Helsinki Homicide: Vengeance

by Jarkko Sipila

  “They found him,” said Sergeant Anna Joutsamo, somewhat in disbelief. Joutsamo was in her thirties and wore blue jeans and a black wool cardigan. Her dark hair was swept into a loose ponytail.

  “Who?” Suhonen asked. He didn’t know what case she was on, but finding someone or something was usually a positive development in police investigations.

  “Mauri Laukka.”

  “Should I know who that is?” Suhonen asked.

  Kulta had interrupted his work and taken the headphones off. “Suhonen, I thought you knew it all.”

  Suhonen ignored the ribbing. “Who is he?”

  “You haven’t heard about this case yet, but last week we received an inquiry from Norway about an unidentified corpse. A month ago, the Oslo police found a dead man at a local beach. No papers, nothing. Supposedly about twenty years old and fairly clean. Nothing seemed to indicate homicide. Well, the fingerprints didn’t match anyone in their database, so they were at a loss. Sharp as they are, a week later they realized that a rented Mitsubishi with Finnish plates was still sitting in the parking lot.”

  “Promising,” Suhonen noted.

  “Yes, it was,” Joutsamo went on. “The case was being handled by Magnus, someone I know in Oslo, who called to ask if I could find out who rented the Mitsubishi. That’s when this Mauri Laukka stepped into the picture.”

  “The guy who rented the car?”

  “Correct. His age matched the body, and on top of that, he had been reported missing about a month ago. His father couldn’t get a hold of him and contacted the police. So I chatted with the investigator at the Vantaa PD, who told me that Laukka was a troubled kid suffering from depression. Booze and pills, et cetera, but nothing criminal, which is why he wasn’t in our database.”

  “And…”

  “And with the depression and all, I was absolutely convinced that the body was this Laukka. Anyway, I was only a middle-man between Oslo and Vantaa—between the two, they were taking care of the DNA and the other formalities. So I was chatting with a friend at the National Bureau of Investigation records department last Friday and I asked about him. Well, she just called me back to say that they’ve received a communiqué through the Foreign Ministry about this guy. Sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning, Mr. Laukka got into a drug-induced brawl in Nice, punched a cop in the face, and is sitting in a jail in Southern France.”

  “So the corpse in Oslo…”

  “Is not him.”

  Suhonen snickered. “No way. Who is it, then?”

  Joutsamo shrugged. “No clue, but yet another example of why you should never assume.” The foursome had made a hobby of repeating their Lieutenant’s favorite phrase.

  “Laukka sounds like a good candidate for the police academy,” Suhonen chuckled. “Hey, come take a look at this photo.”

  She walked over to Suhonen’s desk and he stepped aside.

  “You know these guys?”

  Joutsamo sat down in his chair. He stood behind her and detected the sweet scent of her perfume, which conjured visions of spring.

  “That one’s been running with the Skulls. Thinks his dad is some Argentinean. Was it Gomez?”

  “Gonzales. He’s the darker one. What about buzz cut here?”

  Joutsamo turned and looked up from the chair. “Should I know who he is?”

  Kulta came up from behind to look over their shoulders.

  “No. I don’t know either,” said Suhonen.

  Kulta smirked. “That’s twice already today.”

  Joutsamo ignored the comment. “Doesn’t look like a local. Based on his features and clothing, I’d bet he’s Estonian or Russian. Toomas might know.”

  “Not familiar to me either,” Kulta said, though nobody had asked. “I’d also suggest you get in touch with Toomas.”

  “Alright, I’ll do that.”

  Toomas Indres was an Estonian policeman who had been with the Helsinki VCU on an exchange program. He had returned to Tallinn six months ago.

  Joutsamo stood up and Suhonen stepped back. Kulta returned to his desk.

  “When was that photo taken?” Joutsamo asked.

  “Half an hour ago in the Velodrome parking lot.”

  “Of course,” Joutsamo smiled. By the way, did you hear about today’s sentencing in the Skulls’ extortion case?”

  “Not yet. Do tell.”

  “Alanen got three years and two months and Lintula two years and ten months. Captain Karila himself came to congratulate us on a job well done.”

  Suhonen scratched his head at the captain’s visit. “Oh really? I wonder which leadership program taught him to do that.”

  “He even brought coffee and cookies. There’s probably some left in the conference room.”

  “That’s okay,” said Suhonen. “We worked hard on that case—glad they were convicted.”

  Alanen and Lintula were Skull prospects who had extorted protection money from a north Helsinki pizzeria owner. Key evidence had been obtained by planting a hidden camera in the restaurant. Obtaining the terrified proprietor’s consent for the camera had been the most difficult part of the case.

  “Yep, they’ll be off the streets for a while,” Joutsamo remarked.

  “True. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

  Joutsamo grinned. “I think I’ll make myself stronger with a jog tonight.”

  Suhonen felt a pang of guilt. He, too, should take better care of himself, but jogging was not his thing. At least he managed to play hockey with some other cops a couple of times a week.

  “You going alone?”

  “Yeah. You live alone, you jog alone.”

  Both of them were single. Though they had had many relationships, most had broken down due to the demands of their work. Or it could be that both just preferred the single life. That way, they answered to nobody.

  “Why don’t you come along?”

  “You asking me on a date?”

  “No, a jog.”

  Suhonen paused. “Aaah, maybe not; I probably couldn’t keep up.”

  Joutsamo shrugged. “You got that right.”

  WEDNESDAY,

  OCTOBER 21

  CHAPTER 2

  WEDNESDAY, 11:20 A.M.

  PUOTINHARJU SHOPPING CENTER, EAST HELSINKI

  A white Fiat Ducato van sat in the parking lot of the Puotinharju Shopping Center. The van, which was caked with dirt and rust, was pointed toward downtown Helsinki. Outside the driver’s side window were the streets of Itäkeskus, and on the passenger’s side lay the crumbling mall.

  Juha Saarnikangas tapped out the rhythm to “L.A. Woman” on the steering wheel. The old Ducato’s radio was defunct, but he had an iPod and a couple of tiny speakers on the passenger seat. He gazed out the windows, looking for familiar faces, but saw none. Many passersby carried umbrellas. Saarnikangas hadn’t followed the weather reports, but apparently showers were in the forecast. Though the windshield of the van was dirty, it was still dry.

  “Drivin’ down your freeways, midnight alleys roam…” sang Morrison. Saarnikangas didn’t know that the mall he was parked next to was built in the same year that The Doors were founded. Then, Puotinharju had been Finland’s largest shopping center, and the pride of a burgeoning East Helsinki.

  Saarnikangas was wearing a green military coat. His dark, greasy hair reached his shoulders. The man’s face was thin, his skin pale and pock-marked. But having kicked a heroin addiction, he was in better shape now than he had been for years.

  His gaze was fixed on a group of about a half-dozen black men, who were slowly climbing the stairs to the second floor of the mall, where a mosque was located.

  He pulled out his cell phone and glanced at the time: 11:22. He’d give the guy three more minutes before leaving, and wouldn’t take his calls anymore.

  The man had promised Saarnikangas twenty euros just to listen to a proposal. Free money was enough of a reason, but it wasn’t the only one. Was this guy in as bad of shape as word on the street woul
d have it? The fact that he was willing to pay for a meeting wasn’t a good sign.

  A knock on the passenger side window startled Saarnikangas. He hadn’t noticed the man approaching—he must have snuck up from the rear.

  The Ducato didn’t have power locks, but if it did, they would have been broken. Saarnikangas leaned over, lifted the passenger side lock, and snatched his music system off the seat. He shut off the music.

  “Hey,” said the forty-something man. His hair was short, his cheeks sunken. The lambswool collar of his brown leather jacket was dirty.

  The rugged-faced Eero Salmela seemed initially like his former self, but then Saarnikangas looked in his eyes: blurry and full of fear.

  “They let you out of the hospital?” said Saarnikangas, smiling with his mouth carefully closed. Heroin had ruined his teeth. He also wanted to be cautious. He knew that a year ago, while in prison, Salmela had taken an iron pipe to the head, and had done a long stretch in the medical ward before returning to his cellblock to serve out the final months of his sentence. A blow to the head can make a man unpredictable. Saarnikangas might be sharper, but Salmela was still the stronger man.

  “Yeah. Back in the summer.”

  “Cool. You alright?” Saarnikangas said, more as a statement.

  Salmela said nothing, just settled into the passenger seat and stared over Saarnikangas’ shoulder at the mall.

  “That place is so big, I’d get lost in it.”

  “Yeah, same here.”

  Salmela shot a cold look at Saarnikangas, but then fluttered his eyelids so long that it gave the impression of stupidity. “I lost a few brain cells back in prison, but don’t mock me. You know how ex-cons deal with people who give them shit.”

  “I didn’t say anything. Wasn’t laughing,” Saarnikangas apologized. No doubt Salmela had a knife on him.

  “You know where I just was?”

  “Nope.”

  “Playing bingo.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fucking bingo.”

  Best be quiet, Saarnikangas thought, and said nothing.

  Salmela calmed down. “The doc said it might help. The lady says ‘B-6’ and I match it on the sheet. I got thirty euros of bingo money from the welfare office. They call it therapy.”

  How come I don’t get that kind of assistance, Saarnikangas wondered.

  Salmela continued, “Kids’ crossword puzzles supposedly help too, but they make my head hurt like hell.”

  Saarnikangas didn’t know what to say, so he just turned and nodded. Kids’ crosswords? He felt like laughing, but the threat of a knife kept his mouth shut.

  A few years back, Salmela had run a stolen goods business and bought some hot cell phones and laptops from Saarnikangas. Salmela had paid a shitty price, but at least he had paid. Some buyers had just walked off with the stuff Saarnikangas brought, ignoring his pleas for money.

  Salmela had been tough, but fair. A couple of years ago, Salmela’s son had been killed in a turf battle between rival drug gangs. In his sorrow, the devastated father was driven to more serious crimes. Saarnikangas didn’t quite know for what, but Salmela had spent a few years in the pen. There he had apparently mixed with the wrong crowd and had been found in a stairwell, beaten unconscious.

  “So what happened in the slammer?”

  Salmela sneered. “You know. Those…the stairs there are damn steep. Easy to trip. Don’t remember much else.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah. That’s what happened.” Salmela averted his eyes.

  Saarnikangas was quiet for a moment. “You had something you wanted to talk about?”

  “Yeah. Listen…” Salmela began hesitantly. “I need some help with something I’m working on.”

  “What’s that?” Saarnikangas asked, though he was already certain he’d say no. It was still good to know about any deals out there.

  Salmela glanced about, though there was nobody else in the cab. “I got a little deal going on and I need some assistance.”

  Saarnikangas understood immediately. “How much you need?”

  “Say, about three grand.”

  Saarnikangas didn’t have that kind of money, but went on with the game. “What kind of deal?”

  “You’d be able to help me then?” Salmela brightened.

  “I asked what kind of deal. Didn’t promise anything.”

  Salmela lowered his voice to a whisper. “Four pounds of speed from Tallinn. You get a piece of the action. Your three Gs will be six within the month.”

  Yeah, right, Saarnikangas thought. A drug smuggling operation run by a bingo whiz that can’t figure out kids’ crossword puzzles. Count me in for sure. “I’m not so sure,” Saarnikangas mumbled.

  “My partner has good contacts there. The job is a piece of cake, really. A-all I need is a little financing and it’ll take care of itself.”

  Saarnikangas made eye contact with Salmela. “Eero. Why you doing this? I thought drugs weren’t your thing.”

  Salmela was quiet for a moment. “They’re not.”

  “Then why?”

  “I owe some money. This is the only chance I have to w-wiggle out of it.”

  “Is that really it?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “Four pounds of dope costs ten grand wholesale. What about the rest of it? The other seven? You have them yet?”

  Salmela smirked. “Almost.”

  “Who’s your mule?”

  “That’s one thing I have to figure out. The dope costs ten grand wholesale in Tallinn, but twelve shipped here. I can save two grand if I bring it myself.”

  “You got a buyer?”

  “Yup.”

  “Who?” Saarnikangas demanded.

  “I’ll tell you when I get the three grand.”

  Saarnikangas shook his head. “Sorry, no loose cash right now.”

  “Huh?”

  “None.”

  “Alright. No problem.”

  Disappointed, Salmela turned abruptly away. “I’ll get the financing, you know. You’ll miss out, but that’s your loss.”

  Saarnikangas was sure he could live with the loss.

  “Hey Eero. Maybe I can help with the other part.”

  “What other part?”

  “Well, getting the dope across the gulf.”

  “H-how? You’d bring it yourself?”

  “I’ve got some old drug convictions so I can’t do it myself. Too risky.”

  Saarnikangas pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and looked up a number in the directory. Next to the van’s hand brake lay an old receipt, and Saarnikangas jotted a name and number on the back.

  Salmela extended his hand, but Saarnikangas didn’t offer the number.

  “I’ll give it to you for a hundred.”

  “What is it?”

  “An Estonian girl’s number. She’s ferried a few shipments before. Charges maybe three, four-hundred euros for a four pound job.”

  Salmela stared at Saarnikangas’ hand.

  “Can’t promise she’ll do it, but she knows the drill.”

  Salmela fished a hundred euros out of his pocket and handed it over. “Okay.”

  Saarnikangas noticed some more bills in Salmela’s hand. “And the twenty for the meeting, too.”

  The ex-con dealt out another twenty and Saarnikangas shoved the money into his jacket pocket.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Nah,” said Salmela. As he swung out of the van, he reminded Saarnikangas not to say anything about this job to anyone. Saarnikangas agreed.

  He watched Salmela’s departure with a heavy mind. The number he had sold was indeed for Tallinn, but that second-rate whore certainly wouldn’t agree to be anybody’s mule.

  This would not end well. Narcotics and Customs ate these kinds of operations for breakfast, at least if Salmela could actually get his hands on the dope. Especially with rookies like Salmela, Estonian suppliers had a reputation for taking payment but delivering nothing. In any case,
Salmela would probably be better off in prison.

  CHAPTER 3

  WEDNESDAY, 2:30 P.M.

  TALLINN HARBOR, ESTONIA

  The effect of the sea was usually amazing. If it was raining in Helsinki, a few hours on a southbound ferry brought passengers to sunny Tallinn, with temperatures 15 degrees warmer. Usually, that is, but not this time.

  A hard rain beat against the windows of Terminal Four at the Tallinn harbor. Suhonen was squinting out the window to see if any taxis were waiting; he didn’t want to step out into the torrent for no reason. Not one in sight.

  A small group of travelers was waiting in the concourse, everyone with the same thought. The rain was driving sideways, rendering umbrellas useless, so they were lined up inside the terminal. In a hurry, the undercover officer decided to defy the elements. No big deal—his leather jacket could take a little sprinkling. A few of them snuffled at him as he stepped out. Apparently they thought the taxi line was inside, and Suhonen was jumping to the front. Several of the passengers still looked a bit pasty, as the gales had made for a rocky boat ride.

  Suhonen stood alone in the rain and wind for about a minute before he spotted a white car pulling up to the curb. Any ride was fine with him; his destination guaranteed nobody would try to rip him off.

  The driver didn’t step out to open the door, not that Suhonen expected it. Not in Helsinki, Tallinn or anywhere else. The gesture would be friendly, of course, but also awkward. Worse was if a cabbie hustled over to open the door at one’s destination.

  His tanned leather jacket had gathered some rain and Suhonen shook it off before stepping into the white Nissan.

  “Hi,” chirped the smiling cabby, a cap perched on his head. The driver wasn’t sure if his passenger was a local or a northern neighbor, so he dispensed with the small talk. Or maybe he had enough sense to know that this hard-nosed customer in a leather jacket wasn’t looking for conversation, just a ride.