Nothing but the Truth hh-3

by Jarkko Sipila

  “You did right by me last night…just like a friend ought to. First I figured I’d just get hammered, but then I got a taste for blood in my mouth. That’s why I picked this up…” Salmela pulled out a stout, short-barreled pistol.

  “What the hell have you done?” Suhonen hissed. Salmela’s gaze was cold and unflinching.

  * * *

  Mari Lehtonen was sitting in her cubicle, her mind still at the police station, her work piling up on her desk.

  A smiling Essi Saari popped her head around the corner. “Hey, you eaten yet?”

  Lehtonen shook her head.

  “Wanna go? Salad bar today.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “What is it? Something wrong?”

  Lehtonen paused just a bit too long. “No…it’s nothing.”

  “Come on…I know you,” she said, as she came round the partition and approached Lehtonen. “So, what is it?”

  Lehtonen didn’t respond.

  “So you told them.”

  “Yes, but don’t start with your lectures, I didn’t…”

  “I’m not gonna lecture you. Actually, thinking back, I think you were right. If you hadn’t already called, I would’ve made you.”

  Her words were comforting. “Really?”

  “Yep, we gotta side with the good guys… So what was it like?”

  “They said I can’t talk about it.” Her mood seemed to lift somewhat.

  Saari seemed disappointed. “Come on, you can tell me something.”

  “I don’t really know what’s so secret about it. They showed me some pictures and one was of the guy I saw in the car. So I told that to the cop, and she typed it out on her computer and then had me sign it. That’s all it really was.”

  “Who was the guy?”

  “I dunno. The lady cop seemed really surprised when I pointed at him.”

  “So it must be one of their repeat customers if they already had a picture of him.”

  “I guess.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “She didn’t really say anything about him.”

  “Well, you already have some experience with psychos,” Saari laughed.

  “I guess.” Lehtonen couldn’t bring herself to smile. “Anyway, I doubt anything bad will happen. He’ll probably just go to prison.”

  “Yeah. Should we go eat now?”

  Mari got up. “Sure.”

  Then she stopped. “What do you think I should tell my daughter?”

  * * *

  Takamäki scrolled through his cellphone directory till he landed on the number. He pressed “Call.”

  “Nykänen,” answered a raspy voice. Lieutenant Jaakko Nykänen had been a detective on Takamäki’s team until a few years ago, when the walrus-whiskered veteran had been promoted to lieutenant in the neighboring city of Espoo’s narcotics unit, and then last spring to the intelligence unit at the National Bureau of Investigation. A number of these units were established throughout the country in 2004 to help gather and coordinate actionable intelligence on organized crime. In addition to the police force, the border patrol and customs were also involved.

  “Hey, it’s Takamäki.”

  Due to the interdepartmental squabbling of the last few years, Takamäki’s relations with the NBI were rather cool, but when it came to his old colleague and family friend, they were still quite warm.

  “Hey there.”

  “You in a hurry?”

  Nykänen gave a dry laugh. “What, in this job? We’re never in a hurry. Intel just rolls in and we mull it over and hatch our clever theories. How’s the boys’ hockey going?”

  “Fine. No games yet, but they were at camp last weekend. Gets pretty crazy with soccer and hockey doubled up in the fall.”

  “The coaches pushing them into one or the

  other yet?”

  “No. Kalle’s definitely better at hockey, but they’re both doing well.”

  “Yeah. Keep ’em in hockey. It’s a fine sport. I’ll have to come to a game sometime.” Nykänen guessed that Takamäki was probably busy, so he wrapped up the chitchat. “So?”

  “We’re on the hunt for one Risto Korpi,” said Takamäki. He outlined the main points leading up to Nyberg’s arrest. Nykänen was tapping on his keyboard on the other end.

  “Sounds like a tough case,” said Nykänen. “I remember Korpi from a drug case back in Espoo. We got a tip about his involvement, but the case dried up because no one had the balls to testify against him. Out of several pounds of dope, we couldn’t pin any of it on Korpi.”

  “Yeah. Apparently a pretty violent guy.”

  Nykänen kept typing. “Makes good on his threats. Says here he rules by fear. Only reason people respect him is because they’re afraid, not because he’s a born leader. Looks like nothing acute going on with him at the moment.”

  “What’s acute mean in your language?”

  “None of our units have any open investigations on him. He lands in the three-to-five-year bracket here. In other words, we’re looking to open a case and bust up his little outfit within that time frame. His gang is classified as organized crime, though…”

  “So why such a long time frame?”

  “Not enough boots on the ground. Resources are slim and we gotta set priorities. Maybe things will improve next year. Apparently the interior ministry’s making organized crime the big theme for next year. Might actually get some funding.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Gotta set priorities,” said Nykänen, his voice filled with sarcasm. “We got about a thousand criminals in the database that make up these gangs. About a hundred and fifty are behind bars and about the same number are foreigners. Just think how much manpower we’d need to track them all.”

  “I know. The numbers are never pretty.”

  “Say we need ten cops minimum for every bad guy. That makes about ten thousand cops over here at the NBI. And I’m talking good street-smart cops.”

  “Yeah,” Takamäki grumbled.

  Nykänen returned to Korpi. “Yeah is right. Anyway, I did get a couple hits. Korpi was spotted in June in a Kannelmäki liquor store with the same Nyberg you got in the cooler. Then in early August he was seen with a gangster by the name of Jere Siikala meeting some Estonian guy in the West Harbor.”

  “So you have him under surveillance, then?” Takamäki wondered.

  “Nah…just stuff we’ve gotten in connection with other investigations. Our guys were after someone else and Korpi just happened to be there.”

  “You don’t have an address, do you? We’ve got a couple questions for him.”

  “Sorry. Don’t see anything here.”

  “So nobody has an open case on Korpi?”

  “No, but I’ll put a note here that you do.”

  “Good. We might be able to get a life sentence… Anything to help clear your logjam.”

  Nykänen knew his ex-boss meant business.

  * * *

  Suhonen and Salmela stepped out of the van just as a light drizzle began to fall. The fine mist didn’t have the weight to penetrate their coats, but the men could feel it on their faces.

  “This way,” Salmela said, as he circled a gray office building toward the rear.

  “Where we going?”

  “Patience. You’ll see.”

  Suhonen’s hand found its way to his hip pouch where he could feel the butt of a Glock 26 through the fabric. Salmela’s reticence had started to make him suspicious, though Suhonen doubted his old friend would set him up.

  The two high-stepped through a thicket toward the rear of the building. Once past the office building, they continued on between two houses and into a small forested area.

  Salmela looked back. “Kinda reminds me of playing cowboys and indians in the woods back

  in Lahti.”

  “More like cops and robbers,” said Suhonen. Salmela laughed.

  The underbrush grew thicker as they advanced a couple hundred feet further. The ground was littered with
fallen leaves and small branches, which crackled beneath their feet.

  “You know people were already living here six thousand years ago?” said Salmela.

  “How you know that?”

  “Read it in prison in some history book on Helsinki. Poor saps probably lived in mud holes and loafed around in the dirt daydreaming all day.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Suhonen. “How ’bout we cut the shit. Like now.”

  Salmela stopped and squatted down. “Well, this is it. Come on over here, but get down low.”

  Suhonen did as he was told and clambered up into a shallow depression along the ridge of a small hillock.

  “Look over there. The house, and especially

  the car.”

  Through the trees, Suhonen could make out a dingy, ramshackle two-story house and a dark Mazda sedan in the yard. The car was nearly a hundred yards away, and without binoculars, Suhonen couldn’t make out the license plate.

  “Korpi’s place. Not sure if he’s there, but he was last night. Saw him through the window.”

  “You sure?” said Suhonen with a stern expression.

  Salmela nodded. “Positive. Korpi took the house as payment for a twenty-thousand-euro dope haul that a low-level pusher lost somehow. Who knows if it’s true, but apparently this dealer got the house when his mom died. Her estate has never been closed, so the house couldn’t be foreclosed.”

  “And you heard this yesterday?”

  “Yeah. I happen to know one of the dealer’s buddies. Anyway, I was pissed off about Tomi last night so I started asking around about Korpi. Came here last night thinking I’d put a bullet through the fucker’s brain, but then it started to seem like a dumb move. Maybe I got cold feet…I dunno. I ain’t afraid to use a gun, but I didn’t want to study any more history in the joint. And that’s exactly where you would’ve put me. So I figured I’d let the cops handle the payback.”

  Suhonen was silent, his gaze fixed on the house. What he wouldn’t do for a pair of binoculars. He took his phone out of his pocket.

  “Later,” said Salmela, and he set off back toward the van, flipping up his collar as he went.

  CHAPTER 7

  MONDAY, 2:00 P.M.

  PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  The mood in the SWAT team conference room was tense.

  “It’s a tough location. Dead-end street and all,” said SWAT team commander Turunen as he examined a computerized map projected onto the wall. Three roads came together to form a sort of stylized K with the target residence at the terminal point on the lower leg.

  Turunen was wearing the SWAT team’s trademark black coveralls. Helmets and weapons lined the walls of the conference room, which resembled a sort of classroom. In addition to Turunen, Takamäki, and Joutsamo, ten other black-garbed SWAT officers were sitting at the table. Kulta was leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.

  “So where exactly is Suhonen?” Turunen asked.

  “Not completely sure, but I’d guess somewhere around here,” said Takamäki, pointing to a spot about halfway down the lower leg of the K.

  “It’s pretty wooded there but he has a visual on the house. Hasn’t seen any movement.”

  Half an hour earlier Takamäki had been interviewed by Römpötti, but he had stuck to the basics and managed not to mention the upcoming raid.

  “Can Suhonen scout out the terrain for us?” wondered Turunen.

  “I can ask him.”

  Joutsamo cut in. “Why don’t you just use

  the net?”

  “That’s where the map’s from,” said Turunen.

  Joutsamo strolled over to the laptop and pulled up Google Earth on the browser. After loading for a moment, an image of the earth appeared. She rotated the image to the Eastern Hemisphere and closed in first on Finland, then Helsinki. In less than twenty seconds they were viewing an aerial photo of the house where Korpi was believed to be. “There’s terrain for you,” said Joutsamo. “You can zoom in and out right here.”

  Joutsamo showed them how detailed the image could get. Once the viewing altitude dipped below a hundred and fifty feet and only the target residence remained in the image, the contours of the image began to pixelate. “If this is a free service, just think how detailed the military satellite photos must be.”

  “Hmm,” said Turunen. “You’re always full of surprises. Let’s go with it.” Turunen began to plan the raid based on the aerial photo. On screen he could see a field on the north side of the house, while the other three quadrants were forested. A gravel path that wasn’t marked on the map appeared to cut through the woods on the eastern end.

  * * *

  Suhonen lay on the damp leaves, half-sheltered by a tree trunk, examining the house. The rain had soaked through his leather jacket and clothes. Initially he’d been squatting, but his knees had started to hurt. Salmela’s words about ancient Finns lying in the dirt had started to sink in-the bastard had known full well what Suhonen would end up doing. Suhonen suppressed the urge to curse his friend. Without Salmela’s help, they’d have no idea where Korpi was.

  Suhonen hadn’t seen any movement in the house. The Mazda was still parked in the driveway.

  He heard some rustling behind him and whirled around. Turunen was advancing in a crouch, while Joutsamo and Kulta were lagging back. Suhonen motioned for Turunen to get down on all fours. He didn’t intend to be the only one to get wet, even if all the SWAT officers had waterproof gear.

  Turunen covered the final thirty feet scrambling along the ground. “What’s the status?”

  “The wood house there. No sign of life.”

  “Any dogs?”

  “No barking. Not sure otherwise.”

  Turunen drew a pair of binoculars from a case strapped to his back and quietly surveyed the house. The binoculars were military-grade with a built-in laser rangefinder. “Doesn’t seem to be any security cameras, though nowadays they can be small enough to hide just about anywhere.” He read the license plate on the Mazda. “That match what our witness said?”

  “No idea,” Suhonen answered.

  Turunen switched on his headset. “Joutsamo. Here’s the plate,” and he read the number. Joutsamo confirmed the match.

  “Hold on a sec. Let me call Takamäki for the go-ahead,” said Joutsamo. Conducting a raid without probable cause was not a mistake they wanted to make. Takamäki could give them the green light.

  Turunen kept his binoculars trained on the house as he dispensed orders to his men. Almost everyone was already in position.

  “Turunen,” Joutsamo’s voice came over the earpiece. “The matching plate is all we needed. It’s

  a go.”

  “Good. Two minutes till showtime. Everyone in position?”

  The other officers checked in over the radio.

  “Look!” Suhonen rasped. A faint wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of the house.

  “Someone’s inside.”

  “Or we got a new pope,” said Suhonen. “Though I’m more interested in what they’re burning.”

  * * *

  Korpi and Siikala sat round the fireplace, a few fresh newspapers burning under the grate, the flames just beginning to work their way through a pile of birch splits. Beads of sweat glistened on Korpi’s bald head.

  Siikala bent down and blew into the stack, keeping his ponytail away from the mounting flames. Smoke wafted into the room.

  The fireplace was situated in a small room on the first floor. For the most part, the interior looked just as dated as the building, with its old sofa, television, bookcase and a broken grandfather clock. A rag rug lay on the worn hardwood floor and pale, sun-faded floral curtains hung in front of the windows.

  Both Korpi and Siikala had a sheet of paper and pen in hand. No notepads, since the cops could discern what had been written by the indentations on the lower sheets. Korpi had forbidden speaking because of the possibility of microphones. Speech was only allowed in the most random of places where it would be impossible to plant
a mike.

  Siikala scratched out a message and showed it to Korpi: Should I ditch the car?

  No need, Korpi scribbled. I didn’t do nothing.

  Nyberg’s in jail!

  His problem. He won’t talk.

  Sure?

  Korpi nodded as he tossed his sheet into the fire. Siikala did the same, pushing them around with the poker enough that no forensic scientist could ever discern anything from the ashes.

  Korpi’s philosophy was simple: leave no trace. Speaking out loud was a great way to wind up on tape. Since phones left a digital trail, they were only used in emergencies; and even then, only on anonymous phones with new, prepaid SIM cards. Korpi even took to wearing Levi’s since reading that their fibers were too common for the police to use as evidence.

  Korpi had structured his organization so that only he understood its entirety. Siikala routed the domestic drug traffic, while Nyberg and Matti Ahola were mainly debt collectors. Ahola was also responsible for hiding the inventory. Beyond that, there was the import racket, but that was for Korpi to run himself. Each of his men knew only his own role, and nothing more.

  Though Siikala, Nyberg and Ahola knew each other, only Korpi knew the entire organization. The trio’s minions weren’t even aware that Korpi was the man in charge, though naturally many had heard rumors. But for every weak link he could think of, Korpi had a safeguard.

  Siikala thought Nyberg had made a surprisingly dumb move, but it was none of his business. Nyberg could run his own crew as he saw fit, though he wondered why Korpi had been behind the wheel during the hit.

  Korpi rubbed his bald head. “You want coffee?” he said without expecting an answer. The coffeemaker had recently sputtered out its last few drops, and Korpi was the one that wanted some. He was on his way to the kitchen when the front door smashed open.

  “Police!” boomed a voice from the door.

  * * *

  Officer Dahlman repeated the warning. “Police!”

  When raiding a gang’s hideout, it was wise to make it very clear who was entering. From the gangsters’ standpoint, the game the cops played was fair, at least at the outset. The cops weren’t out to kill, but the same could not be said of rival criminals.