“What is it?” she asked, pulling off her headphones.
“The Puttonen interrogation, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Takamäki tossed the papers onto Joutsamo’s desk. “Forget Puttonen. Got a new one for you.”
Joutsamo swore. “What the hell? What do you mean, forget it? Little Red Riding Hood is right over in that cell. I can’t just drop it.”
“Yes, you can,” Takamäki said. “I’ve been thinking about the case. There’s no crime there. Doesn’t meet the description.”
Joutsamo was silent.
“Believe me. There’s no way to get a case out of it. If you ask me, society would be better off if it concentrated its resources on the twerps who were harassing her.”
“So which one of us is going handle that? You or me? There’s no one else here,” Joutsamo said laconically.
Takamäki chuckled. “Let’s release her. She’s probably got a school day tomorrow. Transcribe the interrogation later when you have some time, and I’ll write up a report closing the investigation, citing no crime.”
Joutsamo turned to the papers Takamäki had tossed onto her desk. The photo was on top. “And who’s this winner?”
“Prisoner Timo Repo, serving life. Killed his wife a few years back, but what most interests me now is his current whereabouts.”
“Escaped convict?”
It didn’t take Takamäki more than a minute to pass on the info he had received from Helmikoski.
“Goddammit, cases like this piss the fuc… I mean really annoy me. We do our job and then…”
The lieutenant cut off his subordinate’s rant. “You’re preaching to the choir.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” Takamäki said. “This guy disappeared an hour ago. Find out where he might be or want to get.”
“Timo Repo.” Joutsamo savored the name. “I might have read something about him at some point.”
“Well, that’s a good start. So you guys are practically friends. Where’s Suhonen?”
“Hmm, I wonder where he could be at five o’clock on a Monday?” Joutsamo said.
Takamäki chuckled. Joutsamo grabbed the previous day’s newspaper from the top of one of her piles. “I was going to ask you about this earlier. Did you read this interview this morning?”
Takamäki glanced at the page Joutsamo was showing him from the Sunday section of the Helsingin Sanomat.
“Yeah, I read it,” he said.
The newspaper had sacrificed two pages to an interview with Aarno Fredberg, the new chief justice of the Supreme Court. In the article, Fredberg described his liberal views on criminal justice policy. From the perspective of the policeman, and the policewoman too, the headline was harsh: “Prison Doesn’t Do Any Good.” According to Chief Justice Fredberg, society would be better off if it focused its resources on things other than police and prosecutors, because incarceration simply escalated the cycle of marginalization.
Joutsamo was still holding the paper. “Can I call Mr. Chief Justice and have him come down here to talk to a few victims of serial rapists? That might open his eyes.”
“No.”
“Seriously, how can the highest justice in the land say stuff like this publicly? It’s going to have a direct impact-judges will be handing down more lenient sentences. The bad guys are going to be getting out faster and committing more crimes.”
“Yes, of course, because prison doesn’t do any good,” Takamäki said sarcastically.
Joutsamo didn’t notice the joke. She huffed, “What?”
“Listen, if the minister of the interior said police productivity has to increase even more, would you start working overtime for free?”
“No,” Joutsamo replied tartly.
“Well, those judges don’t believe everything they read in the paper, either. They’re people, just like you and me.”
“Still, the guy could think for a second before opening his mouth,” Joutsamo snapped, flinging the paper back on the stack.
“Would you believe me if I said it would be better if Repo was back sleeping in his own cell sometime soon?”
Joutsamo laughed, and Takamäki continued. “Let Puttonen go. Apologize and say that the police have to investigate all reports of crime, even the ambiguous ones. Be apologetic enough, genuinely apologetic, I mean, so she doesn’t lodge a complaint with the Ministry of Justice. Because if she does, you get to write the response. I can’t stand doing them anymore.”
“No?”
“No, actually I can’t. They’re such a joke. I’ll go get Suhonen and see if we can’t send Superman here back to his cell.”
“Be sure and pack the Kryptonite,” Joutsamo said.
* * *
Takamäki parked his unmarked police vehicle, a Volkswagen Golf, in the parking lot of the Helsinki Hockey Arena, a mile up Mannerheim Street from downtown. Luckily, Monday wasn’t a game night, so there was plenty of space. On the way, Takamäki had called his wife, Kaarina, and told her he’d be at least a few hours late.
The rain kept coming down, and Takamäki hustled to the practice rink door on the east side of the building.
As soon as he entered the lobby, he could smell the familiar, vaguely pungent aroma of hockey arenas. He stepped into the elevator and went down a couple of floors, where the elevator doors opened to the clanking of a game. The soundscape was different from that of league games. There were only a handful of spectators and the sounds of play predominated-you could hear the swear words more clearly.
It looked like there was an actual game underway on the ice, as it was unlikely that any team would have brought a ref in zebra stripes just for a practice. Takamäki looked around for Suhonen but couldn’t spot him. The players all looked alike in their gear. The police team was wearing electric blue jerseys that read “PUCK POLICE” in big letters. The other team was playing in red. He’d probably find Suhonen on the bench, Takamäki decided, and walked on.
Takamäki was well aware-there’s no way he could have avoided hearing about it at the station-that a year ago Suhonen had started playing hockey with the Financial Crimes Division. The undercover detective had trained them in the use of unconventional investigative methods; in other words, how to use informants. At some point, Suhonen had mentioned having played hockey all the way up to the Under 16 team in his hometown of Lahti, which had inspired the guys in Financial Crimes to recruit him.
Takamäki jumped when the plexiglass boomed right next to him. One of the blue players had tackled one of the reds into the boards. The ref blew his whistle and skated over.
“Number 27, two minutes! You know there’s no tackling in the veteran league!”
Number 27 tapped the plexiglass in front of Takamäki with his stick, and the lieutenant recognized that the smirking face belonged to his undercover officer. Suhonen started skating toward the penalty box.
Takamäki walked up to the bench and whistled loudly at the ref, who skated over. “What now? It was clearly an illegal tackle,” the sweating official bellowed.
Takamäki flashed his badge. “I have a warrant for Number 27 there. Eject him from the game. I’m going to take him back to the station.”
“Fine with me,” the ref laughed.
He skated over to the penalty box, put his hands on his hips and announced that Suhonen was being kicked out of the game.
“What?!” Suhonen protested. “What’d I do?”
“Talking back to the ref! You’re done! Out of here!”
Suhonen glared ominously at Takamäki, who was smiling on the other side of the plexiglass, skated submissively toward the team bench, and stepped off the ice.
“Nice tackle,” Takamäki said. Suhonen snatched the key to his locker from behind the bench and headed into the locker room without a word. Takamäki followed him down the linoleum corridor.
The locker room reeked of years of ingrained sweat. The stench took Takamäki back to his patrol-cop years; their locker room had smelled the same. It was a good stink in a way, because it carried a whiff of action. Suhonen sat down on the bench and pulled off his helmet.