Jarkko Sipila - Nothing but the Truth

“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.”

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.