Helsinki Homicide: Against the Wall

by Jarkko Sipila

  But there was no time now. He had gotten ahold of Saarnikangas on the phone, and they had arranged to meet in Pihlajamäki. Did Juha live around here nowadays? He wasn’t sure. Last he knew, the guy had lived in Itäkeskus, near the infamous shopping mall. He was now three miles northeast of there, next to the Lahti Highway.

  Saarnikangas’ dirty Fiat sat in the parking lot. Suhonen had swung by the van and installed the tracking device. It hadn’t taken more than twenty-five seconds. While he was at it, he had checked the brand on the tires.

  According to the DMV, the van was owned by one Krister Vuori. The man was doing three years in Helsinki Prison for drug trafficking.

  Suhonen’s second phone—the prepaid one—rang.

  “Well?”

  “Where are you?” Juha asked.

  “Out front.”

  “Come on in. Stairwell B in the long building. Third floor; the door says Teräsvuori.”

  Suhonen strode through the quiet yard and entered the stairway. The spiral stairs were built into the side of the building and surrounded by glass walls. Suhonen dashed up the stairs two at a time and, reaching the third floor, rang the doorbell.

  Saarnikangas was already at the door, and he opened it quickly. Suhonen suspected he had been lurking behind the door, peering out the peephole. A black Metallica T-shirt and tattered jeans were draped over his skinny frame. His hair was tangled as usual.

  Suhonen stepped past him into the studio, which opened up from the hallway to the left. A beat-up mattress lay on the floor surrounded by a cluttered pile of paperbacks. Next to the balcony door, a TV sat on the floor and a plastic patio table served as a dining table.

  “Nice pad,” Suhonen said.

  “Practical,” Juha remarked. “Not mine, of course.”

  “What’s new with Krister?”

  “You mean Vuori?” Juha laughed, but his voice was pinched. The junkie paced around the room, unable to stand still. “Do you know him?”

  “I know of him, yeah.”

  “He’s doing time. He left this pad and the van in my care. Apparently, the city hasn’t figured out that the tenant is in the slammer, so I’ve been able to live here.”

  “Quit bouncing around and sit down,” said Suhonen, pointing to a white plastic chair. Juha obeyed like a scared puppy. Suhonen remained standing, about six feet off.

  “About Eriksson.”

  “What about him?”

  “What do you really know?”

  Saarnikangas continued to fidget in the chair.

  “Exactly what I told you before. Nothing more. I heard some rumors, so I told you.”

  “You’re in deep shit.”

  “How so?”

  “If you don’t talk.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Saarnikangas raised his voice and folded his thin arms across his chest. “I told you everything. I don’t know anything more. You have the body, so it’s your job to figure out who did it.”

  “How do you know we have the body?” Suhonen asked with a grim expression.

  Juha’s chin dropped open for half a second. “Don’t you?”

  “I haven’t said anything about that. You seem to know.”

  “Stop trying to confuse me. How many times have I helped you cops out… Shiiit...”

  “Enough swearing. Pretty soon you’ll be helping out in the prison cafeteria.”

  “Goddamnit,” Saarnikangas said, starting to stand up.

  “Sit,” Suhonen said calmly and Juha obeyed. “Listen to me. We did find the body, and the police are looking for someone to skin. We have to find the killer, and fast. The case is hot, and we’ll find every single morsel of evidence. Now’s your chance to help us out, not to mention yourself.”

  Saarnikangas squirmed in his chair. “But… I honestly don’t know anything more about it.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you have a gun?” Suhonen repeated.

  “No,” he answered hesitantly.

  “Good to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, we won’t have to send the Bear Squad to bring you in when we figure out your role in this case.”

  The Helsinki SWAT team was nicknamed the “Bear Squad.” The unit had been formed to protect foreign dignitaries for the 1975 US-Soviet summit in Helsinki. The police had chosen a bear as its symbol because in a confrontation, the team would swat like a bear.

  “Don’t start…”

  “I’m serious. You’ll be in deep shit if you don’t talk now. If you don’t have anything to say, then find something out. I’ll call you tonight.” He turned away.

  “Suhonen,” Juha said. The detective stopped.

  “What?”

  “About the swearing. You know where the word ‘hell’ comes from?”

  Suhonen walked away. “I don’t have time for your trivia.”

  “It’s Ancient Swedish, derived from the name of ‘Hel’, the mistress of the netherworld…”

  Suhonen closed the door behind him and took out his phone. He made it to the stairs by the time Joutsamo answered.

  “Well?”

  “I met with Saarnikangas.”

  “Yeah. You must’ve been in his apartment,” Joutsamo said. “The phone tap is working and we listened in on your little phone conversation earlier.”

  “Good,” Suhonen said and thought that going forward, he’d have to watch what he said to Juha on the phone. “He wriggled and squirmed, but it won’t be long before he either calls me or makes a run for it. If anything happens, let me know.”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh yeah,” Suhonen added. “The tires on his van were GT Radial Maxways.”

  Joutsamo asked him to repeat the brand again.

  “It’s a match then,” she said.

  Suhonen ended the call and opened the police GPS tracking application on his phone. A glowing red dot indicated that the tracking device was in the parking lot on Vuolukivi. All systems go. The battery wouldn’t be a problem; these newer models could last up to a few weeks.

  CHAPTER 12

  LINDSTRÖM’S APARTMENT,

  TEHDAS STREET, HELSINKI

  WEDNESDAY, 3:55 P.M.

  “Bogeyman” Markkanen stepped into Kalevi Lindström’s apartment building. Classical music boomed into the stairwell and rose into the vaulted ceilings, seeming to lift the elegant decor with its lilting tempo. Everything was of the highest quality. The walls had been recently painted, complete with an elaborate molding where they met the ceiling. Markkanen knew that the renovation team had used original 1930s photographs of the building as inspiration.

  It had taken Markkanen about forty minutes to drive the ten miles from Espoo to South Helsinki. This was the swankiest part of town. Parking spots were impossible to find, as most of the Art Noveau buildings were from the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries, and had no garages.

  Lindström’s door was made from solid walnut. The chrome doorbell looked original, though it had been bought at an antique store and installed during the renovation.

  He pressed the button. The bell jangled forcefully and he waited. He was forbidden to ring twice. It took Lindström about a minute to come to the door. He wore brown tailored pants and a white dress shirt.

  “There you are,” Lindström said, and let Markkanen inside.

  The younger man knew the rules. As usual, he left his black shoes in the foyer and hung his coat on a hanger.

  “Let’s go to my office,” the boss said. The apartment was spacious by Finnish standards, at least 2,000 square feet. In addition to the office and the fitness room, he had a kitchen, a formal dining room, a bedroom, and a living room.

  Lindström lived alone. As far as Markkanen knew, he wasn’t married, probably never had been. Markkanen wasn’t sure if he was straight or not. Of course, he had never asked about it; it wasn’t relevant. At least the older man had never come on to him.

  The office was designed like a library. A lapt
op and a few stacks of paper rested on a large desk. Dark built-in bookcases encircled the room. Near the door were a low table and two armchairs. The window offered a view of Tehdas Street, but at the moment, brown curtains hid the spectacular view.

  Lindström turned on some lights, gestured for Markkanen to sit in one of the armchairs, and took a seat opposite him.

  “Still haven’t heard anything about Eriksson?” Lindström asked.

  Markkanen shook his head. “Vanished into thin air.”

  “Just doesn’t make sense. I know he would’ve told me if he was going on a trip. Do you know if he had any enemies?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Markkanen remarked. What kind of a question was that, he thought, but said nothing. Everybody had them, some more than others.

  Lindström nodded his head. “Right, right… We’ll have to figure out who they are, but right now I have a more pressing matter.” The man set his elbows on the armrests of his chair and brought his fingertips together so they mirrored one another. “Markus…” Lindström began.

  Markkanen was taken aback to hear his first name. His boss hadn’t addressed him that way in a long time, if ever.

  “…I’ve always considered you hired muscle. Don’t take this wrong, but your fists have been your best assets.”

  You should know, Markkanen thought. He hadn’t received the “Bogeyman” nickname in his youth for nothing. He kept his expression serious.

  “You’re good at settling debts and roughing people up. And also organizing things. But now that Eriksson is missing, you’re going to have to step into his shoes. At least for a while.”

  Hmm, Markkanen thought. So now he was supposed to squeeze into that rookie’s shoes? As long as diapers weren’t part of the deal. Still, he liked the direction this was headed. “Right,” he said as impartially as possible.

  “Tomorrow I’ll be receiving twenty freight containers of flat-screen TVs. The ship will be docking in at the Kotka port. Each container will have fifty to seventy-five units. Altogether, roughly one thousand to fifteen hundred TVs, between forty and seventy inches. Very good quality. Not the cheap stuff you get from clearance sales.”

  The man leveled a steady gaze at Markkanen. “I won’t go into details now, but there’s a considerable difference in taxes if the paperwork says ‘rubber gloves’ rather than ‘top-of-the-line electronics.’ Understand?”

  Markkanen nodded. He knew that one of Lindström’s businesses had something to do with import-export. Markkanen had arranged some of the transport logistics himself and also rode shotgun from time to time. Goods that were officially bound for Russia had actually stayed in Finland and were sold onto the black market tax-free.

  “Good. The containers are headed for Russia, but we still need to disclose the contents to Customs when they arrive here. Russian Customs isn’t a problem, but the Finnish side has occasionally been a little sticky. That’s where Eriksson has been coming in. He’s taken care of any issues with the Finnish Customs.”

  “I see,” Markkanen said. Though he had suspected something like this, he never knew the exact details.“How?”

  “He gathers information.”

  “From where?”

  “This is why you’ve always been the hired muscle,” Lindström said with a wry smile. “From Customs, of course. He has a man on the inside. I know his name, but Eriksson never told me what their arrangement was.”

  A man on the inside. Wow, Markkanen thought. “That’s good.”

  “Right. At first, I thought it was a secretary. But this guy is management.”

  “Money?”

  Lindström smiled. “Yes. It involves money, but there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Jerry is a clever kid. He’s my cousin’s son; he knows how to play the game.”

  Markkanen was shocked. Cousin’s son! Eriksson and Lindström were related? This was news to him. And something he definitely should’ve known. Shit, he thought.

  “What is it?” Lindström asked. “You look surprised.”

  “Well, I just didn’t know Eriksson was your relative.”

  “Yeah, we weren’t that close before Jerry came to work for me.”

  “Right, right,” Markkanen said. He should have figured it out beforehand. It was one surprise too many. Maybe the old man was right about him and his abilities. “So what do I have to do?”

  “It should be simple, even for you. Just take it easy, at least to begin with. Get in touch with Jouko Nyholm at Customs. Tell him that Eriksson’s gone on a trip, and that you’re taking care of business for now. We need to know if they’re having any surprise inspections, and whether our cargo has raised any red flags.” Lindström looked at Markkanen inquiringly.

  “So I’m gonna bribe a customs officer?”

  “Yep. Sounds simple, right?”

  “Yeah. And if he resists, I’ll threaten to turn him in,” Markkanen smirked.

  “If at first you don’t succeed, use a bigger hammer.”

  “A big hammer is my tool of choice,” Markkanen answered in a serious tone. His thoughts returned to Eriksson. To think he had a management-level informant at the Customs office. Jesus. No wonder he and Lindström were so cozy. And relatives, too. Well, now the job was his. Finally, Markus Markkanen’s situation seemed very promising.

  CHAPTER 13

  EAST HIGHWAY

  WEDNESDAY, 5:00 P.M.

  Juha Saarnikangas was driving at a steady speed along the East Highway toward downtown Helsinki. The dashboard clock showed 1:30, but that’s what it had been showing for the last two months, maybe longer. The evening rush, a long line of headlights, was pouring out of the city past him. His battered wipers made a mess of the view.

  As he neared the Kulosaari bridge, a rooftop clock broadcast the time in glowing orange numbers: 5:02. Juha knew Lydman started his bouncer’s shift at the Corner Pub door at five. He worked two nights a week, and Juha suspected he was also dealing at the door.

  He had to get in touch with Lydman. He had already been to his place in Pikku-Huopalahti once, and didn’t want to go there again. The phone wasn’t safe. Suhonen’s visit had shaken him. Wasn’t it enough that he had tipped him off about the body? Why couldn’t the police just take care of it themselves so he could be left out of the whole mess.

  He could tell Lydman and the others that he hadn’t been able to lift the body the first time, and when he came back, the cops had already arrived.

  From what Suhonen had said, it seemed that he was a murder suspect now. “You’re in deep shit,” Suhonen’s threat still echoed in his mind. He had asked about a gun and hinted at an encounter with the SWAT team. The case was hot, then. Too hot. Shit.

  A taxi blew past a yield sign and cut in front of Saarnikangas. He leaned on the horn, forgetting that it was broken. The highway split into two and he took the route to Kallio. Juha tried to remember if he had left any evidence at the crime scene. Fingerprints? DNA? Bits of thread? The cops always looked for those types of things. He couldn’t remember. The events at the garage seemed like a distant nightmare. Except that it was no dream.

  It had probably been stupid to tell the police, but at the time it had seemed like a clever move.

  Suhonen had the number to his phone, so it was probably under surveillance already. That’s why he couldn’t just call Lydman. He’d need a new cellphone. On the other hand, he’d have to keep using the old one just enough so Suhonen wouldn’t suspect anything.

  * * *

  Suhonen was looking at a map of Kallio on his cellphone display. The red dot blinked at the corner of Fleming and Aleksis Kivi, then turned onto Fleming. Kallio, or “the Rock,” had been a working class area up until the eighties. But as factories moved away from downtown, the population shifted from families to young adults looking for cheap rent. The cheap rents also tended to draw a rougher crowd.

  Suhonen stepped on the gas. He was a couple minutes behind.

  Based on the map, Saarnikangas was headed somew
here in the heart of Kallio, but where?

  Joutsamo was looking at the same map at her desk. She had also informed Suhonen over the phone that Saarnikangas hadn’t made a single phone call. The phone was still active, though. She had asked if he needed any backup, but he had assured her he could handle it.

  The lights turned green, and Suhonen swung onto Kustaa Street. He passed what was formerly the Hill Mortuary on the left. The brick building was originally built in the 1920s, and a sign above the door read in Latin, “For mortals only death is eternal.”

  Suhonen was familiar with the building, but not as a mortuary. The last bodies had been embalmed and loaded onto the “corpse train” bound for the Malmi Cemetery in the fifties. At its peak, there had been five trains a week, each including two cars for the dead and four for the families. The living were brought back to Kallio.

  In the eighties and nineties, a local gang had used the dilapidated building as their headquarters, and Suhonen had been there many times. Now that it was a youth community center, he no longer had any business there.

  Suhonen turned right onto Aleksis Kivi, and the mortuary receded in the distance. His phone indicated that Saarnikangas was already at Helsinki Avenue. Suhonen sped up.

  * * *

  Saarnikangas swung the van into the chicane on Helsinki Avenue, on the east end of Brahe Soccer Field. Brown shabby buildings served as changing rooms, and a sign pointed towards a café. One good thing about the van was that he could leave it just about anywhere. Saarnikangas had found a laminated Service Call sign in the glove box, which he displayed inside the windshield. Technically, the Service Call sign would allow him almost limitless parking, at least if the meter maid didn’t check the plates. There were no meter maids in sight, and even if there were, it wouldn’t have mattered. Neither Saarnikangas nor the owner of the van, in prison already, would pay the ticket.

  After locking the doors, he headed toward the Corner Pub. The street was bustling with activity. A streetcar rattled by and turned towards the Sports Center, former home to one of Helsinki’s semi-pro basketball teams. During its glory years, the team had drawn a few hundred spectators on a good night, a fraction of the attention local hockey teams received.