Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  “I hope so many things,” she said. And already, Stig Ahlin’s attorney realized that he never should have asked. But before he could stop her, she went on. “Most of all, I hope he can never hurt another little girl.”

  Katrin’s parents were listening from the front row. They were dressed in dark colors, and the rest of the audience was watching them intently, as intently as if this were Katrin Björk’s funeral. When the prosecutor showed photographs from the crime scene, Katrin’s father stood up and left the room. Her mother remained seated; she wasn’t crying. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, and at the end of the day they left together, through the back door. Not once during the whole trial did they respond to questions from the media.

  The British forensic odontologist who had analyzed the bite marks on Katrin Björk’s body was interrogated by video link. His face was projected onto a large screen that was brand-new, used in only three previous trials. The caretaker had attended a class to learn how it worked. The technology ran perfectly during Stig Ahlin’s trial.

  The interrogation was recorded, and the expert was interrupted at regular intervals, to let the interpreter speak. But the odontologist’s English was well articulated and easy to understand.

  The prosecutor and Stig’s counsel both asked their questions. By way of conclusion, the judge leaned toward his live microphone. He had a question for the expert as well.

  “Could you be wrong?” he wondered.

  The odontologist smiled faintly and leaned toward the camera.

  “Caligula’s sister and Nero’s mother, the violent-natured Agrippina, sent her soldiers to kill Caligula’s wife Lollia Paulina,” he said in a measured tone. “The soldiers were instructed to bring back the corpse’s head to prove that she was dead. But the head was badly defiled, and Agrippina was forced to lift its upper lip and look at the discolored front teeth to be certain it was really Lollia Paulina. This was back in AD 66. We have been using teeth for identification purposes for a very long time. We have analyzed both dead material and skin. A person’s teeth are unique. There are no two people with identical sets. In this way, the use of dental impressions in forensics is like that of fingerprints.”

  The British expert paused. He could be seen, on the big screen, sipping a glass of water. He allowed the interpreter to catch up.

  “But there’s one thing that sets them apart from simple fingerprints,” he said. “If you go to a woman’s house for dinner, you’ll leave any number of fingerprints all over, without necessarily being involved in anything violent. But you won’t accidentally bite her arm, breast, or genitals. Only a bite mark proves violent intent. And we’ve known this for many years too — it’s nothing new. The fact that violently inclined people may bite their victims has been a source of fascination for many researchers. We have a great deal of experience with this.”

  The odontologist’s smile had grown wider. He leaned back and ran his hand down his faintly patterned tie.

  “You wonder if I might be wrong, Your Honor. I consider it to be out of the question.”

  21

  They’d put up a Christmas tree in the common room of the sex crimes unit. It was fake. Decorations made of potential allergens were banned, but someone had tossed tinsel on it and hung a dozen red balls. It even had lights. The ornaments on the tree were the only glass decorations in the unit. For some reason these had passed the inspection that typically forbade everything from real basketballs to metal silverware and china plates.

  Stig Ahlin wasn’t alone. A few of his fellow prisoners were eating in the kitchen area. Others were in their rooms, watching TV. The doors were open; lockup wasn’t for a while yet.

  One of the two guards who worked at the sex crimes unit had gone off to the staff room. He’d said he was going to get a newspaper but seemed to have ended up staying there. The TV was on and the little light on the security camera was glowing.

  Three of Stig’s fellow prisoners had been allowed to leave the facility. One of the ones whose request had been denied was in the family barracks, where he would spend two days with his wife and kids. He had one year left to serve and still wasn’t divorced.

  Stig hadn’t even requested a furlough. There was no one on the outside who would agree to celebrate Christmas with him. He had no invitations.

  In the early years, he’d made a couple of halfhearted attempts. He had always been denied. Ida’s sixth birthday. Denied. Christmas, New Year’s, Midsummer. Denied. Dentist’s appointment. Denied. The barber. Denied. But in his third year, two weeks before Christmas, two days after he’d sent off his application, he had been granted furlough. He would be allowed to watch his mother die.

  He had to be under guard during his leave, so Stig was driven to the hospital in a patrol car. Since he was considered violent he had to wear handcuffs in the car. Not until they arrived at the hospital were the cuffs removed. Stig had to take the elevator and walk down three long corridors accompanied by two guards in uniform. They walked on either side of him, trailing slightly behind, so close they all brushed against each other when they went around a corner or had to open a door.

  Despite the guards, it wasn’t difficult for Stig to remember what it had once been like in hallways like this. Doing rounds, his back straight, his role clear.

  Stig Ahlin’s mother was alone in her room. She had an IV for saline and morphine; beyond that, all the machines were unhooked. Someone had been by with flowers. But there were no cards, and Stig couldn’t figure out who would want to give his mother flowers. Her friends were dead. Her illness had made new acquaintances impossible. The staff could have brought in bouquets left behind by another patient.

  He considered it out of the question that Ida would have been allowed to visit her grandmother. Ida’s mother didn’t put in any effort for Stig’s mother’s sake. She thought it was pointless. Or it was a way to punish him.

  But the flowers still reminded him of when Ida met her grandmother for the first time. How his mother held the baby without becoming frightened, even when Ida began to cry. It was as if it were ingrained in his mother’s body: the memory of how to hold, how to comfort.

  Stig lifted the vase; it smelled musty. The water had turned to slime. It was death, smiling scornfully at them both, masquerading as wilting petals. Stig set the vase out in the hallway.

  This was the only furlough he’d ever had. He’d been allowed to stay at the hospital for two days. He sat by the bed, listening to his mother’s uneven breaths, stroking her swollen face, eating in the cafeteria, sleeping on an extra bed the staff pulled in for him. And still she didn’t die, not for another four days. One of the guards came to his room after lockup. Opened the door, gave him the news, and locked him back in again. Two turns of the key.

  The Christmas tree at Emla Prison didn’t smell like anything. He had spent thirteen Christmases more or less the same way. This was a day like any other. Stig changed the channel on the TV. A portly man in a folk costume was solemnly lighting a red candle.

  “From all of us…,” the man groaned as the candle went out and he had to start over. “From all of us to all of you, a very, very merry Christmas.”

  22

  Adam woke up just after four. Norah was asleep. The streetlights outside glowed through the window; they’d forgotten to pull the blinds and the light fell in stripes across her naked body. He lay there listening to her breathing.

  All the doors in the apartment were open. They hadn’t yet cleaned up after the meal. When the kids fell asleep, their teeth unbrushed and their hands sticky with chocolate, he had carried them to bed, pulled off their pants and heavy Christmas-present sweaters, and smoothed the covers over them. The relatives were heading home; they exchanged kisses in the hall, running back and forth with forgotten bags, clothes, and presents. Norah and Adam made them take some leftovers and said goodbye one last time. When the front door swung shut again, they stood in the
hall in silence. The smell of warm bodies, Adam’s dad’s aftershave, and just-snuffed candles hung in the air.

  Adam had pulled Norah close; she’d laid her head on his shoulder.

  “We can clean up tomorrow,” he had said. And she had nodded, no disagreement; she had taken his hand and gone to the bedroom.

  Afterward she had lain on her side beside him, tucking her hands under her cheek and looking at him. He’d done the same, and they had talked.

  “Do you remember…,” she had said, and told him what she was thinking of. He’d laughed and put his arms around her, pulling her close and holding her for a moment. Then she had cupped his cheeks, letting her fingers slide back and up through his shaggy hair. She had kissed him, and he’d thought, I don’t even need to say I remember, because she already knows.

  Now she was sleeping. He gently drew the covers over her and moved closer, pressing against her back and tucking his hand under her breasts. Their children were in the next room.

  He closed his eyes, nuzzled his nose against his wife’s neck, drew in her scent, and thought, This, nothing but this. This is all I want.

  23

  Even before she stepped into Åhléns, Sophia regretted the shopping trip. But she needed a new jacket and a new pair of pants. Clothes she could wear in court. Her old suit was worn thin in the crotch and she hadn’t been able to find someone who could patch it up. It seemed like overkill to hire a seamstress, and the dry cleaners said they didn’t fix holes that large.

  Hitting the post-Christmas sales had seemed like a good idea. She could do as she’d been admonished by the magazine she’d read last time she was at the salon: buy good quality, invest in something more expensive. That would even be environmentally friendly. Grabbing a few garments at H&M without trying them on first — no more of that. This would be the start of her new, more glamorous life. She would at least procure herself some proper work clothes, without paying a fortune.

  As Sophia approached the entrance she allowed herself to be swept up. By the current — that’s how it felt. A compact mass of bodies all moving in the same direction, away from depression and the cards that were maxed out for Christmas, and toward quality or something that might feel like a great deal.

  As she stood on the escalator, she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. She wrangled it out and looked at the screen, but she didn’t recognize the number. She hesitated. Sale shopping was not her favorite activity, but she was even less eager to visit the jail because an old client had spent the Christmas holiday beating up his wife or getting caught red-handed as he tried to break into someone else’s home. She stared at the glowing number through four rings, then answered. If it was one of her clients, there was no point in trying to hide. She would only have to call back later.

  “Hello!” It was a male voice. He seemed far away. “Can you hear me? Tor Bengtsson here!”

  “Okay,” Sophia responded hesitantly. She had no idea who this man was. Bengtsson? She had an old client named Bengtsson, but it didn’t sound like him.

  “You called me on the twenty-second,” said Tor Bengtsson. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, but I’m in Thailand. Just got your message. You wanted to talk about Stig Ahlin.”

  “Oh, right!”

  As his identity finally dawned on her, Sophia found herself standing at the end of the escalator. A stroller hit her in the back, and she stepped sideways toward the kitchen section and stood beside the cupcake tins. She held her free hand over her ear to hear better. Tor Bengtsson was the journalist who had written the odd article about Katrin Björk. She’d called him a few days before Christmas and had already managed to forget.

  “Now I know who you are. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you want?”

  Straight to the point, Sophia observed. Naturally. It’s expensive to call from Thailand, even if the evening paper picks up the bill.

  “I actually want to talk about Katrin Björk, not Stig Ahlin. You wrote a brief article about her years ago, and it sounded like you knew some things about her that weren’t in the article.”

  “Why are you asking?” He sounded cross.

  “Didn’t I say? I’m Stig Ahlin’s attorney, I’m helping him petition for a new trial. And I need to know more about Katrin Björk.” Silence. Sophia wondered if they had been cut off. “Hello?”

  “Does Stig Ahlin want to sit down for an interview?”

  Sophia sighed. She should have guessed. “No. He doesn’t.”

  “How do you know? You can’t know. Have you asked?”

  “Can’t you just answer my question? We’ll deal with all of that later. Do you remember the article you wrote?”

  “Of course, I remember it,” he replied. “It’s not the sort of thing you’d forget. But you need to realize something. If Stig Ahlin is ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

  “I understand.”

  “Can you promise me an interview, then?”

  “No. But I can promise that if Stig Ahlin decides to give an interview, I will tell him that you very much want to be the one who interviews him. And if you give us something we can use, something that helps us, then he might not hate you as much as he hates all the other journalists who wrote about the murder. But I can’t make any promises. Because he hates you all. And that’s not likely to change any time soon.”

  “Does he want money?”

  “He doesn’t need any money. Not so badly that he’s about to beg you, in any case. He has no way to use it. His meals and lodging are free, he hasn’t got any expensive hobbies, and he has enough money to buy new shoes.”

  “Okay. Good to know. You want to know more about Katrin Björk? Can you tell me anything about the petition?”

  “Give it up.”

  “There must be something you can tell me.”

  “I can confirm that I’m working on a petition for an appeal for retrial on behalf of Stig Ahlin. Why don’t we meet when you’re back in Stockholm? We can discuss the petition. Not in detail, but in brief. How’s that?”

  “Good. I’ll be back on January fourth. I’ll give you a call then. When Katrin was killed — no, actually, when it became known that Stig Ahlin was a suspect in the murder of a fifteen-year-old girl, I was assigned to cover both stories. The murder wasn’t really a sensation, but Stig Ahlin was. I was…I was twenty-four at the time, Jesus, time flies, and naturally I wasn’t the lead on the stories, but I got to meet with the people our more senior reporter hadn’t already talked to.”

  The line was crackling more.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you again. You said you weren’t alone on the coverage.”

  “No. Of course not. I was the little puppy of the team. Cute, but not housebroken. But I met some of her old friends. I was barely older than that gang. They talked to me. And what I learned didn’t fit the angle the editorial team was going for. It simply wasn’t their story. The article you’re talking about — I only got it through because someone was subbing over Midsummer. But when the boss came back, that was the end of that. Plus, I got a whole lot of shit for it. I was damn proud of that psychologist’s statement. I thought I’d really laid some good groundwork for the follow-up article that would have come later.”

  “But there was no follow-up.”

  “No. We weren’t to breathe a word that Katrin could have been anything but top of her class, the teacher’s pet, and her mother’s pride and joy. At the editorial offices, we…well, there had been a serious debate about victim-blaming and, you know, we didn’t have the cleanest consciences in the world. It wasn’t the right time to start talking about whether Katrin’s skirt had been too short, if you know what I mean.”

  “But her skirt was too short?”

  “Yeah. Or, well…, it wasn’t quite that simple. I got the feeling that she’d had a rough time. She lived it up a little, despi
te her top-of-the-class reputation. And she’d had to be driven home from some school dance because she got too drunk. Some of the guys talked about her, that she put out. The kind of girl whose name you can read in bathroom stalls. I met six different guys who claimed they’d slept with her. But, I mean, I don’t know if it was true, they might have said that to impress me, teenage boys are weird. And sometimes it passes. And why would we write about that? She could sleep with as many people as she wanted, right? It didn’t make the whole thing any less sad. I met her parents too. My colleague brought me along when he interviewed them, the only time they spoke to the media. We never would have gotten to talk to them if we’d written crap about Katrin. And also, Katrin was their only child. You knew that, right? She was an only child.”

  Sophia hummed a confirmation.

  “It was so fucking sad. In hindsight, I guess I think it was the right decision, not to go after Katrin. You don’t have to write about everything, you’re allowed to show mercy, even if you’re a journalist. But back then I was hotheaded. Everything I knew I wanted to put straight in the paper. I couldn’t handle even a comma being struck in what I wrote. I took it as evidence of a conspiracy among the editors if they asked me to spend an afternoon on the tip line. I’ve gotten over that now.”

  The line crackled for a moment. When it was clear again, Tor Bengtsson went on.

  “That goddamn Stig Ahlin…How is he doing? I remember him as a…well, not that I ever met him, but it’s hard to imagine a more loathsome guy. Some of us went out to celebrate when he was convicted.”

  “I see.” Sophia pressed her finger into her free ear, to hear better. “You did? You celebrated?”

  “Don’t hold it against me. Young and dumb. If he decides he’ll give an interview, I would do just about anything to get it.”