Jarkko Sipila - Cold Trail

She walked back down the harshly lit corridor to her room, set her mug down on the sole corner of her desk not covered by stacks of paper, and sat down.

A few postcards were pinned to her cubicle divider, the most recent one from Panama. It had been sent by Joutsamo’s good friend, TV reporter Sanna Römpötti. Joutsamo wondered where Römpötti got the money for her overseas trips, since Joutsamo could barely make the rent on her one-bedroom in Töölö. Maybe reporters made that much more than cops.

Takamäki had given her the background info on Repo, and Joutsamo had now fleshed it out. The Social Security database revealed that Repo was born on June 16, 1955 in Hämeenlinna, so he would be fifty-two now. His current address wasn’t much use: Helsinki Prison.

Repo’s mother had died in the ’90s, and his father was deceased now as well, although that information hadn’t been updated yet. Joutsamo had jotted down the father’s address, which was somewhere in northern Helsinki, probably Malmi. Repo had a son born in 1995, Joel. The records indicated Child Protective Services had taken Joel into custody immediately following the crime. Timo Repo’s mother tongue was Finnish, and he was a member of the Lutheran Church. He also had a brother, Martti, who was a couple of years older. Joutsamo tapped the brother’s address into her computer, too.

The police database provided basic facts on the crime Repo had committed on November 3, 1999 in the city of Riihimäki. He had been charged with murder right from the start, rather than a lesser homicide charge. It also revealed that Repo had been sentenced to life in prison in 2000. Joutsamo had written down the number of the police report. It would lead her to the investigation documents, which might prove useful in tracking down Repo’s acquaintances.

Repo didn’t own a car. There was no mention of him in the “usual suspects” database, aka the register of repeat offenders.

She also had access to the Helsingin Sanomat newspaper’s premium archives. There, Joutsamo had discovered a blurb titled “Riihimäki Wife-Killer Gets Life.” The text itself was short and to the point, “The Riihimäki District Court sentenced Timo Repo, convicted of killing his wife in November, to life in prison. The court found the act unusually cruel and brutal: forty-four-year-old Repo slit his wife’s throat with a knife. Alcohol was involved. Repo admitted to the crime in court.”

Takamäki entered the room, carrying a cup of coffee.

“Do we have anything?”

“Not much more than a couple of addresses: father’s and brother’s homes,” Joutsamo replied. “I thought I’d go by and check them out once Suhonen gets back from his field trip. Tomorrow I’m going to head up to Riihimäki to take a look at his preliminary investigation papers and see if I can find any mention of Repo’s acquaintances in them. After that, make the rounds and ask anyone if they’ve seen him.”

“Okay.”

“You see this? The old Helsingin Sanomat piece about Repo’s crime?” Joutsamo said, holding up a print of the article.

Takamäki read it. “Cold-blooded way to kill. We’d better round him up before he decides to cork another bottle. Of course, it may already be too late.”

His cell phone prevented the lieutenant from further reflection. Caller ID said it was Kaarina, his wife.

“Hey hon,” Takamäki said.

“Jonas got hit by a car. The Espoo Police called,” Kaarina said urgently.

“How bad?” Takamäki asked. Sixteen-year-old Jonas was the older of Takamäki’s boys. Kalle was fourteen.

“They don’t know yet. The ambulance took him to Jorvi Hospital.”

Joutsamo could tell something had happened and perked up her ears.

“When did it happen…and where?”

“I don’t know exactly. Apparently not long ago, according to the policeman. Jonas had been riding his bike near the Sello shopping mall.”

Takamäki thought for a second. “I’m heading straight to the hospital. How’s Kalle?”

“He’s at home. I’ll come, too.”

“Good,” Takamäki said, ending the call.

Joutsamo gave her superior an inquisitive look.

“Jonas got hit by a car and was taken to Jorvi. I have to go out there.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Anything I can do?”

Takamäki shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“You want me to call a cruiser to take you?”

“No need. I’ll drive myself.”

Joutsamo stood up and gave Takamäki a quick hug.

MONDAY, 7:20 P.M.

MALMI, NORTHERN HELSINKI

Timo Repo sniffed the stale air and opened the window. He drew back the curtains giving onto the street. Not all the way, but far enough for the cold blue light of the streetlamps of Vallesman Road to filter into the living room. He was still wearing the black suit. The stolen gray trench was flung across the arm of the couch.

His dad had lived for years in an old wooden house in the north Helsinki district of Malmi. The elder Repo hadn’t diverged from ingrained habit: the key had been under the mat, just like decades before.

Timo recognized some of the belongings. He had bought the Aalto vase as a gift for his mother in the 1980s. The china was the same old set.

The living room contained a threadbare sofa, an armchair, and an old TV. The room opened onto the kitchen at the far end. Near the dining table, a door led to the bedroom.

Repo’s gaze fell on an old photograph on top of the TV. It had been taken some time in the late ’60s, when the family had taken a weekend cruise to Stockholm. Mom and Dad smiled in the middle, with the boys on either side. His buzz-cut brother, Martti, grinned broadly in the photo. Timo remembered that he had had the same kind of haircut. You couldn’t see it, though, because his face had been scrawled out with black marker.

Repo was exhausted. He didn’t have time to sleep, but he could rest for a while on the couch. First, though, he went into the closet in his father’s bedroom. He found a 9mm Luger in a brown leather holster in the hatbox on the upper shelf. It also held three small cardboard boxes, each containing twenty-five bullets.

He knew the gun. Dad had taught him to shoot it back in the day. The gun was still in good shape; it had been oiled well enough. He pulled back the pistol’s slide, checked that the chamber was empty, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He ripped open one of the boxes, loaded six bullets into the magazine, and pushed it back into the old gun. Repo drew the slide again. The bullet slid in impeccably. Good, no chambering problems .Repo clicked on the safety and shoved the gun back into its holster.

He stretched out on the couch and decided to close his eyes for a minute.

* * *

Suhonen was driving a green Peugeot 206 he had signed out of the police HQ garage. Joutsamo was sitting in the passenger seat. An old song by Metallica was playing on the radio. Joutsamo, a fan of heavy music, thought it was bubblegum rock. Suhonen disagreed heartily.

The car turned onto Vallesman Road. The houses were old and relatively small, and both sides of the street were lined with parked cars.

“I know this area. Picked up a member of the Skulls three, four blocks from here a few years back,” Suhonen said. The Skulls-or, as it read on the gang members’ leather vests, MC Skulls-wasn’t a genuine motorcycle club; it was a criminal organization. “Found two Swedish submachine guns.”

“Let’s drive past it first and see if there are any lights on,” Joutsamo suggested. “If there are, then we can stake the place out or call in the SWAT team.”

“You got it,” Suhonen said.