first big crook I ever bagged. Back then, I was just a street cop and celebrated it for three days. The next time I nabbed him was ten years ago and now he’s out laughing at us again. He won’t laugh long.”
It seemed to Susisaari that Kempas was taking the matter too personally. The police should loathe crime and wrongdoing, not the criminal.
Susisaari had been involved in several chilling murder investigations, which the news media had portrayed as monstrous. In each case, the perpetrator was caught, and they always seemed like people, not monsters.
Susisaari often recalled a lecture she had attended at the police academy, held by an experienced homicide detective. The lecturer had reminded them that every murderer was someone’s child, someone’s son or daughter. They didn’t have to accept the crime, but they did have to try to understand it. That understanding helped them solve other crimes.
Leino seized his chance to speak.
“We’ve chatted with Nygren’s friends—nobody knows anything. The only thing we can do is follow the two of them and see what they’re up to. Every department in the country has been alerted. They’ll keep us up to date.”
“Up to date on what? That Nygren was doing sixty in his Benz down the straights of Highway 5 and he wears size forty-three Mexican boots? We wouldn’t get far on that. I want intel with a capital ‘I.’ That means wiretaps, surveillance and mindreading if you can figure it out. Whatever it takes to keep him from getting away with something.”
Leino and Lunden glanced at one another, then simultaneously at Kempas. The man could get worked up sometimes, but he seemed to be in a frenzy over Nygren.
“It’s a little tough to tap his phone when he’s on the road all the time.”
“He’s gotta sleep somewhere. Try to anticipate their route. He’s got expensive tastes. Always stays at the best hotel in the area. Put a microphone to the wall and tape their discussions. Go through his cellphone records, too. The calls will tip us off on where they’re headed. And try to find out if he has any friends along the way. I know he’s got a daughter somewhere around Kuopio and an ex-wife somewhere.”
Kempas fidgeted, his body buzzing with excess energy.
“You still need me for anything?” asked Susisaari.
“Get me Jansson’s binder on Raid.”
“There’s not much there, and I doubt what we have would be very useful.”
“Someone told me Jansson and Raid are friends.”
“Someone’s wrong.”
“Can’t you at least find out how Raid and Nygren know each other?”
Susisaari swallowed “at least” with a straight face.
“I can put in a call to Sweden.”
“He has cancer,” said Officer Lunden, having waited for just the right moment to drop this bit of information.
“Raid?” Kempas asked.
“Nygren.”
“So what?”
“If the guy’s dying, why would he be planning another gig? Rumor has it he’s got at least a million stashed away from past jobs. That’s enough to get him all the way to judgment day.”
Kempas weighed Lunden’s argument and accepted it, but with reservations.
“If we added up all the cash these crooks would need stashed away, even Nokia’s executive stock options wouldn’t be enough. Everyone talks about millions, even if all they stole were lollipops. A crook is a crook solely because he has no moderation when it comes to money. He blows it all, and when the money’s gone, he does another job. Nygren’s no exception, no matter what kind of big shot he’s supposed to be. It’s a retirement job. Say what you will. He’s planning a retirement job.”
Lunden objected, though he knew Kempas disliked objections when he was chomping at the bit.
“All the cops ever
It seemed to Susisaari that Kempas was taking the matter too personally. The police should loathe crime and wrongdoing, not the criminal.
Susisaari had been involved in several chilling murder investigations, which the news media had portrayed as monstrous. In each case, the perpetrator was caught, and they always seemed like people, not monsters.
Susisaari often recalled a lecture she had attended at the police academy, held by an experienced homicide detective. The lecturer had reminded them that every murderer was someone’s child, someone’s son or daughter. They didn’t have to accept the crime, but they did have to try to understand it. That understanding helped them solve other crimes.
Leino seized his chance to speak.
“We’ve chatted with Nygren’s friends—nobody knows anything. The only thing we can do is follow the two of them and see what they’re up to. Every department in the country has been alerted. They’ll keep us up to date.”
“Up to date on what? That Nygren was doing sixty in his Benz down the straights of Highway 5 and he wears size forty-three Mexican boots? We wouldn’t get far on that. I want intel with a capital ‘I.’ That means wiretaps, surveillance and mindreading if you can figure it out. Whatever it takes to keep him from getting away with something.”
Leino and Lunden glanced at one another, then simultaneously at Kempas. The man could get worked up sometimes, but he seemed to be in a frenzy over Nygren.
“It’s a little tough to tap his phone when he’s on the road all the time.”
“He’s gotta sleep somewhere. Try to anticipate their route. He’s got expensive tastes. Always stays at the best hotel in the area. Put a microphone to the wall and tape their discussions. Go through his cellphone records, too. The calls will tip us off on where they’re headed. And try to find out if he has any friends along the way. I know he’s got a daughter somewhere around Kuopio and an ex-wife somewhere.”
Kempas fidgeted, his body buzzing with excess energy.
“You still need me for anything?” asked Susisaari.
“Get me Jansson’s binder on Raid.”
“There’s not much there, and I doubt what we have would be very useful.”
“Someone told me Jansson and Raid are friends.”
“Someone’s wrong.”
“Can’t you at least find out how Raid and Nygren know each other?”
Susisaari swallowed “at least” with a straight face.
“I can put in a call to Sweden.”
“He has cancer,” said Officer Lunden, having waited for just the right moment to drop this bit of information.
“Raid?” Kempas asked.
“Nygren.”
“So what?”
“If the guy’s dying, why would he be planning another gig? Rumor has it he’s got at least a million stashed away from past jobs. That’s enough to get him all the way to judgment day.”
Kempas weighed Lunden’s argument and accepted it, but with reservations.
“If we added up all the cash these crooks would need stashed away, even Nokia’s executive stock options wouldn’t be enough. Everyone talks about millions, even if all they stole were lollipops. A crook is a crook solely because he has no moderation when it comes to money. He blows it all, and when the money’s gone, he does another job. Nygren’s no exception, no matter what kind of big shot he’s supposed to be. It’s a retirement job. Say what you will. He’s planning a retirement job.”
Lunden objected, though he knew Kempas disliked objections when he was chomping at the bit.
“All the cops ever
Similar Books
