Jarkko Sipila - Nothing but the Truth

Fuck! That wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought, and stepped off of the limp body. It had worked on TV! Shit!

* * *

Takamäki was driving and Joutsamo was sitting with Mari in the back seat. The car was stopped at a red light on Aleksis Kivi Street.

“You’re serious?” said Lehtonen, which was the same thing she had said when the detectives had arrived fifteen minutes earlier to pick her up from work. After a little coaxing, Lehtonen had fetched her coat and purse, and followed them out.

“We wouldn’t be doing this otherwise,” said Joutsamo. “The psychologist says it could help. I don’t know if that’s true, but it can’t hurt.”

“And who is this psychologist,” said Lehtonen.

Only then did Takamäki realize that he didn’t know either. “I don’t know.”

“So how can you buy into this if you don’t even know who it is?”

“Well, Deputy Chief Skoog did speak with him.”

“And you believe what your superiors tell you?”

Takamäki smiled. “We have to. The boss has more brass. We’re just cogs in the police machinery, right?”

“Right…” said Lehtonen. “…I was a little upset… During the interview and all…”

“Well, don’t worry about it,” said Takamäki. “I must admit, it actually raised some important questions about our witness protection. It has made

me think… Now if only we can resolve the question of your safety.”

Takamäki’s phone rang and Joutsamo picked up where he left off. “At least we’re making an attempt at something other than just hiding you away.”

Takamäki answered and Karila informed him of a car chase on the East Highway. The suspect, believed to be Matti Ahola, was bound for downtown Helsinki. Takamäki checked his mirrors.

* * *

Ahola stepped on the gas. The speedometer in the old Fiat showed 95 mph, all the engine was capable of. Ahola jerked the wheel, veering in and out of traffic. Someone leaned on their horn, and Ahola felt like sending a salute with his Nagant. The whine of sirens approached from behind.

Goddamnit, he thought to himself as he changed lanes again.

Why the fuck did he have to believe what he saw on TV. That shot echoed through the whole damn building, and some guy was already on the stairs with a phone to his ear as he was leaving. So the cops had gotten the news immediately, even if Ahola had interrupted the call with a gun butt through the man’s teeth.

Ahola knew they’d spotted his Fiat because a cruiser in the oncoming lane with its sirens on had pulled a U-turn just after it passed him. Ahola floored it, and the car zoomed ahead.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror. At least two squads were on his tail and a third was coming down the ramp from the Kulosaari bridge. One of the cruisers came abreast of him on the right, and he fired off a shot. The bullet shattered his passenger-side window, but had no other effect except that the cruiser dropped further back.

The Fiat hurtled over the East Highway bridge toward downtown Helsinki. Up ahead was a crossroads: straight onto Juna Street which would quickly turn into Teollisuus Street, or right up the ramp and then down to the waterfront road. The choice to the right looked too congested. The lights at the top of the ramp could turn red at any second. Going straight, he could make it to the streets of Kallio, maybe even lose the cruisers with a few quick turns, ditch the car and disappear down the alleys and backstreets.

The brake lights on a Volvo station wagon popped on in front of him, and the Fiat bounded ahead with a quick swerve to the right.

Just off the Häme Street bridge, at the point where Juna turned into Teollisuus, he could cut into oncoming traffic through the bus lanes, and from there to the streets of Kallio.

The East Highway curved gently to the right and then again to the left. Up ahead, more flashing lights were visible, and as he reached the bus stop, he caught a movement to his left and heard two loud bangs. Officers on the shoulder had pulled a spike strip, puncturing all four tires. The car began to track wildly, but Ahola stepped on the gas. Just before the next intersection were four cruisers lined up in a barricade. This one he wouldn’t be breaking through with the Fiat. Maybe with a Range Rover, but not the Fiat.

Ahola jerked up the emergency brake and swung the wheel sharply to the left in an attempt to swing the tail around. If he could make it back a few hundred yards, he could take the ramp the wrong way down to the waterfront road.

With tires, the one-eighty may have stood a chance. But without them, the bare rims bit into the asphalt and the Fiat flipped, spun along the pavement on its roof, and flopped over onto its side.

Ahola struck his head and shards of broken glass lacerated his face. His chest hit the wheel, knocking the wind out of him. His knee was hurting too, but still, he remained conscious.

He snatched up his pistol and began bashing out the windshield. Shouts came from all sides: “Police! Don’t move! Drop your weapon!” But he wasn’t listening. The subway tunnel was just on the other side of the fence. If he could make it there, they’d never find him.

He stood up in front of the car, and his peripheral vision caught a dark movement bounding up from the side. K-9. He fired off a shot and the dog fell yelping to the ground at his feet. He fired again and the yelping stopped. The cylinder held seven rounds, so three remained.

The shouts came again. Ahola looked around. There were at least twenty cops. Shit, he thought. He wasn’t going back to prison, but there were few alternatives. The subway tunnel was too far. He lowered his weapon to think. Maybe he could take a few cops with him. Then he’d be a legend.

Ahola raised his gun and managed to fire off a couple rounds toward the nearest cruiser. Then he felt two thuds in his chest just before he heard the shots. An immense pain took hold of his body for a moment, and then there was nothing. He never even felt the third bullet. Matti Ahola was dead before his head hit the pavement.

An orange subway train made a hissing sound as it disappeared into the tunnel.

* * *

The visitation room at Helsinki prison had about ten glass-partitioned tables, each with four to five chairs bolted to the floor. The room had been updated during the remodel, and the ambiance was quite modern. A tall window near the ceiling let in plenty of bluish winter light.

Joutsamo and Lehtonen were talking at one of the tables. Along with them was police psychologist Maija Saarni, sent by Deputy Chief Skoog. The forty-five-year-old woman was an instructor at the police academy. She was slender, and had a radiant face that seemed always to be smiling.

In addition to them, there were also two armed prison guards, both bald and well over six feet tall. Firearms and tasers hung from their belts.

Takamäki had driven in through the side gate, where the assistant warden was waiting to take them to the visitation room. They had bypassed the security checkpoint, so none of them had to relinquish their phones. Joutsamo and Takamäki had left their weapons in the glovebox of the car, as it was a bad idea to bring them into prison.

Takamäki was lingering near the door of the visitation room, talking on his cell phone.

“That’s too bad,” he said. Karila had just explained the turn of events on Juna Street. All of Ahola’s bullets had either hit squad cars or missed, but three of the police’s had found their target-all in the chest.

Takamäki listened for a while. “Yeah, clearly justifiable force, but naturally the state prosecutor will have to conduct an investigation. What’s the status on the shooting at the apartment?”

“I put Kafka’s team on it since you got your hands full with Lehtonen,” said Karila. “It’s pretty obvious Ahola shot Nieminen, even if the details are still a little murky. Considering they’re both dead, that’s the way it’ll probably stay. But Nieminen’s apartment was one of the ones Suhonen and Kulta shook down last night.”