Against the Wall hh-1

by Jarkko Sipila

  Joutsamo shook her head. “Nothing really. I don’t think we discussed the parents this morning-both of them are in their fifties. His father, Eero, is an IT salesman, and his mother is a nurse at the university hospital. Neither of them has a record. In addition, he has a younger brother who’s a junior in Matinkylä High School.”

  “Okay. Let’s not notify the parents yet,” Takamäki said, then turned towards Kulta. “What about the pad in Kannelmäki?”

  “Well, judging from the apartment, Eriksson hasn’t exactly been scraping by. He lived alone and had nice furniture-or at least nicer than my place. Didn’t find much concrete info, but Forensics is currently turning the place upside down. I did a quick search and found this photo,” Kulta said, handing out copies of the Log Chute snapshot with the blond girl in front and Eriksson behind her. His arms were wrapped around the girl.

  The detectives examined the photo.

  “So far, we have no idea who the girl is, I’m still working on it. From the picture, we can assume that the girl might know something about Eriksson and his circle of friends. I didn’t find anything that would directly explain why he was killed. Hopefully we’ll get plenty of information from his computer: when he last used it, what websites he’s been browsing and so on.”

  Google maintained records of all searches for the past year and a half. Their log tracked search terms, the date, time, and the computer’s IP address. In addition, Google cookies tracked information about the computer, the browser, and the operating system. This information could also be hoovered from the computer itself.

  “You didn’t come across any bank statements or anything like that?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Maybe we’ll find some on the computer.”

  Takamäki nodded. “Good. At least we have a couple leads. The girl and the computer. Kohonen?”

  “Kind of quiet on my end,” answered Kirsi Kohonen, who had canvassed the houses near the crime scene. “Not a very curious crowd in the neighborhood. Several people noticed the police cars, but that doesn’t do us much good. The house has been vacant for several years, and there are plans to build some kind of community center on the site, which the neighbors of course have opposed. The construction project has been frozen due to the complaints. Occasionally, some people related to the project have been running in and out of the house, but the neighbors didn’t pay much attention. In other words, I don’t have much. Nobody saw anything, heard anything, or said anything.”

  “Said anything?” Takamäki looked skeptical. “Should we have another go at it?”

  “It was a figure of speech,” Kohonen said, though she didn’t have anything against another go-around. It had occasionally paid off in the past.

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  Joutsamo interjected. “We’ve obtained a permit to search the records for the cellphone towers in the area surrounding the crime scene. That should give us some idea of whose phones have been in the area.”

  “Good,” Takamäki said. “Before we get into forensics, I’ll talk about my trip to Customs… They didn’t know anything about Eriksson. In other words, we don’t know whether the murder had anything to do with Customs. But they’re going take a closer look.”

  Takamäki waited for a moment. No questions, so he continued around the table.

  “Kannas?”

  The imposing, fifty-something-man’s hair was a bit tousled, and his heavy blue sweater seemed awkwardly warm for the stuffy office. Takamäki and Kannas had been friends since their academy days. They had also patrolled together around the Presidential Palace in the eighties.

  “Ahem! Sorry, getting over a cold. We did find something at the crime scene… The body.”

  Nobody laughed.

  Kannas decided to cut to the chase. “First off, your assumptions about the body were correct. We ran the fingerprints, and were able to verify that the victim is, in fact, Jerry Eriksson. He was shot in the forehead. One interesting detail was that the victim was wearing a Los Angeles Lakers cap. There’s a basketball on the logo, and the bullet entered in the very center of the ball. Any basketball coach would have to admit that’s a pretty good shot,” Kannas quipped, glancing at Kulta, the hoopster. Nobody smiled.

  “At any rate, it wasn’t from point-blank range. The weapon was a hand gun.”

  “Do we know whether it was a pistol or a revolver?” Kulta asked.

  Kannas glared playfully at Kulta. “A machine gun can be a hand gun according to our official manuals, though we can rule out cannons and grenade launchers. In other words, we don’t know whether it was a pistol, a revolver, or a rifle. We didn’t find any casings, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything-the shooter could have picked them up. Based on the entry hole in his forehead, I would say it was a small-caliber handgun. The coroner should be able to verify that when they dig out the bullet.”

  “When was he shot?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Well, he was pretty chilly. Wasn’t quite fresh, so I’d estimate sometime between Sunday and Tuesday morning.”

  “That’s a big range.”

  “True, but it’s the best I can do.”

  “Shame.”

  “A little more about the garage. The cement floor was rough enough that it didn’t show any prints. The doorknobs had been wiped clean or something, so no prints there either. There’s a sandy spot in the yard, just in front of the house, where we took a plaster cast of some tire tracks. They’re worn GT Radials, made for vans.”

  “For a van?” Takamäki asked.

  “Yup. You can tell from the size and the tread pattern.”

  “What make and color was it?” Kulta joked.

  “Bring me the van and I’ll tell you if the tires match,” Kannas shot back. “A couple more things. There were a lot of cigarette butts and a wad of chewing gum in the yard, which we submitted for DNA testing. We put a rush on them, but who knows when the results will come back. And we don’t have anything right now that would connect those items to the crime.”

  Kannas continued, “Eriksson didn’t have a phone on him. We’re not sure if it was taken, or if he didn’t have one to begin with.”

  “These types always have a phone,” Kohonen interjected.

  “Tell us where it is then.” Kulta said.

  “Mikko, stick to the case,” Takamäki snapped. “If you don’t have anything to contribute, then let the rest of us think.”

  Kannas bent over and took a Ziploc bag out of the briefcase beside his chair. Inside was a Belgian-made FN pistol. “Instead, we found this in his pocket. I guess it’s your job as detectives to draw the conclusions, but from our standpoint, I can say that there were no bullet holes in the walls, and we didn’t find anybody else’s blood. In other words, Eriksson probably didn’t have time to use it.”

  “Kirsi, track down the history on this weapon,” Takamäki said.

  Kannas handed the plastic bag to Kohonen. “The serial number is intact.”

  Kannas took another plastic bag out of his briefcase. “These are the contents of Eriksson’s pockets. You should go through them when you get a chance. I haven’t personally inspected them, but we took photographs of everything.”

  “Anna, you can take care of that,” Takamäki said, and Joutsamo took the bag. At a glance, it contained some tattered papers, candy wrappers, coins, keys, and a small black wallet.

  * * *

  Joutsamo was wearing latex gloves, and had spread the contents of Eriksson’s pockets out on the conference room table after the others had left. Eriksson had had a single five-euro note and coins amounting to eight euros and twenty cents. Joutsamo set the money, some rumpled papers she assumed to be receipts, and a pack of chewing gum aside. She also had a notepad and a green pencil stub for notetaking.

  There were four keys: two regular door keys, a deadbolt key, and a Saab car key. Joutsamo guessed that one of the ordinary-looking keys and the deadbolt key were for the Kanne
lmäki apartment. But what was the other door key for? And did Eriksson have a Saab? They’d have to go check out the Kannelmäki apartment building’s parking lot. Or could it possibly be for Eriksson’s parents’ car? A car would be interesting if it was indeed his-they might find something to generate some new leads.

  It was clear that Eriksson had been murdered for a reason, though the motive remained a mystery. Based on the facts they had compiled, it was extremely unlikely that Eriksson was the victim of a random killing.

  Joutsamo sketched an outline for the murder. In many instances, it was easy to extrapolate a motive from a few basic facts. This murder didn’t seem the slightest bit emotional. On the contrary, it was coldly mechanical. The remote location of the crime and the nature of the act pointed to that conclusion.

  Since it didn’t appear to be a crime of passion, the perpetrator was probably not among the victim’s immediate family. Typically, in these kinds of cases, the killer was motivated by money. In addition, the murderer was probably antisocial and had an existing criminal record. Joutsamo recalled some research, which showed that one third of murderers who killed for personal gain had previously been convicted of property crimes.

  She didn’t have enough facts to draw more detailed conclusions-she needed more information. If the police were able to figure out what Eriksson had been doing recently, they might be able to figure out some possible motives. Had he met with any of his friends recently? Would they know of any enemies he might have had?

  A major problem was that no cellphone had been found. With a cellphone, it’d be easy to establish his circle of friends and business associates from the call record. Of course, Joutsamo had tried directory assistance to see if Eriksson had any listed numbers. Apparently, he either used a prepaid SIM card or the number was listed under someone else’s name. Did the absence of a cellphone simply mean that the killer had taken it? That would indicate that he had probably been in phone contact with Eriksson.

  If that was the case, their calls could be tracked down. With a court order for the phone company’s records, all phone calls within a specific area would be disclosed to the police. Sorting through all the calls would be tedious, but if there were no better leads, they would just have to do it.

  The rumpled papers from the Ziploc bag were indeed receipts. The first one revealed that on Sunday, Eriksson had bought eight cans of beer, a frozen pizza, and a bag of coffee from the Alepa grocery store at the Kannelmäki shopping center. The time stamp on the receipt was 8:32 P.M.

  Good, Joutsamo thought, and wrote the time down on her notepad. The first clue as to Eriksson’s activities. It was also consistent with Kannas’ initial estimate of the time of death.

  Unfortunately, Eriksson had paid in cash. Plastic would have been better, since it could be used to trace Eriksson’s other activities. There were no credit or debit cards in the wallet. Maybe he didn’t qualify for one. His credit rating was surely abysmal, due to unpaid debts and court-ordered compensation for his frauds.

  Joutsamo unfolded the other bundle of paper. The receipt was from the same store, also paid for with cash. A six-pack of beer and two hamburgers. But it was from Saturday. Joutsamo was disappointed, but she jotted down the information on her notepad. She wondered if he had drunk the beers alone.

  Lastly, Joutsamo picked up the old black wallet, about the size of a passport, and emptied the contents onto the table. The photo on his driver’s license was the same one that Joutsamo had seen in the DMV database. Eriksson looked much more innocent in this photo than in his mug shots.

  But who owned the Kannelmäki apartment, Joutsamo wondered. When they had some time, they’d have to figure that out. The condo association would have some name on record: either a person or a business.

  Joutsamo turned back to the wallet: it contained four one-hundred-euro notes, two fifties, and six twenties. All together, 620 euros. Enough to rule out robbery.

  The billfold had two compartments. In one side was the money, in the other, some receipts. Joutsamo fished them out and immediately recognized the thin strips as taxi receipts. About half a dozen of them.

  The first two were about a week old, but Joutsamo dutifully marked the dates in her pad. She took the third receipt and, as she registered the date and time, felt a shock of revelation. Eriksson had paid €19.20 on Monday evening to ride 6.2 miles between 6:34 P.M. and 6:53 P.M. The locations didn’t appear on the receipt, but the name of the taxi company did.

  This narrowed the window of time for the murder. The next receipt was even better. Still from Monday, but the time was from 9:33 to 9:46 P.M. The trip was 4.8 miles, and the cab fare came to €14.20. The name of the taxi company was Oinonen, and the phone number was even printed on the receipt.

  Joutsamo was about to call the Oinonen company to ask for more details about the passenger and his destination, but decided to finish examining the wallet first. Minutes didn’t matter at this point.

  Takamäki popped into the room, “Anything interesting there?”

  Joutsamo nodded. “Eriksson’s last acts are starting to take shape.”

  “Good,” Takamäki said in a voice that seemed a bit tepid for what she had told him. Her surprise doubled when he added, “Are you going to be much longer?”

  “Probably not. A few minutes, but then I’ll have to make copies of these.”

  “Do it later.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Forensics found a list of debts in the Kannelmäki apartment. We have a good candidate for a suspect. He owed Eriksson fourteen grand.”

  “Who?”

  “The list says ‘Juha S,’” Takamäki said. “I want you and Suhonen in my office in five. They also found about half an ounce of what appears to be meth.”

  CHAPTER 10

  BOARD OF CUSTOMS, EROTTAJA

  WEDNESDAY, 2:45 P.M.

  Customs Inspector Nyholm sat in his desk chair. Out the window, he could see the courtyard and hotel windows on the Boulevard. Occasionally, some eye candy walked by, but he just stared into space.

  Nyholm rubbed his eyes and cursed to himself.

  Snellman and that cop hadn’t said why he had to look into Jerry Eriksson. Nyholm had actually recognized the detective lieutenant-he had seen Takamäki on TV and in the newspapers. The policeman’s cold eyes had seemed to look right through him.

  And now he had to track down Eriksson’s connections to Customs. Where would he begin, Nyholm mused, laughing aloud.

  He knew where he could start. Exactly where.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  The phone rang and Nyholm inadvertently answered with “bitch.” It suited: the caller was his wife, who replied, “Excuse me?” He didn’t apologize for his rudeness.

  “Stop at the store on your way home.”

  “I can’t. Meetings.”

  “Again?” she said coldly.

  “That’s the custom here,” Nyholm replied. “How’s the girl?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her.”

  “Really,” he said, his voice filled with sarcasm.

  “I’ll be better off here alone anyway,” she snapped and hung up the phone.

  Nyholm groaned. He’d have to stop at the store. She was probably talking about liquor, not groceries. He tried to forget his wife and focus on the matter at hand. He’d have to be sharp.

  He picked up his desk phone and pushed speed dial for the head of intelligence in the southern region. He had to get some field agents involved so his efforts would seem sufficient. Hopefully nobody knew Eriksson.

  * * *

  Joutsamo knew she should already be in Takamäki’s office, but she had to make the call.

  “Oinonen,” a man answered in a hurried voice.

  “Anna Joutsamo from the Violent Crimes Unit. You have a minute?”

  The man on the other end laughed. “Sure. Just waiting for the train here, so nothing to do but talk on the phone and read classics.”

  Joutsamo drew a picture of the man in h
er mind-your typical long-winded cabby. The kind who always had something to say, whether passengers liked it or not.

  “I’m calling to check on one of your passengers.” Joutsamo had a copy of Eriksson’s receipt in her hand.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “On Monday night, between 9:33 and 9:46 P.M., you gave a ride to a younger guy in a hooded sweatshirt. Do you remember where you took him?”

  “Monday, huh? Today’s Wednesday, right? Heh, the days just sort of blend together in this job,” Oinonen said and thought for a moment. “Guy with a hoodie… Yeah, now I think I remember. He flagged me down on Helsinki Avenue in Kallio. Over there by Tenkka, as I recall.”

  “The Tenkka Bar?” Joutsamo clarified and jotted the name down in her notepad. Tenkka was one of the few institutions in what was a rough neighborhood. Most of the bars and pubs changed ownership so often that there was no sense of tradition. They just got people drunk on inexpensive beer and cheap vodka.

  “That’s the one. What’s this about?”

  “It’s a case I’m working on,” Joutsamo skirted the issue. “Was he alone?”

  “Yep, nobody with him.”

  “What about before he got in the cab? Anyone else with him?”

  “Well, there were others milling around on the street, but this guy with the hoodie was definitely alone. As far as I could tell.”

  “Good,” Joutsamo remarked, though it would’ve been better had he had a companion. It would’ve been one more lead to follow up on.

  Joutsamo noticed Takamäki standing in the doorway, looking impatient. She nodded.

  “How’d the trip go, then?”

  “I tried to strike up a conversation, but nothing. The guy didn’t say a word. He was kind of in his own

  world. He didn’t seem so drunk or high that he’d have been nodding off. You know, for a cabby at that hour, the night is still young.”

  “And where was he headed?”

  “Yeah. Now that was a little strange. When he first got in, he said to go to Oulunkylä. But then when we got there, he asked me to keep going further north towards Beltway One and Pakila. All of a sudden, when we got to Pirjo’s Tavern, he told me to stop and he got out. Seemed to me like the trip was cut short. It wasn’t because he didn’t have the money, though. He paid with a fifty, if I remember right.”