Nothing but the Truth hh-3

by Jarkko Sipila

  The SWAT officers wore composite helmets and black masks. Their eyes were protected with shatterproof goggles.

  “On the floor! Hands on your heads!”

  The first officer through the door, the point man, was wielding a big, black ninety-pound ballistic shield heavy enough to stop a handgun bullet. A small window in the middle of the shield was reinforced with bulletproof Plexiglass. Just after the point man was Dahlman, holding a Heckler amp; Koch MP5 submachine gun in firing position. The shield provided good cover in the narrow entryway. Just behind Dahlman were two other SWAT officers.

  The men stayed in a tight stack behind the shield. Only the barrel of Dahlman’s gun jutted out from the side.

  “In the entryway,” Dahlman barked over the radio. “We’re moving in.”

  “OK,” said Turunen. The units outside had to be aware of where the team was in the house, so they wouldn’t accidentally fire on fellow cops through the windows.

  Dahlman heard the dog bark behind him a few times-a message to those in the house that fleeing was futile.

  The shield bearer advanced to the entrance of the living room. Dahlman noted the empty room and the fire in the fireplace, then spurred the shield bearer onward.

  “Living room clear. We’re heading into the kitchen toward the stairs.”

  “Copy.”

  The shield bearer pressed on toward the kitchen with a shuffling gait. His left foot always led, the right coming just abreast with every step. In this stance he was always ready to withstand a blow, and the shield came in handy for forcing a suspect up against a wall.

  “We’re entering the kitchen,” Dahlman reported. “Let’s go.”

  The shield bearer inched through the doorway, and when the shield was halfway through, he saw a man sitting at the table. “Suspect in sight,” he rasped, still moving forward. Dahlman pushed the machine gun barrel between the door jamb and the shield.

  “Police! On the ground!” he shouted, but the man at the table didn’t move. That’s when Dahlman noticed a second man sitting on the opposite side of the table.

  Both appeared to be drinking coffee.

  “Get on the ground!” Dahlman shouted, again with no result. The men sat motionless, not even glancing toward the door. Dahlman recalled a training scenario in which a deaf man couldn’t hear their commands. He quickly eliminated that possibility, since he could see their mouths moving and hear them talking.

  “Can’t a man drink coffee in his own house,” said the bald one, whom Dahlman recognized as Risto Korpi, their prime target. The other man laughed.

  “Get your hands in the air!”

  Korpi turned his head toward the door and asked in a calm voice, “With or without the coffee cup?”

  Dahlman kept the dangerous one in the crosshairs. The shield bearer stayed in the middle of the passageway while another sharpshooter rounded to his other side. The situation seemed to be under control, but Dahlman paused for half a second before answering, “Put the cup down and your hands on your head.”

  Korpi took a final gulp of coffee before lowering his cup to the table. “What seems to be the problem, officer?” he asked with a doe-eyed stare. “Here we are, having a nice cup of coffee and the Gestapo barges in.”

  “Shut up and put your hands on your head!”

  Korpi complied with a wry smile. “Well, for chrissakes. The whole SWAT team and everything.”

  Dahlman knew his partner on the other side of the room had his MP5 trained on the second man, so he kept his eyes riveted to his target. A quick glance was enough to tell him that the man was Jere Siikala. Dahlman prodded the shield bearer forward enough that he was able to squeeze into the kitchen.

  “Keep your hands where they are,” he shouted, advancing about six feet toward Korpi. With his finger nuzzling the trigger, Dahlman hoped the blowhard would stop provoking them with those sips of coffee. One sudden movement could trigger a bloodbath.

  Dahlman wanted to minimize the risks. The suspects, though outmanned and outgunned, were extremely dangerous. He came around behind Korpi, and with his wing man behind Siikala, gave a nod and they jerked the chairs backwards.

  Korpi reeled back and crashed to the floor before Dahlman flung him onto his stomach, drove his shoulders into the floor with his knees and slapped the cuffs round his right wrist first, then his left, the backs of his hands trapped against one another.

  Just as quickly, the wing man cuffed Siikala, while the shield bearer and the fourth man in the stack covered the stairs leading to the second level.

  “Anyone else in the house?” Dahlman asked the men, but neither responded.

  He repeated the question, but when silence prevailed, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a black hood, and pulled it over Korpi’s head. The others hooded Siikala in the same way.

  “Two suspects in custody in the kitchen,” Dahlman said over the radio. “We’re going upstairs.”

  Dahlman signaled for the fourth man in the stack to stand watch over the two suspects on the floor. The others would continue on up the stairs.

  * * *

  Korpi could feel the pitted hardwood floors through the coarse hood against his cheek. His wrists were throbbing. The pig had slammed the cuffs on him so hard that his fingers were beginning to tingle from lack of circulation.

  The awkward position compelled him to relax, as tensing up only made him more uncomfortable.

  He knew Siikala was lying on the other side of the table, though he couldn’t see a thing. From the sounds in the room, he could tell one of the officers had stayed back to stand guard while the others went upstairs with that shield-wielding shithead.

  Korpi had little appreciation for cops, but he felt a certain respect for the SWAT team’s approach: cold and professional. He had no doubt they would have shot him at the first sudden movement. Their protocol was utterly controlled and predictable. Every man knew his task. Nothing like the bungled jobs of strung-out criminals that only ended in needless corpses and life sentences. Korpi decided he’d need a hit squad just like the SWAT team. One capable of the most demanding jobs. Maybe he could even piggyback on their reputation, their uniforms, their sinister presence. It would shock his rivals, at least.

  But how in the hell had they found him so quickly? Not that it was much of a surprise. His working assumption, after all, was that he was under constant surveillance. Had the cops rented the house next door? Was there a bug in the wall? But that was an issue for another time. Korpi was more interested in why, and he couldn’t think of any other reason than Nyberg’s hit job.

  He worried briefly about it, but the worry faded quickly. Either someone had talked, or the cops knew about his connection to Nyberg from previous surveillance.

  “Jesus,” he groaned. “Getting gangrene over here. Your boss put these cuffs on too tight. Can’t you loosen ’em up a bit?”

  His wrists were throbbing and drool was spilling out of the corner of his mouth onto the hood.

  The cop in black didn’t react in the slightest. No compassion, thought Korpi. Just like the TV images of American soldiers with Iraqi POWs.

  “Relax a little, will ya?” said Korpi. The cop didn’t. Korpi pictured the barrel of the MP5 sweeping back and forth between Siikala and himself before deciding to take his own advice.

  * * *

  Suhonen and Turunen were still lying low in the woods. “Nobody upstairs,” came Dahlman’s voice over the radio. “House is clear.”

  As he stood up, Turunen nodded at Suhonen. “We can go in now.”

  Suhonen struggled to his feet, his right arm now numb. His pants and jacket were soaked. “Good, but I think I’ve had enough fun.”

  “You’re not coming in?”

  “Nah,” said Suhonen, wiping the mud and leaves off his jacket. “Gotta go find you guys some more work.”

  Joutsamo caught up to the two. “Should we

  go in?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Turunen noticed the gentle way Joutsamo pa
tted Suhonen on the shoulder. He could have used a pat too.

  Joutsamo and Turunen covered the distance to the house quickly. On the way, Joutsamo notified Takamäki of the arrests and requested that Forensics inspect the house.

  A few SWAT officers had filtered out of the woods toward the house. “I want the whole place taped off along the property lines,” shouted Turunen. Kannas and the Forensics team would have to comb the lot for footprints. If the rain didn’t get any heavier, they might still be able to find some around the Mazda.

  Joutsamo considered whether she should go in. Inside, there was the possibility of tarnishing any potential prints, but a quick breeze-through could also turn up something to go on. In the end, curiosity prevailed and she asked Turunen to wait outside. Joutsamo mounted the short flight of stairs to the front door, drew a pair of blue plastic booties from her pocket and slipped them over her shoes. Once inside, the smell of smoke mingled with a stuffy odor. Either the house had mold issues or it hadn’t been cleaned or ventilated properly.

  The narrow entryway led into the living room, where Korpi and Siikala had been moved. Four SWAT officers were standing guard.

  “What should we do?” asked Dahlman as Joutsamo came into the room.

  “Let’s take ’em in.”

  Korpi protested from beneath his hood. “Uhh…on what grounds?”

  “You’re suspected of murdering Tomi Salmela.”

  “Who’s that? And who killed him?”

  Joutsamo stopped in front of Korpi. A sharp kick in the ribs would do the scumbag some good, but the sergeant let him be. “We’ll talk about it at the station,” she said.

  When Korpi launched into a whistled rendition of Leevi and the Leavings’ “Would you shed tears of joy,” Joutsamo recognized the verse.

  “Would you shed tears of joy, if I banged you right and proper?”

  With a smirk, she made up the next verse, “The whole damn town surrounded, the culprits in the hopper.”

  The SWAT guys were amused.

  “Let’s take these leavings downtown in separate cars,” ordered Joutsamo.

  Dahlman nodded to the others and they dragged the suspects to their feet. “You searched ’em, right?”

  One of the SWAT officers who’d been standing guard the entire time nodded. “When we moved ’em out of the kitchen.”

  Joutsamo glanced into the fireplace where the flames from a couple of logs were dying down. Nothing else of interest in the living room.

  She continued on into the kitchen. It wasn’t very big. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink. A faded photograph of what was perhaps a ten-year-old boy fishing off the dock on a sunny summer day was taped to the window. Judging by the boy’s clothing, the photo was taken sometime in the eighties. He didn’t look like Korpi, so apparently the photo was part of the old woman’s estate. Strange sense of humor for Korpi to just leave the pusher’s picture there. Or maybe it just never occurred to him to

  move it.

  Joutsamo looked out the window toward Suhonen’s stakeout spot. It was far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to make out anyone from here. Nice spot, she thought.

  She inspected the downstairs bathroom, but nothing in particular caught her attention. She continued up the stairs to find a couple of bedrooms and a small chamber lined with bookshelves. The bedrooms proved uninteresting and the only remarkable item in the chamber was the computer, but Joutsamo left it alone. That was for the pros.

  Hmm, thought Joutsamo. No bodies, no dope, nothing. She hadn’t expected to find much, but of course there was some disappointment in raiding what appeared to be an empty house. Perhaps Kannas’ men could turn up something.

  CHAPTER 8

  MONDAY, 4:00 P.M.

  PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  Korpi sat dressed in green coveralls in a bare, windowless interrogation room. The vents hummed. A computer and recording equipment rested on a worn veneer table. There were four chairs, two of which were empty. Joutsamo was seated opposite Korpi. Mikko Kulta was standing behind Joutsamo puffing on a cigarette.

  “Shall we begin?” said Joutsamo as she pressed the record button. She recited the date and time. “Risto Korpi, you’re being held under suspicion of the murder of Tomi Salmela, which took place yesterday afternoon. This is a preliminary interview. Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

  Korpi started whistling the same Leevi and the Leavings song.

  “That was funny once. Not anymore.”

  “Still funny to me,” said Korpi, rubbing his bald head. He burst into a fit of artificial laughter, “Ha-ha-ha-haa!”

  Joutsamo waited for him to finish. “Right. Do you wish to make a statement?”

  Korpi’s face hardened. “First off I’d like to state for the record that this preliminary interview is illegal according to the criminal statutes. It’s a violation of my civil rights. Second, I want a lawyer. Third, as the homeowner, I demand to be a part of the search being conducted on my home in Kaarela at this very moment.”

  Joutsamo had initially intended to stop the recorder, but she decided to let it roll. “Alright, then. That concludes the interview. But I should note that preliminary interviews are indeed permitted under chapter 38 of the criminal statutes. Secondly, you should know that a lawyer will be provided when such can be procured. Thirdly, according to the deed on file, the house in question is not yours, but it’s owned by the estate of Marjatta Saarnikangas. The attorney in charge of the estate has been notified of the search, and has not demanded anyone be present. But let me ask once more, do you have anything to say about Tomi Salmela’s death?”

  “No. Nothing. I’m done talking.”

  “So you won’t even claim that you’re innocent?”

  “I’m done talking.”

  Joutsamo stopped the recorder and rose without a word. Outside the interrogation room she turned to the guard, “Take him to his cell. Don’t let him talk to anyone.”

  * * *

  It was nearing eight o’clock when Kannas came into Takamäki’s office. The lieutenant was slaving away at his computer.

  “Hey,” Kannas growled.

  “Hey.”

  Takamäki noticed the large plastic bag in the forensic investigator’s hand. “Well?”

  “Right. Interesting place,” said Kannas, as he stepped inside and sat down. “Where to begin…”

  “Hold on a sec.” Takamäki got up and shouted down the hallway, “Joutsamo! My office!”

  Joutsamo came in shortly.

  “OK, go ahead,” said Takamäki.

  “Well, let’s start with the car. Pretty shitty set of wheels at any rate, but preliminary evidence strongly links it to Korpi and Nyberg. Both of their fingerprints were found inside. We also found a third set of prints belonging to Jere Siikala, aka Guerrilla, who was arrested today. Found plenty of fibers, too, but since these guys are such fans of jeans, I doubt they’ll get us anywhere. Too common.”

  “The fingerprints are a good thing. Jibes with our other evidence,” said Joutsamo.

  Takamäki wasn’t so convinced. “Obviously the car has been in Korpi’s possession for some time, so the significance of the prints to the murder case is questionable. What about the house?”

  “Our investigation is still ongoing, but we found the same prints there, needless to say. We also turned up their arms stash.” Kannas reached into the plastic bag and drew two smaller transparent bags. In one was a sawed-off shotgun while the other held a large caliber handgun. “The pistol’s an interesting old classic. A Russian Stechkin M1951. Capable of firing on full automatic. I saw some of these for sale at the Hietalahti flea market in the early nineties, so one of the undercover boys and I picked one up. Not a bad piece. On full automatic you can’t hit a damn thing, though. Recoil kicks the barrel up…”

  “Ahem,” Takamäki cut in. “What else?”

  “Right. What I was getting to is that we don’t know the history on these weapons. Yet. But we found a couple other interesting thin
gs. On the wall above one of the wardrobes was a sort of secret compartment where we found these.” He held up two plastic bags. In one of them was a large quantity of cigarette butts, and in the other were several small Ziploc bags, each containing some dark flakes.

  “What are those?” asked Joutsamo.

  “Well, these are cigarette butts. But that there in the little bags is dried blood.”

  “Huh?”

  “We haven’t analyzed it yet, but I’d bet this stuff was intended to throw us off at some point when the time was right. In other words, Korpi or one of his goons has been collecting butts at the bars so they can muddle up the DNA trail. Same thing with this dried blood.”

  Takamäki shook his head. “He’s pretty paranoid.”

  “Pretty clever, too. If DNA from fifty random people is found at the crime scene, then it’s pretty easy to claim yours was intentionally planted too.”

  “And what about the laptop?” asked Joutsamo.

  “Haven’t looked at it yet. The IT guys get it tomorrow morning. But it only had Korpi’s prints.”

  Takamäki thought for a moment. “So the only thing we have pertaining to the case is a blue Mazda and some fingerprints. Whose name is the car in?”

  “Registered to the same Marjatta Saarnikangas that owned the house. She’s dead and her son Juha is doing a four-year stint on drug charges,” Joutsamo explained.

  “We’re taking it to a Mazda dealership to have them plug into the on-board computer and see how it’s been driven the last few days,” said Kannas. “At least it’s new enough that we can get that.”

  Takamäki stroked his chin. “Good. We’ll have to put together a lineup for Mari Lehtonen tomorrow. Then we can decide whether to hold onto Korpi.”

  “What about this Siikala?” asked Joutsamo.