Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

A major problem was that no cellphone had been found. With a cellphone, it’d be easy to establish his circle of friends and business associates from the call record. Of course, Joutsamo had tried directory assistance to see if Eriksson had any listed numbers. Apparently, he either used a prepaid SIM card or the number was listed under someone else’s name. Did the absence of a cellphone simply mean that the killer had taken it? That would indicate that he had probably been in phone contact with Eriksson.

If that was the case, their calls could be tracked down. With a court order for the phone company’s records, all phone calls within a specific area would be disclosed to the police. Sorting through all the calls would be tedious, but if there were no better leads, they would just have to do it.

The rumpled papers from the Ziploc bag were indeed receipts. The first one revealed that on Sunday, Eriksson had bought eight cans of beer, a frozen pizza, and a bag of coffee from the Alepa grocery store at the Kannelmäki shopping center. The time stamp on the receipt was 8:32 P.M.

Good, Joutsamo thought, and wrote the time down on her notepad. The first clue as to Eriksson’s activities. It was also consistent with Kannas’ initial estimate of the time of death.

Unfortunately, Eriksson had paid in cash. Plastic would have been better, since it could be used to trace Eriksson’s other activities. There were no credit or debit cards in the wallet. Maybe he didn’t qualify for one. His credit rating was surely abysmal, due to unpaid debts and court-ordered compensation for his frauds.

Joutsamo unfolded the other bundle of paper. The receipt was from the same store, also paid for with cash. A six-pack of beer and two hamburgers. But it was from Saturday. Joutsamo was disappointed, but she jotted down the information on her notepad. She wondered if he had drunk the beers alone.

Lastly, Joutsamo picked up the old black wallet, about the size of a passport, and emptied the contents onto the table. The photo on his driver’s license was the same one that Joutsamo had seen in the DMV database. Eriksson looked much more innocent in this photo than in his mug shots.

But who owned the Kannelmäki apartment, Joutsamo wondered. When they had some time, they’d have to figure that out. The condo association would have some name on record: either a person or a business.

Joutsamo turned back to the wallet: it contained four one-hundred-euro notes, two fifties, and six twenties. All together, 620 euros. Enough to rule out robbery.

The billfold had two compartments. In one side was the money, in the other, some receipts. Joutsamo fished them out and immediately recognized the thin strips as taxi receipts. About half a dozen of them.

The first two were about a week old, but Joutsamo dutifully marked the dates in her pad. She took the third receipt and, as she registered the date and time, felt a shock of revelation. Eriksson had paid €19.20 on Monday evening to ride 6.2 miles between 6:34 P.M. and 6:53 P.M. The locations didn’t appear on the receipt, but the name of the taxi company did.

This narrowed the window of time for the murder. The next receipt was even better. Still from Monday, but the time was from 9:33 to 9:46 P.M. The trip was 4.8 miles, and the cab fare came to €14.20. The name of the taxi company was Oinonen, and the phone number was even printed on the receipt.

Joutsamo was about to call the Oinonen company to ask for more details about the passenger and his destination, but decided to finish examining the wallet first. Minutes didn’t matter at this point.

Takamäki popped into the room, “Anything interesting there?”

Joutsamo nodded. “Eriksson’s last acts are starting to take shape.”

“Good,” Takamäki said in a voice that seemed a bit tepid for what she had told him. Her surprise doubled when he added, “Are you going to be much longer?”

“Probably not. A few minutes, but then I’ll have to make copies of these.”

“Do it later.”

“What’s going on?”

“Forensics found a list of debts in the Kannelmäki apartment. We have a good candidate for a suspect. He owed Eriksson fourteen grand.”

“Who?”

“The list says ‘Juha S,’” Takamäki said. “I want you and Suhonen in my office in five. They also found about half an ounce of what appears to be meth.”

BOARD OF CUSTOMS, EROTTAJA

WEDNESDAY, 2:45 P.M.

Customs Inspector Nyholm sat in his desk chair. Out the window, he could see the courtyard and hotel windows on the Boulevard. Occasionally, some eye candy walked by, but he just stared into space.

Nyholm rubbed his eyes and cursed to himself.

Snellman and that cop hadn’t said why he had to look into Jerry Eriksson. Nyholm had actually recognized the detective lieutenant-he had seen Takamäki on TV and in the newspapers. The policeman’s cold eyes had seemed to look right through him.

And now he had to track down Eriksson’s connections to Customs. Where would he begin, Nyholm mused, laughing aloud.

He knew where he could start. Exactly where.

“Son of a bitch.”

The phone rang and Nyholm inadvertently answered with “bitch.” It suited: the caller was his wife, who replied, “Excuse me?” He didn’t apologize for his rudeness.

“Stop at the store on your way home.”

“I can’t. Meetings.”

“Again?” she said coldly.

“That’s the custom here,” Nyholm replied. “How’s the girl?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t seen her.”

“Really,” he said, his voice filled with sarcasm.

“I’ll be better off here alone anyway,” she snapped and hung up the phone.

Nyholm groaned. He’d have to stop at the store. She was probably talking about liquor, not groceries. He tried to forget his wife and focus on the matter at hand. He’d have to be sharp.

He picked up his desk phone and pushed speed dial for the head of intelligence in the southern region. He had to get some field agents involved so his efforts would seem sufficient. Hopefully nobody knew Eriksson.

* * *

Joutsamo knew she should already be in Takamäki’s office, but she had to make the call.

“Oinonen,” a man answered in a hurried voice.

“Anna Joutsamo from the Violent Crimes Unit. You have a minute?”

The man on the other end laughed. “Sure. Just waiting for the train here, so nothing to do but talk on the phone and read classics.”

Joutsamo drew a picture of the man in her mind-your typical long-winded cabby. The kind who always had something to say, whether passengers liked it or not.

“I’m calling to check on one of your passengers.” Joutsamo had a copy of Eriksson’s receipt in her hand.

“Okay, shoot.”

“On Monday night, between 9:33 and 9:46 P.M., you gave a ride to a younger guy in a hooded sweatshirt. Do you remember where you took him?”

“Monday, huh? Today’s Wednesday, right? Heh, the days just sort of blend together in this job,” Oinonen said and thought for a moment. “Guy with a hoodie… Yeah, now I think I remember. He flagged me down on Helsinki Avenue in Kallio. Over there by Tenkka, as I recall.”

“The Tenkka Bar?” Joutsamo clarified and jotted the name down in her notepad. Tenkka was one of the few institutions in what was a rough neighborhood. Most of the bars and pubs changed ownership so often that there was no sense of tradition. They just got people drunk on inexpensive beer and cheap vodka.

“That’s the one. What’s this about?”

“It’s a case I’m working on,” Joutsamo skirted the issue. “Was he alone?”

“Yep, nobody with him.”

“What about before he got in the cab? Anyone else with him?”