building when the first flash went off, immediately followed by a second, a third, and a fourth. Takamäki registered a photographer and a cameraman. And then he recognized Mary Juvonen standing behind them.

  Takamäki knew there was no point interfering in the photographers’ work. That would only get you a scowling shot in the papers. He walked up to Juvonen. “You sure made it here quick.”

  Juvonen was wearing a black wool cap and a Burberry coat.

  “Yeah, some woman called in a tip that Repo might be found here.”

  “She did, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Juvonen said. “So Repo’s not particularly dangerous?”

  “Come on, knock it off.”

  The SWAT team had entered the building, and the photographers were following. Takamäki gave Juvonen a stern look.

  “The stairwell is a police operation zone. No photographers allowed. Who’s going to tell them?”


  “That’s your assessment, huh?”

  Takamäki nodded. “If he’s in there, anything could happen.”

  Juvonen could tell from the lieutenant’s tone that now was not the time to mess with him.

  Juvonen raised her voice. “Hey, guys. Let’s not go inside. We’ll wait out here.”

  “You sure, Mary?” the photographer asked from the doorway.

  “Yup. We’ll do it this way this time. If they find him in there, then they’ll bring him out this way in any case,” Juvonen said with a glance at Takamäki, who nodded.

  Takamäki went back and joined Turunen at the van. The photographers and the reporter stayed obediently on the sidewalk.

  “Goddammit,” Turunen said. “How the hell did they get here so fast?”

  “The reporter said they got a tip from some woman.”

  Turunen shook his head. “Is that so? I’ll bet you a beer we don’t find him here.”

  “Fine, if you’ll bet there are going to be five columns’ worth of photos of your guys in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Turunen wasn’t particularly amused, but he smiled anyway. “Make it six and you’re on.”

  Joutsamo walked up to the van. Suhonen had noticed the flashes and had stayed back in their car next to Bear Park. “You organize a press conference already?”

  “I’m pretty sure someone else did,” Turunen replied.

  “Turunen, you have a camera in your van?” Takamäki asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You mind getting it?”

  It took Turunen thirty seconds. “Here,” he said, handing it to Takamäki. “I already turned it on. Just point and press that red button. The flash is automatic.”

  Takamäki walked fifteen feet from Juvonen and the photographers and suddenly took a photo.

  Juvonen’s reaction was immediate: “Why’d you take a picture of us?”

  “It’s always a good idea to get a record of those present at a crime scene,” Takamäki grunted, managing to turn around right before the photographer rapid-fired his flash.

  “What’s that going to be used for?” the cameraman blustered, annoyed that he hadn’t captured the incident on tape.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, the SWAT men had checked all of the apartments in the stairwell and emerged without Repo. The Iltalehti photographers recorded their exit, but none of the masked men answered the reporter’s questions.

  The SWAT team marched over to the vans and prepared to leave. Juvonen followed, with the photographers at her heels. Their target was Takamäki, who was stepping into the lead van. Suhonen had already vanished from the scene, and Joutsamo was in the SWAT van.

  “Takamäki!” Juvonen yelled from ten yards away.

  The lieutenant climbed into the van and considered for a moment whether or not to reply. In the end, he rolled down the window.

  Juvonen made it up to the door of the vehicle. The photographer immediately took a couple of pictures.

  “Didn’t find him?”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  “Look, Juvonen, get a grip. Don’t mess with us,” Takamäki said in a severe tone.

  “Who do you think you are?”

  “This isn’t going to end here,” Takamäki said, rolling up the window. Turunen popped it into gear, and the van jerked forward. Joutsamo said that she had recognized Juvonen’s voice as that of the person who called in the tip, confirming Takamäki’s suspicions.

  Juvonen looked at the police vans cruising past Bear Park and turned toward her photographers. Both of them had heard the exchange. “Well, back to the newsroom. Nothing else is going to happen here. We’ll get a spread out of this.”

  * * *

  Repo parked his newly-acquired car at a soccer field parking lot in Hakunila, a neighborhood in the suburb of Vantaa. There was a grass field next to the lot, but the junior team was training farther away on the gravel field, near a dome scrawled with graffiti. It was already dark outside, and the field’s lights created a yellow glow.

  Repo stepped out of the car, closed the door, and clicked on the lock. His driving skills had quickly come back to him.

  Wearing his gray coat and black suit, the escaped convict walked toward the soccer field. At the end of the parking lot there was an old wooden cabin that functioned as the locker room. The weather was the best possible for soccer practice-about forty degrees, no rain. The forecast on the radio had promised that the temperature would drop and tomorrow it would sleet or snow.

  There were about fifteen boys on the field, half of whom were wearing yellow vests over their sweat jackets. The team was evidently having a scrimmage.

  “No, no. Remember distances,” shouted a wavy-haired man in a parka. Repo guessed he was about forty. He was wearing a black beanie, like all the players.

  The vests appeared to have the upper hand, and they drove the ball inexorably toward the sweatjackets’ goal. A few parents were standing on the sidelines chatting, but from ten yards away Repo could only make out a word here and there.

  He searched the field for a familiar face, but couldn’t find it. In their matching soccer sweatsuits and beanies, the boys all looked the same.

  Those parents are probably talking about hockey, Repo wondered. At least that’s what the words he heard-lines, checking, hitting-sounded like. On the other hand, they could have also been talking about prison.

  No one paid any attention to Repo.

  The vests-more prison slang-were outplaying their opponents, and scored again. One of the boys faked out a defender near the sideline and centered the ball in front of the goal, from where another player headed it into the back of the net.

  A dull clapping echoed from the coach’s leather gloves. He called out to the winger, “Great fake and center, Joel!”

  Repo startled. Joel. He took a closer look at the boy and recognized the features from the photo Karppi had given him. The face wasn’t as round as it used to be, but it was his Joel, no doubt about it.

  The coach continued shouting out the pitch: “Markku, that header was just like Ronaldo! Nice goal! Okay, kick off from midfield.”

  The goalie angrily kicked the ball into center field, where one of the vests snagged it out of the air.

  Repo heard one of the sweatjackets complaining to the coach about the teams: “All the best kids on the same team. This is totally unfair.”

  Joel jogged up to the middle of the field. Repo watched every step.

  “Fair and fair. Stop complaining, Leevi,” the coach said, blowing his whistle. The game continued.

  Repo watched Joel’s every move. In his day, he had played Division II soccer himself and knew a lot about the game. But that didn’t make any difference now. He didn’t look where Joel was positioned or whether his touches were clean. He wasn’t interested in whether Joel knew how to tackle properly, or whether he led too much with the soles of his feet.

  Repo simply watched his son, mesmerized. He felt like running out onto the pitch and hugging him. Telling him how proud he was of him. Tears rose to his eyes as he understood what he had lost.

  Repo clearly heard the words when one of the parents standing next to him said to a man in a green ski cap, “That Joel of yours is definitely the best player we’ve got. He’s not going to be hanging around here too long before they move him up.”

  The words cut Repo to the quick. That Joel of yours. Of yours.

  The boy was his Joel, not anyone else’s. He wasn’t that green-capped guy’s Joel. Repo felt like shouting, but he knew he couldn’t.

  Eight years earlier, Joel was a tow-headed toddler he had taken to the soccer fields dozens of times to kick the ball around. Where had the years gone? Repo knew the answer all too well: prison. And for no reason. His wife was dead. His mother was dead. His father was dead, and his son was gone. What did he have left? Nothing.

  Repo wondered how Joel would react if he walked out into the field and told him he was his real father. Could th
ey still have a life together?

  What would his life be like if his wife were still alive? Once again, thinking hurt too much.

  Repo saw now that coming here to stand at the sidelines had been pointless. His son wouldn’t recognize him. What had he been thinking? That Joel would run up to him, stop, and say, “Dad?” That they’d hug and walk off into a new life together? Repo chuckled to himself. The boy wouldn’t remember him, and probably wouldn’t even know his name. The guy in the green beanie was his dad now. Not him.

  Repo took a final look at the man in the green cap. Take good care of my son, Repo silently told him, and headed toward the car he had stolen. Where had his life gone?

  CHAPTER 10

  TUESDAY, 8:30 P.M.

  HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA

  “What are you going to do about Juvonen?” Joutsamo asked. Takamäki, Suhonen, and Kulta were also sitting in the austere conference room at police headquarters in Pasila. Someone had drawn a big question mark on the flipchart.

  “What do you think I should do?” Takamäki asked.

  Joutsamo was incensed. “Nail her to the wall. That was a really dirty trick.”

  “What’s the crime?”

  “I don’t know, but you can’t mislead the police like that.”

  Takamäki was silent for a moment. “Resisting police authority. It includes false reports. As I recall, the maximum is three months in jail.”

  “That’s not going to get you a search warrant for her phone,” Joutsamo noted.

  “Don’t need it. Let’s call her in for questioning and confiscate it. That’ll let us check the numbers called,” Takamäki said. “But we also have to think about costs and benefits here. It’s not in our best interest to create a rift with the media.”

  “That’s not what we’re talking about, hopefully,” Joutsamo said. “No one else in the media behaves that way. They always want photos, but we’re going to be screwed if this is how they’re going to start acquiring.”

  “Or was it just a one-off overstepping of bounds?” Takamäki wondered out loud. “Happens to police, too.”