“Listen to what I’m saying,” Aronen’s voice was tense now. “They’ve been running an undercover operation against us and they think we’re behind the bombing. The truth will come out later, but for now, you can say the police suspect us of being involved. That’s a true statement.”
The operator raised three fingers.
“Okay. I’m on camera in a minute. Thanks for the lead.” Römpötti tried to think of how she could say it on the air. Needless to say, the police wouldn’t confirm any suspicions at this stage; they seemed to have ceased all communications with the outside. Undoubtedly, the entire police organization was in chaos as the different branches scrambled to figure out who would investigate what. Maybe she could say something like this: “According to our sources, the bombing may have been connected to organized crime. Reportedly, the Skulls motorcycle gang is a prime suspect.”
Römpötti took a gulp of coffee and climbed out of the van into the cold wind. The camera operator, dressed in a thick parka and knit hat, waved her in front of the camera.
The top level of the parking ramp was surrounded by a five-foot-tall concrete wall, so the cameraman had set up two plastic crates for the reporter and him to stand on. That way, the scene of the accident, and not just the concrete wall, would be visible in the background.
She cleared her throat. In her hand was a small notebook, where she had written her keywords. Stepping onto the crate, she asked the camera man if everything was ready.
* * *
It was still several minutes before the meeting would begin. In the corner of the conference room at Helsinki Police Headquarters was a television, the volume at a whisper. Several officers were conversing in subdued tones as the NBI’s Jaakko Nykänen, dressed in a gray suit with his walrus mustache bristling, stepped inside.
The VCU conference room had been made into the command center for the investigation. About thirty officers, some sitting in front of their laptops, others standing beneath the cold fluorescent lights, were gathered in the room. Nykänen remembered dozens, if not hundreds of meetings that Takamäki had led in this room. Dammit, he thought.
The news broadcast came on and Nykänen told someone to turn up the volume. He hadn’t had time yet to see how the media was handling the incident, but now he had a minute and a half before the meeting would start. Nykänen grabbed a half-liter bottle of water from the basket on the table, opened it and took a swig. Sanna Römpötti appeared on the screen.
First, Römpötti spoke about the victims and the fatality, and alluded to the Pasila Police Headquarters bombing of fifteen years ago. Nykänen remembered it well, since he was still in the Helsinki PD at the time.
“Again in 2002, a car bomb exploded downtown. Car bombs don’t choose their victims,” the reporter said. “So it’s not clear yet whether the bomb was intended for police, or whether it was an accident.”
That Römpötti had obtained accurate information about the victims’ profession was no surprise to Nykänen. Almost immediately after the incident, that information had spread to dispatch, and within minutes, throughout the police station and beyond. If Römpötti hadn’t known it by now, she could hardly call herself a crime reporter.
But Nykänen perked up when she said the words “According to our exclusive sources…” What could this possibly be? Every now and then, these tidbits were useful to the cops too, as long as reporters did their job well. More often than not, however, it was the other way around-reporters revealed information that shouldn’t be made public.
Römpötti looked straight into the camera. In the background, gray skies and broad soccer fields stretched from one end of the screen to the other.
“…there is a possible link between the bombing and organized crime. Police suspect that the Skulls motorcycle gang was somehow involved in the explosion. Though this information hasn’t yet been verified, it came from a source close to the investigation.”
Nykänen stared blankly at the screen as Römpötti launched into the Skulls’ background. Her words fell on deaf ears as the NBI lieutenant struggled to think of where the leak had come from. How in the hell could anyone have known that they suspected the Skulls? Was Römpötti merely speculating in the heat of the moment? He knew she was working on some story about the Skulls; she had just interviewed him a few days ago. But this leak was far too precise.
Several of the officers in the room glanced over at Nykänen. He wondered how many cops knew about their Skull investigation. A handful at most, and of those present, only a few. His eyes roamed the room. Many there had just found about the Skulls’ involvement from the broadcast-that was apparent. But who in the hell had leaked this?
His irritation nearly surpassed his grief. He tried to concentrate. In only a short while, he would have to conduct an important meeting to kick off the investigation.
Grief and irritation fostered anger, which Nykänen couldn’t afford. He had to stay cool and push his feelings aside. Even though he knew this, it seemed too much to bear.
* * *
Larsson and Steiner were on their third round of whiskeys, while Aronen had settled for coffee. That didn’t bother him-best if someone was sober. It had been no different in Afghanistan.
“Goddamn, this is a good day. We hit Helsinki Homicide-and hard,” Larsson grinned and raised his glass. In the corner, a television showed Sanna Römpötti gesturing toward the shrouded scaffolding.
“Good whiskey will make my day, any day,” Steiner remarked. After three o’clock, the Skulls’ core group had proceeded from the mall’s coffee shop to the restaurant. Aronen had assured their alibi the moment they walked into the shopping center when a security guard noticed the gang symbols on his vest. The guard hadn’t let the three men out of his sight since one o’clock. That was better than any security camera footage. Two guards had followed them from the coffee shop into the restaurant. That didn’t bother Larsson today. The guards sat near the entrance, far enough away that they couldn’t hear the conversation.
“Steiner, I’ll show you where the iron crosses grow,” Larsson grinned.
Steiner just sipped his whiskey-he had heard that a few times before.
“Well, what now?” asked Aronen.
Larsson swirled the ice in his glass. “Let’s think about what the enemy’s gonna do. That’s what they taught you in the army, right? Sooner or later, the cops are gonna raid our place and probably arrest us, but they won’t have anything on us. No evidence. Even if they lean on their rat hard enough, he might testify that he overheard Roge and Osku talking about the car. But they were only supposed to pick it up. There’s nothing more he can say. And if the cops twist his words around, we always have the security footage from the bar room to prove him wrong. That bomb was intended for us. The stupid cops just stumbled in at the wrong time.”
Steiner cut in. “The pigs will never admit that they were stupid.”
“So we’re suspects for now, but in the end it’ll work in our favor,” Larsson said. “The cops can’t touch us.”
CHAPTER 21
MONDAY, 4:00 P.M.
PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS, HELSINKI
NBI Lieutenant Nykänen scanned the detectives in the VCU conference room. With room for only about twenty at the table, many were standing. Not surprisingly, their expressions were somber, but as was always the case when the victim was a colleague, they were highly motivated. Nykänen glanced at his watch: four o’clock sharp. Time to start the meeting. The TV flickered in the corner, but the volume had been turned off. The whispered conversation in the room had slowly reached a low hum.