Joutsamo glanced at the page. The text was a lot of sports talk, but more importantly, the recipient’s email address was included. It was unlikely that Eriksson would jabber on about hockey games with his killer, but if need be, the address would allow them to learn more about his circle of friends. At this point, that was unnecessary: Saarnikangas’ DNA had been found at the crime scene. That was strong evidence.
“In addition, I have a list of the webpages he visited recently. To an outsider’s eye, it looks like fairly ordinary internet activity, but since I don’t know the details of the investigation, I’ll leave that to you. But there are, for example, Google searches for ‘police’ and he’s also been reading about criminal law.”
“A civilized criminal,” Kulta said.
“Thank you, Maija,” Takamäki said.
Laakso stood up. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“The DNA evidence is definitely the most significant,” Kulta said.
“Thanks,” Kannas muttered. “Crime scene investigation. Work with a purpose!”
Kulta spoke up. “I think we should take Saarnikangas into custody and start the interrogation. He’ll talk. Maybe not right away, but he’s in so deep that he’ll have to say something.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Joutsamo added.
Takamäki looked at Suhonen.
“I don’t think he did it,” Suhonen pronounced. “And even if he did, it wasn’t because of the debt. Yesterday I went to shake him up a bit, and right afterwards he left to meet a certain Ilari Lydman. Then, right away, a livid Lydman went out of his way to make a call on a landline. Those actions don’t indicate that debt was the motive.”
“I’m not arguing with that,” Joutsamo added. “This could very well be a contract hit, but we’ll know more when we get him to talk. If he doesn’t talk, then that’s his own fault. He’ll get life.”
Takamäki nodded. “Suhonen, bring him in.”
* * *
Markus Markkanen reached the entrance of the warehouse grounds and opened the padlock on the chain-link gate. The lock was new, but the fence was falling apart. Rust had eaten through the coating on the steel.
Maybe the Kouvola industrial district was too crowded for this type of job, but nobody would pay attention. The section he had rented was tucked away on the perimeter.
Markkanen drove inside, leaving the gate open. The warehouse was clad in corrugated sheet metal, and was large enough that a semi-truck could fit inside.
He left his car behind the building and walked the grounds. Not much to check out: a few worn-out tires and a stack of pallets.
The gate key also fit the lock for the warehouse, and he opened the door. The building was long, cold, and empty, designed expressly for unloading cargo. He snapped on the lights.
The semi would have enough room to back up to a loading dock in the rear. From there, a ramp descended to ground level. The goods would be quickly transferred from the shipping container to a truck or van. The smaller vehicles had a separate entrance. When a van was full, another would take its place. The forklift in the corner of the building would speed things up considerably.
Along the wall were a tall stack of cardboard boxes and some plastic pallets with Russian text. Those were the rubber gloves.
He tried the forklift, which started easily. Everything was in order. He glanced at the clock: 10:40 A.M. The buyer’s vehicles would be there at 10:50 and the first semi at 11:00. If everything went smoothly, the loading and unloading would take less than an hour.
Markkanen checked the holster on the small of his back again. The gun was still there.
* * *
Takamäki was sitting in his office, sifting through piles of email. It seemed like the Ministry of Interior had gone nuts. Every week, a new flood of directives on criminal investigations arrived. This time, the Narcotics Unit was to blame-a few of their officers had allegedly used rogue investigative methods, which had been making headlines for a year now, but the case was still pending. Takamäki couldn’t help thinking that on paper things were simpler-out on the streets, it was different. Maybe the desk jockeys ought to spend more time working undercover before judging others, he thought.
The ministry’s new position was that all crimes should be solved according to strict standard protocols. The laws governing police investigations, interrogations, and operations were also being reformed. It would be interesting to see what came of it. One thing was clear: it was almost impossible for the new rules to be any more complicated than they already were.
Takamäki wondered if he’d done the right thing ordering Saarnikangas’ arrest. If the man didn’t cooperate, he’d be convicted of murder with the evidence they already had. In court, his silence would be taken as an admission of guilt. If he was innocent, he had every reason to clear his name, and they would give him every opportunity to do that.
On the other hand, Saarnikangas might take the rap to protect somebody else. In that instance, despite a successful conviction, the killer would go free.
But Takamäki believed Saarnikangas would talk. After all, this was the same guy who had told Suhonen about the body in the first place.
His phone rang.
“Hello.” The caller’s number was displayed as “Unknown.”
“Hi. Sanna Römpötti here,” said a woman’s voice.
Takamäki would have recognized her voice anyway. She was a veteran crime reporter for Channel 3 TV news.
“What now?”
“Don’t steal my questions.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” she laughed.
Takamäki was quiet for a moment. “But aren’t the detectives supposed to ask the questions first?”
“True. So what’s new?” Römpötti went ahead with her interview.
“What’s new… Actually, not much,” he said. Under no circumstances would it make sense to talk about the Eriksson case at this sensitive stage. Broadcasting it would only complicate matters further.
“Nothing?” she pried in a voice that suggested she knew better.
“Nothing that I can talk about or that would interest TV reporters.”
“Well, I heard you found a body.”
Takamäki swore to himself. “We find bodies every day. The population of Helsinki isn’t getting any younger.”
“I mean a homicide victim.”
Takamäki wasn’t sure how much she knew. So far, she was just baiting him with questions.
“Like I said, nothing that I can talk about or that would interest TV reporters.”
“How do you know what interests us? Besides, we’re not just TV news anymore, We’re on the internet in real-time,” she said, more aggressively.
“I see.”
“Listen, Kari. You’ve been investigating this murder since the beginning of the week, which means it’s pretty interesting. If it was a routine case, you would have announced it right away.”
“Sorry,” he said bluntly. “No Scoop of the Year this time.”
“So you’re declining to comment.”
“What’s there to comment about?”
Römpötti was silent for a moment. “Well, I guess I’ll just put it on the website then.”
“Put what?”
“Check our website in five minutes,” she said and hung up.
Damn. How in the hell had she found out about the case already? That would be almost impossible to answer. Journalists had their sources and dozens of people knew about Eriksson’s murder.
Competition for internet news had changed the relationship between the police and the media. Now journalists demanded every crumb of information immediately, and more often than not they published it the moment they heard it. There was a time when Takamäki could have asked her to call back in the afternoon, and they could have dealt with the issue like grown-ups. Now, Römpötti was in a rush to get the story online before somebody beat her to it.