Beyond All Reasonable Doubt

by Malin Persson Giolito

  Sophia was reluctantly putting out her hand to say goodbye when Maria Larsson went on.

  “There’s just one part I don’t quite understand.”

  Sophia nodded.

  “The reason we seldom do this sort of analysis is that bites often have traces of DNA left by saliva. What did the DNA analysis say in this case? Was there saliva but no usable DNA, or too little DNA to test? Or was there no saliva at all? Because if they didn’t find any, that might indicate that those aren’t bite marks.”

  “Uh…” Sophia hesitated.

  “We’re not the ones who analyze potential bodily fluids; they do that at SKL, as you know. First the pathologists examine the body. They send samples to SKL and we typically aren’t involved until after that.”

  “The DNA test showed no results. They found the victim’s own DNA…but…” All those tests, I can’t keep them straight, Sophia thought. How did they put it? I’ve read the autopsy report and the prosecutor’s case notes, which were attached to the forensic odontologist’s analysis, and they said that neither that analysis nor the DNA test could link Stig Ahlin to the crime scene. As she thought, Maria Larsson continued.

  “I understand that. But why didn’t it show anything? That could be a point of interest.”

  Sophia felt her mouth go dry. The odontologist was beginning to sound irritated. A crease had appeared on her forehead. She spoke more slowly.

  “Normally our analysis is only supplementary or is needed only if there isn’t reliable DNA. Was that the case?”

  Sophia bit her lip. Her mind was racing. “It appears from the preliminary investigation that they were not able to retrieve usable DNA. They tried, but they didn’t find any…” Sophia felt her cheeks flush. “There’s nothing in the autopsy…” Sophia cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice steady. She had been sloppy.

  “You should talk to SKL. They can explain exactly what their analysis entails. Have you done that?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Sophia said. “You don’t suppose you could…you have those results here as well, right? Don’t you keep them? Archive them?”

  It took effort for Sophia to remain calm. Maria Larsson sighed. Her entire body was signaling reluctance.

  “Archived somewhere. Yes, you can bet on it. But I doubt you want to tackle that. Ordering something from the archives can take months.”

  Almost eighteen minutes had passed. Sophia had gone well beyond her allotted time.

  “I’m not even sure the archives are still here in Solna,” said Maria. “They may have outsourced the entire operation, shipped the documents to a for-profit company in Far-Offistan.”

  “But I could go to the office and search for it. If I fax it to you, would you be able to explain it to me, what it would mean for your assessment? Don’t you need it to write your opinion?” Sophia could hear the way she sounded, as if she were begging on her knees. “You said so yourself, that it might be decisive in your opinion.”

  “No,” Maria said. “I didn’t say that. I said that it’s for the best if the odontologist can work without already knowing the results ahead of time…that’s what I’ve been trying to explain. That we know too much. We should know as little as possible when we begin our work. The fact that we usually have access to those results is a different matter altogether.”

  The odontologist tapped her watch. She was weighing her options. If she left without helping Sophia, she would have her on the phone half an hour later. Sophia would hardly give up before getting exactly what she wanted. If, on the other hand, she dealt with this right away, it would be over faster.

  “Let’s go up to my office,” Maria Larsson said decisively. “I can make a call to SKL for you. They’ll know who performed the analyses in the Ahlin case. It’s not the sort of thing you forget in a hurry. Professor Death — we all remember that.”

  * * *

  —

  Sophia was already in the ticket line at Central Station by the time she called her office’s contracted receptionist to instruct her to cancel all Sophia’s meetings. This couldn’t wait. She had to travel to SKL right away.

  Fresh ticket in hand, she dashed to the platform, and when she stepped off the train at Linköping Central Station, only delayed by an hour and fifteen minutes, her calves ached from pressing her feet to the floor the whole way.

  The taxi driver didn’t even look at her as she threw herself into the backseat and coughed out the address. Instead he got out of the car, opened her door, and gestured her out.

  “That’s less than two hundred yards away. Walk. And take an extra lap around the block if you can. You look like it would do you good to get your heart rate down.”

  The apartment was on the fourth floor of a five-story building. It was poorly lit, poorly maintained, and even more poorly ventilated. In the hall stood three pairs of rubber boots, all the same size, and four more pairs of men’s shoes.

  He lives alone, Sophia observed, stepping in a place for a moment before realizing that he was waiting for her to take off her shoes. Embarrassed, she kicked them off and thanked him for letting her visit on such short notice.

  Olof Westlin, the retired head biologist for the former SKL, hummed in response. He seemed amused. They went to the living room.

  Sophia politely declined coffee but accepted water; she tried to sit still on the sofa, drank a sip of water, put down her glass, picked it up again. Westlin was carefully munching on a thick slice of store-bought sponge cake. It was perfectly silent in the room. The windows were closed; the weak afternoon light filtered through the drawn curtains. In only a few minutes it would be dark. Sophia’s train back to Stockholm would leave in an hour and thirty-two minutes.

  At last he appeared to be done chewing. He used the back of his hand to wipe a few crumbs from his clean-shaven chin, then stood up and left the room. A minute later he returned with a plastic folder.

  “I have copies of my most important cases. In the basement. It might be against the rules, but I don’t care. Folks can never keep track of things, and I’m sure as hell not about to let people like you show up and claim I was the careless one. I’m not careless. Never have been.”

  Sophia’s hands were shaking as she accepted the folder.

  “No,” she said as firmly as she was able. “Of course not. I certainly don’t mean to suggest you were careless. Not you. But —”

  Olof Westin cut her off. “Like I said. We could have dealt with this over the phone. It would have been much faster. And you wouldn’t have had to buy a train ticket.”

  He sounded upset, almost angry. Sophia swallowed and let him go on. She put the folder on the table and rested her shaking hands on top.

  “The only human DNA found on Katrin Björk’s body was her own. You must know that already.”

  “The only human DNA?” Sophia hardly dared to breathe. “But you found something else too?”

  “Yes. I damn well did.” Westlin threw out his hand and accidentally hit the sponge cake. It flew across the table, crashed to the floor, and left behind a cloud of crumbs. “I honestly cannot believe these questions. I’ve never tried to hide that fact.” He really was angry now, as he leaned down, grabbed the top of the cake, and put it back on its plate. “I made my opinion perfectly clear in my analysis. What’s more, I discussed it with the investigator, to make sure it didn’t end up in the hands of one of the many indifferent illiterates on the police force. I talked to that officer, Bertil was his name, Lundberg, Lundgren, something like that.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That a dog must have disturbed the body somehow.”

  “You told the officer that?”

  “Yes. As I recall, he wasn’t surprised in the least. There was a dog at the crime scene. The police wondered if the dog had licked his mistress clean. I responded that it was possible. And that the dog might have done more
than that. Tried to move her. Drag her away from the scene of the crime. What the hell do I know? But why you look so shocked about this, I have no idea. Everyone knew this. Everyone.”

  Not the court, Sophia thought, taking the folder from the table. Everyone but the court knew this. She had to swallow before she could speak.

  “Would you be prepared to say this in court?”

  “Why couldn’t I?” Westlin shook his head in suspicion. “Damn straight I can.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how I can…” She took his hand and pumped it furiously. She couldn’t let go. “Thank you so, so much.”

  Katrin

  1998

  Bertil Lundberg had said he would pick Sara up at work, so they could drive to the clinic together. But he hadn’t had time. They’d had to meet there instead. When he finally arrived, she was annoyed. But she didn’t say anything. The waiting room was full. In one corner, a woman was perched on the edge of a chair and crying. Next to her, a man was leafing through a magazine. Page after page, loudly and firmly.

  It wasn’t Bertil’s fault he was late. How could he have predicted that a batch of results would arrive from SKL? He had to go through them before he could leave and ended up needing further information on certain points. He’d called SKL to discuss one of the results. It had taken some time to reach the right person.

  The dog, said the guy at SKL. It was the dog that destroyed the evidence. That mongrel had disturbed the body too. There was nothing to be done about it — it was what it was. No traces of Stig Ahlin were left.

  When Bertil hung up, he threw away the notes he’d jotted down. They didn’t have to become part of the investigation. He didn’t have to annotate everything. All the pointless analyses would be sufficient. Plus, he was in a hurry.

  Just a few minutes after Bertil rushed into the prenatal clinic, Sara’s name was called. Now they were in an exam room. The midwife smelled faintly of sweet perfume and Sara had taken off her shirt and unbuttoned her pants. She was lying on the paper sheet of the slightly inclined table and breathing nervously. Her shoes were still on, covered in blue shoe protectors identical to the ones Bertil was slipping around in.

  The midwife raised a plastic bottle over Sara’s taut abdomen. Sara took Bertil’s hand. When the pale blue gel landed on her belly she jumped. Her hand was warm and damp.

  Using something that looked like a fat razor, the midwife spread the gel across the lower part of Sara’s belly and then pointed at the screen.

  The image was grainy, but Bertil could make it out perfectly clearly. It was the head of a child, already too large to fit on the small screen in its entirety. The midwife pressed a button and the room filled with the sound of a steady drumroll, the rapid heartbeat of his child.

  It’s going to be okay, Bertil thought. We’ll get Stig Ahlin anyway. That goddamn whoremonger. He bit his wife. He bit his daughter. He bit Katrin and he’s the one who killed her. We don’t need any DNA. We will not let those science types in their ivory towers ruin this. The rest of what we know will be enough. Stig Ahlin is guilty. The court will realize it too. No one wants that man running loose on our streets.

  “And you’re sure you want to know the sex?” the midwife asked.

  Sara nodded. She was already crying. Bertil leaned toward her, placing his lips alongside her cheek.

  “Then I’d like to congratulate you both,” the midwife said, smiling. She pressed a button on the machine. The image froze. “On your perfect, beautiful little girl.”

  36

  TV host, journalist, columnist, and author Lasse Wilander stepped through the door, gathered momentum across the threshold, and seemed to wind up, swinging his arm in a half circle before slapping Sophia’s hand with his own palm, remarkably enthusiastic. Four journalists shared the role of host, but Primetime 60 Minutes was his baby.

  “I want to thank you for agreeing to talk to us.”

  Sophia smiled tentatively.

  “What a story,” he went on. “Just incredible. This is the greatest judicial scandal in Sweden’s history. No one else has been exonerated after spending such a long time in prison. No one.”

  Sophia hesitated. The Primetime team had been working on the case for just about four weeks exactly. It was reasonable to assume that most of their material was made up of her own information, of the work she had done and shared with them.

  “He’s not free yet,” she attempted.

  A crease appeared between Lasse Wilander’s eyebrows. He observed Sophia for a moment before sitting down beside her and gazing into the mirror that covered one wall of the room.

  “A minor detail, given the situation,” he declared.

  “Can you close your eyes for a sec?” The makeup artist gently laid a finger on Sophia’s forehead. Sophia leaned her head back and complied.

  “Have you gotten a chance to watch the tape?” Lasse Wilander leaned toward the mirror, carefully inspecting his own face. He gently pinched the skin under his eyes with two manicured fingertips and turned to the makeup artist.

  “You’ll fix that, won’t you, Nettan?”

  The woman, who had just introduced herself to Sophia as Helena, nodded.

  “No.” Sophia took the opportunity to respond as Helena dabbed her forehead with a rubber sponge. “Not the new one. I just got here — I haven’t had time to look at anything yet. Did you find lots?”

  Helena took hold of Sophia’s chair and spun her halfway around so her back was facing the mirror. Lasse replied.

  “You’re probably already aware that we’ve decided to devote the entire pilot episode to this. I don’t understand how we managed, given the time crunch, but we have a ton of material. Their British expert — all we had to do was call Scotland Yard. And what’s more…” Lasse turned around and scanned the room, as though looking for something. “…I haven’t got my notes here, but, well, a court of appeals in Wales made him eat humble pie. I’ll show you what they wrote.”

  Sophia had already heard this.

  “You’ve done a fantastic job,” she said.

  “I’d say so. The pedophile Stig the Pig, Professor Death himself, is innocent. Who would have thought?”

  “I’m sorry.” A sudden jab of pain in Sophia’s eye and the makeup artist grabbed a cotton swab to wipe away the mascara that had ended up on Sophia’s eyelid. “That was an accident.”

  “No problem,” Sophia whispered back.

  “I actually need to wash my hair,” said Lasse. “But you usually have that stuff…freshly washed hair isn’t optimal either. You could get me some of that dry shampoo, right?”

  The makeup artist nodded, annoyed. “Did anyone talk to Stig’s daughter?” she wondered. “Or are you not bothering with that? Don’t people care how she feels?”

  Sophia had seen the segment about the incest allegations. It was brief. One of the hosts read aloud from the decision to close the investigation, sounding matter-of-fact and distant. A psychiatrist discussed the failings of the investigation and pointed out that Ida had never said her father sexually abused her, not explicitly. Nor had she said he’d done anything that couldn’t also be interpreted as normal contact between parent and child. A doctor had been interviewed about alternative factors that could have caused the swelling and marks that had been found around Ida’s genitals.

  “He was never charged for that crime,” Sophia said quietly. “It was a mistake from the start to make the general public aware of it. You are innocent until found guilty by the courts. That’s the way it has to be.”

  The makeup artist shook her head. She went over Sophia’s face with a soft brush. This time her motions were more abrupt and firm. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “If there’s going to be an hour-long program about how innocent her dad is, someone should ask how she’s doing. How she is nowadays.”

  Lasse cleared his throat. “Ther
e are two kinds of journalists,” he said. “The great majority are charlatans who think it’s in society’s best interest to publish the names and photographs of anyone suspected of being a sex offender, those who believe the most important thing is to make sure no guilty person goes free. If you were a journalist, Nettan, we would find you among those people.”

  The makeup artist still hadn’t corrected him about her name. Lasse went on.

  “Then there’s a minority of journalists who have come to understand the basics of what we call ‘the rule of law.’ We, my lovely girl, believe the most important thing is that no one is convicted of a crime they didn’t commit. That is more important than anything else. Even if it means a pedophile is set free. Do you understand? But of course, this isn’t popular in homes across Sweden. Or even among the majority of journalists. To find awards for this sort of journalism, one must look abroad. The Pulitzer. The Peabody Award. Because Stig Ahlin is innocent. Of the pedophilia allegations as well, no doubt. His crazy ex-wife — why would anyone believe that cow?”

  “Tell me what I’m about to see.” Sophia wanted to change the subject. Helena was going through her hair with the curling iron and Sophia could swear she already had three burns on her scalp. “I understand you interviewed Katrin’s mother.”

  Lasse Wilander spun on his chair and leaned toward Sophia.

  “Made for unbeatable TV. She spills all. She talks a lot about her regrets. What a tough time Katrin had. What she should have done. I interviewed Katrin’s mother along with Eija, that little friend. It was their idea. A stroke of genius, I must say. When Eija talks about how her friend’s parents let her down and her mother is sitting there blowing her nose all over the place — shit, it’s so good. We’re all sobbing. Even me. Like I said, good TV.”

  “How her parents let her down?” I don’t follow, Sophia thought.