“But the issue was specifically his innocence?”
“Yes, and then about the conditions here too, but once he had been labeled a habitual complainer, no one took those seriously either.”
“Should they have?”
Ainola grunted dryly. “Of course. Conditions here are nowhere near to what the law dictates. A civilized nation is judged according to how it treats its prisoners, and on that measure, we’re not a Western country.”
“Not many are, if that’s the criteria we’re judging by.”
“Did you read the interview with Fredberg, the new chief justice of the Supreme Court, in Sunday’s paper?”
“Scanned it,” Suhonen said.
“He’s absolutely right that prison sentences don’t do any good. At least if we have to keep working with the same amount of resources and an increasing load of customers,” Ainola said.
Suhonen wasn’t particularly interested in getting into a discussion on criminal justice policy. “Let’s get back to Repo. How long did he keep up the appeals?”
“For a couple of years after the verdict. Then he suddenly stopped.”
“Why?” asked Suhonen.
“I don’t know. He just stopped. Maybe he realized it wouldn’t lead to anything, anyway. Gave up or got tired of it. Beats me.”
“What kind of meds was he on?”
“That’s stepping into confidential territory, but he popped sedatives, like just about everybody else here,” Ainola said.
Suhonen thought activists would have their work cut out for them if they tackled prison conditions, but evidently animals were a more sympathetic cause than criminals.
“Who did he hang out with?”
“He wasn’t in any of the gangs. Mostly kept to himself. When you said you were coming, I also asked over in his block. They told me then that he talked to a dealer named Juha Saarnikangas. He got four years for possession of amphetamines, but was released in August, if I remember correctly.”
Suhonen wrote down the name, even though he had heard of the guy before.
“What about Repo’s phone calls or letters?”
“I checked the logs. No calls in months, years actually. Some record of letters being received. Probably had to do with his dad’s death, for the most part.”
Suhonen nodded. Another strikeout. “Let’s go have a look at the cell.”
“No problem, if you have a warrant.”
“Are you serious?” Suhonen asked, but then dug out a search warrant from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. The only part that had been completed was Takamäki’s signature—a lieutenant’s approval was sufficient under Finnish law. Suhonen quickly filled in the rest of the information right there. For the crime, Suhonen wrote down “prisoner escape,” since that was what they were investigating.
“Handy,” Ainola said.
* * *
Takamäki knocked on the door of the Sello shopping center surveillance room. The person to open it was a short, uniformed guard with a moustache. He also had a big nose, and his heavy-framed glasses completed the Groucho Marx impression.
“Aho?” Takamäki asked.
Groucho nodded.
“Takamäki from Violent Crimes Unit.”
“Sure. I’ve seen you on TV before, too. Come on in.”
Takamäki followed the security guard, who had called him back about the surveillance camera photos. Aho had offered to send them via email, but Takamäki didn’t think that was secure enough.
The room, which was lit by fluorescent lights, contained a few lockers, a coffee machine, a microwave, and a fridge. A random selection of magazines was strewn across the table.
“Let’s go into the surveillance room,” Groucho Aho said.
The back room contained a dozen TV screens for the surveillance cameras. In some, the image changed every few seconds. Takamäki suspected that staring at them would give him a massive headache in no time flat.
Aho sat down at the computer. “You have a flash drive?”
Takamäki handed over his stick, which had more than 500 MB free, enough space for at least 200 premium-quality shots.
“I already went through and picked out the best ones,” Aho said. “There’s no video. It’s one of those cameras that takes a shot a second.”
The first image showed a boy in a helmet approaching the crosswalk on his bike. The wet asphalt gleamed; there was no one else in the picture. The pedestrian light was red. In the next shot, the light had turned green, and now the front tire of Jonas’s bike was in the intersection.
“In this next one, you can see the collision,” Aho said, clicking on to the third shot.
Looking at the photo turned Takamäki’s stomach. Jonas was blurry in it, because he was toppling over onto the asphalt, but you could see his arm breaking the fall. A gray car that looked like a Toyota had come from the right, and the front bumper was dead on top of the bike’s front wheel.
“This last one is probably the one you’ll find the most interesting.”
In the fourth shot, Jonas and the bike are on the asphalt, and the car had continued about five yards from the place of impact.
The brake lights weren’t on.
“I focused on the license plate,” Aho said, showing the fifth photo to Takamäki. The letters and numbers were clearly visible, and Takamäki wrote them down in his notebook.
Aho copied the photos onto the flash drive and ejected it from the computer. “Good thing you came to get these today. They wouldn’t have been here anymore tomorrow. These external camera shots are recorded over every twenty-four hours.”
“You don’t save them even if they capture incidents like this?”
“Of course we do, if we see something. I don’t know why the guy on duty yesterday didn’t notice the sequence on his cameras. The ambulance showed up pretty quick, too.” Aho handed the flash drive to Takamäki. “Here you go.”
“Thanks for your help,” the lieutenant said, adding that he’d show himself out.
* * *
Ainola and Suhonen entered the third floor of the east cell block, where most of the murderers were housed. The latest cycle of remodels at Helsinki Prison, which was originally built in 1881, had lasted for years. With the shrubs and other improvements, the block was almost pleasant now.
The corridors were quiet, because the majority of prisoners were elsewhere. That suited Suhonen, because he had no interest in showing his face to criminals in a context where he could be directly connected to the authorities.
Ainola greeted the guard and said they’d be entering Repo’s cell. Ainola fit his own key into the lock. As always in prisons, the iron door opened inwards. That way the prisoner couldn’t use the door to blindside a guard.
“Be my guest,” Ainola said, letting Suhonen enter first.
Suhonen immediately caught the distinct scent of old prison cell. It was impossible to eradicate, even if you washed and painted the walls and floors. The little cell reeked of sweat, shit, and suffering. Over the past century and a quarter they had been hopelessly ingrained.
The cell was six feet wide and ten feet long. High up on the back wall there was a tiny window. The bed was on the right and the desk to the left. A TV, an electric water kettle, and a few books were on the table. Suhonen’s eye immediately registered one detail—not a single girlie pic. As a matter of fact, the walls were spotless—not a single stroke of graffiti, either.
Behind the table a shelf held more books and some papers. The bed was made.
“A life of modesty,” Suhonen remarked, pulling on his latex gloves. This time it was more a matter of habit than need.
“Dream prisoner. These past few years, I mean.”
“A loner?”
“For that reason, too.”
Suhonen started from the table. The books were nonfiction. Two were about the history of the Roman Empire, both borrowed from the prison library. Suhonen shook the books so that anything inside would have fallen out onto the table. But there w
as nothing.
Suhonen wasn’t about to start looking inside the TV. This wasn’t a narcotics raid. He was seeking information on addresses or acquaintances: scraps of paper, letters, a calendar.
He stepped over to the shelf and scanned it rapidly. A slim stack of papers caught his attention, and Suhonen picked it up. It was the Court of Appeals verdict in Repo’s case. The pages were worn at the corners, and the paper felt greasy. The interior pages were heavily underlined, and comments had been written in the margins in tiny letters. Suhonen thought for a moment and decided to bring the stack to Joutsamo. His colleague had the best sense of the case and might be able to glean hints from the scribblings.
Suhonen set the stack of documents on the table. He scanned down the shelves but didn’t find anything of interest, only a can of Nescafé, a mug, a folded sweater, and a couple of DVDs. Pulp Fiction? Okay, not a bad choice for a prisoner. Suhonen opened the cases, but all they contained were the disks.
“Why are there DVDs here, if he doesn’t have a player?”
“Are there?” Ainola said, stepping a little closer. Suhonen handed the cases to the warden. “Oh, these are from the prison library. The prisoners can also borrow a DVD player there, but it’s probably already been loaned on to someone else. I’d better return these, too. Otherwise he’ll lose his DVD privileges once you bring him back here to his cell.”
“Su-ure.”
“What do you mean, su-ure?”
Suhonen didn’t answer immediately. He turned toward the bed. “These convict escapes are kind of like murder investigations. If the case isn’t wrapped up right away, we work overtime until it’s solved. Murders can take months, but there are dozens of detectives working on them, at least at the beginning. Now we’re chasing down this ghost with a few guys, and we don’t really have anything to go on. Searching a cell like this is pretty pointless. The problem is that even though the guy’s a murderer, he’s a complete enigma. We don’t know anything about his friends, if he even has any. We’re not going to get anywhere with his family. So it’s a total crapshoot. Of course he might get caught at some DUI checkpoint or end up in the Töölö drunk tank, but that’s more a matter of chance.”
“Are you stressing out over this case?”
“Not especially. I’m just pissed off that in a way we’re doing pointless work. Okay, it’s not totally pointless. But if we have to start by figuring out who the guy is, it’s looking like we’re in for a long-distance relay.”
Ainola shrugged. “Welcome to the team.”
Suhonen laughed. “All we’d need is to find something good under that mattress.” Suhonen lifted it up. The bed frame was empty.
There was a knock at the door, and Ainola opened. The chunky guard from the break room was standing there. “Forsberg’s in the break room.”
“Who’s Forsberg?” Suhonen asked.
“Our lucky lottery winner,” Ainola grunted. “Last time around, he won four plus a bonus number from district court: aggravated robbery, felony narcotics, aggravated assault, felony fraud, and, for the bonus, criminal intimidation.”
“Oh, Foppa,” Suhonen growled. The jack-of-all-trades had gotten his nickname from the famous Swedish hockey player. “I remember him. He was Repo’s closest buddy?”
“They’re not actually buddies,” the fat guard said. “But he was in the next cell over. He might know something.”
The guard led the way to the break room. Suhonen could smell a fresh pot brewing. There was nothing about Forsberg particularly reminiscent of his namesake, although maybe the hockey player also liked to lounge around in sweats—presumably not brown prison-issue ones, though. Foppa the Con was sporting a white T-shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, and a growing bald spot. He was about fifty.
Suhonen extended a hand and the men shook. “Suhonen, Helsinki Police.”
The crook’s handshake wasn’t especially firm. As a matter of fact, it was limp.
“Forsberg,” he answered in a low voice. “So whaddaya want?”
“I have a couple of questions,” Suhonen said.
“What about?”
“Repo. I want to know why he took off.”
“How would I know?”
“They say you knew him best.”
“Pffft,” Forsberg said. “Nobody knows anyone in this joint. Everyone’s out for themselves. I couldn’t give a shit what some other convict is thinking. Besides, he was a pretty quiet guy.”
“Pretty quiet?”
“Yeah. Mostly hung out alone, didn’t talk to me, even though we both worked over in the sign shop. Someone said that back when he first got here he was pretty bitter, but I couldn’t tell.”
“Who said?” Suhonen asked.
“Can’t remember.”
“Who else did he talk to besides you?”
“No one, really. Okay, maybe Juha Saarnikangas. He’s one of those junkies, looks like a skeleton. You know, when he raises his arms, his watch slides down to his shoulder.”
“Okay,” Suhonen nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”
“Well, he’s not big time. At least not big time enough for a cop to remember him. A real skeeze.”
Suhonen thought Forsberg didn’t exactly appear to be a rocket scientist, either. “What did Repo do at night?”
“Mostly sat or lay there in his cell alone. Spent a lot of time in the library. Seemed to like electronics. Borrowed books on the subject. Oh yeah, he’d always go read the newspapers, too. Maybe it helped him keep up with what was happening on the outside. Or at least he thought it did.”
Forsberg paused for a second and drank his coffee. Suhonen let the silence weigh and reached for his own mug.
“But Timo’s no gangster. Corking his wife was probably an idea that just popped into his head when he was drunk, ha-ha,” Forsberg grunted, looking at the grim-faced Suhonen. “Don’t you get it? Corking, ha-ha, ’cause he shut her up and almost took her head off at the same time, ha-ha.”
“Yeah, I got it, it just wasn’t very funny.”
Forsberg stopped laughing. “Well, can’t help you any more. He’ll probably show up at some police station in a couple of days. I think his old man’s funeral just sent him off the deep end.”
* * *
Sitting at his desk, Takamäki was working on his son’s accident. He had copied the surveillance camera images from the flash drive to his computer. He had momentarily considered taking prints home, but then had rejected the idea.
He had seen so many crime scenes and images of them that the photos were nothing more than a tool for him. They didn’t convey any emotion or terror, just information from the scene. But his wife wouldn’t be capable of viewing the surveillance camera shots in the same way. That’s why it was better not to show themto her.
Takamäki had pulled up the DMV database and was hesitating as to whether or not to look up the owner of the car that had hit Jonas. Investigating the hit-and-run wasn’t his turf; it wasn’t even Helsinki Police turf. The Espoo police were supposed to take care of it. But license plate info wasn’t confidential. Anyone could call a toll-free number and request information on any vehicle.
The lieutenant entered the license plate number, and the system indicated that the owner was an Espoo leasing company. A guy named Tomi Manner was registered as the lease-holder. Takamäki looked up more info on Manner; according to his social security number, he was thirty-seven years old. His address was in Espoo, in the neighborhood of Tuomarila.
Joutsamo was a whiz with computers, but Takamäki could navigate the basics pretty well. Manner owned a small private security company. Maybe he had fled the scene because he was afraid of losing his security company license. On the other hand, it would be even worse to get caught fleeing the scene, on top of hitting a pedestrian.
Manner’s record showed a couple of old traffic citations, but he wasn’t suspected or convicted of anything more serious. Takamäki started wondering how far he should go. It wasn’t like he was conducting an investigation or anythi
ng. He was mostly just satisfying his curiosity.
So Takamäki pulled up Manner’s license photo, too. The young Tomi Manner had a crew cut and a confrontational gaze. At the time the photo was taken, his cheeks were covered in dark stubble. To Takamäki, Manner looked aggressive, exactly like the kind of person who would flee the scene of an accident. The photo was almost twenty years old, but it still communicated arrogance. Maybe that was because Manner’s jaw was tilted higher than necessary. Takamäki started getting the feeling he’d like to exchange a couple of words with the guy.
* * *
Repo was lying on Karppi’s sofa. His eyes were closed, but he was awake. Karppi was reading some biography at the dining table. Since finishing their coffees, the men had barely spoken to each other. The papers and photos Karppi had given him were in a plastic shopping bag on the floor.
Thanks to his prison time, the position was a familiar one to Repo. He could lie for hours without thinking about anything or, if he felt like it, thinking about everything, Now, all kinds of things were going through his head: his father’s death, the escape, meeting Karppi, and the things he wanted to do. Or not just wanted to do, but what he intended on doing.
The problem with thinking was that once your thoughts got out of the corral, it was tough to wrangle them back in. Arja came back into his mind. And the image wasn’t that smiling, beautiful woman from the wedding photo, but Arja’s lifeless, slightly yellowed face. It was impossible to read anything from the dead woman’s expression, not even pain, despite the fact that the deep wound in her neck reached almost from ear to ear.
Repo could still remember waking up. The memories came back, no matter how much he wished they wouldn’t. He was lying on his bed, and a man in a blue uniform was shaking him by the shoulder. He felt nauseous, and could make out the barrel of a pistol through his booze-blurred eyes. On with the cuffs and into the paddy wagon.
What happened next at the police station was like a nightmare. Repo didn’t remember anything about Arja’s death. The detective laid into him. “C’mon, admit it. Do you confess? Why don’t you remember? Goddammit, stop wasting our time! Be a man and take responsibility for your actions.”
Helsinki homicide: Cold Trail Page 7
