Jarkko Sipila - Cold Trail

“Right. The computer describes him as age 52, height 5’8”, average build, crew cut, and I’ll add wearing a dark suit. That about right?”

“Everything except his hair is dark and medium length. Not a crew cut anymore.”

“Thanks. I’ll put your phone number here. If you see something, call right away.”

Eskola tried to imagine where Repo might be headed, and why he’d break for it after serving eight years with good behavior.

* * *

The sergeant gestured for Helmikoski, the lieutenant on duty, to come over. A dozen or so officers were milling around the new command center at Helsinki police headquarters in Pasila. The desk officers’ workspaces were filled by computer monitors, and images from downtown surveillance cameras were projected onto one of the walls of the large room.

“Yeah?” asked the burly lieutenant.

“Prisoner Timo Repo, serving life, skipped out on his escort about ten minutes ago on Mechelin Street,” said the desk sergeant, showing the photo of Repo he had pulled up on his screen. The image was almost ten years old; in it, the fortyish Repo still had a crew cut.

“Who is he?”

“Not in my bowling league, and none of those guys have heard of him either, even though they’re all cops.”

“Serving life, though?”

The sergeant nodded. “Missing somewhere downtown. No report of accomplices. Got the description of clothing and hair from the guard. Unlike most fifty-year-olds, his hair’s longer now. Dark, medium length.”

Helmikoski found his colleague’s rambling style irritating.

He glanced at the map of downtown Helsinki projected onto the wall. All active police vehicles were marked on it by ID number, with their location status updated in real time via GPS. About ten units were patrolling downtown Helsinki.

“Let’s try to pin this guy down pronto. Put out an APB,” Helmikoski ordered the sergeant. “Give the description to all units and send the photo to those with the new computer system. Drop everything else; it’ll be easiest to find him now, before the trail goes cold.”

The sergeant started tapping away at his computer. He wasn’t so sure about it being easiest now, because the streets were full of people and cars due to the afternoon rush hour. But of course it was worth trying. He took another glance at the surveillance cameras, which showed a central Helsinki that was exceptionally gloomy and gray. Raindrops had almost completely blurred out some of the images.

Lieutenant Helmikoski considered his options. The most effective alternative would be to seal off the entire downtown peninsula. Set up roadblocks and restrict all vehicular traffic. But that would cause such chaos that he’d be demoted to sergeant before his shift was over .He had to think of other alternatives. The Gulf of Finland offered an effective boundary to the west, beyond the Hietaniemi Cemetery. He wouldn’t need any units there. He’d have to cut off the escape route north from the Helsinki peninsula. It had already been a good ten minutes; the fugitive would have made it past the city’s narrowest point, the isthmus marked by Hesperia Street. Or would he? Beyond it, the neighborhood of Outer Töölö was such a maze that it would be tough finding anyone there.

“Send two units up to Hesperia Street. Let’s set up a roadblock there.”

The sergeant looked at the electronic map and immediately radioed the order to the two closest patrols.

“One unit over to Ruoholahti to sweep the southwest and two to Mannerheim Street. Tell them to patrol between Stockmann in the south and Hesperia Street in the north.”

Helmikoski paused to consider the situation from Repo’s point of view. The fugitive had to know that the authorities would be after him by now. He’d have two options: try to get out of the center as quickly as possible or find a hideout somewhere. From the police’s perspective, it would obviously be best if Repo kept moving. What options did he have for getting out of downtown? Bus, metro, tram, or train. Of course foot and taxi were possible too, as was having an accomplice with a car somewhere. In the last scenario, they would have already lost the race.

“Send one more patrol south to Tehdas Street and the other four to traverse the area. Inform security at the bus terminals and the train stations and give them the description.”

“Taxis?”

“Not yet. Let’s not go public with this yet. With our luck there’ll be some journalist in a cab somewhere and the news will be out before we know it,” Helmikoski said, looking at the map. “You okay handling this alone?”

The sergeant nodded. Helmikoski briefed the other desk officers, too, and told them to keep an eye on the downtown surveillance cameras.

* * *

Young, blond officer Esa Nieminen was sitting at the wheel of his patrol car, a Ford Mondeo. The number 122 was painted on the trunk. Sitting at his side was his partner, veteran officer Tero Partio. The police car was waiting at the lights at the intersection of the Boulevard and Mannerheim Street, nose pointed toward the Southern Esplanade. A few cars were idling in front of them. Raindrops splattered against the windshield. Nieminen thought the wipers were making a funny clunk. Which was no surprise, because police vehicle maintenance had always been pretty slapdash.

“Did he say Code 3?” Nieminen asked.

“No sirens,” Partio replied. “The convict would hide as soon as he heard them.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Nieminen said. “But that would be cool, ten units tearing up and down the streets, sirens blaring.”

“Yeah, really cool,” Partio grunted.

The traffic lights at the Boulevard turned green, and the Mondeo turned left onto Mannerheim Street. Their progress came to a halt half a block later, at the crosswalk near the Swedish Theatre. Now three cars stood between them and the traffic light. A heavy stream of pedestrians was crossing the street in front of the Stockmann department store.

Nieminen was suddenly alert. “You see that? At least three fifty-year-old guys in black suits just crossed the street!”

Partio didn’t answer. He was almost forty and had ten-plus years of experience in Helsinki PD work under his belt. “Yeah, I saw ʼem.”

“Should we pick ʼem up?” Nieminen asked eagerly.

“Nah, they’re going the wrong way. Our guy is probably headed down the west side of the street. Those suits came from the east.”

The lights turned green, and the police car was the last vehicle to make through the light in front of Stockmann. The traffic coming from the North Esplanade had filled the lanes.

It took four minutes to drive the hundred yards to the statue of the Three Smiths. By then, Nieminen and Partio had seen about 30 fifty-year-old men in dark suits.

* * *

Helmikoski was looking at the map where the police vehicles appeared as white dots. He turned toward the desk sergeant. “How come they’re not moving?”

He had envisioned the units sawing back and forth at the edges of the sector, effectively cutting off the area. And had it been nighttime, the plan would have worked, too.

“Four o’clock rush hour. Nothing’s moving out there,” the sergeant noted in a tired voice, gesturing at the images from the surveillance cameras. Mannerheim Street was jammed with cars from end to end. The streets were teeming with so many pedestrians that you couldn’t make out their faces, and the umbrellas didn’t make things any easier. Sure, you could zoom in with the cameras to get a really close shot, but in reality that required a target that was standing still. And it was pretty unlikely Repo would stop, if he even were headed downtown in the first place.

One of the junior officers walked up to Helmikoski. “You might find this interesting,” he said. Helmikoski wondered what a guy who looked so fit was doing in the Emergency Operations Center instead of the field. His badge read Lehtonen. “A call just came in from the Perho restaurant. A gray trench coat was stolen from the coat racks. The caller’s name is…”