Leona

by Jenny Rogneby

“Exactly, Claes Zetterlund. Damn, I’ve started forgetting names recently.”

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, it’s probably been going on for years, I don’t even remember —”

  “No, I mean, when was Claes here?”

  “A couple of hours, three hours ago max. He picked up a few things while I ran to the john. When I came back he was gone.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I ran out. Back up all the stairs. Didn’t have the patience to wait for the elevators. Had to get hold of Claes. If anyone wondered why I had put the backpack with money in my own locker instead of turning it in I could explain that it had been essential to get care for Olivia first. But how would Claes explain why he had taken the bag from my locker? And how could he even have known that it was there? Only I’d had that information…

  And Nina.

  My God, Nina!

  Could she have told Claes? Was it really true that the case would be moved to II? Everything was whirling in my head. I went straight to Claes’s office at a rapid clip. When I got closer I saw that the office was dark and the door closed. Damn!

  “See you tomorrow, Leona,” Anette called from the far end of the corridor.

  “Anette, has Claes left?” I called.

  “He just left. Said that he was going past Property and then home. Don’t know what he was going to do there, but if you hurry maybe you’ll catch up with him.”

  I ran. Had to get hold of him before he turned in the bag. I cursed that I had to swipe my security card and enter my code at every door. In the long corridor I saw Hampe from Property coming toward me.

  “Hampe!”

  Hampe stopped and smiled at me.

  “Not often anyone runs after me like that anymore.”

  “Are you closed?”

  “Yep. And I’m not opening again unless it’s life or death. Your boss was just here and talked me into staying late for him.”

  “So he’s been here?”

  “Hmmm, he turned in a bag. I thought it was a little strange. You know, those big shots don’t usually crawl down to us unnecessarily, much less to turn in property. I asked to be on the safe side if the bag shouldn’t go in for Forensics first, but he said that all that sort of thing was done.”

  “So you saw the contents?”

  “Contents? It was empty. Leona, what’s this about?”

  “Thanks, Hampe, now I know.”

  I turned and started jogging away.

  EIGHTY-NINE

  Fifty-three minutes later I drove slowly, with my lights off, into the street in the residential neighborhood of Nacka. Parked a couple of blocks from Claes’s house. It was dark. The air was brisk, as usual, and the grass was wet. I slipped in through the hedge and onto the lawn. Got a brief feeling of déjà vu from when I had sneaked into Christer Skoog’s house. I had hoped I would never end up in that situation again. Now, only a few weeks later, here I was. Not about to take someone’s life, but the circumstances were unpleasantly similar.

  I looked up at Claes’s house. There were lights on in all the windows. I assumed he had hidden the money in the garage so the family wouldn’t discover it.

  Getting into the garage without being seen was not a problem. The problem was the family’s Labrador, but I was prepared. I sneaked past the window. The whole family was sitting at the dinner table.

  A little snap was the only sound when I opened the garage door. Inside, it was completely dark. I turned on the flashlight and pulled out the hot dog that I had bought at a stand on my way there. I broke it into pieces and set them behind a black plastic sack in one corner of the garage. Using the beam of the flashlight I looked through the car window into the car. Swept the light over both of the front seats and onto the floor. Nothing. Same thing in the backseat. I carefully pushed in the handle to the rear hatch. Loud barking was heard from inside the house.

  “Quiet, Ozzy! Go and lie down!”

  Claes’s wife shouted at the dog. I stopped. Listened. I could hear the clatter of silverware, and assumed that the family was still eating. I pulled open the hatch and shone the flashlight into the trunk. There was a lot of junk. As soon as I picked up a bag the dog burst out into more loud barking. Now I heard scratching sounds at the door between the garage and the house. Steps approached the garage door. It was a matter of time before someone opened the door and discovered me.

  “Ozzy, what is it?” I heard Claes say on the other side of the door.

  I turned off the flashlight and quickly and quietly crawled down into the trunk, carefully closing the hatch. It was completely black. I could feel a child’s seat by my head and a rubber boot on my back. I didn’t know what the other things were. I heard the door between the garage and the house being opened. Paws ran around the car and then straight to the corner where I had set out the pieces of sausage. The dog gobbled up the cold hot dog I had set out.

  “So what have you found now?” Claes’s voice sounded tired.

  “Damn, we should have gotten a Rottweiler or some other useful dog.”

  I heard steps around the car. They stopped. Where was he? Judging by the sound he was standing right by the rear hatch. I slowly wrapped my hand around my service pistol.

  “Claes, come on. The food is getting cold,” Claes’s wife called from inside the house.

  The paws went away. As did the steps. The door closed. I had realized that the money was not in the trunk, anyway. In that case it would have been the first thing Claes opened when he came out into the garage. I looked around in the darkness for the self-lighting safety cutoff to open the rear hatch from inside. If there wasn’t one I would have to search for the tools under the mat and work open the lock of the rear hatch. But Claes’s car was an American import, and a law there required all new cars to have a safety cutoff, so there should be one. I probably would have found it immediately if there hadn’t been so many things in the trunk. I turned on the flashlight. Moved aside the child’s seat as quietly as I could. There! I took hold of the white plastic tag that was attached to a wire. The rear hatch opened.

  Now there was no time to lose.

  One more bark from the dog and Claes would not give up until he knew what it was barking at. I searched in the shelves in the garage. Nothing. I turned around and happened to bump into a can with tools that was on a wooden box. It fell apart loudly against the concrete floor.

  Dog barking again.

  Twice as loud.

  I ran to the door. Heard Claes yelling at the dog to stop, go and lie down. Just as I took hold of the garage door handle the door from inside the house opened. I kept going. I tore open the door and ran out onto the asphalt driveway away from the house. Claes came after me. He was fast.

  “Leona,” he shouted. “There’s no point in running. I’ve seen you. I know what you’re up to.”

  He was right. There was no point. I stopped. Turned around. He had stopped on the driveway by the house.

  We stood still.

  Stared at each other.

  Should I pull my gun or bargain with him? I didn’t know which.

  He slowly moved his hand toward his belt. He had brought his service pistol home with him. I tried to pull mine out quicker. He was fast. Suddenly we were standing there with our guns pointed right at each other.

  “Drop the gun, Leona.”

  He spoke in a calm voice. I was out of breath but stood completely still, my legs wide and slightly bent and my arms extended, with both hands on the gun. I didn’t answer. The only thing that moved was my pounding heart. Fast. Hard. And my breathing. The angled streetlights above created a tall shadow of me along the driveway. We were standing only ten meters from each other. It was a decisive moment. My action in this situation would have major consequences.

  Suddenly it was as if I woke up. I realized what I was doing. I was aiming my service pistol at my own boss. A highly regarded police commissioner, besides.

  Was I out of my mind?

  What did I intend to do?

 
I had never fired my service pistol at anyone. Only heard colleagues talk about how they felt after being forced to shoot. Several had depression, were taken out of service and unable to return. They relived the course of events in nightmares night after night and had severe sleep problems. One colleague resigned the day after an incident. I never would have believed that when I was forced to aim my service pistol, it would be at a police officer — at my own boss.

  But I had gone through this once.

  Killed before.

  That made it easier.

  But how could I explain this afterward? That Claes attacked me outside his own home? That wouldn’t hold up. Was there no other way out? Could I convince him to keep quiet? Hardly. I had nothing to offer. He already had the money. We stood still facing each other. At this distance I would have no problem hitting exactly where I wanted. Neither would he. I was completely focused. Registered his slightest movements.

  It would be him.

  Or me.

  I prepared myself. Index finger on the trigger. Slowly squeezed. Steady hands. Then I heard sirens. They were fast approaching. At least three cars. I remained standing with the gun aimed at Claes. I understood somewhere that it was over but couldn’t get myself to put down the gun. Gripped it tightly. It was as if I was holding on to what was still left of my life. Even if only for a few more seconds. All my energy was drained. My body became heavy. The pistol felt like a big clump of lead in my hands. Tears welled up in my eyes. I saw my children before me.

  Claes remained standing. Now I saw blue lights revolving against the wall of the house. One, two, three cars stopped. I heard car doors opening behind me. Colleagues who shouted, “Police! Drop the gun!”

  It was over. Neither of us moved. I stood as if petrified. My body would not obey me. I wanted to let go, but still I remained standing with the service pistol clenched in my hands. My finger on the trigger. Everything was in the gun. My job and my personal life. The years at the Police Academy, the work out on the streets, the uniform, the corridors, the jail, colleagues, coming home to Peter and the children, making dinner, getting cozy in front of the TV, putting the kids to bed, everything that I so despised I was now desperately trying to hold on to.

  What was I without all that, really?

  The tears ran down my cheeks and prevented me from focusing my gaze. I heard several bolt actions behind me. Police shouting. I didn’t understand what was being said. The sounds echoed in my ears. Those who had previously been my colleagues, police officers who had taken the same path as me, for whom I had been prepared to do anything, now aimed their guns at me. At my back.

  I was in a haze.

  Numb.

  With one final mental charge I sharpened my awareness. I heard the officers behind me screaming.

  “Claes, drop the gun. Now!”

  Claes? Did I hear right? Before I had time to think, a shot echoed through my head. Through the entire residential area. Claes sank down to the ground. Blood was coming through one pant leg. He had been shot. By the police. I was confused. I couldn’t put the pieces together. Claes was lying on the ground. Police ran past me and up to Claes. Put handcuffs on him. I slowly lowered the gun, stared straight ahead. A colleague came up and touched my shoulder.

  “Leona, you can relax. It’s over now. Well done!”

  NINETY

  Today Sweden’s Most Wanted follows up a few of the crimes we reported on earlier in the fall, where we also received tips from our viewers. This concerns the crimes that in the media came to be known as the girl robberies, where a seven-year-old girl committed three robberies in central Stockholm.

  Stockholm District Court has now convicted police commissioner Claes Zetterlund to six years in prison for having orchestrated the crimes. He was arrested outside his home under dramatic circumstances where the police were forced to shoot him in the leg after he aimed his service pistol at his own colleagues.

  Presented as evidence against him in court was DNA found in an apartment at Gärdet from which the girl is said to have been kidnapped sometime before the robberies.

  Sweden’s Most Wanted reported earlier on a tape recording that the girl played during all three robberies. It turned out after audio analysis to contain the police commissioner’s voice. In court a video of a police interview with the girl was also shown where she reacted with such strong fear of the police commissioner that he was forced to leave the room. The girl, who was severely traumatized by the events, couldn’t tell police of her involvement but instead was taken home to her mother in Finland, where she is receiving care.

  Some of the money from the robberies was confiscated from a locked cabinet in the police commissioner’s office.

  The case was first investigated by the squad led by the police commissioner himself but was transferred to the National Police Board’s Department for Internal Investigations when it began to be suspected that he was involved in the robberies. The police commissioner was not considered to be the sole perpetrator and the police received tips from you, the viewers, that led to another man also being brought in for questioning. The man was released, however, due to a lack of evidence.

  The police commissioner was convicted after pleading not guilty.

  NINETY-ONE

  Almost all morning I had managed to stay awake as police commissioner after police commissioner stood and rattled off figures and outdid each other in praising themselves and their own coworkers. The annual gathering for city investigators would go on all day.

  The coordinator went up to the podium again. The head of investigations was welcomed. Everyone applauded.

  “Thanks, I’ll make this brief, but I still want to show a few examples of how we’ve worked during the year so that everyone will understand what amazing work we are doing.”

  Everyone sat quietly. Most were probably listening with half an ear, like me.

  The mood at the squad had been almost unbearable over the past few weeks, starting when Claes was arrested for the robberies, right up until the verdict was pronounced. Even if a number of colleagues had been very critical of him, his leadership style, and his way of running the squad, there were few prior to the verdict who thought he really was guilty. Some made it clear, however, that they had always known there was something shady about Claes and that they had suspected he was involved the whole time. There were always police who thought, knew, and felt everything possible under the sun. They thought that now everything had fallen into place. That Claes had never revealed much about himself or his personal affairs, and thus fitted the model of the man who lived a double life. They also thought that Claes’s constant claims that he was underpaid, his repeated outbursts, and his cold attitude toward personnel proved that he wanted to get away from the agency. Added to that were the previous rumors about him as a corrupt police officer. Everyone asked me how I saw the whole thing. For understandable reasons I kept out of the discussion.

  I needed Claes to complete my plan. Besides the medium, who had now been claimed for other purposes, Claes was the only one within the agency who actually had any insight into the investigation. I didn’t count Minna and Sam. In order not to risk anything, it was important that I knew that Claes was where he couldn’t do any damage.

  Claes wasn’t stupid. He realized that when I picked up the girl after the robbery, I had also taken charge of the robbery money. I wasn’t really surprised that he had picked it up at the janitor’s office. But neither I nor the court bought his assertion that he happened to find the money when he went to pick up his own bag, and had decided to lock it in the cabinet in his office because he didn’t have time to conduct the necessary security measures for the handling of confiscated valuables or cash. On the contrary, it proved that at least some of the rumors about Claes were true.

  The head of investigations showed his last image and the coordinator once again stepped up to the podium. This time the county chief constable was welcomed. Everyone applauded.

  “Thanks, thanks! Dear fellow e
mployees. It has been an overwhelming year. As always in our agency, we never quite know what’s going to happen. But that’s part of the excitement and what keeps us going, isn’t it?”

  People mumbled an “mmm.” The county chief constable continued talking about how the Swedish police stood in comparison with our neighboring countries and how the cooperation between the countries looked. Cooperation with Finland had improved, and as a result several crimes had been solved. I thought of Ronni.

  Nina and I had been in the courtroom during the main proceedings. The prosecutor had summoned Ronni as a witness. Nina and I had prepared him for the questions we knew would come. He conducted himself really well. He skipped his usual unpleasant attitude and exerted himself to sound credible, explaining to the court that someone had broken into his apartment at Gärdet when he was out and that Olivia had been missing ever since. The information had been backed up with forensic evidence in the form of pictures of his broken apartment door. Inside the apartment, besides DNA from Olivia and Ronni, Forensics also found the DNA from Claes that I had placed there. During the door-to-door an elderly woman had reported that she saw a man being rather heavy-handed with a little girl in the stairwell. The woman had all her focus on the girl and didn’t remember what the man looked like other than that he was rather tall and well built. The lady was a little confused and couldn’t remember with certainty what date she had made the observation, either. A witness who didn’t remember exact appearances or days wasn’t unusual, and as the woman was also elderly, there was nothing strange about it. A perfect witness, in my eyes.

  Of course, the prosecutor had questioned why Ronni had not reported the girl missing. Ronni admitted that he had a criminal past and therefore didn’t have any confidence in the police, which was one of the reasons he had not reported her as missing. The other was that he didn’t want his former partner to find out that their daughter was missing, because he was afraid she would use that against him in a custody battle. He said that instead of going to the police, he had made use of his own contacts in the underworld to find her. When the prosecutor asked in court whether Ronni had followed the news and seen what was written about a girl who committed robberies, Ronni had answered that he had seen it, but that he didn’t think that Olivia would be able to commit a bank robbery. “Who believes something like that about their own little seven-year-old daughter?” The court wrote in the verdict that a father would be expected to report his missing daughter, but that, as he had been open about his criminal past and explained his distrust of the police, and been in dispute with his former partner and therefore tried to find the girl on his own, they found no reason to doubt Ronni’s story. The court also thought that parents, after learning about crimes in the media, would not expect that their own children were involved.