Behind the table a shelf held more books and some papers. The bed was made.
“A life of modesty,” Suhonen remarked, pulling on his latex gloves. This time it was more a matter of habit than need.
“Dream prisoner. These past few years, I mean.”
“A loner?”
“For that reason, too.”
Suhonen started from the table. The books were nonfiction. Two were about the history of the Roman Empire, both borrowed from the prison library. Suhonen shook the books so that anything inside would have fallen out onto the table. But there was nothing.
Suhonen wasn’t about to start looking inside the TV. This wasn’t a narcotics raid. He was seeking information on addresses or acquaintances: scraps of paper, letters, a calendar.
He stepped over to the shelf and scanned it rapidly. A slim stack of papers caught his attention, and Suhonen picked it up. It was the Court of Appeals verdict in Repo’s case. The pages were worn at the corners, and the paper felt greasy. The interior pages were heavily underlined, and comments had been written in the margins in tiny letters. Suhonen thought for a moment and decided to bring the stack to Joutsamo. His colleague had the best sense of the case and might be able to glean hints from the scribblings.
Suhonen set the stack of documents on the table. He scanned down the shelves but didn’t find anything of interest, only a can of Nescafé, a mug, a folded sweater, and a couple of DVDs. Pulp Fiction? Okay, not a bad choice for a prisoner. Suhonen opened the cases, but all they contained were the disks.
“Why are there DVDs here, if he doesn’t have a player?”
“Are there?” Ainola said, stepping a little closer. Suhonen handed the cases to the warden. “Oh, these are from the prison library. The prisoners can also borrow a DVD player there, but it’s probably already been loaned on to someone else. I’d better return these, too. Otherwise he’ll lose his DVD privileges once you bring him back here to his cell.”
“Su-ure.”
“What do you mean, su-ure?”
Suhonen didn’t answer immediately. He turned toward the bed. “These convict escapes are kind of like murder investigations. If the case isn’t wrapped up right away, we work overtime until it’s solved. Murders can take months, but there are dozens of detectives working on them, at least at the beginning. Now we’re chasing down this ghost with a few guys, and we don’t really have anything to go on. Searching a cell like this is pretty pointless. The problem is that even though the guy’s a murderer, he’s a complete enigma. We don’t know anything about his friends, if he even has any. We’re not going to get anywhere with his family. So it’s a total crapshoot. Of course he might get caught at some DUI checkpoint or end up in the Töölö drunk tank, but that’s more a matter of chance.”
“Are you stressing out over this case?”
“Not especially. I’m just pissed off that in a way we’re doing pointless work . Okay, it’s not totally pointless. But if we have to start by figuring out who the guy is, it’s looking like we’re in for a long-distance relay.”
Ainola shrugged. “Welcome to the team.”
Suhonen laughed. “All we’d need is to find something good under that mattress.” Suhonen lifted it up. The bed frame was empty.
There was a knock at the door, and Ainola opened. The chunky guard from the break room was standing there. “Forsberg’s in the break room.”
“Who’s Forsberg?” Suhonen asked.
“Our lucky lottery winner,” Ainola grunted. “Last time around, he won four plus a bonus number from district court: aggravated robbery, felony narcotics, aggravated assault, felony fraud, and, for the bonus, criminal intimidation.”
“Oh, Foppa,” Suhonen growled. The jack-of-all-trades had gotten his nickname from the famous Swedish hockey player. “I remember him. He was Repo’s closest buddy?”
“They’re not actually buddies,” the fat guard said. “But he was in the next cell over. He might know something.”
The guard led the way to the break room. Suhonen could smell a fresh pot brewing. There was nothing about Forsberg particularly reminiscent of his namesake, although maybe the hockey player also liked to lounge around in sweats-presumably not brown prison-issue ones, though. Foppa the Con was sporting a white T-shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, and a growing bald spot. He was about fifty.
Suhonen extended a hand and the men shook. “Suhonen, Helsinki Police.”
The crook’s handshake wasn’t especially firm. As a matter of fact, it was limp.
“Forsberg,” he answered in a low voice. “So whaddaya want?”
“I have a couple of questions,” Suhonen said.
“What about?”
“Repo. I want to know why he took off.”
“How would I know?”
“They say you knew him best.”
“Pffft,” Forsberg said. “Nobody knows anyone in this joint. Everyone’s out for themselves. I couldn’t give a shit what some other convict is thinking. Besides, he was a pretty quiet guy.”
“Pretty quiet?”
“Yeah. Mostly hung out alone, didn’t talk to me, even though we both worked over in the sign shop. Someone said that back when he first got here he was pretty bitter, but I couldn’t tell.”
“Who said?” Suhonen asked.
“Can’t remember.”
“Who else did he talk to besides you?”
“No one, really. Okay, maybe Juha Saarnikangas. He’s one of those junkies, looks like a skeleton. You know, when he raises his arms, his watch slides down to his shoulder.”
“Okay,” Suhonen nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”
“Well, he’s not big time. At least not big time enough for a cop to remember him. A real skeeze.”
Suhonen thought Forsberg didn’t exactly appear to be a rocket scientist, either. “What did Repo do at night?”
“Mostly sat or lay there in his cell alone. Spent a lot of time in the library. Seemed to like electronics. Borrowed books on the subject. Oh yeah, he’d always go read the newspapers, too. Maybe it helped him keep up with what was happening on the outside. Or at least he thought it did.”
Forsberg paused for a second and drank his coffee. Suhonen let the silence weigh and reached for his own mug.
“But Timo’s no gangster. Corking his wife was probably an idea that just popped into his head when he was drunk, ha-ha,” Forsberg grunted, looking at the grim-faced Suhonen. “Don’t you get it? Corking, ha-ha, ’cause he shut her up and almost took her head off at the same time, ha-ha.”
“Yeah, I got it, it just wasn’t very funny.”
Forsberg stopped laughing. “Well, can’t help you any more. He’ll probably show up at some police station in a couple of days. I think his old man’s funeral just sent him off the deep end.”
* * *
Sitting at his desk, Takamäki was working on his son’s accident. He had copied the surveillance camera images from the flash drive to his computer. He had momentarily considered taking prints home, but then had rejected the idea.
He had seen so many crime scenes and images of them that the photos were nothing more than a tool for him. They didn’t convey any emotion or terror, just information from the scene. But his wife wouldn’t be capable of viewing the surveillance camera shots in the same way. That’s why it was better not to show themto her.
Takamäki had pulled up the DMV database and was hesitating as to whether or not to look up the owner of the car that had hit Jonas. Investigating the hit-and-run wasn’t his turf; it wasn’t even Helsinki Police turf. The Espoo police were supposed to take care of it. But license plate info wasn’t confidential. Anyone could call a toll-free number and request information on any vehicle.