Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

Nyholm pulled up a brown wooden chair for her, and Kristiina sat stiffly. He took the chair on the end, and they sat side by side.

“I must look terrible,” she said, covering her face in her hands. The sobbing started again.

“Don’t… Please, don’t cry, Kristiina,” Nyholm said, not knowing what else to say. He got up and plodded over to the coffee table, downed the rest of his cognac, then refilled his glass from the bottle on the table. On a whim, he brought the bottle back into the kitchen, took a glass from the cupboard and poured a generous shot for his daughter.

He returned to the table and set the glass in front of her. “Have some of this. It’ll help.”

Nyholm didn’t think it would actually help, but when the burn of the alcohol hit her mouth, she’d think of something else for a moment.

“What is it?” she asked, then downed it without waiting, spluttering a little.

“What happened?” Nyholm asked.

Either the cognac or the sympathy worked: she calmed down, though her breathing was still intense.

“That lady cop came by today and told me Jerry was murdered… He was my boyfriend.”

“What was…or how did…uh, do you know why?”

Kristiina blew her nose. “They didn’t say…”

“Was Jerry’s last name Eriksson?” Nyholm asked.

Kristiina looked startled. “Yeah. Do you know him?”

“No, not really. But I knew who he was.”

“How? From work?”

Nyholm shook his head. “You should stay here tonight.” He paused before saying, “I know how hard this is for you… But, can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“How’d the police know to notify you when the two of you weren’t married?”

“W-well, I went to file a missing persons report this morning.”

Damn, Nyholm thought.

“Have another cognac,” he said, and the daughter held out her glass. This time he poured her a double. Nyholm readily emptied his own and poured himself another stiff one.

He reflected on his predicament: only a miracle would keep the cops from figuring out their father-daughter relationship.

There would be questions, that much was certain. He’d have to frame his answers so the truth wouldn’t be revealed.

* * *

Suhonen was sitting on the edge of his hotel bed; Markkanen leaned back in the armchair.

“At least it’s bigger than a prison cell.” Markkanen admired the creamy interior of the Katajanokka Best Western. The traces of a cell could still be seen in the arch of the roof and the shape of the windows. The old pen was shut down in ’02, when new lodging for the inmates opened up twenty miles north. The new maximum security prison was supposed to be escape-proof, but that had already been proven wrong.

It was a fine testament to government bureaucracy that the new prison had been commissioned in 1977, but the construction wasn’t completed for another twenty-five years.

“I’ve spent some time here,” Suhonen explained. “Grim place…filthy…rundown, and you had to shit in a bucket…” Despite its reputation for modern technology, Finland still had prisons where each cell sported a plastic pail for nightly needs.

“C’mon, Suikkanen, when was the last time you felt comfortable in the slammer?” Markkanen smirked.

“…But at least now the peephole looks outward,” Suhonen went on. Though peepholes in the former cells had looked inward, the prisoners had often smeared the lenses with toothpaste.

Earlier that day, Suhonen had reserved a room at the hotel for just this type of situation. He had picked up the key card in the evening and tossed a gym bag of clothes into the room.

The pair had navigated a maze of courtyards and emerged at the Central Fire Station. From there, they had headed toward the Kallio Church. They had seen a half-dozen squad cars with flashing cherries, and had managed to board a downtown bus without incident.

From downtown, they had walked the half mile to the hotel. Although Suhonen had wanted to call Partio to talk about what happened, that wasn’t possible. He was particularly worried about Nieminen’s reaction to the knife at his throat. Suhonen wondered if he should have intervened earlier. The situation had escalated too far, but he couldn’t have anticipated all the potential risks. He wondered whether shit would hit the fan over the incident.

“Well, enough shitting around,” said Suhonen, wondering if there was another test in store. “You said there was an easy three grand for me to earn.”

Markkanen’s manner became serious.

“Right, a real simple job.”

“Shoot.”

“There’s a garage on Tehdas Street with a Mercedes inside. It belongs to someone who needs to learn to pay his debts.”

“Who?”

“I figured you’d know better than to ask a question like that.”

Suikkanen let out a nervous laugh and forced his lips into a smile. “I didn’t pass ninth grade.”

“The streets should’ve taught you.”

Suhonen looked annoyed. “So what about this garage?”

“You’re gonna put a pig’s head on the hood.”

Suhonen let out a genuine laugh. “What…?”

“A pig’s head.”

“Where am I gonna get that?”

Markkanen grinned. “For three grand, I think you can figure it out.”

“And just set it on the hood of the Mercedes, huh?”

Markkanen nodded.

Suhonen shook his head doubtfully. “Why don’t you do it yourself? What’s the catch?”

“A security camera by the garage door, plus another inside. There’s no way to avoid being taped.”

“And you can’t afford to be seen, even in a ski mask?”

“Exactly.”

“Tonight?”

“Yup.”

Suhonen still looked doubtful. “Without wheels, where am I gonna get a pig’s head at this hour?”

Markkanen smiled. “I’ll sell you one for a grand.”

“Huh?”

“I need my cut, too.”

Suhonen gazed at the smiling Markkanen, wondering if there was a bigger fish behind the “Bogeyman.” The thug stood up, drawn to the minibar. He dug out a miniature whiskey bottle for himself and offered another to Suhonen.

“Not now.”

Markkanen took a glass from a tray above the minibar and emptied the bottle into it. He grinned and raised his glass.

“Welcome to the team.”

* * *

It was just past one in the morning, and the old 300-Series Beamer was exactly where Markkanen had said it would be: on Tehdas Street near the Russian Embassy. Suhonen tapped the plate number into his cellphone and slipped on a pair of gloves.

He lifted a hockey bag out of the trunk and glanced quickly inside just as a streetcar rumbled past. Only a few people were about, and nobody seemed interested in a man looking through his trunk. In the hockey bag was a black trash bag, and inside it, a wrinkled pig’s head. The stench was nauseating.

Suhonen smirked and grabbed the bag. He slammed the trunk shut, and circled the car for a few seconds before installing a tracking device. This car, too, would be tracked by satellite.

Suhonen hurried ahead-the walk was several hundred yards.

His black ski mask was still rolled up, looking like an ordinary knit hat. Suhonen had taken an old gray jacket from the closet and intentionally skipped the mirror. The hockey bag swung from his shoulder, and he hoped he wouldn’t run into any cruisers. If he were on patrol and saw a character looking like himself on the streets, he’d have some questions to ask.

Markkanen had given him directions. The courtyard gate wouldn’t be a problem since he had the code. He was to go through the gate, and the garage would be the third on the right. Suhonen entered the code and slipped inside. He left the gate only ajar enough, so that from the outside it looked closed.