Helsinki Homicide: Against the Wall

by Jarkko Sipila

  “Don’t do it,” Snellman said.

  Nyholm turned towards Takamäki. “Eriksson met my daughter last spring and quickly found out what I did for a living. Of course, I checked his record. Her life was messed up already, and there was nothing I could’ve done about it anyway. Then the blackmail started…”

  Takamäki listened to the outburst. “What blackmail?”

  “Eriksson wanted information on our surveillance ops. They were trafficking electronics, primarily to Russia through Finland. The paperwork always said rubber gloves or toilet paper. All I had to do was tell them whether the shipment was slated for inspection. They paid me for it.”

  “Mole!” Snellman roared.

  The gun didn’t waver from his temple. “That’s right. I told my wife I was gonna kill him, this Eriksson. When I heard he’d been found dead, I thought I might be a suspect. But the scheme went on. Another guy named Markkanen took Eriksson’s place. I don’t know if that’s his real name, but his number is in my cellphone.”

  His gaze was still locked on Takamäki. “With that number, you should be able to track him down.”

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “Yes, I figured that out too. It took a little effort since they hid the scheme behind fronting companies. You’ll find the paperwork in my office. The Finnish side is headed by a man named Kalevi Lindström. The Russian side has several names, but I’m sure there are even bigger bosses behind them. Any other questions?”

  Takamäki noted the man’s unusual calm.

  “This isn’t necessary,” the lieutenant said quietly. “Shooting yourself won’t solve anything.”

  “Hmph, especially not in my office,” Snellman grumbled. “You’d make a terrible mess.”

  “Be quiet,” Takamäki snarled.

  Nyholm looked at Takamäki. His finger tightened around the trigger.

  “Yes, it will.”

  Takamäki tried again. “Let’s just talk about this. You’ve helped us already, and we need you for the investigation. Your situation’s not easy, but it’s not that bad either. We have time to talk. Let’s work out the issues, one at a time.”

  Nyholm’s trigger finger started to quiver.

  “I’m here to listen,” Takamäki said again. “Don’t.”

  Nyholm lowered the gun to his side and wept. “I can’t do anything…not even this,” he said and fell to his knees.

  Takamäki bolted out of his chair toward Nyholm, who was shaking and sobbing loudly. The gun was still visible, dangling from the man’s hand. Takamäki twisted it free and set it on the coffee table.

  Snellman was still sitting in his chair. “Goddamn!”

  “You said it.”

  “Take him to jail.”

  Takamäki glanced at Nyholm, then took out his cellphone.

  “I think we’ll send him to the hospital first.”

  * * *

  Suhonen got out of his car. The southern tip of Hernesaari wasn’t an official parking lot; it was mostly used as a pier for dumping snow into the sea. Only a few decades earlier, it had been an island, but had since been connected to the mainland with landfill. It sported a shipyard, a helicopter port, some office buildings, and of course, a hockey arena.

  The wind swept across the bay, and the trees on the island of Pihlajasaari were visible less than a half mile away.

  Markkanen had seen Suhonen pull up, and he got out of the car.

  “Hello,” Suhonen said, zipping up his leather jacket.

  Markkanen gave a nod, went to the trunk of his car and opened it. Suhonen joined him. Inside the trunk was the same hockey bag he had used for the pig’s head. Suhonen guessed it contained something else now, though the nauseating stench remained.

  “Well, what now?” Suhonen asked. Markkanen had called him fifteen minutes earlier to say that plans had changed and arranged a meeting in the remote, vacant lot.

  “Suikkanen, the situation has changed.”

  “Huh? You don’t want me to swipe the cash?”

  “No. The old man wants to meet me at four. I don’t know what he wants, maybe to pay up.”

  “Should I do the job after that?”

  “Maybe,” Markkanen said. “We’ll see how it goes, but now I need you to watch my back.”

  Suhonen nodded. “Sure, I can do that, as long as the pay’s the same.”

  “This one’s only worth a grand.”

  “What do you mean only a grand?”

  “Cuz you’re just back-up,” Markkanen snapped.

  “Two grand.”

  “Alright,” he relented.

  Suhonen gave him a hard look. “A grand up front.”

  Markkanen smiled, but fished out his wallet, counted off ten one-hundred-euro notes and handed him the money.

  “Happy?”

  Suhonen stuffed the cash into his pocket and grinned.

  “Let’s get to business then.”

  Markkanen stooped down, pulled the hockey bag out of the trunk and opened it. Inside was a long, skinny black-and-white bag, intended for junior hockey sticks. On the side, large letters spelled out, “FAT PIPE.”

  “This is for you,” he said, handing the bag to Suhonen. “Just a loan. It’s loaded.”

  Suhonen opened the zipper enough to peek inside, and immediately recognized a Franchi Spas pump-action shotgun. The Italian assault weapon was prized by military and police task forces worldwide. Its magazine could hold eight rounds.

  Suhonen looked up at Markkanen. “So, this is where the going gets tough.”

  “You know how to use it?”

  Suhonen had fired a similar weapon in training, but Suikkanen wouldn’t have had that opportunity.

  “I’ve used a shotgun, but not this kind.”

  “It’s easy. The safety’s next to the trigger. Switch it off…pump it and the shell goes in…then pull the trigger. Booom! A manly sound.” Markkanen grinned.

  “Okay,” Suhonen said. “Might as well get the money out of the safe at the same time.”

  Markkanen looked at Suhonen. “Suikkanen, I don’t know what’s gonna happen in that apartment, and frankly, I don’t like not knowing. But I’m going in there alone, and you can either wait in the car or outside in the courtyard. Just stay close. He might have help inside.”

  “If you need me, how do I know when to come in? If I hear gunshots, or what?”

  Markkanen grinned. “You’d be too late then.”

  He dug a small plastic box out of the hockey bag and opened it. Inside were a handful of electronic devices.

  “What’s this?”

  Markkanen took out a box the size of a matchbook with a three-foot-long cord attached to it. He held up the end of the cord. “There’s a microphone in here. I’ll have this with me.”

  “This is so James Bond. Where’d you get this stuff?”

  “I bought it in London a while back.” He grinned, then handed a similar box to Suhonen. This one had an earpiece on the end. “You get the receiver. You’ll be able to hear what’s happening. The code word is ‘cognac.’ If I say that, get your ass inside. Is that clear?”

  “Cognac,” Suhonen chuckled, and pushed the earpiece in place. “Got it.”

  “Good. I just changed all the batteries, but we’d better make sure they work,” he said, taking several steps backwards. “Turn it on. There’s a little switch on the side.”

  Suhonen glanced at his watch: 3:50 P.M.

  CHAPTER 27

  TEHDAS STREET, HELSINKI

  FRIDAY, 4:02 P.M.

  Suhonen was sitting in the car, waiting. Luckily, he had found a parking spot just in front of the building. Now he wouldn’t have to skulk around in the courtyard or stairwell, toting a kids hockey stick bag. Ten seconds earlier, Markkanen had gone inside without so much as a backward glance.

  Suhonen had alerted Takamäki, but they didn’t have enough time to get backup to the scene. All patrol units downtown had been notified of a possible police operation on Tehdas Street, but Suhonen didn’t want any
uniformed officers stumbling in at this delicate stage.

  In the earpiece, he could hear Markkanen’s footsteps on the stone floor. The device worked surprisingly well, considering the building had thick stone walls. Had it been a police-issue device, the signal would have been breaking up by now.

  Suhonen heard the doorbell ring, and the door open. He opened the car door and ducked into the stairwell, the bag slung over his shoulder.

  * * *

  “Come in,” the bald man said in a nasal voice, cracking the door open a bit more to see if anyone else was on the landing. He glanced down the empty stairwell, too.

  Tony Korpela was wearing a gray sweater and a pair of black Levi’s. His tattoos burst out of his shirtsleeves onto the backs of his hands. He was in his thirties, and considerably shorter than Markkanen.

  Markkanen knew his rap sheet. Toward the end of the nineties, Korpela had been sentenced to thirteen years in prison for “murder with diminished capacity.” Had he been judged fully accountable, he’d still be serving life. The murder had been brutal, carried out with a pair of scissors. But according to the District Court, Korpela hadn’t fully understood his actions.

  Finland’s criminal code included this intermediate step between guilty and not guilty by reason of insanity. Those guilty with diminished capacity received lighter sentences, but still did their time in regular prisons.

  Markkanen had read the details about the murder in Alibi, a popular true-crime magazine. He had been amazed by Korpela’s persistence, and the fact that the scissors hadn’t been rendered uselessly dull.

  Korpela had never settled into prison life, and ended up in solitary confinement in the Riihimäki Prison. Rarely did “the hole” rehabilitate inmates, it only fed their hatred. Prisoners were isolated in their cells, save for a brief spell outdoors. Showers were few and far between. Markkanen wasn’t sure how Korpela had ended up in the Skulls, but that didn’t really matter.

  Markkanen walked past Korpela, then felt the barrel of a gun at the nape of his neck.

  “Just a precaution. You carrying?” the man droned from behind.

  “No,” Markkanen answered. He wondered how much teasing Korpela had endured as a child for his unusual voice.

  Korpela patted him down anyway. He didn’t find the transmitter, which was taped high on the inside of his right thigh. The microphone was lodged in his belt buckle.

  Markkanen dutifully hung his jacket on the hook, slipped off his shoes and proceeded into the library. Lindström was sitting in an armchair wearing a brown cardigan and holding a fat glass.

  “Pour yourself a brandy,” Lindström said with a smile.

  “No, thanks,” Markkanen said, thankful that he hadn’t offered cognac. Had he done so, Suikkanen would be at the door any second. Markkanen sat down opposite Lindström.

  Korpela lingered by the door, and Lindström shot him a glance.

  “An explanation is probably in order,” Lindström said dryly. “We can speak freely. The apartment was scrubbed for bugs this morning.”

  “You can start by explaining what that Skull is doing here,” Markkanen said. He wanted to convey to Suikkanen that there were others in the room.

  “Actually, that’s where I was going to start. Tony came to pay me a visit this afternoon, and he made an offer I couldn’t refuse. We’ve had a good chat,” Lindström said, then sipped his brandy.

  “How’d he end up here?” Markkanen wondered in bewilderment.

  “I drove,” Korpela said coldly.

  Markkanen racked his brain. How had he been betrayed? How had the Skulls and Lindström found each other? In any case, the situation was not good.

  “Punk,” Lindström snorted. “But let’s keep this civil. Could you please explain why you had Eriksson killed?”

  What the hell was going on here, Markkanen wondered, trying to stay cool. Clearly, the Skulls had switched sides.

  Markkanen glanced at Korpela again.

  “Yes. We’ve had some very interesting conversations,” Lindström sneered.

  Korpela had apparently told him about the murder. No use denying it, then.

  “Uhhh, well. Right. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. I got wind from a reliable source that Eriksson was cooperating with Customs. He was their informant and so…”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” Lindström hissed. “Eriksson mentioned that he had something on you. He didn’t say, or have time to say what it was… So? What was it?”

  Markkanen shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Does your wife know?”

  “You leave her outta this.”

  “Should we pick her and the boy up from the spa in Turku? Korpela here would be happy to oblige,” Lindström smiled.

  Markkanen tried to remain calm. “They don’t know anything.”

  “But you do,” Lindström said, pausing for emphasis. “Why did you hire Korpela to kill Eriksson?”

  Markkanen said nothing. Korpela had snuck up behind him. He seized Markkanen’s arms, jerked them behind the back rest and quickly slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists.

  “Hey, what the hell is this?”

  * * *

  Suhonen was on the landing one floor below, listening intently. What was going on inside? He heard a familiar metallic sound, but it took him a second to place it: the snip of a scissors.

  Korpela and scissors. Of course, Suhonen thought.

  Though Markkanen seemed to be in trouble, he hadn’t given the code word. Suhonen knew the situation wouldn’t improve; should he go in now or would that just cause more problems? He unzipped the bag but didn’t take the shotgun out yet.

  “Where should we trim first?” said an older man’s creaky voice.

  “His head seems dispensable,” came a nasal laugh and the nervous snipping of scissors.

  “Hey, hey… Don’t.”

  Suhonen felt his phone vibrate. It was Takamäki. He pressed the talk button, but said nothing.

  “What’s going on?” Takamäki asked.

  * * *

  Lindström sipped his brandy. “Do you understand your position? It’s not very enviable.”

  Markkanen wondered if he should ask for some cognac—not yet. He wanted to see all of Lindström’s cards.

  “Eriksson claimed I was embezzling money from you, but it’s not true. He was just saying that because I knew he was a Customs snitch.”

  “He was no nark. You’re the only traitor here.”

  Korpela worked the scissors impatiently; the metallic sound cut through the room almost constantly now. He looked at Lindström with anticipation.

  Lindström nodded. “We’ll get to that soon enough. I have some more questions for our Judas here. Who’s this Suikkanen?”

  Markkanen paused to think about how to respond, then remembered that Suikkanen was listening in. He’d have to choose his words carefully or his backup might take off.

  “He’s a gangster from Lahti.”

  “What does he want from me?”

  “Your money, probably…” The constant snapping of Korpela’s scissors was getting on his nerves. “How should I know?” he shrieked abruptly.

  “Why do you want him dead? And where’d you get the kind of money to pay for the Skulls?”

  Markkanen closed his eyes. There it was. Cognac wouldn’t help anymore, unless he could turn the tables and provoke Suikkanen to attack out of rage.

  “You’re the one who wants him dead. Those were your orders,” Markkanen raised his voice. “And your money.”

  “A gangster from Lahti, huh?” Lindström relished ignoring the lies.

  “Yeah.”

  Lindström stared at his captive, looking pitifully weak in his chair. “What would you say if I told you he’s a cop?”

  Markkanen’s mouth dropped open, but he collected himself quickly. “Naah, that can’t be true.”

  “How so?”

  “I saw him beat up an officer a couple days ago. Or was it yesterday.”
>
  “The Skulls are positive he’s a cop. They have a photo of him coming out of police headquarters.”

  Markkanen closed his eyes again. He remembered the microphone. The nightmare situation had just turned catastrophic.

  “You murdered Eriksson, and nearly ruined my business with the Russians. Korpela is in danger of doing life…”

  Markkanen didn’t say a word. If Suikkanen was indeed a cop, the guy was probably keeled over laughing right now.

  “You have any suggestions on how to deal with this?” Lindström asked. “I’m prepared to forget about Eriksson and the money you stole, provided we can hand Suikkanen to the Skulls; their VP wants him dead. So where is he?”

  At first, Lindström thought Markkanen was gasping for air, but he soon caught on. The man was silently mouthing the same sentence over and over: Open…the…cuffs. Open…the…cuffs.

  Lindström was dumbfounded. Why would he do a thing like that, he thought to himself. Was somebody listening in? But they had swept the place for bugs.

  Lindström’s guard was up, though. He took a pen and paper from the desk and scrawled: Why?

  “I ain’t saying nothin,” Markkanen said aloud, then continued mouthing the words: Open…the…cuffs.

  Lindström scribbled an order to Korpela, telling him to open the cuffs. The hit man was confused, but carried out his orders.

  Markkanen massaged his wrists, then quickly took the paper and pen from the old man’s hand. He wrote: Play along. Suikkanen will be here soon.

  Markkanen gave the old man an inquiring look, to be sure he had understood. Lindström nodded expectantly. Korpela watched from the sidelines, still baffled. Suddenly Markkanen started to scream bloody murder.

  “Fuuck nooo! Don’t kill me! Cognac! Cognac!”

  Lindström and Korpela looked at him, both openly shocked now. Markkanen didn’t care, and kept screaming in anguish. He pulled down his pants, tore off the transmitter, snatched the scissors out of Korpela’s hand and snipped the microphone cord.

  “What the hell?” Korpela bleated. “You’re wired?”