Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

“He’s a gangster from Lahti.”

“What does he want from me?”

“Your money, probably…” The constant snapping of Korpela’s scissors was getting on his nerves. “How should I know?” he shrieked abruptly.

“Why do you want him dead? And where’d you get the kind of money to pay for the Skulls?”

Markkanen closed his eyes. There it was. Cognac wouldn’t help anymore, unless he could turn the tables and provoke Suikkanen to attack out of rage.

“ You’re the one who wants him dead. Those were your orders,” Markkanen raised his voice. “And your money.”

“A gangster from Lahti, huh?” Lindström relished ignoring the lies.

“Yeah.”

Lindström stared at his captive, looking pitifully weak in his chair. “What would you say if I told you he’s a cop?”

Markkanen’s mouth dropped open, but he collected himself quickly. “Naah, that can’t be true.”

“How so?”

“I saw him beat up an officer a couple days ago. Or was it yesterday.”

“The Skulls are positive he’s a cop. They have a photo of him coming out of police headquarters.”

Markkanen closed his eyes again. He remembered the microphone. The nightmare situation had just turned catastrophic.

“You murdered Eriksson, and nearly ruined my business with the Russians. Korpela is in danger of doing life…”

Markkanen didn’t say a word. If Suikkanen was indeed a cop, the guy was probably keeled over laughing right now.

“You have any suggestions on how to deal with this?” Lindström asked. “I’m prepared to forget about Eriksson and the money you stole, provided we can hand Suikkanen to the Skulls; their VP wants him dead. So where is he?”

At first, Lindström thought Markkanen was gasping for air, but he soon caught on. The man was silently mouthing the same sentence over and over: Open…the…cuffs. Open…the…cuffs.

Lindström was dumbfounded. Why would he do a thing like that, he thought to himself. Was somebody listening in? But they had swept the place for bugs.

Lindström’s guard was up, though. He took a pen and paper from the desk and scrawled: Why?

“I ain’t saying nothin,” Markkanen said aloud, then continued mouthing the words: Open…the…cuffs.

Lindström scribbled an order to Korpela, telling him to open the cuffs. The hit man was confused, but carried out his orders.

Markkanen massaged his wrists, then quickly took the paper and pen from the old man’s hand. He wrote: Play along. Suikkanen will be here soon.

Markkanen gave the old man an inquiring look, to be sure he had understood. Lindström nodded expectantly. Korpela watched from the sidelines, still baffled. Suddenly Markkanen started to scream bloody murder.

“Fuuck nooo! Don’t kill me! Cognac! Cognac!”

Lindström and Korpela looked at him, both openly shocked now. Markkanen didn’t care, and kept screaming in anguish. He pulled down his pants, tore off the transmitter, snatched the scissors out of Korpela’s hand and snipped the microphone cord.

“What the hell?” Korpela bleated. “You’re wired?”

“Who was listening to us?” Lindström stammered.

“Fucking Suikkanen! I didn’t know he was a pig.”

Korpela’s eyes burned with anger, and he pulled a pistol out of his waistband.

“And we talked about…” Lindström said. Then, realizing the gravity of the situation, he spat out a stream of curses.

“Fuuck,” Korpela bleated. “I don’t even know who to shoot anymore. Damn! Maybe I’ll shoot you all. Everybody!”

Korpela pointed the gun at Markkanen, but swung it back to Lindström as he took a couple of steps toward the table.

Markkanen seized the opportunity and drove the scissors into Korpela’s neck. The gun went off with a sharp bang. He pulled the scissors out and for a few seconds, blood sputtered out of the wound. Lindström and Korpela had fallen to the floor simultaneously.

Suddenly, a loud crash came from the hallway.

Markkanen’s hands were sticky with blood. As he wiped his forehead, he realized his face was also spattered with blood. His ears were ringing from the gunshot.

“POLICE! FREEZE!” he heard from the door.

Markkanen tossed the scissors on the floor and raised his hands.

A short gurgle escaped from Korpela’s throat, then silence. Lindström lay on the floor, a neat hole in his forehead.

A SWAT officer in a helmet and heavy flak jacket appeared at the door and pointed an MP5 submachine gun at Markkanen.

“DON’T MOVE!”

“They tried to kill me,” Markkanen pleaded. “They tried to kill me. It was self defense! Self defense.”

* * *

Suhonen and Takamäki were standing on Tehdas Street. Snow was whirling down from the sky. The stick bag still hung from Suhonen’s shoulder.

Flashing lights reflected off the windows of the surrounding buildings. The paramedics were dawdling in the street, waiting for permission to leave. No customers for them today.

The SWAT team packed up their gear and drove off. Forensics unrolled a length of blue-and-white police tape across the entrance. Takamäki opened the door to a large white Mercedes van.

“Hi there… Takamäki,” he introduced himself.

The man inside scowled. “Uhh, yep. Mölsä from Technical.” He was a small, mousy character with slippers on his feet. The inside of the van was bristling with high-tech devices.

“You get it on tape?”

“Nope, nothing on tape,” the man said, “it’s on the hard drive. It took a while to scan for the bandwidth, but we got everything from the point when the scissors started snipping.”

“Good,” Takamäki said.

“But next time, give us some advance warning about this sort of thing, so we can prepare. The van could’ve easily been in for servicing, and we wouldn’t have made it here at all.”

Takamäki didn’t respond. He just nodded as he slid the door shut.

Suhonen was gazing up at the apartment window. The snowflakes felt cold on his face. “You should’ve let me go in. We might have two less corpses on our hands.”

“Safety issue,” Takamäki said.

“But didn’t we just let two people get killed?”

“Had there been an innocent bystander or a hostage involved, it would’ve been different. Their deaths aren’t your fault, nor will the world miss them.”

“Well, yeah. Maybe so,” Suhonen said. “It won’t miss Eriksson, either, but still we put in a lot of work to solve his murder.”

Takamäki nodded, suppressing a grin. A crowd had already begun to gather behind the police tape.

“I’m gonna take off before the TV cameras get here,” Suhonen said.

One of the ambulances was double-parked next to his car. Suhonen flashed his badge at the driver. “Can you move so I can get outta here?”

He turned back to Takamäki. “Wanna go out for a couple beers tonight?”

Takamäki shook his head. “Can’t. The wife told me to get groceries. Stuck at home tonight.”

“Alright. I’ll ask Joutsamo,” said Suhonen, and slid behind the wheel.

THE HOTEL PASILA BAR, HELSINKI

FRIDAY, 10:15 P.M.

Suhonen ordered a Strongbow cider from the bartender and walked back to the table. Joutsamo took the glass, smiling. Hotel Pasila was only about two hundred yards from headquarters, and its bar had become a regular police hangout. Large windows cast light from the streets onto the circular booths along the walls. In the middle of the bar were a few tall tables ringed by bar stools, some still unoccupied.

“Thanks.”

Suhonen shrugged. A street car rattled past the hotel.

For over an hour, they had talked about everything but the case. Both were intentionally avoiding it, but finally Joutsamo gave in.