Slowly We Die

by Emelie Schepp

  “At least I do legs,” Philip said.

  “When I do legs, it’s by spreading my girlfriend’s,” he said, grinning.

  Irritated, Philip began pressing the button to increase the speed. He should have laughed at the joke, but instead he felt pissed off.

  He pressed the button hard, but the speed didn’t change. He pressed multiple buttons, but in the end didn’t know what buttons he was even pressing. He couldn’t think straight anymore, and it scared him and made him feel like a failure.

  Over the years, he had amassed a whole archive of failures. As a son, he had failed his father by not following in his footsteps. As a spouse, he had failed Lina by not getting her pregnant. Now he had failed a patient. Or two patients, if he also counted the woman with the heart attack.

  It wasn’t the first time he had failed in his work. The greatest mistake he’d made had been ten years ago, but his brain had its limits, and after grappling with his past torments for a minute, it shut itself off. His thoughts were just getting in the way. He pushed the stop button and stepped off the treadmill.

  * * *

  Special Victims Unit investigator Mikaela Lundin sat in a blue armchair in the small, eight-by-ten interrogation room. She was wearing a pair of light-colored pants and a thin blouse. She had blond hair and light eyebrows. Sara Norberg sat diagonally across from her, also in a blue armchair, and her legs dangled slowly back and forth.

  Sara had been shown the camera that was mounted in one corner of the room near the ceiling, but she’d already forgotten that it was there. She had a stuffed animal, a pony, on her lap and was wearing blue-and-white-striped pants and a pink long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was messy, and her bangs hung to the right.

  In the adjoining observation room, Henrik Levin and Jana Berzelius sat on office chairs, following the interview.

  Everything was recorded and archived on a computer.

  “What a nice pony,” Mikaela said. “Do you like playing with ponies?”

  “Ye-es,” Sara said, smoothing her hands over the black mane.

  “Have you ever ridden one?”

  “No.”

  Mikaela waited for a moment, letting the girl stroke the mane a number of times before continuing.

  “How old are you, Sara?”

  Sara held up her hand and stretched out all five fingers.

  “So you’re five years old?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Who do you live with?” Mikaela asked.

  “Mommy.”

  “What does Mommy look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mikaela moved a little closer to Sara, trying to establish eye contact with her, but the girl kept her eyes on the pony.

  “Sara, can you tell me a little about where you live, about your sister...”

  The girl pressed the pony’s muzzle against her nose.

  “Can you tell me a little about your sister...or your grandma?” Mikaela said.

  “Aida has a tattoo, right here,” Sara said, pointing to her arm. “She said it hurt.”

  Mikaela studied Sara as she again pressed the pony’s muzzle to her nose, longer this time.

  “What does it look like where you live?” she asked.

  “I live with Grandma now.”

  Sara laid the pony in her lap.

  “Because Mommy is sleeping,” she said.

  “Is Mommy sleeping?”

  Sara nodded again.

  “Yes, she’s sleeping.”

  “What do you usually do at Grandma’s?” Mikaela asked.

  “Aida and I play hide-and-seek.”

  “Where do you like to hide?”

  “Under the bed.”

  “Is that your best hiding place?”

  “Yes. Mommy also likes to hide.”

  “Why does Mommy hide?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sara shrugged her shoulders without looking up.

  “Can you tell me where Mommy hides?” Mikaela asked.

  “She hides when she’s bloody.”

  “Bloody? Why is Mommy bloody?”

  “Mommy’s sweetheart.”

  “Is Mommy your sweetheart?”

  “Mommy isn’t my sweetheart.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Sara stroked her hand over the pony, first with the hair, then against it.

  “Sara?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you see that the door to this room is closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the door to your room usually closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you lock it?”

  “No. Aida locks it.”

  “Is there anyone other than Aida who locks it?”

  Sara shook her head and stroked the pony again, quicker this time.

  “What’s your pony’s name?” Mikaela asked.

  “His name is Pony,” she said, looking up at Mikaela for the first time. “I’m thirsty.”

  “There’s water if you want some.”

  Mikaela filled a glass for Sara.

  “I want juice.”

  “Do you like juice?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of juice do you like?”

  “Red juice.”

  “Fruit punch?”

  “Yes.”

  Sara smiled and deep dimples appeared in her cheeks.

  “Do you usually have juice at your house?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile disappeared.

  “But Mommy doesn’t like juice,” she said. “She likes coffee. I don’t like coffee.”

  “Children don’t usually like coffee,” Mikaela said.

  “Coffee hurts.”

  Mikaela swallowed.

  “Why does coffee hurt?”

  “It hurts here,” Sara said, pointing to her chest.

  “Did you get coffee there?”

  Sara nodded.

  “Was it on purpose that you got coffee there?”

  Mikaela tried to meet her gaze, but it was impossible. The girl didn’t want to talk any more about it.

  “Is there anything else that happened at home that you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “Yes...” Sara said.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Mommy’s bloody.”

  “Why is Mommy bloody?”

  “Mommy’s sweetheart.”

  “Who is Mommy’s sweetheart?”

  “Ted.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  “UGH, WHAT A horrible case this is, and the girl is so young!” Anneli Lindgren said when Henrik had held a quick briefing about the interviews they’d conducted with both of Shirin Norberg’s daughters.

  The whole team was gathered around the conference table.

  “And for us, it’s even worse, because we only have the name Ted,” Henrik said. “She didn’t say anything else.”

  “If she was even telling the truth,” Gunnar said. “Maybe she just made up the name?”

  “Ted is probably his real name,” Henrik said, “and I don’t think she made up the thing with the coffee, either, even though it doesn’t have to mean anything...and she has unquestionably seen blood. I absolutely think that Ted is an important clue.”

  “Okay,” Mia said. “So now we need to know who this Ted is, where he is, and if and why he killed Shirin. But you can do that easy as pie, right, Ola? Poke around a little online.”

  “I’m working on it,” Ola said, “and thanks for the tip, I’ll poke around a little online.”

  “Good,” Gunnar said, slapping his hand on the table. “Find everyone with the first name of Ted in Norrköping, and do it quick.”

&nb
sp; Ola nodded and got up from the table.

  “Anneli, check with the National Forensic Center and see if they’ve gotten any matches on the fingerprints from the crime scene. Understood?”

  She had heard his voice, knew that he looked at her, but she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. Normally, she wouldn’t have reacted at all to his command, but now she sat there, cheeks blushing, like she had just been scolded. What had happened to her self-esteem?

  “Understood?” he said again, a little harder this time, and she nodded slowly.

  “Good, then let’s get going,” he said. “Time to get our butts in gear.”

  The chairs scraped the floor as everyone stood up. They left the room one after another, and she was going to do the same when she looked up and saw that only Gunnar remained.

  She followed his movements as he pushed the papers together on the table and saw that he was being unusually precise about it.

  Maybe he wanted to draw the moment out, simply enjoy being together just for that moment?

  She couldn’t ruin it by getting up.

  So she remained in her chair.

  * * *

  “What do you think about her story? Is Sara telling the truth? Or is she just a child in shock who’s fantasizing?” Henrik Levin asked as he walked down the hallway with Jana Berzelius after the meeting.

  “She doesn’t need to fantasize. She’s experienced enough trauma firsthand,” Jana said. “Now we should instead gather all conceivable information about this Ted person as quickly as possible.”

  “You think he’s the one who cut off Shirin’s hands? But we still don’t know if Shirin and this so-called Ted had a closer relationship.”

  “How else do you interpret her saying that Ted was ‘Mommy’s sweetheart’?”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Henrik said thoughtfully. “But we don’t know anything about Ted. She named him when she said that Mommy was bloody...that makes Ted suspicious in my eyes, not just that he is her sweetheart.”

  “Because you believe that the murder is about something other than their relationship?” Jana said.

  “Yes, the MO is too extreme. It suggests that it’s something other than relationship trouble. Tying someone to a chair and chopping off her hands is perverse violence, I would say.”

  Henrik stopped outside his office. Jana looked at him with a serious gaze. “I don’t think we need to be so creative about this investigation,” she said. “It’s better if we stick to the facts and focus on finding Ted.”

  She looked at her watch.

  “Another meeting coming up?” he asked.

  “Just paperwork,” she said. “Let me know as soon as you get anything.”

  Henrik nodded and watched as she disappeared down the hallway.

  * * *

  Per Åström straightened his tie again. He was impeccably dressed in a gray tailored suit and white shirt and had just been shown to a table at Fiskmagasinet.

  He was waiting for Jana. It wasn’t one of their usual spots, but the decor was decent. The chairs were large, comfortable and high-backed. Large windows faced the inner courtyard.

  The restaurant was filled with the right sort of people. There were men in jackets and women with perfect hairstyles. The ideal place for networking. Per sat at the table and listened to cheerful calls of greeting from the entryway, saw people’s wide smiles and listened to their small talk about a soccer match, a new TV series, the weather. More people streamed in, introduced themselves, exchanged pleasantries and tried to be entertaining.

  “Is this chair free?”

  Per looked up to see a woman in front of him. She had her hand on the chair on the other side of the table and was preparing to pull it away.

  He studied her. She looked around forty years old but was dressed like a teenager. She seemed to enjoy wearing red lipstick and a plunging neckline, and she had long, sparkling earrings. On her left hand was a simple gold ring.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s taken.”

  “Okay.”

  She smiled at him. He smiled back but quickly looked away. There was nothing wrong with her, but another woman occupied his thoughts. He cast a glance at his Breitling watch. Eight minutes until she was to arrive. She usually came exactly on time. At the precise minute, even the second. He preferred a wider margin. He’d been brought up to come at least ten minutes early to dentist appointments, meetings with clients, tennis matches or whatever else might be on his schedule.

  He felt like someone was watching him, turned his head and saw that the woman with the gold band had fixed her gaze on him. Like him, she sat alone at a table, and he saw that she still hadn’t found a chair for whomever she was waiting for.

  She smiled at him and he smiled back, a little self-consciously, and wondered what she was thinking about him.

  He looked at his watch again. Five minutes left before she would come.

  He straightened his tie one last time and continued listening to the cheerful, pleasant small talk going on around him.

  * * *

  Anneli Lindgren fiddled with her earring and saw Gunnar Öhrn reach for the last paper on the conference table. He looked quickly toward the door, and she knew that he was getting close to leaving the room.

  She had to move.

  She walked slowly toward him. She tried to suggest with her pace that she wanted to be seen. As she walked so incredibly slowly, she was swept back in time to the day when they had stepped forward together, side by side, toward an altar and a priest. They had promised each other eternal love, had sung about belief and hope, and had whispered about the forgiveness of sins.

  She had sinned, but he had still not forgiven her. She could understand him, of course, understand that he couldn’t deal with her betrayal, but at the same time she didn’t really. Their love couldn’t just disappear, not like that. It had to be there still.

  That was how she felt about their situation, and she so badly wanted him to say the same. She wanted to forget about walking slowly; it was making her crazy. She wanted to rush forward, embrace him, say that now, now, now it was time to move on with their life together. Again.

  “Hi,” she said, trying to catch his eyes.

  Suddenly, she felt the nervousness fluttering in her stomach. The feeling surprised her. She hadn’t expected to be standing before the man she had lived with for over twenty years with her eyes darting about and her mouth dry from anxiety.

  Then he turned his face up and looked at her. A smile began to spread from one corner of his mouth to the other.

  He was just about to open his mouth to say something when she heard someone clear their throat behind her. She spun around and saw Britt Dyberg in a knee-length skirt and light gray cardigan.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” Gunnar said. “Come in.”

  He waved her in with his arm, and Britt walked toward them with steady steps.

  “Hi, Anneli,” she said.

  “Hi,” Anneli said, looking away, feeling a strong desire to be elsewhere.

  “I tried calling,” Britt said. “But you didn’t answer your cell phone.”

  “We were just in a meeting...” Gunnar said, scratching his head.

  “I figured as much. But because it was urgent, I thought it best to come here in person. It’s about the man we’re looking for.”

  Britt held out a piece of paper.

  “Here,” she said. “We’ve gotten new information about where Danilo Peña is.”

  “Reliable information?” Gunnar asked.

  “Very reliable,” she said.

  He gave Anneli a look, then took the paper, skimmed it and said, “This will have to wait.” But then he fell silent.

  “Or, well, wait a minute. Henrik!” he yelled.

  * * *

  Jana Berzelius
stepped into the elevator. She greeted two uniformed police officers and was just waiting for the doors to close when she heard Gunnar yell for Henrik. She stuck her foot out and stopped the doors. She saw how Gunnar’s facial muscles jerked as he rushed toward Henrik, who was just coming out of his office.

  “Are you coming or not?” one of the officers asked.

  She took a step back, but just then heard Gunnar say: “Officers on the lookout think they’ve seen Danilo Peña in an apartment in town.”

  The doors thundered shut and the elevator began traveling downward.

  Jana stood still and hoped that the officers couldn’t tell how hard her heart was pounding.

  What had Danilo done? Had he been spotted through the windows? Or had he, despite everything, gone out and been recognized? Were the police already there? Had they stormed her apartment and captured him?

  In the elevator, the officers were talking about some course in mountain climbing, about ropes, carabiners and chocks.

  Her palms were sweating and her mind was racing. What should she do? Was there anything she could do? How was she going to be able to explain that she had an escaped murderer in her apartment? She would hardly be able to deny knowing who he was, or what he was doing in her apartment. He would just give her away anyway.

  Maybe she should have wished the elevator would move more quickly, but in that moment, she wished she could stop time so she could think clearly.

  Just then, her phone rang. She quickly pulled it out of her pocket and saw Per’s number on the display.

  “Yes?” she answered.

  “Are you on your way?”

  Lunch!

  Her body became ice-cold. She had completely forgotten. What should she do? Should she, despite everything, eat lunch and pretend like nothing was going on? Or should she go home to her apartment and try to salvage the situation?

  The elevator doors opened.

  “Per, I’m sorry, but I’ve been delayed,” she said.

  “But...” she heard him say.

  “I can’t talk now. We’ll have to talk later,” she said, ending the call.

  Then she dropped her phone back into her pocket and hurried out of the elevator.

  * * *

  “Hello? Jana?” Per Åström said, but she had hung up.

  He put his phone back in his pocket. Alone at his table, he felt like people were staring at him. When his gaze fell on people he recognized, they just looked stressed and depressed, turned their faces away and pretended they didn’t see him. The murmur of voices was muffled. Even the smell of the place was strange now. It didn’t smell like food anymore; it smelled like resignation.