Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  “And what will you noble, honest soldiers do about Ahlin’s bite marks? It’s going to be difficult to do any new tests on poor Katrin. Or will you march down to her young grave, backs straight and proud, shovels over your shoulders? Demand she be exhumed?” Sture took a considerable gulp of brandy. “Haven’t you got some other pointless task to keep busy with? Didn’t you ever learn to knit?”

  “No,” Sophia said. She bit back the rest of her reply. “I never learned to knit.”

  “What are you thinking, little Sophia? Are you thinking?”

  Sophia lay where she was, hesitating. It was usually best to let it be. Refuse to let him provoke her. She didn’t want to fight. At worst she would start to cry; at best she would fly into a rage and lose her temper. And that would upset Sture. It was Christmas Eve, and she didn’t want to upset him. She picked up another piece of toffee but changed her mind and put it back. Then she stood up and left the room. She didn’t feel like being ridiculed.

  Two minutes later, she returned with a dark blue plastic folder. She placed it on the coffee table and took out a bundle of photographs, a few forms, and a piece of paper that looked like a drawing. She handed one of the forms to Sture.

  “The test results presented during the trial were not the only ones produced during the investigation. They weren’t even the first ones. The court wasn’t privy to the original. Those results — which you can see there — said that it was impossible to state conclusively that the marks on the body were in fact bite marks.”

  Sophia pointed to a box near the bottom of the form. Sture took his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and read it. After a few seconds, he pushed the glasses down his nose and looked at Sophia.

  “What do you mean, the court wasn’t privy to this?”

  Sophia cleared her throat.

  “Just that. The original tests were done by a forensic odontologist with the National Board. But they are not included in the preliminary investigation. Why Stig’s former lawyers didn’t bring this up during the trial is a mystery. No one will ever be able to explain that to me. I found those test results in the slush pile.”

  “The slush pile?”

  Sophia nodded. “The slush is what we call everything that doesn’t end up in the material the prosecutor bases their charges on. The leftovers, you could say. All the extra stuff.”

  “I know what the slush pile is, Sophia, there’s no need to educate your grandfather.”

  “I’m sorry, of course you know. Right. So, what was the court able to look at? Not the forensic odontologist’s report, anyway, because it was considered unusable. Instead photographs of Katrin’s body and a cast of Stig’s teeth were sent to a lab in Great Britain. Those were the results that were presented in court later on. And people put faith in those tests. One hundred percent. Because Swedish courts automatically think anything done in Great Britain is of superior quality to what we do here. The only thing that makes a bigger impression than tests ordered by Scotland Yard are American tests. Because in the United States they know everything and a little more, as all Swedish lay judges have seen on CSI.”

  Sophia pulled over Sture’s glass of brandy and took a sip. She made a face.

  “And I know what that goddamn prosecutor is going to say when I call to ask why it wasn’t included in the indictment. She’ll say it didn’t contribute anything. Because that’s what people like her always say. As if they can’t comprehend that it could possibly be of significance when they don’t find anything. As if it’s a surprise that a lack of findings can be absolutely critical for the defendant’s argument. The prosecutor should have allowed this to remain in the material that was presented at court.”

  Sture nodded thoughtfully. He let Sophia continue.

  “A conspiracy, you say? Unfortunately, you’re wrong. It’s no conspiracy, that’s just how Swedish prosecutors work. I think they would just call it ‘procedure.’ But the fact that Ahlin’s former lawyers didn’t find this, that’s just beyond inexcusable. But it’s also typical. Most lawyers can’t be bothered to look through the slush. I suppose they don’t think that it’s part of their job. They don’t have time, because they have a golf handicap to improve, a Rotary meeting to attend. They don’t want to get their delicate little fingers dirty by digging through it. Or they don’t have time. Because God knows, meticulous and time-consuming work is seldom compensated.”

  Sture wiped his nose with his wrist. “There’s nothing wrong with Rotary.”

  Sophia ignored him.

  “I asked Hans to take a closer look at that lab in England. And how they reached their conclusions. Not that I believe he did it himself, I’m sure he ordered some poor research assistant to do it, but he was able to report back that the odontologist they used no longer has official status in Great Britain. He lost his job moonlighting for Scotland Yard and now he works exclusively with fixing teeth.”

  Sophia handed the second form to Sture. His eyes narrowed as he read.

  “And as you can see, this Englishman compared images of Katrin’s body with a cast of Stig’s teeth. That is a horribly questionable method of analysis. Just one year after Ahlin was convicted, there was a major study in the United States where ten experts were asked to look at pictures and try to match them with dental casts. They were wrong over 60 percent of the time. Unfortunately, this by itself is unlikely to get us our new trial. Because it was one of the studies that was sent in to the Supreme Court back when they requested certiorari.”

  Sture leaned across the coffee table and looked at the photographs Sophia had laid out. They were close-ups of marks on various parts of Katrin’s body: spots, specks, bruises, wounds.

  “And this is how they decided it was his teeth,” Sophia said. “You can see here. Or, sorry, they decided…” She took the form back and read aloud from the translation: “‘The analysis shows with certainty that an unquestionable link exists between the dental impressions that were found’…blah blah blah…‘and the mold of Stig Ahlin’s teeth.’”

  Sture looked at the analysis. The prints that were deemed to match Stig Ahlin’s mouth map were marked with numbers and arrows. There were also photographs of Stig’s dental cast in close proximity to the various close-ups of marks on Katrin’s body.

  “Now, it’s true that I can’t make heads or tails of those test results,” Sophia went on, “but I might be the stupid one here. Because I think the courts act as if anyone who knows their multiplication tables by heart has supernatural powers. But still. If you pause briefly from your habitual dissing of everything I do, you would have to agree that this is hard to understand. Or at least that it seems odd. That SKL, or, excuse me, the forensic odontologist, didn’t get anywhere, but that the other guy, the British amateur, did, easy as pie. And…” — she pointed to the drawing in Sture’s hand — “…what was more, he concluded that ‘with certainty’ there was an ‘unquestionable link.’ In legal terms, you can’t be any more convinced than that. This is what got Stig Ahlin convicted of homicide. He’s been locked up for over thirteen years because of this.”

  Sture didn’t say anything. He sipped his brandy, his hand cupping the glass. He put it down and looked once more at the papers spread over the coffee table, one by one. He compared the photographs to the drawing. Then he put it aside, gathering up the documents and tucking them into the plastic folder, and picked up the remote instead. Sture looked as if Sophia’s account had hit him square in the chin, and now he was hanging on the ropes. He had no desire to expose himself and let her win with a knockout. Instead of saying anything, he turned on the TV.

  Sophia had sat back down on the floor. As Sture flipped between channels she tried in vain to remove the paper from another piece of toffee.

  “I never learned to knit,” she said, “but I’ve always got that shovel over my shoulder. I dig up bodies. That’s my goddamn job. And I do it well, I want you to know. Your little Fialotta
is happy to play gravedigger. Because each and every skull had a tongue in it and could sing once.”

  Sture had settled on a channel that was showing a duet between a man singing an opera in Italian and a woman singing pop music in English. Without taking his eyes from the screen, Sture cleared his throat and swallowed.

  “Don’t use quotes you don’t understand,” he muttered. “That skull had a tongue in it. The gravediggers didn’t say that; it was Hamlet. The gravediggers were clowns. And how are you supposed to afford new tests? Who will perform them?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophia admitted. “Segerstad has already requested, three times, that the prosecutor order new tests, but he’s been rejected. Every time. And if you want to know what I think, I think that’s just as well. That prosecutor isn’t going to help us. No prosecutor will. Why would they? And anyway, we all know the answers depend on how you ask the questions. I want to be the one asking the questions, if any new tests are done. I don’t want any help from the office of the prosecutor. Anything else just puts us at risk of ending up even worse off. We’re in the process of compiling a list of everything we want to compare. Hans has found a dentist to talk to, and I’ve arranged a meeting with Sweden’s only forensic odontologist in early January. We’re planning to request the dental casts that were used for the analysis and ask someone else to compare them with the photographs — what do I know? One of those methods they use. Anything to give us more sophisticated results than that…” Sophia pointed at the lab report. “I’m going to try to convince the odontologist to take a look at it. Where we send it after that depends on what she says. Most of all, I want her to write us a report. I have no idea where we’ll get the money for new tests from. But we have to be able to afford it. Because we can’t just let this go.”

  “Hmm.”

  Sture turned back to the TV. His glass was empty.

  After just a short time, it seemed he was tired. It wasn’t easy for him to get up off the sofa. When Sophia offered her hand, he waved it away.

  He stood up and went to Sophia’s bedroom. He turned around at the door.

  “This is a petition for a retrial you’re dealing with. If memory serves, you need to provide evidence of new facts in order to have the right to a fresh review.” Sture cleared his throat. “If that first report got caught up in red tape, or was buried in the slush pile, then it is a new fact in and of itself.” Sophia nodded. Sture went on. “But I don’t think you should expect it to be enough.”

  Sophia shook her head. She knew this. Far too well.

  He closed the door behind him, but then opened it again.

  “How many years has that lazy bastard Segerstad been paging through the files without ever noticing that? Answer me that. How long did it take you? A few weeks. Christ, Segerstad is the laziest goddamn academic I’ve ever heard of. And the competition in his field is cutthroat. Pass that on from me, would you? What a clown.” He turned around again. She could hear him speaking, still, on the other side of the door. “And I need to sleep for a while.”

  Sophia turned to the TV and pulled over the dish of candy. It was time for an ad break. She picked up a piece of toffee. The paper slid off neatly. Nothing got stuck.

  She considered the shiny candy before sticking it in her mouth. It tasted divine.

  All of a sudden, there it is, she thought. All of a sudden, it’s really happening.

  Katrin

  1999

  The evening before the district court hearing, after nightfall but just before the late news, the nonpartisan organization Women Against Violence held a torchlight demonstration. Eleven hundred men, women, and children marched with representatives from three TV channels and the rest of the press corps through downtown Stockholm, from Hötorget to Sergels Torg. A leading female politician with the Social Democrats headed up the procession, arm in arm with a well-known member of the Liberals. Behind them walked one of Sweden’s most popular pop stars, beside one of the Green Party spokespeople.

  They didn’t sing any songs or chant any slogans. But when they arrived at the sunken square, they gathered around a stage and, torches held toward the dark January sky, listened to six short speeches about patriarchal oppression. Officially, the demonstration wasn’t about Stig Ahlin but demands for more effective laws surrounding prostitution, changes to standards of evidence in sex crimes, and greater allocations to Sweden’s women’s shelters.

  Five of the speakers began by talking about the murder of Katrin. Stig Ahlin’s ex-wife Marianne Sörensson marched in the third row, and at Sergels Torg she was given a spot at the very front. Ida was in her stroller with a pacifier in her mouth and her teddy in her arms; near the end of the march she dozed off and the pacifier dropped from her mouth and got caught in the open neck of her snowsuit.

  Once the last speaker had finished, the final part of the demonstration began as the activists’ torches were dropped into five enormous fire baskets. One by one, the torches were handed forward; thousands of burning pieces mixed and the flames grew wilder. Then the baskets were hoisted by cranes and the last few minutes of the news showed a live feed from the square, a violent sea of fire. As the demonstrators turned home, their torches burned high against the black sky, for the dream of a future free of oppression from men.

  * * *

  —

  The lead judge, the notary, and the three lay judges were seated in the courtroom before the main doors were opened. The prosecutor and Stig Ahlin’s counsel had also been allowed in ahead of time. They greeted the bench briefly and took their places to wait. No other case was on the docket that day: a necessary decision for reasons of security. Only then did the lead judge announce that the district court doors could be opened so people could start to file in.

  Of the 212 seats in the gallery, 150 had been reserved for the media. Sixty-two of the audience members were ordinary people who had lined up outside the entrance, some of them since the night before. They had rolled up their sleeping bags, received visitor’s badges, and were allowed in by the security officers.

  Everyone, journalist or otherwise, had to leave their outerwear, bags, and other belongings in a neighboring courtroom. It would be used as a coat check for the duration of the trial, and it was guarded by armed police in uniform. Then, those who wished to observe the trial had to undergo a pat-down and walk through a metal detector that had been purchased by the district court and used only twice previously.

  Stig Ahlin arrived last of all. He was escorted to the courthouse under armed guard and brought in through the loading dock. He had no hoodie to hide under, no jacket to pull up in front of his face. It was too late for such measures. Instead he was wearing a chalk stripe suit, a white shirt, and a pale blue tie. He’d been allowed to change before leaving the jail. The clothes were his own.

  He was led to the seat next to his counsel. They shook hands and he sat down. The room was dead silent, aside from the sound of a pen quickly scrawling across paper. Someone in the first row had a notepad on their lap, had been sent from the biggest morning paper to sketch the defendant. No photography was allowed in the courtroom. The ladies in the third row had their knitting needles confiscated at security, but they’d been allowed to keep their crossword books.

  When Stig Ahlin took his seat, the lead judge did a roll call. Everyone was present.

  * * *

  —

  The search had resulted in ninety-seven confiscated objects. Six of them were presented during the trial: a roll of electrical tape, a human skull, two videotapes with crudely pornographic contents, and two objects — a dog’s leash and a riding crop — that were described as “sex toys.” The defendant owned neither a dog nor a horse.

  Stig Ahlin’s attorney maintained that the court should not consider these objects to have any bearing on the case. The skull was from the research department at Karolinska Hospital. Stig had borrowed it with the aim of using it in his work
. He often worked on his research at home. The electrical tape couldn’t be linked to the victim; the videotapes and sex toys were irrelevant. The attorney also objected to the very classification of the objects as sex toys.

  One of the witnesses called by the prosecution was a prostitute who had identified Stig Ahlin as a regular client. The idea was that she could attest that Stig Ahlin had shown sexually violent behavior. The prostitute could testify that Stig had wanted to tie her up, that he had bitten her during intercourse on a number of occasions, and that he had frequently wanted to use a variety of sadomasochistic implements.

  Stig’s attorney pointed out that Stig Ahlin had not been charged with any crime in conjunction with his previous sexual relationship with this witness. Thus, the woman’s testimony was irrelevant to the case. Furthermore, there was nothing about the woman’s story to suggest that Stig had forced her to participate in sexual acts against her will.

  At last, Stig’s ex-wife Marianne was examined. She began by testifying that she had found bite marks on her daughter’s shoulder a few months before the murder.

  When the prosecutor asked Marianne to explain how she could be so sure Stig Ahlin was the one who had bitten her daughter, Ahlin’s lawyer interrupted. In a loud voice, his hand moving in angry circles, he objected that the examination of Marianne must be considered to fall outside the narrow scope of what the prosecutor aimed to prove, that it simply had nothing to do with the case at hand. The lead judge nodded reluctantly and said that the prosecutor must refrain from posing questions about the investigation that had been closed. He did not need to further specify what he was referring to. Everyone present in the courtroom had read about that other investigation in the papers.

  When the prosecution was finished, Stig’s attorney asked Marianne to tell the court how long she had been divorced from Stig. He asked her to confirm that she had initiated a parental-rights case against Stig Ahlin, in which she demanded sole custody of their daughter. When he asked if she hoped Stig Ahlin would be sentenced to prison, Marianne began to cry.