Helsinki Homicide: Vengeance

by Jarkko Sipila

  Just inside was a former service desk, and directly opposite the entrance was a stairway leading upstairs. At one time, a door had stood there. The walls were white, as offices generally were, though these were much dirtier. Larsson noticed a few posters of various metal bands hanging on the walls. The floor was filthy, as though it hadn’t been cleaned for years, and the stench of dust hung in the air.

  Still nobody around. Larsson was getting pissed. They had talked about getting security cameras, but he hadn’t seen a single one. Anybody could walk right in.

  The narrow stairwell was painted black, except for the rough-sawn wainscoting. Photos of the wild parties held there decorated the walls.

  The stairs led directly to the second floor. At the top was a pair of saloon doors.

  Larsson pushed through the doors, one of which advertised its need for oil.

  A bull-like thug looked up from his game of billiards. “Who are you?” he snorted, his broad, flat nose and wide nostrils flaring in unison with his eyes. In comparison to his short legs, his massive shoulders and torso seemed unwieldy.

  “The devil himself,” Larsson hissed. “You on guard duty?”

  The man kept the cue in his hand. “Nobody’s on duty in the daytime.”

  The stairs entered into the middle of a vast, dark room, which was furnished like a Wild West saloon, though the windows were covered with thick black cardboard.

  Larsson was still standing at the top of the stairs. A bar opened up to the right, along with several tables, and in the corner sat a large flat-screen TV and an Xbox. The left side was more open: a pool table in the middle and behind it, a small, knee-high stage for bands. In the far left corner was a pinball machine. Larsson knew that the office, which he would soon reclaim, was behind the bar.

  “Who are you?” Larsson demanded.

  The man set his jaw before answering hesitantly, “Roge.” This guy didn’t look like someone he should mess with, he thought.

  “Roge, huh. You here alone?”

  A toilet flushed in the background and a smaller, goateed man stepped into the room from a door behind the pool table. “My turn?” he asked before noticing the visitor at the top of the stairs.

  “Two of you here?” noted Larsson.

  “You must be Tapani Larsson,” the little guy said, advancing. He dried his hands on his jeans.

  “And you?”

  “Osku, hang-around member. Same as Roge here.”

  Osku offered his hand, but Larsson breezed past him into the room.

  A huge man stepped out of the office behind the bar. “What the hell is…”

  Niko Andersson spotted Larsson. “Larsson! The devil himself!”

  He pounded over to Larsson and the men embraced, smacking one another on the back.

  “Good to see a familiar face here,” Larsson said.

  “Yeah. Meet Roge and Osku. They’ve got potential.”

  Larsson shook their hands.

  “Something to drink?” asked Roge, as he squeezed behind the bar.

  “I’ll take a water.”

  Roge glanced at the rows of bottles inside the glass-door fridge. “Sorry. No water. We got Pepsi. And diet.”

  “Sure.” Larsson mumbled.

  “Which?”

  “Doesn’t fucking matter.”

  Roge grabbed the first can he struck upon and hurried it over to Larsson.

  “Notice anything?” Niko asked. “We fixed up some things.”

  “Looks pretty much the same to me.”

  “Osku, let’s get some light in here!” Niko hollered.

  Osku walked briskly to the end of the bar and snapped on a row of switches. The lights along the bar lit up in blue and red, and a spotlight illuminated the pictures on the walls.

  Larsson nodded. “The downstairs is total shit, though.”

  “Still working on that,” Niko admitted. “We’re going to build a coat check down there as well as a guard station.”

  “A coat check? This some kind of speakeasy?”

  Niko laughed. “No. But in case we ever need one, we’d have it. We could install a gun safe too, so we don’t have any accidents. Heh-heh!”

  “Be a damn church if guns are checked at the door,” Larsson muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The saloon doors creaked again, and a short-haired man stepped in. Sami Aronen, the Skulls’ weapons expert, bellowed, “Larsson!” The men went through the same patting ritual.

  Aronen was a few years older than Larsson. The size of his biceps and the lack of a beer belly showed he was in excellent shape. Close-shaved hair and three-days of stubble capped off his steely looks.

  “Good to see you again,” said Aronen.

  “Same.”

  Niko and Aronen formed the gang’s current nucleus, since half of the members were doing time. Larsson trusted both as much as he trusted anybody.

  Aronen had been a member for a couple of years now. He had served in Afghanistan with the Finnish peace-keeping forces some years ago, but was discharged after punching a Swedish officer in a bar fight. When a sergeant hits a captain, he’ll take the blame, regardless of the reason.

  As luck would have it for Aronen, the Finnish forces were in Northern Afghanistan’s ISAF-operation under Swedish command and the loud-mouthed captain happened to be the unit’s judge advocate officer—Aronen never stood a chance. He was one of the few Skulls that had never been in prison. For the swing at the Swedish officer, he was fined and received a dishonorable discharge from the Finnish Army, where he had worked as a weapons specialist in several regiments.

  Larsson drank his Pepsi straight from the can.

  “Larsson, let’s sit down,” said Niko, gesturing toward the wooden tables in front of the bar. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here, so I asked the others to come over at half past twelve.”

  * * *

  Suhonen was sitting in the same Customs control room at the West Harbor as he had on the previous night. The director of port security had arranged to replay the video of the previous evening’s passengers. Then, the undercover cop had seen it live, now he could see it on tape.

  Unlike in real life, video allowed him to pause, rewind and fast forward. The previous evening, the police had only been looking for a woman in a red coat, but another mule had also disembarked. Who? They had spotted Karjalainen, the junkie, but what about after Marju Mägi?

  The director hadn’t asked why Suhonen wanted to see the footage again. It had been enough that Suhonen had asked for it. They also had footage of the parking lot, which Suhonen and Toukola hadn’t needed the night before. All of the footage was on a hard drive, so Suhonen could switch between cameras and zoom in on passengers.

  The director had also shown Suhonen how to print the images. They could be emailed as well.

  Before leaving the control room, the director had lamented the fact that facial recognition software wasn’t fully functional yet. In the future, cameras would be able to identify people based on their facial structure. Facial metrics—the distance between one’s eyes or between one’s nose and ears, the length of one’s chin measured from the bottom lip—were unique to each person. Every person with a driver’s license or passport photograph, for example, would receive a unique facial ID. Computers would be able to match that ID to individuals captured on security camera footage. However, the director knew that the current systems still had a 25 percent failure rate, even under near-laboratory conditions

  With corresponding legislation, the technology would be implemented in Finland. He had surmised that the legislation would be passed under the guise of counter-terrorism. If passengers could be positively identified before boarding, those deemed dangerous could be picked up then. It would be even better if the system were integrated with the police database.

  That done, it was only a matter of determining who would be deemed dangerous, thought Suhonen. A history of nights in the drunk tank probably wouldn’t qualify. At least the
shipping lines would make that argument, since they’d lose their best customers.

  The footage swirled on the screens. Karjalainen, the junkie, wobbled across the monitor and Suhonen printed off a screenshot. Same with Marju Mägi. The shot could be used as evidence in court, but Toukola probably wouldn’t need it. A short while later, Suhonen watched as he and Toukola were trailing Mägi in the concourse. He tried to track Karjalainen outdoors, but the man had escaped the cameras. The outdoor wide-angle lens showed the cops escorting Mägi into the van.

  Then Suhonen reviewed the footage of the remaining passengers in the gangway, but saw no familiar faces. Perhaps it would help if people were identified on screen, along with their criminal histories. Perhaps it would be nice if they integrated the software with people’s movements based on their cell phone signals, as well as their credit card purchase histories. In principle, this was all fully possible.

  Passenger traffic thinned out, then dried up completely. Suhonen hadn’t noticed any suspicious passengers. On the other hand, Marju Mägi wouldn’t have aroused any interest without the tip from Estonia.

  Suhonen pondered the situation. His friend, Salmela, had directly implicated himself in a drug smuggling operation. The twenty ounces already found would earn him the same punishment as Mägi: about two and a half years. Salmela wouldn’t survive another prison term—he barely seemed to be surviving on the outside.

  Suhonen would have to pump Salmela for more details about his connections to the Skulls.

  CHAPTER 9

  FRIDAY, 12:30 P.M.

  SKULLS’ COMPOUND, HELSINKI

  Eight men were seated in the main room of the Skulls’ headquarters. Larsson sat on a tall stool next to the bar, the others around the tables. Larsson glanced at Aronen, who nodded.

  “Except for Steiner, looks like everybody is here, so let’s get started,” Larsson said in a calm voice. “I’ve known many of you for a long time. A few faces are new to me, but I can say this: We’re all brothers. If that weren’t true, none of us would be here. If anyone feels otherwise, then now is the time to leave.”

  His bald, tattooed head glistening, the vice president scanned his throng of toughs. Nobody moved.

  “There you have it. No hesitations, no sideward glances. That is how the Skulls operate. Each of us is an individual, but the individuals constitute one brotherhood. Trust is our cornerstone. Together, we are what we are.”

  He had mulled over this speech many nights in his cell. There, it had seemed perfect, but now he questioned whether it was too sentimental.

  The men’s eyes were riveted on Larsson. Good, at least nobody was laughing. If someone had even dared smile, Niko would have slammed the guy to the floor and put a boot through his teeth.

  “This is not news to you, but I want to talk about it because it’s important. Each of you is my brother. That means that even if my life is going to hell, I can still be happy about your successes. There is no envy amongst us.”

  Larsson held another pause then continued. “It means that no matter how hungry I am, you’ll always get half my food. If someone needs money, I’ll give half my own. If someone hits you, I’ll hit him back—no questions asked. If someone steals from you, I’ll beat the shithead to the ground. There is no right and wrong, only brotherhood. I am ready to die for any of you. And you should be ready to do the same.”

  “We have plenty of dead heroes, and there will be more. The S.W.A.T team shot Korpela just last year. Kahma and Jyrkkä suffered the same fate a few years earlier. They acted on our behalf without thinking of themselves and fearing nothing. Brotherhood always took precedence. They thought about us. Each of you must be ready for anything.”

  “Do you understand?” Larsson asked, nearly shouting.

  They all nodded emphatically.

  “Ready for anything. That’s not an easy task. If you’re in a situation, think about Korpela, Kahma and Jyrkkä. Korpela was taking care of the firm’s business when a traitor ratted him out to the cops. He took one with him.”

  “Kahma and Jyrkkä were in the same boat. Prison or death were their alternatives. They weren’t afraid of the decision. We must honor that.”

  Larsson couldn’t take this any further, since he himself had been in the same situation a year and a half ago. A gun in his hand, he had stared down the barrel of a S.W.A.T officer’s submachine gun. He could have raised his weapon and gone the way of Korpela, Kahma and Jyrkkä, but chose prison by dropping his piece. That was then. No longer would he be subdued.

  “If one of us is locked up, we’ll take care of his wife and children. If his family doesn’t have money for rent, food or kids’ hockey, we’ll help. The brother in prison would do the same for you.”

  “There will be no lies among us. If you fuck up, take the responsibility, and don’t pass it to a brother. We will not steal from each other. No empty promises—keep your word. If you have a dispute with a brother that can’t be settled otherwise, bring it to me. Nobody will talk to the cops, under any circumstances.”

  “Any questions?” Larsson asked before continuing.

  Nobody spoke. Larsson scanned from one man to the next, his gaze resting on each man long enough for them to feel it.

  “If we stick to these principles, things will go well. Now for a few announcements,” Larsson said in a more relaxed voice.

  “Our president is doing life in Turku. If you happen to be going that way, make sure to drop by. From experience, I can tell you that the place is dull as hell. The inmates are pent up in tiny cells and friends are few and far between. But if you do go there, keep it clean—all conversations are recorded, and, of course, wind up with the pigs.”

  The audience sat silently, listening to Larsson’s address.

  “The same applies, of course, to all of our other brothers across the country. Niko has a list of who is locked up where. If you have nothing else to do, then you should hit the road and go see your brothers. You all know visitations have to be worked out with the Gestapo in advance. It’s not a good idea to just show up and pound on the door of the brig.”

  Some tense chuckles rose from the crowd.

  “I’ll be meeting one-on-one with each of you in the coming week so we can discuss how I can help you in more detail, and how you can help the brotherhood. Be direct and honest with me about any possible problems.”

  Larsson’s voice rose once again. “You are all my brothers and I’ve got your backs, just as you’ve got mine and every other brother’s.”

  The speech ended and the men applauded.

  * * *

  Suhonen was sitting at his usual seat on the window sill in Takamäki’s office at the VCU. The detective lieutenant was at his desk; Sergeant Joutsamo sat on the other side.

  “Wasn’t this case already transferred to Narcotics?” asked Joutsamo.

  Suhonen had briefed them on the events of the last couple of days, except for his meeting with Salmela.

  “Come on now,” said Suhonen. “Our unit knows the Skulls best. We’ve been going at it with them for the past three years. You should know, of all people,” he added.

  Takamäki scowled at the undercover cop. Three years back, Joutsamo had shot and killed a Skull named Mika Kahma when the burly gangster had charged her. Takamäki had been there, too. In the same clash, a S.W.A.T. team sniper had dropped Raimo Jyrkkä, one of the gang’s leaders.

  “Yes, I know them,” Joutsamo said. “As we all do. Complete shitheads.”

  Neither Takamäki nor Suhonen had anything to add to that assessment.

  “But,” she continued, “As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have the resources to go after them now. Unless we can let the routine cases slide, we just don’t have enough personnel. I’d go after Larsson and his goons right now with a horse and a six-shooter, but I just have too much paperwork.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Suhonen said.

  “These aggravated assaults, rapes and so-called ‘routine cases’ are burying us. The cases are back
ed up so badly that some may never be solved, since we can’t even tend to the basics.”

  “When is Kirsi due back?”

  “Next week,” Joutsamo replied. Police work paid little, but the vacations were long. This, in turn, hobbled the team’s ability to strike quickly. Kirsi Kohonen, a veteran officer in Takamäki’s group, had worked through the summer, delaying her month-long vacation until October. Now she was in Australia riding horses.

  Suhonen was quiet. He had been the one to recommend the Australian adventure, having taken a several-month sabbatical there a few years ago. He had no qualms with Kohonen. People could do whatever they wanted on their vacations.

  “Well, Kirsi will be back soon—that should help.”

  “But we don’t have the resources to take on the Skulls unless Karila can shift our whole unit onto the case,” Joutsamo continued.

  Captain Karila was Takamäki’s boss, the head of the VCU.

  “If we’re on the right track, he’ll give us some slack,” Takamäki remarked.

  Suhonen cut in from the window sill. “Anna is right. This is a Narcotics case, at least in principle. But we have an opportunity to make it something bigger. Felony extortion is clearly within the VCU’s mandate.”

  Joutsamo turned to look at him. “Do you have someone in the scope who’s willing to testify against the Skulls for felony extortion?”

  “Well,” Suhonen backpedaled. “Not yet, but it’s a possibility.”

  “I’d like to hear the whole story here,” Joutsamo said, visibly irritated. “It’s a little frustrating to discuss resource allocation here as an outsider when the facts are being withheld from me.”

  Takamäki turned back to Suhonen.

  “Relax, Anna,” said Suhonen, a strained calm in his voice. “You know how these gangster cases go. If we had an obvious crime, it’d be easy: Take down the suspect and wait for a confession.”

  “Quit the bullshit, Suhonen. I don’t have time for it.”

  “Well, then why don’t you go solve those train station beatings and let us have a conversation.”

  “OK, peace,” Takamäki intervened. “I can’t have two of my best cops bickering like this.”