She listened to the sounds of her apartment and walked through the hallway, passing the kitchen and into the living room. She looked out through the window at the world outside, which was dark and quiet, cold and sleepy, and wondered what Per was thinking.
She lowered her gaze, looking down at her tightly clenched fists.
There is no other way out, she said to herself, than the one she had just chosen.
“Who was that?”
Danilo was suddenly standing behind her.
She stopped but didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
She wanted to return to being alone in herself.
To the silence and stillness.
“You know who it was,” she said curtly.
“What did you say to him?”
“What I had to, to make him go away.”
She walked forward again, into her bedroom, closing the door with a quiet sigh and sinking to the floor. She leaned her head against the wall and felt the pain from her clenched hands. She didn’t care. She clenched them even harder.
She remained there a long time.
April 16
Dear Diary,
When I came into the locker room after gym class today, I couldn’t find my pants at first. Someone had thrown them in the toilet because “they smelled like alcohol.”
It’s Martin’s fault, I know it is. I should never have said anything to him about you, Daddy. I told him in confidence, and anyway, it was a long time ago when he and I were still friends.
Now he’s told everyone else in class about you. Now everyone knows that I used to hide your liquor bottles in my closet. Do you understand how embarrassed I am, Daddy? Do you know? I hope you do, because it’s your fault, your damn fault that everything is how it is. It was you who made sure I was alone when I was just little.
Do you know what my first memory is, Daddy? It’s from the kitchen. I remember you lying there, under the kitchen table, your eyes closed and something sticky on your skin. All I wanted was for you to snuggle with me.
If I could have, I would have gotten out of my high chair and lain down beside you.
I remember that I was crying, Daddy. Come, I yelled. Come here. Please get up, hold me. Don’t lie there. Hold me.
But you didn’t.
I think about you more and more, Daddy. I think that even if you never did anything for my loneliness, at least you brought my new mom into my life.
Daddy, I wish you were still with us. But you let us down.
So I was happy when you finally disappeared from my life.
But I didn’t know life would be like this. The doctor said everything was going to be fine. Why? It’s not fine. It’s never going to be fine, even in the end. I know that.
The worst thing is that I feel overwhelmed inside me. I can’t handle it anymore, knowing that I’m soon going to be completely alone.
Completely fucking alone.
But what is loneliness, really? Why does it exist? And what does it do to us?
Can anyone answer that?
Can you answer that?
Daddy?
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Sunday
HE WAS THE first one up, even though his youngest son had kept him awake almost all night. The kitchen was bathed in a captivating light from a blue sky. Henrik Levin stood by the window and looked out, noticing the beginning of light green colors and a multitude of buds in the yard.
“You’re up early.”
He turned around and saw Emma come in dressed in her gray pajama pants and top, her hair in a ponytail.
“Yes,” he said.
“What a beautiful day,” she said, looking at him, yet past him, out through the window and toward the blue sky. Then she went to him, put both arms around his waist and leaned in close.
They stood like that for a long time.
“I’m going to miss this yard,” she said.
“It’s small,” he said.
“That’s why,” she said, hugging him harder.
“You haven’t started to regret moving, have you?” he said.
“No,” she said. “It just feels strange to move back to the house I grew up in. Everything looks like it did when I moved out, down to the striped wallpaper in my old room.”
“But if I know you well enough, the whole house will be painted white even before we’ve arrived with the moving boxes. You can choose whatever shade of white you want, I promise.”
She laughed and kissed him.
It was just after eight o’clock when Henrik walked out the front door. He was about to get in the car when his cell phone rang. On the other end of the line, Björn Ahlmann cleared his throat. “The report is done,” he said.
“What?”
“That’s what you wanted. For it to go quickly. The autopsy of Katarina Vinston is complete. I’ve been up half the night finishing it.”
“Thanks, Björn.”
“No problem.”
Henrik rested his elbow on the car door. “What do we know, then?” he said.
“Nothing more than what we already know, probably.”
“But we hardly know anything.”
“You know the victim’s tongue had been cut out.”
“With what sort of tool, though?”
“A single-use disposable scalpel.”
“How do you know it was disposable?”
“Because the blade was still there inside her.”
Henrik fell silent; he was having a hard time seeing in front of him. The scalpel was still inside her? A wave of nausea hit him. He swallowed, then swallowed again to try and get rid of the terrible taste in his mouth.
“Växjö?” Björn said.
“What?”
“Växjö, do you remember what happened in Växjö?”
“I don’t remember.”
Björn related, in his characteristically factual way, the story of a woman with self-harming behavior who had swallowed two scalpels. The psych ward was familiar with the woman; she’d been seen earlier at an Urgent Care facility. She had previously brought attention to herself by swallowing sharp objects such as razor blades and knives.
“When the second scalpel was being pulled out, her esophagus and the blood vessels in her neck were injured so seriously that she died on the operation table at Central Hospital in Gothenburg,” he said. “I seem to remember that it resulted in a Lex Maria report to Social Services, because the hospital’s actions may have contributed to the patient’s death. Katarina had only the blade in her stomach. I believe it may have come loose when her tongue was being cut.”
“And she swallowed it?” Henrik said.
“You understand what that means?” Björn said.
“No, but I assume you’re going to tell me.”
“It means that Katarina was conscious when her tongue was cut out.”
Henrik grimaced.
“Does it require a lot of strength to...?” Henrik asked.
“Not really.”
“And what kind of scalpel is it?”
“I can’t say anything about the brand, but it says that it was made in Tuttlingen, Germany.”
“Okay, I’ll get someone to trace it.”
“That might be difficult. Countless disposable scalpels are sold all over the world.”
“Send me a picture anyway, please.”
“I will.”
“Did she have any other visible marks on her body? Wounds, bruises?”
“No.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Yes,” he said. “From the analysis, we’ve seen that both Shirin and Katarina were both injected with a fast-acting anesthetic, a narcotic.”
�
��Which is called...?”
“Ketalar.”
* * *
Jana Berzelius clasped her watch around her wrist. She was still thinking about Per and his sad, disappointed look. His only crime was that he was her...colleague? Acquaintance? Friend? She didn’t really know; no matter what word she used, their relationship was very likely over now. He would probably never want anything to do with her again.
It made her furious.
And it was Danilo’s fault.
She moved slowly through the bedroom, turned off the lamp by the bed and opened the door.
He was on the floor in the living room, doing his push-ups slowly and methodically. Every day, the same exercises.
“Give me the old shirt.”
He looked up quickly, stood up and went over to her chin-up bar, wrapped his palms around it and lifted his body multiple times.
“You look angry again now,” he said. “And you are, aren’t you, Jana?”
She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “You think you’re smart?”
He let go of the bar and shook his arms.
“I’m not angry,” she said, “but I will be if you don’t give me the shirt.”
“It’s on the sofa.”
“So I’m supposed to get it myself?”
“Yes, who else is going to? Per?”
She raised her eyes and saw him smile, saw him open his mouth to say something else. But she didn’t intend to let him.
It was as if all of her hatred for him exploded inside her. She advanced without hesitation, twirling around in a single graceful movement and swinging her arm hard horizontally, striking his arm where the shoulder meets the upper arm.
He was surprised by her sudden attack and grimaced from the sudden pain. But she continued, taking two steps to the left and striking his other arm with a hard backhand.
Then one kick and another. She rotated her hips, braced with the back foot and connected with his waist. She ended by kicking him away from her.
She didn’t want to stop, but she checked herself, lowered her arms, stood still and breathed. She saw him lying on the floor underneath her, saw him bleeding. She saw that he was going to say something again, and this time she let him.
“Okay, I get it, I get it,” he said. “Sensitive subject.”
“If you want me to help you escape, you had better go get your shirt. Now.”
* * *
It was nine thirty in the morning and Mia sat rocking in her chair in the conference room while Henrik briefed the group about his conversation with the National Forensic Lab.
“Björn didn’t find anything of value, unfortunately. No sperm, no blood or anything else on Katarina Vinston’s body,” he said.
“Nothing from Ted, then,” Mia said. “Well, shit!”
“I’ve said this before,” Henrik said. “I don’t think Ted Henriksson is our guy.”
The room fell silent. Mia looked around and met cheerless, bleary-eyed looks from Gunnar and Ola.
“Besides, the morning someone was torturing Shirin, Henriksson was at work,” Henrik said. “It’s been confirmed.”
“But couldn’t he have snuck out for an hour or two without anyone noticing?” Ola said.
Henrik shook his head.
“He works with the production of supplements at Vitamex here in Norrköping.”
“Sounds a little advanced for an idiot like him, if you ask me,” Mia said.
“Even men like him have to earn a living,” Henrik said. “The point is that he works on a production line, and if he hadn’t been at his station, his coworkers would have known and reacted, I guarantee it.”
“And when it comes to Katarina?” Gunnar asked. “Where was he then?”
“At work then, too. Henriksson certainly has a lot on his conscience. But we have to look a little wider...”
Gunnar drew both hands over his head, back and forth multiple times.
“You’re right, Henrik,” he said. “We no longer have a suspect for the murders of Shirin and Katarina.”
Mia sank into her chair. “Damn it,” she said. “I really thought it was him.”
“You said that Björn reported no sperm on the victims? Interesting,” Gunnar said.
“What’s interesting about that?” Mia said.
“It seems odd that the perpetrator didn’t sexually assault them in any case. And in turn, it means we can eliminate a lot of perpetrators in our own database. These crimes are about something else.”
The room fell silent again. Gunnar clasped his hands together and leaned over the table. “We have a crazy person who tortures his victims in their own homes. Nothing points to a fight, or a break-in, so it’s likely that both Shirin and Katarina knew their torturer.”
“Yes,” Henrik said, “but from where?”
“Well, this is what I’m thinking,” Mia said. “The perp is probably smart and lives a seemingly normal life with a job and a family. But something sick and twisted inside him makes him need to tie up his female victims and dismember them. And so far he’s managed to do this while keeping a somewhat normal profile.”
“Sounds like a true psychopath,” Ola said. “Probably a state employee. I can imagine that from his desk at his day job at some government agency, he follows his crimes in the media and is proud of them, as if he were involved in some sort of large-scale art project.”
“The fucker must be getting quite a charge now,” Mia said, “since the newspapers are having a field day with these murders.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here,” Gunnar said. “We have no idea if we’re dealing with a psychopath or not.”
“But when it comes to serial killers, anyway, the victims often have something in common,” Ola said, “like career, ethnicity, hair color or sex. Both Shirin and Katarina worked in health care.”
“I think we’re dealing with a fucking serial killer, too,” Mia said.
“As I said, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. There has to be three murders for it to be a serial killer,” Gunnar said.
“Who said he’s done?” Mia said.
Gunnar scratched his earlobe.
“Okay,” he said. “Both Shirin and Katarina worked in health care, but there has to be something in addition to that.”
“The ritual of tying up the victims and severing limbs is identical, which might point to some form of serial intention, anyway,” Henrik said. “What says he will ever stop?”
Henrik looked out over the team.
“Nothing,” Mia said. “Not if he gets off on reading and hearing about his crimes in the news. That’s why it is our job to stop him.”
“We can hardly stop the media from writing about the murders,” Gunnar said.
“True, and by the way,” Henrik said, pointing to a paper he had before him, “there was one more important thing Björn said. Both Shirin and Katarina had been injected with the anesthetic Ketalar.”
“So the perpetrator has access to drugs,” Gunnar said.
“Yes, and he seems to be able to use a bone saw and a scalpel, too,” Mia said.
“The common denominator between the victims and the perpetrator can, despite everything, be their work,” Henrik mumbled. “Maybe the killer is a doctor?”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
JANA BERZELIUS SLOWED DOWN, stopped and scanned the industrial district in Motala. So this was what the district looked like for real, she thought.
Just a hundred yards away, a rabbit bounded off over asphalt and gravel. Two hundred yards past that, she caught sight of the shelter building, and right next to it was a white building called Konsum Ringen. The building apparently had previously featured a grocery store. Now it housed a cultural center, and a poster advertised an exhibition featuring a young talent from Linköpin
g.
Jana drove on behind the Konsum Ringen building and parked the car so it was well hidden among a string of garages with rusty doors.
Was it really such a good idea to step right into a shelter and plant a trace for a man who was suspected of murder?
She heard something outside the car, something that sounded like footsteps. She listened, but the sound disappeared. Maybe it was her imagination.
She rubbed her hand over the initials carved into her neck and sank back into the driver’s seat, trying to breathe calmly. She persuaded herself that it was a simple plan. Without anyone seeing her, she would place the shirt in an obvious place in the shelter. Nothing too complicated. Just plant the shirt where someone would notice it and then get out of there.
What did she have to lose?
Not much, she thought, and got out of the car.
* * *
Lucas Bratic looked at himself in the mirror and thought how everything had gone to hell: yesterday’s earnings, the miserable weather and the fact that someone had just knocked on the door.
“Open up,” he heard a harsh voice say.
There was no mistaking whose voice it was. Dragan Sandin, a forty-five-year-old man with an exaggerated accent, was making his usual collection rounds in the shelter.
“Or we’ll break down the door, cockhead.”
The fact that Dragan had said we’ll break down the door instead of I’ll break down the door made Lucas nervous. In other words, multiple people stood on the other side of the door. Just the thin piece of wood separated him from their hard fists.
Lucas saw the door handle move up and down. He’d been sitting in the shared bathroom for a half hour, pretending he had a stomachache. In actuality, he needed the time to figure out a plan.
Yesterday, he’d only been able to beg $10.53 out of people. The money was in his right pocket, and that was what Dragan was after. He wanted all of it—the money in Lucas’s other pocket, too. A wad of ten-dollar bills. It was money Lucas had been able to hide and that he needed.
Carefully, he removed the lid of the toilet tank. He rolled up the bills and tried to fasten them to the float as he heard Dragan’s voice again.
“If you don’t open up, we’ll do it for you.”
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