Helsinki Homicide: Nothing but the Truth

by Jarkko Sipila

  Takamäki gave a snort. “Doubt that has anything to do with it. The top photographer from Ilta-Sanomat must be out of town. The guy gravitates to corpses like a vulture. Have we gotten any calls to the hotlines?”

  “A couple callers said they saw a car but couldn’t recall the make, driver or plate. One of them thought it might have started with an X or a K,” said Joutsamo.

  “So nothing, then. What about the phone taps?”

  Joutsamo went on, “We stayed until midnight. Figured the numbers were probably old. Voice-activated recorder didn’t pick anything up overnight.”

  “So,” Takamäki sighed. “Same cards as yesterday. And nothing new on Korpi either?”

  “No,” said Suhonen. “Got all the traps and trawlers in the water, but no hits yet.”

  “Alright. Doesn’t look so good right now, but we have time. Let’s focus on Korpi. Find out everything you can from the databases, and let’s get a warrant to review any cell tower records in the area of the murder. Maybe the driver had a cell phone. If we find one, we can trace it right to the guy’s hand. I want footage from any surveillance cameras in the area in case the car shows up in one of them. And let’s contact the neighboring precincts, the NBI and any informants out there to see if we can dig something up. Anything else?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Let’s get to work, then. Plenty of footwork to

  do here.”

  * * *

  Mari Lehtonen’s hand was resting on the telephone, and had been for some time now. The newspaper clipping lay in front of her on the desk of her cubicle. The clock in the lower corner of her computer screen read 10:56 A.M.

  Lehtonen had finished the computer reports in about an hour, and devoted half an hour to email triage afterwards. One was from Laura’s theater instructor, who considered the girl a promising young actress and was asking for Mari’s permission for Laura to take on a larger role in the upcoming fall production. Mari couldn’t help but smile at her rather extravagant use of the word “production,” but she felt warmed by the message. Mari consented on the condition that Laura’s studies would not suffer. Rehearsals would consume three evenings a week, and opening night was in December.

  Her mood, however, was unsettled. The image of a dark Mazda with its driver and license plate flitted continually through her mind. If only she could simply upload the image from her brain to a computer and send it to the authorities in an anonymous email.

  She had to report it to the police, she thought. Maybe they wouldn’t find her information useful, but it said right there in the paper that it was needed. She shuddered at the thought of someone being murdered in the neighboring building. The killers should be held responsible. No point getting mixed up in these kinds of things, Essi Saari had said. But her boss was wrong. If Mari didn’t act, the criminals would win.

  Mari picked up the phone and punched in the number listed in the newspaper.

  * * *

  The hotline phone was closest to Joutsamo’s workstation in the office she shared with Kohonen, Kulta and a couple of other officers. Suhonen also had a desk, a chair and a telephone, but had the janitors not visited daily, spiders would have surely overrun it with their webs. The topmost item on Suhonen’s desk was a year-old newspaper.

  Joutsamo rolled her desk chair over to the phone and was just lifting the receiver when Kulta blurted, “Betcha three shifts of coffee-duty it’s some wacko.”

  Joutsamo accepted and grinned as she flicked on the voice recorder.

  “Helsinki Violent Crimes Unit, Anna Joutsamo speaking.”

  “Hello,” said a hesitant female voice. “I’m calling about the incident on Porvoo Street. Is this the right number?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Joutsamo in a cordial voice. “Do you have any information on it?”

  “Yeah. Not sure if it’s important, but I was coming out of the convenience store and saw a Mazda parked there.”

  Joutsamo snatched a pen. The woman had the make of the car right despite its lack of mention in

  the press. The sergeant scribbled out, knew Mazda. “You’re sure it was a Mazda?”

  “Yes. A blue 323, as I remember. Not too old. The sort of rounder-looking sedan style. Wasn’t it then?”

  “Uuh,” Joutsamo stalled intentionally. “Maybe I should get your name.”

  Witnesses often wished to remain anonymous. Joutsamo was confident the woman would reveal her name since her number was clearly visible on the caller ID. She had already written it down.

  “Mari Lehtonen.”

  “What did you see there, Mari?”

  “The car, driver and license plate. Nothing more.”

  “Do you recall the plate number?”

  “Yes,” said Mari, and she recited the number. It started with a K.

  Joutsamo was ready to celebrate. The other officers had gathered around as well. Below the plate number she scratched out another message: Kulta, put some coffee on! And tea too!!

  “Was the driver the murderer, then?”

  “It’s best if you don’t ask any questions. What do you remember about the driver?”

  “Male. About forty. Angry-looking eyes, though he never looked directly at me. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. Maybe that’s why it stuck in my head. He was clearly waiting for someone in the store and seemed irritable.”

  “Listen, Mari. We should meet up as soon as possible. Where are you now? Could I come there so we could talk?”

  Mari hesitated for a moment. “Uuh, maybe it’s best if I came to the station. We have secured entry and all that, and I don’t think the management would appreciate if the police came. I can get there by bus just fine.”

  “How about if I pick you up.”

  “That works too. Won’t take too long, will it?”

  “What’s the address?”

  Mari told her and Joutsamo promised to be there within fifteen minutes. She hung up the phone.

  Joutsamo was beaming. “Just hit pay dirt. Almost too good to be true. Not only was she able to describe the driver, she remembered the plate number, too.” Joutsamo handed her notes to Kohonen. “Kirsi, you track down the car. Kulta, I want every photo you can find of every guy connected to Korpi, but toss in ten or so extra photos for a control group.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Joutsamo was returning to police headquarters with Lehtonen. She had parked her unmarked Volkswagen Golf in front of the station rather than its reserved spot in the underground garage. She didn’t want Lehtonen feeling intimidated on account of their grim, claustrophobic parking accommodations. This might be their key witness, after all, and it paid to foster a buoyant, talkative mood. On the way, Joutsamo had avoided talking about the case, opting instead to ask about Mari’s background. Mari had talked about her current job, her layoff at the Jyväskylä Savings and Loan, her alcoholic ex and her daughter, who was clearly an important figure in her life.

  Mari Lehtonen seemed to Joutsamo to be a well-balanced woman and first-class eyewitness material.

  Once on the third floor of the station, Joutsamo led her down a hallway and into a small interrogation room that was somewhat different from those used for suspects.

  The room was plain, but not too dreary. On one wall, a map of Helsinki added a splash of color. A table, three chairs and a worn leather couch were neatly arranged about the room. If Joutsamo had had any say, she would have decorated with a bit more warmth, but perhaps a bit of barrenness helped to remind witnesses and plaintiffs of the importance of honesty. Only suspects had the right to lie without consequence.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  CHAPTER 5

  MONDAY, 12:05 P.M.

  KAARELA, NORTH HELSINKI

  Risto Korpi sat in a small, dimly lit room, browsing through electronic equipment websites on a laptop computer. Chat rooms provided a trove of valuable information on police methods along with pictures and license plates of unmarked squad cars. Korpi n
ever posted messages; he only read them.

  He stroked his head. It was smooth, freshly shaved that morning as it was every other day.

  The websites contained information about surveillance microphones, their operating frequencies and how to detect them. Korpi’s hard face cracked into a smile. The post was sufficiently interesting that he copied it, signed into an anonymous French email account and pasted the text into an email draft. A friend of Korpi’s in Sweden knew the password to the same account, which allowed him to read the drafts on his own computer. This way, emails were never actually sent, which minimized the risk that the authorities could read them.

  But the procedure wasn’t foolproof either. Korpi knew the police had the capability of infecting his computer with viruses that would make his every move visible to them.

  Real business had to be conducted the old-fashioned way, and even then, communications had to be coded in such a way that they revealed nothing to outsiders. The language had to be ordinary enough so as not to attract attention.

  Years in prison had taught Korpi to be careful, to leave no trace.

  A knock came at the door and Korpi barked out something unintelligible. The door swung open.

  “Risto,” said a young man in an uneasy voice. The man was powerfully built, with prominent cheekbones and a ragged scar beneath his right ear. Jere Siikala went by the nickname of Guerrilla and had actually come to prefer it over his former, a bastardization of Siikala to Sikala, meaning Pigsty.

  Korpi wheeled suddenly and shouted, “Fucking idiot! How many times I gotta tell you not to use names! Goddamn shit for brains. Never goddamn learn.”

  “Sorry,” Guerrilla said, shrinking back a bit. He knew better than to cross Korpi, but he had forgotten the rules.

  Korpi massaged his jaw. He shouldn’t have blown up, but sometimes he failed to smother his own fuse. Stupidity piqued his wrath more than it did most. Korpi struggled to quiet his voice. “Do you understand why we can’t mention names?”

  Siikala was prepared. He tried to offer the newspaper, explaining, “Of course I do, but it says here…”

  “I wanna hear the reason.”

  “Well, cuz the cops might be listening.”

  Korpi nodded. “Good. And how do they do that?”

  “They got the technology and all…room could be wired…mikes that work through the windows.”

  “Exactly. So tell me again, why no fucking names?”

  Siikala was confused, not sure why Korpi was still hassling him. Was it just another of his endless tirades, or was something worse coming? “So the cops can’t figure out who’s talking.”

  “So you know all about this…”

  Siikala nodded.

  “Then why the fuck…” Korpi snatched an empty beer bottle off the floor and launched it at Siikala. The bodybuilder managed to dodge the missile and it shattered against the door frame. “…don’t you do what I tell you?”

  Guerrilla knew anything he said would only further irritate Korpi. Now it was wise to remain silent. Were anyone else to have thrown a bottle at him he’d have snapped their neck, but Korpi’s psychotic streak made the man seem invincible. Sure, occasionally Siikala had felt like fighting back, but fortunately what little sense he had outweighed his penchant for fists, knives and firearms.

  “Now then,” said Korpi. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  This sudden change of mood was no surprise to Guerrilla. Korpi’s mind routinely reeled from one extreme to another.

  Without saying a word, Siikala handed him a folded newspaper clipping with the headline “Young Man Gunned Down in Alppila.”

  Korpi took the clipping, wrinkling his brow as he read it, “Shit,” he hissed. “Fucking idiot!”

  * * *

  Mari Lehtonen sat at the table inspecting a couple of dozen photos, which were spread out in front of her. She put her finger on one. “No question about it. That one’s the driver,” she said. The man in the photo wore a dour, angry expression. “I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. He had the same look then.”

  “I just want you to be sure,” said Joutsamo. “So take some time to look over the others once more.”

  Lehtonen scanned the photographs, studying each one for about ten seconds. Joutsamo was satisfied with the care she devoted to each. She studied the collection for nearly three minutes before tapping Korpi’s again.

  “And you’re certain?”

  Lehtonen nodded. “Absolutely.”

  Joutsamo raked up the photos and stood up. “Okay, Mari. I need to go talk with my lieutenant for a while. Go ahead and pour yourself another cup of coffee from the thermos over there.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll just be a few minutes,” said Joutsamo, and she headed off for Takamäki’s office. There, Takamäki and Kohonen were discussing the surveillance operation. Not much to discuss, as no phone activity had been detected. The police had obtained a warrant for a list of all cell phone activity from the area surrounding the crime scene. Takamäki had ordered Kohonen to go through the list to look for any interesting phone numbers.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Joutsamo from the door.

  “What is it?” said Takamäki.

  “Our witness recognized the driver. Korpi himself.”

  “Huh?” Takamäki seemed surprised. “She sure about that?”

  Joutsamo nodded. “Positively. I showed her more than twenty photos of guys who’ve been connected to Korpi, plus Korpi himself. Lehtonen barely hesitated when she fingered him.”

  “And she’s pretty levelheaded?”

  “Yup. Even remembers the plate number on the Mazda. Said it herself—she’s got like a photographic memory.”

  “Why would Korpi put himself in that kinda situation?” wondered Kohonen. “He’s got plenty of guys to play getaway driver.”

  “Wondered the same thing myself,” said Joutsamo. “He’s not the type to do anything that stupid, even for his godchild.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to ask him, if we can find him. Anna, did you discuss safety measures with Lehtonen?”

  Joutsamo shook her head.

  “Okay, you’ll have to do that. But do a proper interview first and make sure to document in writing which photo she identified. Once we find Korpi, we’ll organize a lineup,” said Takamäki. His phone rang. Before answering, he asked Joutsamo if there was anything more. There wasn’t.

  “Yeah,” Takamäki barked into the receiver. If he ever used his name, he certainly didn’t for unidentified callers.

  “Hi, it’s Sanna,” said a woman’s perky voice.

  “Hi there,” said Takamäki.

  Sanna Römpötti was a long-time crime reporter who had recently moved from newspapers to TV. She was friends with Joutsamo, who Takamäki trusted not to leak any information to the media.

  “So, you guys got a new murder to solve?”

  Takamäki smiled. Typical Römpötti. Her interviews were like a page out of a police textbook. Throw out a casual, open question and let the subject ramble on. Afterwards, if Römpötti heard anything interesting, the real grilling would begin. In most instances, she had already familiarized herself with the case in advance.

  “Yeah. In Alppila.”

  “I saw the bit in the paper, but what’s the backstory?”

  “If only we knew.”

  “Don’t play games, Kari. You know what I’m looking for here. Anything newsworthy?”

  “Well, sure, if we solve the case.”

  Römpötti was quiet for a moment. “Organized crime?”

  “You said that. Not me.”

  The reporter laughed. “Will you say it on camera?”

  “Hey, you’re the talking head. How about you say it,” said Takamäki. “According to our sources and

  all that.”

  “So that’s your working assumption then?”

  “If we get somewhere with it, yes, but it might not stick.” It never paid to lie to reporters, though occasionally informati
on had to be withheld. Besides, getting the case on TV would help them angle for more witnesses.

  “You have somebody in custody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “The murder suspect.”

  “How?”

  “Can’t say.”

  Römpötti sniffed. “That doesn’t help much. Any biker gangs involved?”

  Takamäki was about to say ‘no comment,’ but Römpötti would only have interpreted that as a yes. “No. No bikers.”

  “Alright. Does one-thirty work?”

  “For what?”

  “An interview, of course.”

  “Did I agree to one?”

  “Of course. You sent out a written press release, so in the interest of fairness, you have to appear on camera, too.”

  “Alright,” Takamäki laughed. “One-thirty, then.”

  CHAPTER 6

  MONDAY, 12:45 P.M.

  PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  Joutsamo smiled as she hit “Save” on the computer. Mari Lehtonen was still seated on the other side of the interview table. Though it took more time, Joutsamo had opted to transcribe Lehtonen’s account as she gave it rather than tape it.

  “I’ll just print this out so you can have a look and sign it,” said Joutsamo, as she clicked the mouse. The printer whirred into action. “I’ll sign every page, too, and then we’ll be all done.”

  “That easy, huh?”

  The printer pumped out four pages, which comprised the entirety of the interview.

  “Yup.”

  Joutsamo handed the papers to Lehtonen, who began poring over them. “Looks OK,” she said, and Joutsamo handed her a pen. “A few minor typos, but I don’t suppose it matters.”