“If you’ve seen the news, you know why.”
“Yeah. Listen, I have some information for you about that.”
Römpötti nearly dropped the phone. One of the top men in the Skulls wanted to give her a lead on a breaking story. “What’s that?” she said in a voice that seemed to have fielded hundreds of similar offers.
“I know the police think we’re behind this, but that’s not the case.”
Römpötti wasn’t surprised. “No?”
“Nope. I don’t care if you make their suspicions public, but I don’t want our denial to be aired at this point.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You look just as good in person as you do on TV,” Aronen said without the slightest hint of comedy. “The cops have been working on some kind of an undercover operation against us and they think we did it. But as I said, that’s not the case. If you wanna air what the cops think, be my guest.”
Römpötti was confused. Typically, people suspected of a crime would want to minimize or clarify their role. But here was Aronen, tipping her off that the gang was a suspect, yet not wanting to publicize a rebuttal. Suddenly, it occurred to her to record the conversation.
“I’m not sure I understand,” she said as she glanced at the operator. He was holding up four fingers—four minutes until she was back on camera. “Why would the police suspect you if you had nothing to do with it?”
“Listen to what I’m saying,” Aronen’s voice was tense now. “They’ve been running an undercover operation against us and they think we’re behind the bombing. The truth will come out later, but for now, you can say the police suspect us of being involved. That’s a true statement.”
The operator raised three fingers.
“Okay. I’m on camera in a minute. Thanks for the lead.” Römpötti tried to think of how she could say it on the air. Needless to say, the police wouldn’t confirm any suspicions at this stage; they seemed to have ceased all communications with the outside. Undoubtedly, the entire police organization was in chaos as the different branches scrambled to figure out who would investigate what. Maybe she could say something like this: “According to our sources, the bombing may have been connected to organized crime. Reportedly, the Skulls motorcycle gang is a prime suspect.”
Römpötti took a gulp of coffee and climbed out of the van into the cold wind. The camera operator, dressed in a thick parka and knit hat, waved her in front of the camera.
The top level of the parking ramp was surrounded by a five-foot-tall concrete wall, so the cameraman had set up two plastic crates for the reporter and him to stand on. That way, the scene of the accident, and not just the concrete wall, would be visible in the background.
She cleared her throat. In her hand was a small notebook, where she had written her keywords. Stepping onto the crate, she asked the camera man if everything was ready.
* * *
It was still several minutes before the meeting would begin. In the corner of the conference room at Helsinki Police Headquarters was a television, the volume at a whisper. Several officers were conversing in subdued tones as the NBI’s Jaakko Nykänen, dressed in a gray suit with his walrus mustache bristling, stepped inside.
The VCU conference room had been made into the command center for the investigation. About thirty officers, some sitting in front of their laptops, others standing beneath the cold fluorescent lights, were gathered in the room. Nykänen remembered dozens, if not hundreds of meetings that Takamäki had led in this room. Dammit, he thought.
The news broadcast came on and Nykänen told someone to turn up the volume. He hadn’t had time yet to see how the media was handling the incident, but now he had a minute and a half before the meeting would start. Nykänen grabbed a half-liter bottle of water from the basket on the table, opened it and took a swig. Sanna Römpötti appeared on the screen.
First, Römpötti spoke about the victims and the fatality, and alluded to the Pasila Police Headquarters bombing of fifteen years ago. Nykänen remembered it well, since he was still in the Helsinki PD at the time.
“Again in 2002, a car bomb exploded downtown. Car bombs don’t choose their victims,” the reporter said. “So it’s not clear yet whether the bomb was intended for police, or whether it was an accident.”
That Römpötti had obtained accurate information about the victims’ profession was no surprise to Nykänen. Almost immediately after the incident, that information had spread to dispatch, and within minutes, throughout the police station and beyond. If Römpötti hadn’t known it by now, she could hardly call herself a crime reporter.
But Nykänen perked up when she said the words “According to our exclusive sources…” What could this possibly be? Every now and then, these tidbits were useful to the cops too, as long as reporters did their job well. More often than not, however, it was the other way around—reporters revealed information that shouldn’t be made public.
Römpötti looked straight into the camera. In the background, gray skies and broad soccer fields stretched from one end of the screen to the other.
“…there is a possible link between the bombing and organized crime. Police suspect that the Skulls motorcycle gang was somehow involved in the explosion. Though this information hasn’t yet been verified, it came from a source close to the investigation.”
Nykänen stared blankly at the screen as Römpötti launched into the Skulls’ background. Her words fell on deaf ears as the NBI lieutenant struggled to think of where the leak had come from. How in the hell could anyone have known that they suspected the Skulls? Was Römpötti merely speculating in the heat of the moment? He knew she was working on some story about the Skulls; she had just interviewed him a few days ago. But this leak was far too precise.
Several of the officers in the room glanced over at Nykänen. He wondered how many cops knew about their Skull investigation. A handful at most, and of those present, only a few. His eyes roamed the room. Many there had just found about the Skulls’ involvement from the broadcast—that was apparent. But who in the hell had leaked this?
His irritation nearly surpassed his grief. He tried to concentrate. In only a short while, he would have to conduct an important meeting to kick off the investigation.
Grief and irritation fostered anger, which Nykänen couldn’t afford. He had to stay cool and push his feelings aside. Even though he knew this, it seemed too much to bear.
* * *
Larsson and Steiner were on their third round of whiskeys, while Aronen had settled for coffee. That didn’t bother him—best if someone was sober. It had been no different in Afghanistan.
“Goddamn, this is a good day. We hit Helsinki Homicide—and hard,” Larsson grinned and raised his glass. In the corner, a television showed Sanna Römpötti gesturing toward the shrouded scaffolding.
“Good whiskey will make my day, any day,” Steiner remarked. After three o’clock, the Skulls’ core group had proceeded from the mall’s coffee shop to the restaurant. Aronen had assured their alibi the moment they walked into the shopping center when a security guard noticed the gang symbols on his vest. The guard hadn’t let the three men out of his sight since one o’clock. That was better than any security camera footage. Two guards had followed them from the coffee shop into the restaurant. That didn’t bother Larsson today. The guards sat near the entrance, far enough away that they couldn’t hear the conversation.
“Steiner, I’ll show you where the iron crosses grow,” Larsson grinned.
Steiner just sipped his whiskey—he had heard that a few times before.
“Well, what now?” asked Aronen.
Larsson swirled the ice in his glass. “Let’s think about what the enemy’s gonna do. That’s what they taught you in the army, right? Sooner or later, the cops are gonna raid our place and probably arrest us, but they won’t have anything on us. No evidence. Even if they lean on their rat hard enough, he might testify that he overheard Roge and Osku talking about the car. But they were o
nly supposed to pick it up. There’s nothing more he can say. And if the cops twist his words around, we always have the security footage from the bar room to prove him wrong. That bomb was intended for us. The stupid cops just stumbled in at the wrong time.”
Steiner cut in. “The pigs will never admit that they were stupid.”
“So we’re suspects for now, but in the end it’ll work in our favor,” Larsson said. “The cops can’t touch us.”
CHAPTER 21
MONDAY, 4:00 P.M.
PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS, HELSINKI
NBI Lieutenant Nykänen scanned the detectives in the VCU conference room. With room for only about twenty at the table, many were standing. Not surprisingly, their expressions were somber, but as was always the case when the victim was a colleague, they were highly motivated. Nykänen glanced at his watch: four o’clock sharp. Time to start the meeting. The TV flickered in the corner, but the volume had been turned off. The whispered conversation in the room had slowly reached a low hum.
Since several important attendees were still missing, Nykänen encouraged everyone to help themselves to the VCU’s beverages and rolls. Nobody knew when they’d eat next.
Several policemen took him up on the offer. Someone checked his watch, as if to draw attention to the fact that time was ticking.
Of Takamäki’s team, Sergeant Joutsamo and Officer Kulta were there. Initially, they had feared the worst for Suhonen, but had been informed of the victims’ identities soon after the explosion. Both were from the NBI: Agent Lind was dead and his boss, Lieutenant Aalto, was critically wounded.
Nykänen continued to wait for the key attendees, without whom there was no point in starting. He twirled the tips of his mustache with the fingers of his right hand.
Coffee and rolls distracted the crowd for a few minutes before the officers turned expectantly toward Nykänen. He couldn’t suppress such a mob much longer without frustrating them. They were all professionals, and they hadn’t come to wait, but Nykänen had to hold off.
“Nykänen,” barked Skoog from the door. The assistant chief of the Helsinki police beckoned with his finger. “Step out here for a minute.”
He addressed the crowd. “We’ll be five minutes. Get some coffee…or something.”
Skoog marched into Takamäki’s office with Nykänen close behind. Inside were NBI Assistant Chief Majakowski, Takamäki sitting at his desk, and Suhonen, planted on the windowsill as usual.
“We have to make a decision about who’s going to lead this,” said Majakowski. “Our alternatives are Helsinki, the NBI, or another jurisdiction, say Espoo.”
Nykänen looked at the others and nodded. He had assumed that the case would stay with the NBI, since one of their own had died in the explosion. The other had lost his hand and remained in critical condition.
“As far as I’m concerned, we can handle this case just fine,” said Nykänen.
Skoog coughed. “It’s not about who is able to handle the case. It’s about whether there are any conflicts of interest. Could the media or the minister of the interior get the impression that one of the departments is investigating their own?”
Suhonen couldn’t believe his ears. What the hell did he mean “their own?” An officer was dead. It made no difference which department investigated the case—that kind of thinking hampered effective police work. But he said nothing.
“Nykänen…Takamäki…Suhonen.” Majakowski addressed them. “Is there a possibility here that the case is going to bite us in the ass?”
“Excuse me?” said Takamäki.
“Don’t play dumb. This has been a sensitive operation all along and it was initiated by the VCU. Has everything gone by the book? In other words, is it possible that either the NBI or the Helsinki police will end up being investigated here?”
Takamäki glanced at the others with a sour expression. “Actually, we don’t have to answer that. By law, we’re not required to say anything that could be self-incriminating. In other words, if that’s your starting point, I think Espoo is the only alternative for leading the investigation.”
“Dammit, Takamäki,” Majakowski hissed. “Don’t play the martyr here. Those victims were my men. Lind was a hell of an agent and Aalto one of our best undercover operatives. I only wanna know where we’re headed here.”
“The fact that the victims were NBI agents doesn’t disqualify the NBI,” Nykänen chimed in.
Suhonen shook his head. Evidence was fading by the second, and here were the bosses fighting while thirty investigators were sitting in the conference room chomping at the bit.
“Takamäki, as far as you know, is there any reason to suspect that the police have done anything illegal in this operation against the Skulls?” asked Skoog.
Now the question was worded correctly, thought Takamäki. “No.”
“What about you, Suhonen?”
“Nope.”
Skoog continued around, “Nykänen?”
“Nothing suspicious within police ranks. I’m more interested in the informant’s motives. Why did he set this trap?”
“Was it a trap?” asked Suhonen.
“Looks like one to me. And what’s more, I’m pretty damn interested to find out how our suspicions toward the Skulls were already on the news five minutes ago.”
“They were?” Takamäki wondered.
“Yes. Römpötti just said it on a live broadcast. I don’t…”
Suhonen clapped his hands together once. “Hey, we can think about that later. Right now we should let the detectives loose and figure out who did what.”
Skoog and Majakowski nodded. The undercover cop was right. The assistant chiefs looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. It made no difference to either who would take the case.
“We can take this one, if it’s okay,” said the NBI’s Majakowski.
“Alright, that’s fine,” said Skoog. “Your men—you lead the case.”
Nykänen, Takamäki and Suhonen looked at one another in amazement. If it was that easy, then what was the point of the whole meeting in the first place?
“That settles it. Captain Honkala from the NBI will head the investigation,” said Majakowski. “And you three stay out of this. Not just because the informant is close to you, but also because these kinds of cases can stir up misconduct investigations. If Honkala has questions, answer them. But aside from that, you’re off the case.”
“What about the informant’s identity?” Nykänen interjected. “It can’t be revealed.”
“That’s up to Honkala. If the informant is guilty or
suspected of a crime, then he surrenders his protection.”
Takamäki slammed his hand down on the table. “Okay. Done deal. Nykänen and Suhonen, let’s go downstairs for coffee and donuts. I doubt you others can make it with that big meeting coming up.”
Someone knocked on the door and pushed it open. “Hi there,” said a thin man in a gray suit, standing over six-foot-six. Suhonen had heard that Honkala’s nickname was “Stretch,” but he hadn’t imagined him to be this tall.
“Glad you came, Honkala,” said Majakowski.
Takamäki was astonished. So this had all been pre-arranged, and the only purpose of this little meeting was to fish for possible illegalities committed by the police. It looked like the bosses were just covering their own asses. Hell, judging by their willingness to waste time on drama, Majakowski and Skoog seemed more interested in their own careers than in solving crimes.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Nykänen, Takamäki and Suhonen sat quietly at the table in the police cafeteria. Takamäki had treated them all to coffee and donuts.
None of them were worried about the investigation—Captain Honkala was a skilled investigator with the talent to solve even the most complicated crimes.
“Okay, let’s go through this,” said Nykänen, taking care to keep the frosting off his whiskers. “Salmiakki’s role?”
Suhonen sipped his coffee. Since everyone at the
table knew who they were talking about and the cafeteria was practically empty, there was no need to use the code name. “Salmela was at the Skulls’ compound in the morning. He overheard about the car and relayed the information to me.”
“Why you?” asked Nykänen.
“We’ve known each other for thirty years. He only met Aalto the day before. I have to admit I thought about going, but I figured I shouldn’t mess with an NBI investigation, so I called Aalto. At first, he couldn’t get a hold of Lind, so he asked me if I wanted to come along. I told him I’d go, but a bit later, he cancelled on me. Said they’d take care of it themselves.”
“It’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s a good thing you didn’t go,” Takamäki said.
Nykänen spoke up, “Okay. I buy that Salmela had good intentions.” He took a big bite of his donut.
“I think so. Given the shape he’s in, there’s no way he could lie to me,” said Suhonen.
Nykänen swallowed before continuing, “Right, but what about the Skulls. Was it a trap?”
Takamäki interjected, “If it was a trap, they’re onto Salmela. Is that possible?”
“Not through us,” Nykänen replied. He turned to Suhonen.
“Larsson knows me from an old extortion case. Yes, I’ve met with Salmela many times recently and over the past few years, but I can’t think of any particular incident that would’ve revealed our relationship.”
Nykänen shrugged. “If it was a trap, they found out about Salmela somehow. And how in the hell was Römpötti able to report on the Skulls an hour after the explosion? We have a serious leak somewhere.”
Nykänen quoted her as closely as he could remember. She had stated that the information was based on a source close to the investigation. The crux of the broadcast remained in his memory, “Police suspect that the Skulls motorcycle gang was somehow involved in the explosion.”
Takamäki shook his head and dialed Römpötti’s number. The line was busy.
Helsinki Homicide: Vengeance Page 20
