Cold Trail (11 page)

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.

“D
ream prisoner. These past few years, I mean.”

“A
loner?”

“F
or 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 was 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.

“W
hy are there DVDs here, if he doesn’t have a player?”

“A
re 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.”

“A
re you stressing out over this case?”

“N
ot 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.”

“W
ho’s Forsberg?” Suhonen asked.

“O
ur 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.”

“O
h, 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?”

“T
hey’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.

“F
orsberg,” he answered in a low voice. “So whaddaya want?”

“I
have a couple of questions,” Suhonen said.

“W
hat about?”

“
Repo. I want to know why he took off.”

“H
ow would I know?”

“T
hey say you knew him best.”

“P
ffft,” 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.”

“P
retty quiet?”

“Y
eah. 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.”

“W
ho said?” Suhonen asked.

“
Can’t remember.”

“W
ho else did he talk to besides you?”

“N
o 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.”

“O
kay,” Suhonen nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”

“W
ell, 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?”

“M
ostly 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.

“B
ut 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.”

“Y
eah, 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 anything. 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.”

In the end,
Repo had taken responsibility, since there was no other alternative. Even his attorney had advised him to. The evidence was clear, but that slippery snake
had promised him that he’d get convicted of manslaughter, and that he’d be out after sitting six to seven years of a ten-year sentence.

But the
district court had sentenced him to life in prison. Repo remembered the verdict being read. It felt like he was a bystander—he was watching some random show on the TV bolted to the courtroom wall. He wished he could change the channel or even scream when the district judge said the words, “Sentenced to life in prison for the crime of murder.”

And the same thing in
appeals court, even though by then he had denied having committed
the crime. He hadn’t been able to imagine himself ever having been capable of it.

Like it did every time,
Repo’s head began to ache.

“H
ey, Timo,” Karppi said, shaking him by the shoulder, the same way the police officer had on that one day. “Were you sleeping?”

Repo
could see the old man smiling.

“N
o.”

“R
eally, now? Well, you should probably eat something anyway. I made fish soup.”

Repo
noticed the smell of the soup and figured that he had fallen asleep after all. He should have heard the sounds of cooking.

“D
id you go to the store?”

“N
o,” Karppi smiled. “Straight from the freezer.”

The men sat down at the table.
Karppi had set out bowls and spoons.

“
Voilà, le potage de poisson
.”

In addition to the steaming pot, two pitchers stood on the table.
Karppi poured himself some cranberry juice, and Repo helped himself to water.

“Y
ou have any aspirin?”

“N
o,” Karppi said. “I hate pills.”

Both lad
led soup into their bowls. Repo tasted it; it needed salt. There wasn’t any on the table, and he didn’t feel like asking for it.

“Y
ou really speak French?”

Karppi
nodded. “I used to work there.”

“N
ot the Foreign Legion?”

“O
h, no. I worked for the Ministries of Defense and Foreign Affairs. Finland used to buy weapons from France.”

The topic didn’t interest
Repo, but he could imagine Karppi and his old man, Erik, having talked about it frequently.

“L
isten,” Karppi began. “Change of subject. How long were you planning on shacking up here? Shouldn’t you head on back to prison to sit out those couple of years you have left?”

A couple of years
? Repo thought. Eight behind and maybe six before parole. But he let it pass. “Don’t worry about it. A day or two, then I’ll be gone.”

“W
here?”

“N
ow, that’s none of your business,” Repo said coolly. “And I’d suggest you don’t ask.”

CHAPTER 8

TUESDAY
, 2:50 P.M.

HELSINKI
POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA

Takamäki hesitated for a moment but then picked up the phone. He called the switchboard at Espoo Police and asked to be connected to the Traffic Crimes Unit. After three minutes and two call transfers, Takamäki discovered that Espoo didn’t have a unit that investigated traffic crimes, but a PSPCIU, or Public Safety Productivity Center Investigative Unit. Traffic accidents were its responsibility
.
Takamäki got the name of the officer investigating the Sello incident. The name Lauri Solberg was unfamiliar to him.

“
Solberg,” answered a male voice. Judging by it, Takamäki figured the Espoo police officer
was about thirty-five years old.

“H
i, Kari Takamäki here,” Takamäki replied in a friendly tone. He had gone back and forth several times as to whether he would introduce himself as a VCU lieutenant right from the start, but had decided to be plain old Mr. Takamäki, the victim’s father. At least at first.

“G
ood afternoon,” Solberg responded officially
,
inspiring formality in Takamäki’s voice, too.

“I
’m calling about the hit-and-run that took place yesterday at the Sello shopping center. You’re the investigating officer, correct?”

“
Correct. Are you a witness?”

“N
o, I’m the father of the boy who was hit. I was curious as to the status of the investigation.”

Takamäki
could hear the radio playing in the background as Solberg paused. “Preliminary stages. How’s your son doing, by the way?”

Takamäki felt like
swearing out loud. He understood that “preliminary” meant that nothing had happened with the case other than the patrol on the scene having had submitted its report. Solberg had doubtless received the report that morning, but hadn’t done anything about it. He hadn’t even called the hospital to check on the status of the injured victim.

“H
e’s doing pretty well. Squeaked by with a broken arm.”

“G
lad to hear it.”

Takamäki
wondered if he should have lied after all and said Jonas had sustained a concussion. Would that have lit a fire under the Espoo investigator?

“A
ny information on the driver?”

“U
mm...we’re looking into it,” Solberg said. “Of course.”

“W
ere there any eyewitnesses?”

“U
nfortunately, I’m not allowed to share any information about the case with you at this point. The police are investigating the matter, and it will definitely be resolved. The only thing you can do at this point is trust us.”

Takamäki
counted to five before responding. “Has any action been taken in this matter?”

“O
f course. The responding unit wrote up its report, and I’ve been assigned to investigate.”

“A
nd what steps have you taken today in this case?”

“P
reliminary investigative measures.”

This time
Takamäki made it all the way to ten. “So you’ve read the original report and that’s it. In other words, nothing.”

Solberg
tried to pacify him: “Please calm down, sir.” He sounded like he had spent time in the field and was seeking authority from the voice he had used to give orders to the public.

“I
’m as calm as I possibly can be,” Takamäki said, thanking his luck that the conversation was taking place over the phone.

“G
ood. Could you please repeat your name for me?”

“I
’m Jonas Takamäki’s father. Kari Takamäki.”

Solberg
was silent for a moment. “You mean the lieutenant from Helsinki Violent Crimes Unit? I thought there was something familiar about your voice.”

“T
he one and only. Does it make a difference?”

“N
ot really. Except that I can tell you I have eighty open investigations on my desk. Today I’ve been conducting interrogations on three old cases, so maybe you can see why this case hasn’t moved forward a whole heck of a lot today. The patrol that was at the scene didn’t get a single statement from a witness who saw the vehicle’s license plate. I was basically thinking I’d place an ad in the neighborhood paper and try to get some eyewitnesses that way.”

“W
hy are you so forthcoming with Lieutenant Takamäki but not Mr. Takamäki?”

“A
fellow policeman understands, a father wouldn’t.”

The response disarmed Takamäki
. The investigators in charge of run-of-the-mill crimes had their hands full. When cases were thrown in the laps of overworked investigators without any preliminary work, most would remain shrouded in darkness, even if there initially had been some chance of solving them. No one had time to even perform the preliminary steps properly. With white-collar crime, the Metropolitan Helsinki Inter-Municipal Group had gotten to the point where they reviewed all cases together and categorized them as urgent or non-urgent. This allowed them to dedicate sufficient resources to the cases that demanded rapid responses. The same sort of classification would work with
run-of-the-mill crimes
as well. Using similar categorization, some precincts had achieved some positive results with misdemeanors, but it had required that the initial investigative steps had been conducted properly.

“H
as it occurred to you that there might be surveillance camera images of the incident?” Takamäki asked.