Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

“Oh, and what about your gym bag…” Kohonen shot back.

“Okay, cut it out,” Joutsamo interrupted.

It was quiet for a moment, then Kulta continued.

“So, case in point. Violent crimes practically solve themselves. Now, what if somebody had broken into Sandberg’s garage and stolen, say, the rims from his car. Almost without question the case’d never be solved. They’d be lucky if a patrol car ever made it out there.”

Joutsamo and Kohonen glanced at each other again, shaking their heads. They could never be sure if Kulta was being serious.

“Listen, Mikko,” Joutsamo began, “Go ahead and finish your transcript, and while you’re at it, you can ponder why it’s always you who gets the cases that seem to solve themselves.”

Kohonen laughed aloud.

“She who laughs last has the slowest wit,” Kulta smiled.

* * *

Markus Markkanen was sitting on the sofa at home, watching billiards on TV. His feet were kicked up on the coffee table, and he wondered when he would pick up a pool cue again. In his youth he had played quite a bit, but then again, he had been involved in plenty of other things during those years as well. He wasn’t especially proud of his past, but he didn’t regret it either. Not even his nickname, “Bogeyman.”

His eight-year-old son Eetu was doing his homework on the floor. The teachers had given him some additional assignments, as he had fallen behind in class.

The apartment needed cleaning, but that didn’t interest Markkanen. Technically, he and his wife were divorced, but the three of them lived together like a regular family. Located in Helsinki's western suburb of Espoo, next to the Big Apple shopping center, the apartment had four rooms with a sauna and a kitchen. Markkanen had pending restitution for old drug charges, so the apartment was in his wife’s name. Had he shared co-ownership of the apartment, the repo man would’ve certainly paid a visit. At the moment, his “ex”-wife was at some fitness class. She could just as well have run around the block, but if the class kept her happy, then so be it, he thought.

“Dad, what’s fourteen plus seventeen?” Eetu asked.

“Huh?”

“Fourteen plus seventeen. What’s that make?”

“I’m not gonna tell you. Do the math.”

“Come on…” the boy whined. “This is lame.”

“Nobody’s gonna hold your hand during the test,” Markkanen said.

“This is bullshit.”

“Hey, where’d you learn that kind of language?”

The boy didn’t respond. Markkanen continued, “You gotta learn to figure things out on your own. Just do it.”

Markkanen snatched a bottle of Johnny Walker off the coffee table and poured some whiskey into his empty glass. He gulped down half. Markkanen had had better whiskey, but this was alright. Alcohol helped him think.

“What’s twenty minus thirteen?”

“Didn’t I just tell you…”

He stopped short when his cellphone rang. The display said ‘Lindström,’ and he got up and walked into the hallway.

“Hello,” Markkanen answered coolly.

“Heard anything about Eriksson yet?”

“Nope.”

“This is very important.”

“Well, he hasn’t reported to me,” Markkanen said dryly.

“Don’t talk back. We’ve gotta find him.”

“I’ll let you know right away if he contacts me.”

“No, you have to look for him,” Lindström demanded. “Have you been to his apartment?”

“Is this something that I could help out with?”

“No,” Lindström snapped and hung up.

Markkanen went back into the living room. Eetu had abandoned his homework and was playing some first-person shoot-em-up game on Xbox.

“Eetu, what’s twenty minus thirteen?”

“Seven,” he answered, without looking up from his game.

“You did the math yourself?”

“I used the calculator on my cellphone. You said I should learn how to figure things out on my own.”

That made him laugh, but he quickly regained his stern expression. Clever kid, maybe he’ll become something after all. He thought about watching some more pool, but decided against it. Instead, he poured himself another drink.

“Dad!” the boy exclaimed. “Did you see that shot… From the hip! Here, watch the replay. Right in the forehead!”

DOWNTOWN HELSINKI

TUESDAY, 8:32 P.M.

Juha Saarnikangas’ van was parked on the east end of the Boulevard in the heart of Helsinki. Raindrops were falling lazily onto the windshield. Through the blur, the lights and billboards on Erottaja were visible.

The junkie glanced at the clock on his phone: 8:32 P.M. Two minutes late already. He had been agonizing over his problem and now he had a solution, or at least he thought so.

The door swung open suddenly, startling him, and Suhonen slid inside. His leather jacket glistened with rain.

“Nice Ducato. Is it yours?”

“You’re late,” Saarnikangas snapped.

“Your clock is fast,” said Suhonen. The broken dashboard clock showed 1:30.

Saarnikangas forced himself to breathe slowly. Both his hands were on the steering wheel. He knew Suhonen would study his every movement and draw his own conclusions from them.

“So?” Suhonen asked. “You wanted to meet?”

“I have a question for you,” Saarnikangas began, still looking out the windshield. He hit the wipers once, so he could see through the glass.

“You see that small brown building up there? If you can tell me what’s special about it, I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”

Suhonen studied the plain building at the intersection of Boulevard, Erottaja, and Northern Esplanade. He recalled that sometime in the early nineties he had received a tip, which had led him to a couple of sport-gambling hustlers who were operating out of the basement of the building. Probably not what Saarnikangas had in mind. Besides, such operations weren’t that unusual-sports had become a big business.

“Listen Juha,” the officer snorted. “Enough with the quiz show. You called me, so let’s have it.”

“You know, if all you do is stare at the pavement when you walk in this city, you’ll miss out on all the interesting stuff,” Juha said.

Suhonen knew that Saarnikangas had studied art history at the University of Helsinki before drugs had taken over.

“So, we’re talking about history,” Suhonen feigned excitement. “I do remember a story about that building from the sixties or seventies. Narcotics was on a raid and confiscated a whole half an ounce of hash. Helsingin Sanomat even ran a story on it that hung on the wall of the office for quite a while. It takes a bit more than half an ounce to get a journalist excited nowadays, although the police are interested in whatever crumbs they can find.”

“No, art history! Alright I’ll tell you. That building is the first one that Alvar Aalto ever designed in Helsinki. It was finished in 1951, soon to be followed by the, Cultural Center, Finlandia Hall, and the Enso-Gutzeit headquarters. This is where it all began.”

“Thank you. I’ve been enlightened,” he scoffed, though he was actually amazed by this tidbit.

“There’s something else.”

“I’m waiting.”

Saarnikangas continued to stare straight ahead and kept his hands on the wheel. “I heard something that should interest you.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know Jerry Eriksson?”

Suhonen thought for a second. “Seems vaguely familiar… Eriksson you say? Wasn’t he involved in some internet fraud or something like that?”

“Yeah, that too.”

“What about him?” he asked, but was interrupted when his cellphone rang. It was his ex-girlfriend Raija. He pushed “End Call,” and the ringer cut short.