Nothing but the Truth (6 page)

But the procedure wasn’t foolproof either. Korpi knew the police had the capability of infecting his computer with viruses that would make his every move visible to them.

Real business had to be conducted the old
-fashioned way, and even then, communications had to be coded in such a way that they revealed nothing to outsiders. The language had to be ordinary enough so as not to attract attention.

Years in prison had taught Korpi to be careful, to leave no trace.

A knock came at the door and Korpi barked out something unintelligible. The door swung open.

“Risto,” said a young man in an uneasy voice. The man was powerfully built, with prominent cheekbones and a ragged scar beneath his right ear. Jere Siikala went by the nickname of Guerrilla and had actually come to prefer it over his former, a bastardization of Siikala to Sikala, meaning Pigsty.

Korpi wheeled suddenly and shouted, “Fucking idiot! How many times I gotta tell you not to use names! Goddamn shit for brains. Never goddamn learn.”

“Sorry,” Guerrilla said, shrinking back a bit. He knew better than to cross Korpi, but he had forgotten the rules.

Korpi massaged his jaw. He shouldn’t have blown up, but sometimes he failed to smother his own fuse. Stupidity piqued his wrath more than it did most. Korpi struggled to quiet his voice. “Do you understand why we can’t mention names?”

Siikala was prepared. He tried to offer the newspaper, explaining, “Of course I do, but it says here…”

“I wanna hear the reason.”

“Well, cuz the cops might be listening.”

Korpi nodded. “Good. And how do they do that?”

“They got the technology and all…room could be wired…mikes that work through the windows.”

“Exactly. So tell me again, why no fucking names?”

Siikala was confused, not sure why Korpi was still hassling him. Was it just another of his endless tirades, or was something worse coming? “So the cops can’t figure out who’s talking.”

“So you know all about this…”

Siikala nodded.

“Then why the fuck…” Korpi snatched an empty beer bottle off the floor and launched it at Siikala. The bodybuilder managed to dodge the missile and it shattered against the door frame. “…don’t you do what I tell you?”

Guerrilla knew anything he said would only further irritate Korpi. Now it was wise to remain silent. Were anyone else to have thrown a bottle at him he’d have snapped their neck, but Korpi’s psychotic streak made the man seem invincible. Sure, occasionally Siikala had felt like fighting back, but fortunately what little sense he had outweighed his penchant for fists, knives and firearms.

“Now then,” said Korpi. “Is there something I can do for you?”

This sudden change of mood was no surprise to Guerrilla. Korpi’s mind routinely reeled from one extreme to another.

Without saying a word, Siikala handed him a folded newspaper clipping with the headline “Young Man Gunned Down in Alppila.”

Korpi took the clipping, wrinkling his brow as he read it, “Shit,” he hissed. “Fucking idiot!”

* * *

Mari Lehtonen sat at the table inspecting a couple of dozen photos, which were spread out in front of her. She put her finger on one. “No question about it. That one’s the driver,” she said. The man in the photo wore a dour, angry expression. “I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. He had the same look then.”

“I just want you to be sure,” said Joutsamo. “So take some time to look over the others once more.”

Lehtonen scanned the photographs, studying each one for about ten seconds. Joutsamo was satisfied with the care she devoted to each. She studied the collection for nearly three minutes before tapping Korpi’s again.

“And you’re certain?”

Lehtonen nodded. “Absolutely.”

Joutsamo raked up the photos and stood up. “Okay, Mari. I need to go talk with my lieutenant for a while. Go ahead and pour yourself another cup of coffee from the thermos over there.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” said Joutsamo, and she headed off for Takamäki’s office. There, Takamäki and Kohonen were discussing the surveillance operation. Not much to discuss, as no phone activity had been detected. The police had obtained a warrant for a list of all cell phone activity from the area surrounding the crime scene. Takamäki had ordered Kohonen to go through the list to look for any interesting phone numbers.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Joutsamo from the door.

“What is it?” said Takamäki.

“Our witness recognized the driver. Korpi himself.”

“Huh?” Takamäki seemed surprised. “She sure about that?”

Joutsamo nodded. “Positively. I showed her more than twenty photos of guys who’ve been connected to Korpi, plus Korpi himself. Lehtonen barely hesitated when she fingered him.”

“And she’s pretty levelheaded?”

“Yup. Even remembers the plate number on the Mazda. Said it herself—she’s got like a photographic memory.”

“Why would Korpi put himself in that kinda situation?” wondered Kohonen. “He’s got plenty of guys to play getaway driver.”

“Wondered the same thing myself,” said Joutsamo. “He’s not the type to do anything that stupid, even for his godchild.”

“I guess we’ll just have to ask him, if we can find him. Anna, did you discuss safety measures with Lehtonen?”

Joutsamo shook her head.

“Okay, you’ll have to do that. But do a proper interview first and make sure to document in writing which photo she identified. Once we find Korpi, we’ll organize a lineup,” said Takamäki. His phone rang. Before answering, he asked Joutsamo if there was anything more. There wasn’t.

“Yeah,” Takamäki barked into the receiver. If he ever used his name, he certainly didn’t for unidentified callers.

“Hi, it’s Sanna,” said a woman’s perky voice.

“Hi there,” said Takamäki.

Sanna Römpötti was a long-time crime reporter who had recently moved from newspapers to TV. She was friends with Joutsamo, who Takamäki trusted not to leak any information to the media.

“So, you guys got a new murder to solve?”

Takamäki smiled. Typical Römpötti. Her interviews were like a page out of a police textbook. Throw out a casual, open question and let the subject ramble on. Afterwards, if Römpötti heard anything interesting, the real grilling would begin. In most instances, she had already familiarized herself with the case in advance.

“Yeah. In Alppila.”

“I saw the bit in the paper, but what’s the backstory?”

“If only we knew.”

“Don’t play games, Kari. You know what I’m looking for here. Anything newsworthy?”

“Well, sure, if we solve the case.”

Römpötti was quiet for a moment. “Organized crime?”

“You said that. Not me.”

The reporter laughed. “Will you say it on camera?”

“Hey, you’re the talking head. How about you say it,” said Takamäki. “According to our sources and

all that.”

“So that’s your working assumption then?”

“If we get somewhere with it, yes, but it might not stick.” It never paid to lie to reporters, though occasionally information had to be withheld. Besides, getting the case on TV would help them angle for more witnesses.

“You have somebody in custody?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The murder suspect.”

“How?”

“Can’t say.”

Römpötti sniffed. “That doesn’t help much. Any biker gangs involved?”

Takamäki was about to say ‘no comment,’ but Römpötti would only have interpreted that as a yes. “No. No bikers.”

“Alright. Does one-thirty work?”

“For what?”

“An interview, of course.”

“Did I agree to one?”

“Of course. You sent out a written press release, so in the interest of fairness, you have to appear on camera, too.”

“Alright,” Takamäki laughed. “One-thirty, then.”

CHAPTER 6

MONDAY, 12:45 P.M.

PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS

Joutsamo smiled as she hit “Save” on the computer. Mari Lehtonen was still seated on the other side of the interview table. Though it took more time, Joutsamo had opted to transcribe Lehtonen’s account as she gave it rather than tape it.

“I’ll just print this out so you can have a look and sign it,” said Joutsamo, as she clicked the mouse. The printer whirred into action. “I’ll sign every page, too, and then we’ll be all done.”

“That easy, huh?”

The printer pumped out four pages, which comprised the entirety of the interview.

“Yup.”

Joutsamo handed the papers to Lehtonen, who began poring over them. “Looks OK,” she said, and Joutsamo handed her a pen. “A few minor typos, but I don’t suppose it matters.”

“No. Not like it’s a novel.”

After Joutsamo showed her where to sign, Lehtonen leafed through the document, signing each page as she went. Joutsamo did the same.

“Just a couple more things,” said Joutsamo. “I should remind you that you’re prohibited by law

from speaking with anybody else about anything we’ve discussed here.”

“Okay,” said Lehtonen. “I wasn’t going to.”

“The other issue has to do with security. All your personal information will be kept confidential, so that’s why I left your address and phone number off of the transcript. We are, however, required to include your name and birth date. Since the case is linked to organized crime, do you think anyone would be able to track you down based on that information? There’s no danger, it’s just a precaution.”

Lehtonen was quiet for a moment. “Why would you need a precaution if there’s no danger?”

Joutsamo sidestepped the question. “What I’m asking is whether your name, number or address are listed in the phone book?”

“No. Some years ago I had problems with my ex-husband, so my daughter and I ended up moving and getting an unlisted number.”

“Good,” said Joutsamo. Removing data from electronic directories was quick and easy, but printed phone books presented a problem. Not in this case, however.

“Should I be afraid…or something?”

“No. Just go on with your life as usual. At some point, hopefully soon, we’ll ask you to come back for a lineup. You’ll look at a row of five men from behind mirrored glass and tell us if one of them is the driver. After that, some months down the line, you’ll tell the court the same thing you told me today. And that’s it.”

“I see…are we are all done here, then?”

“Yes…and thank you. Your information has been very helpful.”

Mari Lehtonen nodded as she took her coat off the hook.

“I can give you a ride back to work,” said Joutsamo.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll catch the bus.” The policewoman seemed nice enough, but Lehtonen still felt strangely unsettled. It wasn’t fear or nervousness, just an unpleasant feeling. Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the police station.

* * *

Suhonen was sitting in the passenger seat of Salmela’s van.

Salmela was at the wheel, the only other spot to sit in his junker Toyota. He turned onto the entrance ramp heading toward Hämeenlinna and Tampere. They passed a massive bus depot.

A few light raindrops hit the windshield, and judging by the color of the sky, there would be plenty more.

Salmela flicked on the wipers, or the wiper, since the one on the passenger side didn’t work.

“You had this thing inspected lately?” said Suhonen. “Or ever, for that matter?”

“Sure. All’s in order… Least that’s what the guy told me when he took my three hundred euros for it.” Salmela smirked.

“You got gouged.”

They passed Hotel Haaga on the left, and on the right, a forested arm of Helsinki Central Park, where scores of homeless people lived in ramshackle huts. The scene was hardly an uplifting one. Suhonen had pulled plenty of corpses out of these same woods.

Salmela ground the gears as he jammed the shifter into fourth. He had called Suhonen about half an hour earlier and invited him along, supposedly to show him something. Beyond that, Salmela wouldn’t elaborate.

“Get any sleep last night?” asked Suhonen.

“Some. Once I finally got to bed. I had to take care of something first.”

“What?” said Suhonen. He wasn’t prying, just keeping up the conversation.

“You’ll see,” said Salmela, and he shut his mouth. The van was doing about fifty miles per hour, just over the speed limit.

Salmela exited the freeway and followed the signs for Kaivoksela and Myyrmäki. The van circled the cloverleaf and went under the highway. The Kaivoksela shopping center lay on the right and a large car dealer on the left.