Wolves and Angels

by Jokinen, Seppo

  “Next time remember to add the name to the note!”

  “Why?”

  “So I know who I’m calling.”

  Milla looked at Koskinen with her large, searching eyes, and then started rummaging in her handbag, which had been crocheted out of gaudy yarn. Koskinen was annoyed by and regretting his behavior again; the girl was probably looking for the resignation letter she had already typed up.

  “Have you had time to go eat at all today?” she asked.

  “Uh... No, not yet,” Koskinen spluttered.

  “Well, take this at least,” Milla said and offered him the chocolate bar she had found in her bag.

  In his astonishment, Koskinen wasn’t able to do anything but thank her and return to the hallway. He walked with the chocolate bar in his hand toward his office and saw Sergeant Martti Meisalmi standing at his door.

  “What’s up, Martti?”

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Come on in,” Koskinen said, opening the door for Meisalmi. However, he raised his hand.

  “I’m in kind of a hurry. Can we talk here?”

  “Well?”

  Meisalmi glanced down the hallway in both directions and then lowered his voice. “To put it bluntly, I’m pretty damn pissed off.”

  Koskinen looked at Meisalmi in confusion. He had always considered him a calm man who chose his words carefully.

  “What?”

  “You gave one of my detectives to Pekki just as if my team didn’t have anything going on.”

  “I didn’t mean that—” Koskinen started, but Meisalmi interrupted him immediately.

  “We found out that the Ilves elevator rape is connected to that rape at the health spa in Pori.”

  Koskinen remembered the case—a woman had been raped in the spa steam room right before closing time. The tabloids had plastered big headlines about it on the front pages for several days in a row. Everybody thought it was incomprehensible how the rapist had managed to disappear from the spa grounds without a trace.

  “And I’m sure you know what that means,” Meisalmi said, his chin defiantly tilted to look the seven inches up to Koskinen’s eyes. “Knowing the Pori cops, we’ll get to do at least ninety percent of the investigation—and now I only have two men left. And besides, she’s the best possible person to interview the rape victims.”

  Koskinen understood perfectly well. He scratched his stubble thoughtfully. “Narcotics has been pretty quiet lately, since they busted that ecstasy ring. Borrow Havia or Meresmaa from them.”

  “They don’t know how to do anything but phone taps.”

  “Well, then get someone from Lehmus’ gang transferred to you. They just have the search for that nail gun guy going on. There can’t be any rush on that.”

  “There’s no way that’ll work,” Meisalmi said, shaking his head angrily. “Lehmus hangs on to his people like a wolf bitch with her cubs.”

  “It’ll work, if I tell him,” Koskinen said, without the least bit of self-importance. “I’ll call him.”

  “Okay, then,” Meisalmi said and then pointed at the chocolate bar in Koskinen’s hand. “I don’t even have a mint to thank you with.”

  He didn’t stay to wait for a reply, but rather turned and walked away quickly, his arms swinging.

  Koskinen handled the matter immediately. Lehmus tried to resist, like Meisalmi had predicted, but Koskinen stuck to his guns. And in any case, sometimes the unit needed to be reminded about who the boss was.

  Next he selected Pekki’s number and told him what Laine had said about the motorcycle gang at Wolf House, the men’s drinking excursions, and their quarreling that devolved to the point of death threats.

  “Oh, so they’re that kind of angels,” he said, guffawing. “Someone should go question them ASAP.”

  Pekki immediately launched into a tirade. “Damn it, why did Ulla have to go in for a tune-up on today of all days?”

  Again Koskinen felt a prickling of anger like someone had shoved snow down his shirt. He did everything he could to keep himself in check.

  “You do still have Kaatio and Eskola.” He remembered Meisalmi’s grim mood. “And Kaija Palonen from Meisalmi’s team.”

  “They don’t have time.”

  “Then you’ll have to go yourself.”

  “I can’t work overtime tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t,” Pekki answered in a voice that made it clear there was no use digging into it anymore.

  “I’ll go myself then,” Koskinen said, slamming down the receiver. So much for the lieutenant being the boss.

  He drummed on his desk with his knuckles for a moment and then, when he couldn’t come up with anything else to do, he bit into the chocolate bar Milla had given him. It had managed to melt a bit in his hand while he was talking with Meisalmi. Still, it tasted good and appreciably eased his irritation.

  10.

  At 5:30 P.M. the front door at Wolf House was already locked, and Koskinen had to ring the doorbell for a long time before he saw any movement through the glass door. A youngish woman with wide hips appeared in the lobby dressed in the same light green outfit as the other nurses that morning.

  The woman gawked through the glass at Koskinen’s windbreaker suit and the bicycle leaning against the ramp railing. At last the door cracked a few hesitant inches.

  “We aren’t buying anything.”

  Koskinen jerked the door open out of the woman’s hand, and she retreated fearfully.

  “I’m not selling anything,” Koskinen said, trying to calm her down. “I’m a police officer.”

  He stepped into the vestibule and took off his backpack. He dug out his wallet and showed his badge. The woman inspected it carefully.

  “Did you come because of Raymond?” she asked with serious eyes.

  “Basically, yes. But first I wanted to meet some of the residents.”

  “Who?”

  “Hannu Ketterä and Tapani Harjus.”

  The wide bridge of the woman’s nose wrinkled. “They’re never here at this time.”

  “Where then?”

  “Drinking beer at the Cat’s Meow.”

  Koskinen looked at her. Compared to her delicate body, her face was exceptionally wide. Blond hair hung loose from underneath a hastily tied headscarf, and a button was missing from her scrub dress. Koskinen decided to seize the opportunity. “And who are you then?”

  “Kaarina Kauppila,” she answered without hesitation. “I’m working the evening shift.”

  Koskinen remembered Lea Kalenius talking about a dingbat named Kaarina who had worked the night before as well.

  “Could we talk?”

  “I am in a terrible hurry.”

  “It won’t take long,” Koskinen said and perked up his ears. From the dayroom came a discordant chorus of an old school choir standby: “We too should be vouchsafed honor in Finland’s wide-stretched land,” with one shrill female voice drowning out the others.

  Kauppila glanced in the direction of the sound as well. “It’s choir night.”

  “Do you have regular activities for the residents?”

  “Only now with the elections coming up,” Kauppila said with a wry smile. “The city council candidates each come in turn promising more funding for disability services. Then we go a long time when no one comes by except a priest once a week to hold an evening service and send around a collection plate.”

  Koskinen took a step closer, cap in hand. “Was it you who was working last night?”

  “Yes, from one until nine.”

  “We called around three o’clock asking you to check if there were any male residents missing?”

  Kauppila nodded uncertainly. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Did you check?”

  She lowered her eyes and wrung her hands impatiently.

  “Yes, I was supposed to, but I forgot. I was in such a terrible rush. If you only knew what this is like.”

  “So, you didn�
�t check?”

  “Well, no,” she said, growing agitated. “I kept thinking about doing the rounds, but then I forgot.”

  “You forgot.” Koskinen shook his head, chagrined. “It would’ve saved us a lot of time.”

  He shouldn’t have said that.

  The corners of Kauppila’s mouth twisted. “Easy for you to get all huffy... You don’t have a goddamn clue what this job is like. All by myself basically all day going from room to room doling out medication and changing clothes. One of them needs his toenails clipped, another needs his earwax cleaned out, and a third has to be shaved. And then I have to bathe the ones who we didn’t have time for during the day. It’s really hard. It’s easy for Lea and Anniina since they’re so big, but sometimes I can barely do it. And then there are those three lunatics.”

  “Lunatics?”

  “Or, I guess there’s only two left, since Raymond died.”

  “What two?”

  “Harjus and Ketterä, the ones you wanted to see.” Kauppila sniffed and dug a handkerchief out of her pocket. “I’m scared every time I gotta wash them.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because they’ve always got a hard-on and try to feel me up the whole time. You do your job with that going on.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s completely against the law. Didn’t you file a complaint?”

  “No point in that,” she said as she dabbed the corners of her eyes.

  “I’m just a temp. If I started trying to throw my weight around, I’d get fired in a hurry. One girl just got chucked out this summer, and I took her place.”

  “Chucked out? Why?”

  “They never told me.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Everybody called her Pike.”

  Koskinen pressed the name into his memory and then continued his questioning: “How do the other nurses deal with similar situations?”

  “It can’t be any easier for them either. Lea was out on sick leave for three weeks in the spring.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t wanna talk about it, but someone said it was burnout.”

  Suddenly Kauppila jumped like she’d been caught doing something wrong. She glanced at the watch hanging from a necklace around her neck and panicked. “Oh my God! I’ve got to hurry... Elisabeth the Third still hasn’t been bathed.”

  “Elisabeth the Third?”

  “Yes. Her real last name is Kolmonen. She’s this three-hundred-and-thirty-pound carcass of a woman. I just can’t do this.”

  The last words came out as a shrill groan, and Kauppila disappeared at a run into the hallway that led to the rooms. Koskinen put his baseball cap back on and, before he left, heard that now they were belting out “The Hymn of the Häme” in the dayroom. The group was already on the last stanza: “So gallant are our heroes, with sense and strength to act when ever called upon.”

  Koskinen only needed a couple of minutes to ride to the Cat’s Meow. An electric wheelchair on the other hand probably needed quite a bit longer, even though the asphalt on Susi Street was smooth, and the route had no large hills. Koskinen had to admire the stubborn will to live that would drive a seriously disabled person to continue participating in normal life instead of giving in to his handicap.

  At the intersection of Kissanmaa and Susi Streets stood a square plaza. In the center stood a takeout kiosk and around it four-story apartment buildings with small shops on the ground floors ranging from hair salons to a bicycle repair shop and the office of a hockey club. The Cat’s Meow was on the eastern side of the plaza.

  Near the door was a bicycle rack, and Koskinen left his there to keep the others company. He hooked his thumbs over the waist of his pants and stepped in—nobody paid any attention to a man in a windbreaker suit, and why would they have? Koskinen stood at the door and swept his eyes around the smoky bar.

  Tapani Harjus and Hannu Ketterä were easy to identify—they were the only ones in wheelchairs among the motley clientele. Each wore a black leather jacket, and on the back of the one facing away from the door, the letters F and A had been painted in large white capitals.

  Two other men, dressed in army-issue camouflage jackets, also sat at the same table. The four of them were engaged in a heated exchange. Koskinen ordered a pint from the bar and walked with it to the table.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  This aroused surprise, and no wonder since there were empty tables and chairs all around. The men looked at Koskinen suspiciously, and no one answered his question.

  Koskinen decided to get straight to the point: “I was just at Wolf House and heard that you were here.”

  Their expressions became even more leery.

  “What kind of a faggot are you?”

  “Lieutenant Koskinen, Violent Crimes Unit.”

  The men in the army jackets stood up without saying a word and took off as if Koskinen had announced he was suffering from some airborne strain of pulmonary syphilis.

  He sat down in one of the chairs and thought about how to start the conversation. However, his opponents beat him to it.

  “Lemme guess!” one of the men in a wheelchair said with his eyes squinted in a cunning expression. “You’ve come to arrest me and Tappi for Raymond’s murder.”

  Koskinen guessed that the speaker was Hannu Ketterä. And that meant the other, called Tappi, was Tapani Harjus.

  “Not at all.” Koskinen laughed and raised his beer glass, “I just came to shoot the shit.”

  Harjus looked at him belligerently. “We don’t got shit to talk to you about!”

  “Well, then let’s shoot the breeze,” Koskinen said without turning his eyes away from the daggers Harjus was throwing at him.

  Ketterä took a more relaxed attitude than his companion. “Fire away! Ask us anything you want. We may be cripples, but we ain’t got brain damage. It don’t take a genius to see you didn’t come here to the Cat just to kill time.”

  “Not at all,” Koskinen said.

  He looked at the men appraisingly. Tapani Harjus was a solidly built athlete, and his broad shoulders signaled that he had obviously carefully sculpted his upper body. His neck was thick, and even his bald head looked muscular. The dark stubble on his scalp meant that his hair had not left on its own. Hannu Ketterä’s hair, on the other hand, was a ruddy bristle about an inch long extending from his forehead all the way to his neck. The tapered mustache projecting to the sides and his long goatee were also carrot red. Ketterä had a small build; compared to his friend he looked downright frail.

  Harjus got tired of waiting. “Ain’t you ever seen a cripple before?”

  Koskinen took a long gulp of his beer. It tasted marvelous, quenching his thirst from the bike ride. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and ignored Harjus’ question.

  “You knew Raimo Timonen?”

  “A little too well.” Harjus guffawed as Ketterä crossed his arms seriously. “Peace be to his soul and may he be buried face down.”

  Koskinen realized that it was pointless trying any of the traditional small talk or beating about the bush: “Who killed him?”

  Even a direct question didn’t seem to faze them. “You tell us and we’ll buy him a beer.”

  “Did Raymond have any enemies?”

  “Half of Finland.”

  Koskinen drained his glass and then studied each man in turn. “Could it be someone at the home?”

  “One of us?” Harjus chortled, rocking back and forth in his chair. “Come on, big fella!”

  “What about one of the nurses?”

  “Why not?” Ketterä stroked his red goatee. “Every one of those girls hated Raymond like a boil in their ass cracks.”

  A middle-aged woman began swaying her hips on the karaoke stage at the back of the bar, and then started singing. She had curlers under a babushka headscarf and a serious speech impediment with pronouncing R’s. Her piece was “Down by the River,” and Koskinen couldn’t hear what Harjus was saying across the t
able.

  Harjus raised his voice: “Don’t play deaf. Get more beer or shove off.”

  Koskinen took the empty glasses and made his way to the bar. The bartender was a man with a slouch—apparently from being permanently hunched over the tap. He filled the glasses and flashed his nicotine-stained teeth.

  “So the Angels found someone new to foot their bill?”

  Koskinen dug exact change out of his wallet and looked at the man curiously. “Are they well known here?”

  “Better than well. There used to be three of them, but one of them kicked the bucket…if you can say that about a cripple.”

  “It doesn’t seem like he’s exactly missed around here.”

  “Nope. Even though Raymond spent his money pretty freely and bought a lot of drinks, he didn’t have any friends here.”

  “Why not?”

  “It only took five beers before he started picking fights. His legs didn’t work, and his arms didn’t really either. But still he could knock tables over with his wheelchair…”

  “Did that happen often?”

  “Almost every night over the most chickenshit things.”

  “Like?”

  “Like when somebody made the mistake of criticizing Diego Maradona, Raymond immediately started flipping out. Maradona was like some kind of God to him.”

  “Why didn’t you ban Raymond?” Koskinen asked. “They do that at other places for less.”

  The bartender wiped the counter with his dirty spotted rag and shook his head. “I did that once, but all I got was more trouble. The next day some reporter called from Helsinki and asked if this was the bar that was discriminating against handicapped people.”

  The rag flew fifteen feet in an angry arc to the sink, and then the bartender continued, clenching his jaw. “Then in the next issue of Hymy was an article and two pictures, one of this bar and the other of Raymond—he looked like a wounded war vet or something. And then in the article he spun this bullshit about how he’d been turned away from the door of a bar, and how he had just barely had the strength to drag himself and his wheelchair there. It didn’t take long before some damn social worker lady called from the equal opportunity office and threatened to strip my liquor license if the discrimination didn’t stop.”