He hurried toward the entrance. Two inches of fresh, wet snow lay on the ground. The temperature was barely freezing.
The lieutenant signed in. The receptionist, in her forties, smiled and told him that Dr. Nyman would be down in a few minutes. Tuija Nyman, a coroner in the department, had called him the previous evening and promised the results of Eriksson’s autopsy by morning. The Department of Forensic Medicine was part of the University of Helsinki, but its medical examiners handled all law-enforcement related medical investigations, from DUIs to autopsies.
A few minutes later, Takamäki and Nyman sat in her crowded office with cups of coffee. Takamäki had always thought that the thin, fifty-something woman looked Greek somehow. Her hair was a shimmering black, and she had a slender, attractive face. Only her hard eyes, which had seen it all, betrayed her profession.
“How’s jogging?” Nyman asked with a smile. For Takamäki, that smile was reason enough to be there in person, Nyman could have given him the information over the phone, too.
“Jog-you’ll die healthier… Lately I’ve been doing four, five miles.”
“Could I talk you into a marathon?”
“Not even you…” Takamäki smiled.
Nyman took several papers out of a plastic file folder.
“I opened up Eriksson yesterday… The cause of death was pretty clear. A bullet in the head, and here it is in Latin. Interested?”
“Well, I could’ve figured out the Finnish version from the crime scene photos, and I’ve heard the Latin version a few times.”
Nyman smiled again. “The weapon was a.22 caliber, and the bullet was somewhat flattened. I’m guessing it’s in good enough shape to run comparisons. You’re probably interested in the time of death?”
Takamäki nodded.
“Judging from the combination of air and body temperatures, and other signs in the corpse, I would estimate that he was shot sometime between Monday evening and Tuesday morning. As you know, that’s only an estimate.”
Takamäki wrote the information on his notepad, though he already had a better estimate based on the taxi receipts.
“I extracted the DNA and sent it along with hair samples to the lab for analysis. Eriksson’s blood alcohol level was.07. We didn’t find any unusual medical conditions, but the corpse wasn’t exactly in tip-top shape. His lifestyle was beginning to show. No surprise, then, that his stomach contained the remains of pepper steak, fries, and red wine. He probably ate a few hours earlier.”
“Sounds like a death-row inmate’s last meal,” Takamäki said. Though he hadn’t learned anything particularly new, he didn’t mind. It was always nice to visit the coroner.
* * *
Joutsamo stood in front of a timeline she had drawn on the whiteboard and filled in the information with a black marker. This particular conference room had been reserved for the Eriksson case.
The time was listed above, and below that were known activities with about ten items on the timeline. At the end of the line was the medical examiner’s estimated time of death, which Takamäki had called in. The timeline for Monday went like this:
6:53 P.M.-Taxi to Kallio
Dinner. Where?
9:33 P.M.-Hailed a taxi in front of Tenkka
9:46 P.M.-Gets out at Pirjo’s Tavern
Time of murder? By Tue Morning.
The next item was from Wednesday around 3:00 A.M.-Suhonen finds body.
Takamäki and Joutsamo studied the diagram.
“Based on what the M.E. found in his stomach, their working assumption was that Eriksson was killed fairly soon after his taxi ride to Oulunkylä. That would put the time of death sometime between ten and eleven o’clock.”
“Unless he had the steak at Pirjo’s Tavern or somewhere else later on,” Takamäki speculated.
“We should find out if Eriksson went straight from Pirjo’s Tavern to the garage, or if he stopped somewhere in between. It would help if we could get a more specific time of death.” Joutsamo said.
Joutsamo had also started a diagram for Saarnikangas. At this point, it only had one item: “Tuesday 8:30 P.M.-Meets Suhonen on Boulevard.”
“We’ll get Saarnikangas’ phone records around noon. That should shed some more light on his whereabouts.”
“Assuming he had the phone with him,” Takamäki said. They had been involved in numerous cases where criminals had changed phones to throw them off or to create an alibi for themselves.
“What about the phone records for the Pakila cell tower?”
“That’ll come around noon as well. Apparently, between Monday evening and Tuesday morning, about five thousand calls were logged.”
“A hell of a lot,” Takamäki remarked.
“That’s because all the cellphone traffic from Beltway One gets routed through that tower.”
“Hmm,” said the lieutenant before changing the subject. “Did Kohonen find anything on Eriksson’s handgun?”
“It was reported stolen from a Turku gun shop in the spring of ’01. Doesn’t help us much… It didn’t show up in any other database.”
“So that doesn’t get us anywhere,” Takamäki said. “What about his activities between Pirjo’s Tavern and the garage? Did you get a chance to find out if there were any security cameras?”
“No. But as they say, I’m working on it.”
Takamäki nodded. The team had to prioritize. Only a few years ago, the Violent Crimes Unit had almost eighty officers, but because of budget cuts, that number had been reduced to sixty. Police work had become like any other business: the goal being to optimize results with existing resources. They had no time for finer strokes. Arrests had to be made as quickly and as efficiently as possible, so they could move on to the next case, which also meant that they had to focus only on the most serious ones.
“What about phone taps?”
Joutsamo shook her head. “We were all over it last night when Suhonen was trailing Saarnikangas, but he didn’t call anyone. We recorded the line overnight, but still nothing.”
“And Suhonen?”
“He saw Saarnikangas talking with some bouncer. Up until about ten, Suhonen was shadowing the bouncer, but then I went home. I haven’t talked with him this morning.”
Takamäki thought for a moment. “So, same status… Pretty much the same info as yesterday, but we have a little better idea on the time of death.”
“The case is at a standstill,” Joutsamo said. “Saarnikangas is our only real suspect.”
Her phone rang. “It’s the front desk,” Joutsamo said, puzzled.
“VCU, Joutsamo,” she answered in a crisp voice.
“Hi, this is Kyrölä from downstairs,” a man drawled. The front desk of the Pasila Police Headquarters was on the ground floor, and Joutsamo recalled the attendant, a fifty-something man with whom she had occasionally shared a table in the cafeteria.
In his time, Vesku Kyrölä had been one of Helsinki’s toughest K-9 cops. That was before a junkie had flayed his German Shepherd “Miska” with an axe. The incident landed Kyrölä on sick leave, and then behind the front desk.
“What’s up?” Joutsamo asked.
“Glad you picked up. We just got in a report of a missing person.”
“Listen, we’re working on another case here, I don’t have time. Could you call the main number to the VCU and someone will help you?”
“Really?” Kyrölä asked.
“Yup,” Joutsamo answered curtly, shrugging at Takamäki.
Kyrölä didn’t seem bothered on the other end. “Okay. Just thought I should give you a call since the computer says any information or inquiries about this person should go to you.”
Joutsamo raised her eyebrows. “Who’s missing?”
“I would think you’d know,” Kyrölä said, more seriously now. “Jerry Eriksson.”