Nothing but the Truth hh-3

by Jarkko Sipila

  Nothing but the Truth

  ( Helsinki Homicide - 3 )

  Jarkko Sipila

  Jarkko Sipila

  Nothing but the Truth

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 17

  CHAPTER 1

  SUNDAY, 7:45 P.M.

  PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  She’d heard that answer dozens of times before: No comment.

  What a clown, thought Sergeant Anna Joutsamo. No comment, my ass. Not that it mattered. The police had already amassed enough evidence for a life sentence, with more on the way once Forensics finished up at the murder scene.

  Esa Nyberg was sitting behind the table of a dreary interrogation room, dressed in police-issue green coveralls, his arms folded over his chest, his long hair in a tangled mess. His eyes seemed to stare into space. Not that there was much to see but pale gray walls. In addition to Nyberg and Sergeant Joutsamo, Mikko Kulta, a Helsinki VCU detective, sat at the table.

  “Enough with the games,” said Joutsamo, in a tone that revealed her waning patience. She smoothed her jeans and straightened her dark hair with a flourish. “I understand you don’t want to talk about the case without a lawyer present, but I’m sure you can handle a few basic questions.”

  “No comment,” said Nyberg tersely.

  “I didn’t ask anything,” said Joutsamo.

  “No comment.”

  Mikko Kulta sat beside Joutsamo with a barely suppressed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Joutsamo rose from her chair and circled behind Nyberg. “Listen Esa… Right now, you’re making decisions that will impact the rest of your life. We already know you pulled the trigger, we just don’t know why. My advice to you is to think this through very carefully. Manslaughter will get you between four and six; murder-at least twelve, more like sixteen. You’re twenty-three now. If you choose not to cooperate and are convicted of murder, you’ll be thirty-nine when you get out. That’s a lot of life you’ll miss out on during those extra ten years,” said Joutsamo, and she paused strategically to let her words sink in.

  Nyberg didn’t reply. Joutsamo wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. At least his canned response had faltered for the moment. As long as he was thinking, that was enough.

  Joutsamo studied the tattoos bursting from beneath the collar of his coveralls, some kind of Japanese or Chinese characters. The VCU had files on various tattoo symbols and their meanings, but they’d do the research later. Right now all Joutsamo wanted was a reaction from Nyberg. Something to move the case along.

  The police needed a motive for the murder-they already had the shooter. Nyberg was clearly that, but somebody else was pulling the strings. That’s why they needed him to talk.

  But the young man just sat motionless. Nobody had said anything for thirty seconds. The ventilation system hummed softly. Detective Kulta looked up at Joutsamo, who was still standing behind Nyberg. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Which would you rather do? Five or fifteen?” she asked.

  “No comment.”

  Joutsamo cursed silently.

  “Here’s a suggestion,” said Kulta. “I’ll be visiting the Helsinki prison tomorrow to see a guy doing time for a deadly arson a few years back. When I put him away, I promised to bring him a bag of coffee every year for his birthday. With this shooting all over the front pages, I bet he’ll ask about it. Suppose I started a rumor that we know who ordered the hit because the shooter talked.”

  From behind, Joutsamo could see Nyberg tense his neck muscles.

  “Filthy fucking pig.”

  “How much you wanna bet that within six hours every last Jack will know about it, including everyone at Protective Custody, and start wondering whether the new snitch is headed there or somewhere else. The PC unit over there is so crammed they’ll need to send someone packing to make space for the newbie. Trust me, you’ll need the protection.”

  “You do that and you’re dead.”

  “Whatcha gonna do?” said Kulta with outright contempt. “Run me over with your wheelchair after your buddies bust your kneecaps first chance they get?”

  Nyberg seemed ready to pounce, but Joutsamo wasn’t worried. The man was no match for the thickset Kulta, and against the two of them, there would be no problem. But he just sat quietly.

  “Whaddya think? Maybe you have some ideas on what we should do.”

  Nyberg thought for about ten seconds before responding, “No comment.”

  Kulta looked over Nyberg’s shoulder at Joutsamo and nodded. “Guess that’s it. Figured I’d head out for a beer and think about what to tell the birthday boy.” He turned his gaze on Nyberg. “You can think about your own plans in your piss-stained cell… Anna, care to join me?”

  “I suppose I could. For a cider anyhow.”

  “My treat.”

  Kulta pressed the buzzer next to the door of the interrogation room and a stern-looking guard with a crew cut came to the door. They handed over Nyberg, but to be sure, they followed the two of them to the entrance of the jail area where a second guard was waiting.

  The door clanged shut behind the two detectives and Kulta glanced hopefully at Joutsamo. “You really coming to the bar with me?”

  “Nope,” she said, already headed toward the VCU’s conference room.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have paid for your cider anyway.”

  “No?”

  “Course I would’ve,” he grinned. “Anyhow, I bet you a ten-spot Nyberg doesn’t crack in the morning either.”

  Joutsamo’s expression was serious. “No deal. We’re both in agreement on that one… Unfortunately.”

  * * *

  Detective Lieutenant Kari Takamäki was on the phone speaking in a lowered voice when Joutsamo stepped into the conference room. Kulta followed. Takamäki, a little over forty, had short brown hair, sharp features and taut cheeks highlighted by a muscular jaw. His piercing blue eyes straddled a handsome nose. He shot Joutsamo a questioning look and she shook her head.

  The conference room had been converted into a sort of command center. A couple of computers were arranged around the table where Kirsi Kohonen, a red-haired detective, sat sifting through various databases. For now, the flip chart was blank, and the magnetic white board where they posted pictures of the corpse and crime scene was empty, though somebody had written the time and place of the murder with a marker: Porvoo Street 21, Sunday, 4:32 P.M.

  The investigation had started without regard for the Sabbath. Even before the victim had been identified, the police had a picture of the suspect. Joutsamo, on duty at the time, had obtained the photo from a nearby convenience store security camera, which had been trained on the street.

  The same camera had played a role in solving a 2005 robbery of the same convenience store, which is how Joutsamo had known about it. A couple of crackpots had waved a knife and made off with a few hundred euros, which they promptly drank. The men were identified from the video footage, just as Nyberg was in this case. Joutsamo herself had recognized him. Despite his young age, the gangster was well known to VCU from plenty of shady connections and a violent past, but the clincher was that Joutsamo had once arrested him for aggravated assault. Nyberg had pulverized a junkie’s elbow over a debt.

  Takamäki hung up the phone. “Didn’t talk, huh?”

  “No comment,” said Joutsamo. “Like talking to a brick wall.”

  “Not surprised.”

  Kulta had already managed to grab a cup of coffee. “The guy says ‘no comment’ almost as often as a certain lieutenant Takamäki at a press conference.”

  “You try to strong-arm him?” asked Takamäki.

  “With no result,” said Kulta. “He’s not talking.”

  “And you’ve ru
n all the tests?”

  “Of course,” said Joutsamo.

  Nyberg’s clothing had been brought to Forensics immediately upon arrival at the station. They had tested his hands and beneath his nose for gunpowder residue, and taken blood samples for drugs and alcohol. The samples provided them with his DNA. His prints were already in the database, but they took them anyway. The police didn’t get his cell phone, since he wasn’t carrying one at the time of his arrest.

  “Should probably run a lie-detector test,” said Kulta, sipping his coffee.

  “Doubt that would help,” said Takamäki. “He can’t lie if he doesn’t comment.”

  “At least we’d see what questions rile him.”

  Takamäki glanced at the clock: just past eight in the evening. In the windowless conference room, they hadn’t the slightest idea about the weather. When Takamäki was summoned to the station more than three hours earlier, the sky had been bright and sunny. The day’s temperature had been closer to what you might expect for late August rather than September, but the days were getting shorter. By now it would be nearly dark out.

  Damn. It just had to happen now, this murder. Only a week earlier, security measures for a massive international meeting involving a number of heads of state and the resulting obligatory anarchist demonstration had stretched the entire department’s resources and overtime quotas to the breaking point.

  Takamäki’s thoughts strayed back to his family for a moment: had Kalle finished his math homework? Takamäki had been helping his younger son with it and promised to play some street hockey with him afterward. Then the phone call had come.

  “So how do we proceed?” asked Joutsamo. Takamäki tried to clear his head, but the promise he had made to his son lingered in his mind.

  “Why don’t you boil some water for your tea. I need to make one last call.”

  “Uh…sure,” muttered Joutsamo, and she ambled over to the conference room’s kitchenette. Coffee was never in short supply at the station, but Joutsamo only drank it under exceptional circumstances. And though Joutsamo had been on the team for four years already, nobody ever remembered to boil water for her tea.

  Takamäki slipped out into the hallway and took his cell phone out of its holster. The lieutenant had on jeans and an army green sweater. Daily jogging had kept his cheeks tight and his stomach firm. “Hey,” said Takamäki into the phone.

  “Hey,” said Kalle.

  “You get it done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Difficult?”

  “Nah. Joonas helped me out with a couple.”

  “Good.” Takamäki paused briefly. “I’m not gonna make it home tonight, but you can sure watch the game if you want.”

  “So what happened?” asked the boy, with a shade too much enthusiasm in his voice as far as Takamäki was concerned. A little disappointment would have seemed more appropriate, since Takamäki had promised to watch a pay-per-view soccer match between Arsenal and Chelsea with him after street hockey. Maybe the kid would make a fine cop someday.

  Takamäki paused for a few seconds. “A shooting. Might have been a contract hit.”

  “You gonna be on TV tonight?”

  Takamäki smiled. “No, not this time. We haven’t informed the press, yet. You keep quiet about it too.”

  “So who was shot? Some kinda gang war?”

  “No comment,” Takamäki laughed. “Listen, you watch the game and then go to bed. I’ll be working late. Mom home yet?”

  “Not yet. Have you set up any phone taps?”

  Takamäki was quiet for a while. Clearly classified information. “What do you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you might be right. Straight to bed after the game, alright?”

  “Yeah, yeah. But you’re gonna tell me about

  this case.”

  “At some point, maybe. G’night. Tell Mom too.”

  “Okay… Oh yeah. Our bet… The score?”

  Right, thought Takamäki. Between math problems, they’d speculated on the score of the game and settled on a one-euro wager. Kalle put his money on Chelsea. “Well, I’ll go with a scoreless game. Both teams will be playing strong defense.”

  “Alright. One euro, then. Chelsea wins, the money’s mine. Tie and it’s yours, but if Arsenal wins, it’s a draw.”

  “Got it. G’night.”

  “Night Dad.”

  Takamäki hung up the phone with a momentary feeling of satisfaction over not having forgotten to call. But soon enough, the feeling was gone.

  This shooting case was at a critical phase, and still in disarray. He’d need to stay focused. It looked like a hired hit: somebody had wanted Tomi Salmela dead, but who, and why? He had no answers. In less than half a minute, he had already forgotten the details of their friendly wager.

  CHAPTER 2

  SUNDAY, 8:15 P.M.

  THE JAIL AT PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  Fucking pigs, thought Esa Nyberg, balling his hand into a fist. He lay on the bunk of a spartan cell at the police station, the cot thin and flattened from use. The assholes had to be bluffing. They wouldn’t go spreading a nark rumor like that. And even if they did, he’d just drag the pricks to court. If that wasn’t slander, what was?

  Nyberg closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, but it wasn’t so easy. Not quite five hours ago he had shot a man dead. The thought made his heart flutter. Numerous times he had beaten people to within an inch of death, but he had never killed anyone. None of it seemed real. There was a hell of a lot of power in the act, and he had enjoyed it. Might have been a bit jittery with the trigger. Could have pulled a little smoother, but he had heard the first kill was always like that. Ease came with experience, or so he had read in his war books.

  Shit. He’d have been a first-class soldier. As always, the thought soothed him. He pictured himself in the trenches during the Winter War, fighting the Soviets, the softly falling snow punctuated by exploding grenades. Someone next to him caught a bullet in the head and keeled over. His rifle sight panned from Russkie to Russkie, felling each one with a single shot.

  Why couldn’t he be in a war right now? He’d briefly considered the Foreign Legion, and maybe it still wasn’t too late. He was only twenty-three years old. Might get shipped off to some African country to mow down spooks. Fuck. Boot camp would be rough, but he’d manage. He had no problem with the push-ups. Then he’d march down Paris’s Avenue des Champs-Élysées with a Foreign Legion kepi perched on his head. The old man would have been proud, if he hadn’t gone and croaked.

  Nyberg opened his eyes to the toxic green of the cell walls glaring back. He rose nimbly to a seated position on the bunk. Goddamn. That fucker Salmela had to learn his lesson-one he wouldn’t forget. One he’d remember in the fires of hell.

  They’d caught up with him. Fucking cops had appeared outta nowhere and slammed him to the pavement. Name, rank and serial number. They were supposed to get nothing more, and they hadn’t. That’s what they had all agreed.

  The Viet Cong used shock therapy in the Rambo flicks, but the cops hadn’t resorted to that yet. They could wire his nuts and he still wouldn’t talk. What a shitty attempt at sweating a suspect, he thought. Trying to spread rumors that he was a nark-nobody in the pen would believe that. Rambo hadn’t cracked either, and went on to take his vengeance. He would too…just had to bide his time and keep his trap shut. Don’t comment, don’t even speak, don’t listen to their promises. Police suspect or prisoner of war, the two were one and the same.

  As Nyberg lay back down and closed his eyes the murder crept back into his mind. For an instant he felt the fear of his deed, but a rush of power washed away his uncertainty. He wouldn’t talk.

  * * *

  Takamäki, Joutsamo, Kohonen, Kulta and a couple of other cops from Takamäki’s team had gathered in the conference room. Takamäki had phoned his undercover man Suhonen, but got no answer. He had left a message.

  “Let’s run through this quickly,” said Takamäki. H
e had a reputation for running efficient meetings to bring everyone up to date. “At 4:33 P.M, someone called 911 to report a gunshot. That likely pegs the time of the murder at around 4:32.”

  “Nice that someone called,” said Kulta.

  Takamäki shot a glare from beneath his brow. “Mikko, if you got something important to say, then say it. But if it’s just your everyday bullshit, then keep it to yourself. Alright?”

  “Alright.”

  Kulta had a habit of blurting out thoughtless remarks, but now was obviously not the time.

  Takamäki went on, “The caller was a man by the name of Konsta Sten, from the second floor of the building. Within four minutes, the first officers arrived on the scene to find a corpse lying just inside the apartment door. The victim was later identified as Tomi Salmela.”

  Since Salmela’s background was not necessarily known to everybody, Takamäki reeled off a list of facts that Kirsi Kohonen had mined from the database. “Salmela was eighteen years old with plenty of drug, theft and assault convictions, but nothing particularly serious. A two-bit junkie,” he summed up. “Based on his rap sheet, he’d seem a hell of a strange target for a contract hit, but clearly we don’t know enough. What we do know is that the trigger man was this Esa Nyberg. With his street enforcer background, it would seem logical he’d promote himself to a contract killer sooner or later.”

  “The guy’s some kinda military freak,” said Joutsamo.

  “Have we searched his place?” asked Takamäki.

  “We don’t know where he lives yet,” said Joutsamo. “No permanent address on record, though we have a few leads. We’ll figure it out when we get a minute.”

  “Okay,” said Takamäki as he glanced toward the door. Suhonen was stepping into the conference room.

  “Hey,” he droned. “Sorry to bust in on your meeting.”