Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

“Cognac,” Suhonen chuckled, and pushed the earpiece in place. “Got it.”

“Good. I just changed all the batteries, but we’d better make sure they work,” he said, taking several steps backwards. “Turn it on. There’s a little switch on the side.”

Suhonen glanced at his watch: 3:50 P.M.

TEHDAS STREET, HELSINKI

FRIDAY, 4:02 P.M.

Suhonen was sitting in the car, waiting. Luckily, he had found a parking spot just in front of the building. Now he wouldn’t have to skulk around in the courtyard or stairwell, toting a kids hockey stick bag. Ten seconds earlier, Markkanen had gone inside without so much as a backward glance.

Suhonen had alerted Takamäki, but they didn’t have enough time to get backup to the scene. All patrol units downtown had been notified of a possible police operation on Tehdas Street, but Suhonen didn’t want any uniformed officers stumbling in at this delicate stage.

In the earpiece, he could hear Markkanen’s footsteps on the stone floor. The device worked surprisingly well, considering the building had thick stone walls. Had it been a police-issue device, the signal would have been breaking up by now.

Suhonen heard the doorbell ring, and the door open. He opened the car door and ducked into the stairwell, the bag slung over his shoulder.

* * *

“Come in,” the bald man said in a nasal voice, cracking the door open a bit more to see if anyone else was on the landing. He glanced down the empty stairwell, too.

Tony Korpela was wearing a gray sweater and a pair of black Levi’s. His tattoos burst out of his shirtsleeves onto the backs of his hands. He was in his thirties, and considerably shorter than Markkanen.

Markkanen knew his rap sheet. Toward the end of the nineties, Korpela had been sentenced to thirteen years in prison for “murder with diminished capacity.” Had he been judged fully accountable, he’d still be serving life. The murder had been brutal, carried out with a pair of scissors. But according to the District Court, Korpela hadn’t fully understood his actions.

Finland’s criminal code included this intermediate step between guilty and not guilty by reason of insanity. Those guilty with diminished capacity received lighter sentences, but still did their time in regular prisons.

Markkanen had read the details about the murder in Alibi , a popular true-crime magazine. He had been amazed by Korpela’s persistence, and the fact that the scissors hadn’t been rendered uselessly dull.

Korpela had never settled into prison life, and ended up in solitary confinement in the Riihimäki Prison. Rarely did “the hole” rehabilitate inmates, it only fed their hatred. Prisoners were isolated in their cells, save for a brief spell outdoors. Showers were few and far between. Markkanen wasn’t sure how Korpela had ended up in the Skulls, but that didn’t really matter.

Markkanen walked past Korpela, then felt the barrel of a gun at the nape of his neck.

“Just a precaution. You carrying?” the man droned from behind.

“No,” Markkanen answered. He wondered how much teasing Korpela had endured as a child for his unusual voice.

Korpela patted him down anyway. He didn’t find the transmitter, which was taped high on the inside of his right thigh. The microphone was lodged in his belt buckle.

Markkanen dutifully hung his jacket on the hook, slipped off his shoes and proceeded into the library. Lindström was sitting in an armchair wearing a brown cardigan and holding a fat glass.

“Pour yourself a brandy,” Lindström said with a smile.

“No, thanks,” Markkanen said, thankful that he hadn’t offered cognac. Had he done so, Suikkanen would be at the door any second. Markkanen sat down opposite Lindström.

Korpela lingered by the door, and Lindström shot him a glance.

“An explanation is probably in order,” Lindström said dryly. “We can speak freely. The apartment was scrubbed for bugs this morning.”

“You can start by explaining what that Skull is doing here,” Markkanen said. He wanted to convey to Suikkanen that there were others in the room.

“Actually, that’s where I was going to start. Tony came to pay me a visit this afternoon, and he made an offer I couldn’t refuse. We’ve had a good chat,” Lindström said, then sipped his brandy.

“How’d he end up here?” Markkanen wondered in bewilderment.

“I drove,” Korpela said coldly.

Markkanen racked his brain. How had he been betrayed? How had the Skulls and Lindström found each other? In any case, the situation was not good.

“Punk,” Lindström snorted. “But let’s keep this civil. Could you please explain why you had Eriksson killed?”

What the hell was going on here, Markkanen wondered, trying to stay cool. Clearly, the Skulls had switched sides.

Markkanen glanced at Korpela again.

“Yes. We’ve had some very interesting conversations,” Lindström sneered.

Korpela had apparently told him about the murder. No use denying it, then.

“Uhhh, well. Right. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. I got wind from a reliable source that Eriksson was cooperating with Customs. He was their informant and so…”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Lindström hissed. “Eriksson mentioned that he had something on you. He didn’t say, or have time to say what it was… So? What was it?”

Markkanen shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Does your wife know?”

“You leave her outta this.”

“Should we pick her and the boy up from the spa in Turku? Korpela here would be happy to oblige,” Lindström smiled.

Markkanen tried to remain calm. “They don’t know anything.”

“But you do,” Lindström said, pausing for emphasis. “Why did you hire Korpela to kill Eriksson?”

Markkanen said nothing. Korpela had snuck up behind him. He seized Markkanen’s arms, jerked them behind the back rest and quickly slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists.

“Hey, what the hell is this?”

* * *

Suhonen was on the landing one floor below, listening intently. What was going on inside? He heard a familiar metallic sound, but it took him a second to place it: the snip of a scissors.

Korpela and scissors. Of course, Suhonen thought.

Though Markkanen seemed to be in trouble, he hadn’t given the code word. Suhonen knew the situation wouldn’t improve; should he go in now or would that just cause more problems? He unzipped the bag but didn’t take the shotgun out yet.

“Where should we trim first?” said an older man’s creaky voice.

“His head seems dispensable,” came a nasal laugh and the nervous snipping of scissors.

“Hey, hey… Don’t.”

Suhonen felt his phone vibrate. It was Takamäki. He pressed the talk button, but said nothing.

“What’s going on?” Takamäki asked.

* * *

Lindström sipped his brandy. “Do you understand your position? It’s not very enviable.”

Markkanen wondered if he should ask for some cognac-not yet. He wanted to see all of Lindström’s cards.

“Eriksson claimed I was embezzling money from you, but it’s not true. He was just saying that because I knew he was a Customs snitch.”

“He was no nark. You’re the only traitor here.”

Korpela worked the scissors impatiently; the metallic sound cut through the room almost constantly now. He looked at Lindström with anticipation.

Lindström nodded. “We’ll get to that soon enough. I have some more questions for our Judas here. Who’s this Suikkanen?”

Markkanen paused to think about how to respond, then remembered that Suikkanen was listening in. He’d have to choose his words carefully or his backup might take off.