Raid and the Blackest Sheep (18 page)

    
Raid opened the door to see K. Rimpinen enjoying a pastime he had apparently devised for the long hours of the night. A young nurse lay half-naked on the examination table. Her clothes were still on, but they were undone and raked aside. Her large breasts shuddered in time with Rimpinen’s thrusting. The woman saw Raid first. She was so bewildered as to be speechless. His sudden entrance had ruined the moment and Rimpinen’s enthusiastic efforts were going to waste.

    
“Good evening!” said Raid in a loud voice.

    
Rimpinen was so startled he nearly fell off the examination table. He tried to jerk his pants up, but had little success in a supine position. The nurse finally regained her faculties and pushed Rimpinen off.

    
Rimpinen got his pants up and patted his tousled hair back into place.

    
“Sorry, but your patient needs some pain killers,” said Raid.

    
Rimpinen glanced at the nurse, who was wriggling her bra up her waist, then he followed Raid into the hallway.

    
“What patient…and who the hell are you?”

    
Then he remembered.

    
“You’re Nygren’s relative.”

    
“He needs some pain medication for the trip. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

    
“The man is terminally ill. He can’t go anywhere.”

    
“Doesn’t a dying man get to decide where to die?”

    
“We’re talking about prescription pain-killers—they’re extremely powerful drugs. I can’t just hand them out to anybody.”

    
Raid took a gun from beneath his coat and pressed it against Rimpinen’s temple.

    
“Here’s my prescription.”

    
Rimpinen looked at the gun. It took a moment before he realized the delicateness of the situation.

    
“The pharmacy is on the second floor.”

    
Raid followed him up the stairs. A sturdy-looking metal door barred the way to the pharmacy. Rimpinen took a large key out of his coat pocket.

    
“This is a serious crime, I hope you understand that.”

    
Raid followed him into the pharmacy. The morphine and other powerful drugs were in a locked cabinet, and Rimpinen took out a second key.

    
“These come in tablets or in a liquid for syringes.”

    
“Both.”

    
Rimpinen took a box of both.

    
“The syringe,” Raid demanded.

    
Rimpinen took a syringe and a box of needles off a shelf.

    
“Thanks.”

    
Raid closed the door behind him and locked Rimpinen inside.

    
When he heard Raid’s approaching footsteps, Nygren came out to join him. Together, they walked into the waiting room. Raid gave a wave to the receptionist, and by the time she was able to react, they were already outside.

    
“You rest in the back seat. We’ll have to get as far as we can before they report us to the police.”

    
“I won’t slow us down. Step on it.”

12.

When Lieutenant Kempas arrived at the physical rehab center, Jansson was suffering through one of the lectures. The topic was menopause and the accompanying psychophysical changes. Jansson could hardly believe his eyes when the speaker dug out a tube of personal lubricant, which had helped when her own secretions had started to dry up.

    
For once, Jansson was relieved to see Kempas.

    
“Sorry to interrupt such an interesting lecture.”

    
They went to the cafeteria. Kempas bought a small coffee and brought it to a window table. He was dressed in a suit with a pinstripe pattern that was genuine 1960s vintage. The tie was wine-red with a small checked pattern.

    
Jansson almost felt pity for him. He knew Kempas was divorced, but even if he hadn’t, he would have guessed. It was obvious that no woman had a say in what Kempas dressed himself in.

    
“I figured we’d better meet. I was in Kuopio and this happened to be on the way.”

    
“Leino and Lunden were already here.”

    
“That’s not the same.”

    
“I told them I haven’t heard anything new.”

    
“I wanted to hear it myself.”

    
“Now you have.”

    
“Why did Raid call you?”

    
“Just wanted to pass on a message.”

    
“Right…that they wanna be left alone. Doesn’t make sense. If they wanted to be left alone, why’d they blow off Sariola’s fingers and a piece of his shoulder?”

    
“I didn’t hear about that.”

    
“Sariola’s in the hospital in Kuopio. I went to see him but he’s not talking…well…he is, but not enough.”

    
“Where did the shooting happen?”

    
“At Nygren’s place near Kuopio. The property is actually owned by one of his friends.”

    
“What was Sariola doing out there?”

    
“He’s not saying.”

    
“Sariola and Leino already tried to pry some money out of Nygren. Doesn’t it make sense that this was another attempt? They just bit off more than they could chew.”

    
“It’s possible.”

    
“Is there a warrant out on Nygren?”

    
“Yes, for attempted murder. Same goes for Raid.”

    
“Were there any witnesses?”

    
“Nope. We searched the place, but didn’t find anything. A neighbor saw Nygren and Raid on the day of the shooting. He claims he doesn’t know anything about it, but I could tell he was lying.”

    
Kempas looked at Jansson expectantly.

    
“In other words, the situation has progressed quite a bit since we last talked. Do you think Raid will contact you again?”

    
“Hard to say.”

    
Kempas watched a legless war veteran roll past the window.

    
“We’ve all lost something in this war. Some a leg, some an arm, some their soul…their future.”

    
A text message appeared on Jansson’s phone. He pulled it up on screen:
Need backup? Huusko.

    
Jansson glanced around and spotted Huusko in the upstairs lobby. He tapped out a response:
Not yet.

    
Kempas watched Jansson quietly as he did this.

    
“Are we on the same team here?”

    
“Yes,” Jansson replied.

    
“Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

    
“No?”

    
“You have something against me?”

    
Jansson took a moment to consider why Kempas’ attitude always sparked defiance in him. He decided not to answer.

    
“Do you know why people don’t like me?” asked Kempas, his keen eyes seeming to burrow into Jansson’s.

    
“What people?”

    
“My co-workers.”

    
“I wouldn’t say they don’t like you.”

    
“It’s because I’m a cop 24-7. I’m serious about my work. Amateurs dislike professionals because they don’t like to be reminded of what could be possible if they took their work seriously. Nobody wants to hear the truth.”

    
“I do.”

    
“Then you’re in the same boat as I am…well over fifty and still a lieutenant while our captains and even their superiors are far less competent than we are.”

    
“Being a captain doesn’t interest me.”

    
“That’s exactly it. Do incompetent cops have to be promoted just because they want to be?”

    
“You don’t get ahead unless you want it.”

    
Kempas ignored Jansson’s comment.

    
“I’ve been in hundreds of department meetings, management seminars and training sessions. You wouldn’t believe the trivial stuff they vacillate over, the way they dodge the truth and praise people who don’t deserve it. If someone dares to tell the truth, everyone else is too afraid to listen. They plug their ears like little kids. The truth is too bitter a pill for most.”

    
“What do you mean by ‘the truth?’”

    
“That the entire system is based on praising worthlessness and incompetence. Competence and zeal are viewed as dangerous.”

    
Kempas searched Jansson’s eyes for support, but came up empty.

    
“Everyone thinks—maybe you do too—that I’m bitter because I haven’t gotten further than I have. That’s not it. I don’t want to get any further. I’d rather solve one tough case right than wear a captain’s stripes for the rest of my life. That’s why I’m dangerous. And that’s why I’m laughed at. The harder you laugh, the more they pat you on the back.”

    
Jansson would have never imagined winding up as Kempas’ confidante, especially not while sober.

    
“You’re considered a good cop.”

    
“I’m not asking for sympathy. I only want to be frank with you. I want us to agree on things.”

    
“We do, in many respects,” Jansson reflected.

    
“I respect your work and I hope you respect mine.”

    
Something in Jansson’s brain clicked into place and the truth dawned. The only reason Kempas was gushing was to soften him up. Kempas’ methods exceeded all measures of crookedness by a long shot, but for some reason, Jansson was okay with it. He was almost pleased when he anticipated Kempas’ next move.

    
“I need your help. If we can get Raid, we’ll get Nygren too.”

    
Kempas took a map out of his pocket. Here and there were red
x
’s, which he had jotted with a marker. He tapped the left lower corner with his finger.

    
“Turku. That’s the first place Nygren and Raid went. We know he met a friend of his who runs a kind of makeshift church down there. From there they went northeast toward Kuopio.”

    
He tapped on the next
x
.

    
“Here’s where they first ran into Sariola and Lehto. Then they continued here to Nygren’s place. That’s where the trail ends.”

    
Numerous red question marks also dotted the map.

    
“These indicate the homes of Nygren’s past accomplices. Some have already been questioned.”

    
Jansson glanced at the map. The northernmost question mark was in Lapland, near Rovaniemi.

    
“Where’s Nygren from?”

    
Kempas pointed to the map.

    
“Somewhere around here.”

    
“If he’s saying his final farewells, you’d think he’d visit his childhood stomping grounds.”

    
“Same thing occurred to me. The problem is that we’re not sure where that is. By the time he was ten, he’d already lived in three different places.”

    
“What about his daughter? He’s got a grown daughter.”

    
“I see we’re on the same track. That also occurred to me.”

    
Jansson’s cellphone rang. The caller was Raid.

    
“Can you talk?”

    
“Hold on.”

    
Jansson got up and withdrew from the table.

    
“They’re after you guys for attempted murder.”

    
“That’s why I called. It was self-defense. Sariola shot first.”

    
“You’d best come in with Nygren and explain.”

    
“Can’t do it.”

    
“Why not?”

    
“Gotta take care of a couple things first.”

    
“How long’s that gonna take?”

    
“Couple days.”