“Where the hell is Larsson? I almost wish he’d come back, even if he kicks these stools out from under us. I’d take the plunge myself, but I’m afraid I’d knock you over in the process,” said Salmela. His voice was nearly at a whisper now.
The men listened closely for a moment. Only the quiet hum of cars on Beltway One reached their ears.
“He’ll come. He hates me so much he wouldn’t miss this.”
“My whole body hurts like hell,” Salmela moaned.
Suhonen tried once more to move his hands. If he could only work them free of his feet, his predicament would improve substantially. The noose wouldn’t cinch if he could just get his feet on the floor.
“Something must have happened at the hospital,” said Suhonen.
“Think he got busted?”
“Possible.” Suhonen was quiet for a second. He didn’t want to speculate, since Larsson’s arrest would mean that nobody would be coming back for them. They had been left to die. They couldn’t hold on much longer.
Steiner’s blood lay on the cement floor, and had dried into what looked like an ink blot.
“No use crying over spilt blood.”
“What?” Salmela blurted.
“No use crying over spilt blood.” Suhonen repeated. “I’ve always thought those old proverbs should be updated.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. With police lingo, you know… A crook in the hand is worth two in the bush.”
Salmela chuckled-a good sign, Suhonen thought. At least he was thinking of something else.
“A shooting cop seldom bites,” Suhonen went on.
Salmela jumped in too. “A penny stolen is a penny earned.”
Now it was Suhonen’s turn to laugh. Laughing made the pain seem to recede momentarily. “Don’t bite the hand with the billy club.”
“I got another,” said Salmela. “Snitches can’t be choosers.”
Suhonen almost lost his balance. “That’s good. And this one’s for Larsson, “There's more than one way to skin a gangster.”
* * *
Tapani Larsson was seated behind a pale brown table in the VCU’s dreary interrogation room, wearing orange police-issue coveralls. Takamäki sat opposite him and was accompanied by his side-kick Anna Joutsamo. Behind them was a sheet of one-way glass, through which Honkala and a couple of other officers were observing.
Larsson’s arms were crossed defiantly across his chest and he was scowling.
“This is not a formal interview, just a preliminary discussion,” said Takamäki, leaning forward and staring into the bald man’s eyes.
“I don’t have anything to talk about.”
Takamäki was pleased-at least he had gotten a response.
“You were arrested as a suspect in yesterday’s murder of Kauko Nurminen, amongst other things,” said Takamäki tersely.
“Who is he?”
“Was,” the lieutenant corrected. Joutsamo, next to him, looked stern.
“Pretty lady cop you got here. You banging her?”
Takamäki ignored the comment. “Larsson, you were released from prison on Wednesday-so exactly five days ago. Right now you’re on the fast track back to solitary in Turku Prison. For Nurminen’s murder, you’ll get life and serve at least fourteen years. Once we unravel this car bombing case that will probably go up to twenty-plus years for the cop killing. By the end of the 2020s, the media will be calling you ‘Finland’s longest-serving inmate.’”
“Well, if it’s so obvious, why are you asking me?” Larsson smiled. “Lock me up and throw away the key. What’s the point of this?”
Despite the attitude, Takamäki could see that his words had sunk in. The man’s posture had slumped a half inch.
“I’ll be enjoying my retirement before you get out.”
“Congratulations. But, you look so young!”
“I know you’re not stupid. You know the difference between murder and manslaughter, so I don’t need to explain that to you. Both the car bombing and the stabbing look like murder, but we’ll investigate them objectively. If we determine that the criteria for murder aren’t met, they’ll be investigated as manslaughters. If you ask me, Kauko Nurminen’s death looks like murder. You’re gonna have to tell us what actually happened there.”
Takamäki doubted a confession would be forthcoming, but according to the blood type results, only Steiner’s clothing contained traces of Nurminen’s blood. Though most of the blood on his pants was his own, they had found several blood drops on the left leg that were the same blood type as Nurminen’s. DNA would confirm it, but he wanted to give Larsson the opportunity to tell his side of the story.
“Is Steiner alive?” asked Larsson.
Takamäki considered lying and saying he was dead, since that was what Larsson was after. The gangster wouldn’t cast blame on a brother if he was still alive, but if the man was dead, Larsson could be more truthful.
“He’s alive.”
“I’m not saying anything. I understand you have to go through the murder versus manslaughter stuff, but I’m not buying it. I do appreciate that you didn’t lie to me about Steiner.”
“That’s not how we operate.”
Larsson laughed. “Uhh. Is that so?”
“What do you mean by that?” Takamäki said. Maybe this could lead somewhere.
“Fuck. You guys have the country’s biggest bullshitters.”
“What are you talking about? The case that landed you in prison last time?”
Larsson laughed. “Including that one. That Suhonen is a goddamn clown. He deserves his fate.”
A cold ripple ran down Takamäki’s spine. “What fate?”
Larsson laughed, but said nothing more.
“What did you mean by that?”
Had Suhonen shot Steiner only to fall victim to Larsson, he wondered?
“You can try, but you won’t be able to beat the Skulls.”
Takamäki massaged his jaw. This called for a change in tactics. “What Skulls? Your president is serving a life sentence and ten or so others are in prison too. You and Steiner will get life. Niko Andersson and Osku Rahkonen are dead. Roger Sandström is in jail on suspicion of murder. We have a warrant for Sami Aronen’s arrest on the same charge.”
Larsson didn’t respond, though he was clearly listening to the lieutenant.
Takamäki went on. “And just for your information: Osku shot Andersson, and the police shot Osku. So I was wondering if their names will make it on the headstone you guys got, or do they get asterisks? Is the epitaph going to say that one was shot by his buddy, and for the other one, that he shot his buddy? Your problem is that you don’t have anybody to carve the names. Your gang has crumbled. The Skulls don’t exist anymore.”
Larsson still didn’t say anything.
“The police shot Korpela a year ago. I was there myself when Kahma and Jyrkkä were shot in that abandoned parking lot in Hanko… Do you get it, Larsson? You’ve lost.”
“Bullshit,” Larsson tried to growl under his breath, but it came out feebly.
“You could put it on the back of your vests-The Skulls: Motorcycle Club for Inmates and the Dead. You’re unable to commit crimes anymore. You won’t see another gang member for years when you’re all spread out in different prisons. And your bodies in different graveyards.”
Larsson’s face was vacant as he hissed through his teeth, “You’re at the top of my hit-list.”
“Sure, but who’s gonna carry out the hit? We found a cell phone in Osku’s pocket with a photo and GPS coordinates. A GPS unit was also recovered from your offices with coordinates marked for various spots in the woods. Narcotics is digging them up right now. I don’t know if it’s weapons, drugs or money, but I will soon.”
Larsson was furious, but he wore a mocking smile.
“You and all the others are either in prison or dead. Try to understand…your gang is gone. And with the evidence we have, we’ll put your wife in prison too.”
“She isn’t…”
“Cut the bullshit. With the intel we have, we can nail Sara Lehto as an accessory to plenty of your jobs.”