I thought, This is what families do. They protect each other.
14
After the interrogation, I called Ulrika. She had just swung by the house, but the police were still there.
“They seriously think Stella did something,” I said. “This is a nightmare!”
“What did you tell the police?” Ulrika wanted to know.
“I told them I know exactly when Stella came home on Friday. I explained that I was awake and spoke to her.”
Ulrika didn’t say anything for a moment.
“What time was that?” she asked.
I drew in a breath. I hated lying. Especially to my wife. But I saw no other option. I couldn’t drag Ulrika into this. She didn’t know; she had been asleep when Stella arrived home. How could I tell her I had lied to the police?
“Eleven forty-five,” I said.
It didn’t feel as awful as I’d feared. As if my own resistance was worn down a little more each time I uttered the lie.
Ulrika explained that she was on her way to meet a police investigator she knew. There was nothing I could do for the moment. Nothing to do, and so much that needed to be done. I walked briskly over to Bantorget. The sun was sharp and forced my eyes downward. The voices around me seemed shrill and accusatory. I sped up. It was like the whole town was full of staring eyes.
* * *
I am adamant in my belief that nothing could be as difficult as being a parent. All other relationships have an emergency exit. You can leave a lover, and most people do at some point, if love ebbs away, if you grow apart, or if it no longer feels good in your heart. You can leave friends and acquaintances along the way, and relatives too, and even siblings and parents. You can leave and move on and still make it out okay. But you can never renounce your child.
Ulrika and I were young and inexperienced at life when Stella came into the world. I suppose we knew it would be tough, but our anguish was mostly bound to worldly things like lack of sleep, difficulty breastfeeding, and getting sick. It took quite some time for us to realize that the hardest part of being a parent is something completely different.
I grew up in a family steeped in the 1970s values of freedom and solidarity. Rules and demands hardly existed. Good sense and inherent morals were enough.
“Does it feel good in your heart?” my father asked me when, at the age of ten, I was caught pulling my sister’s hair so hard great clumps came out in my hand.
That was enough to make me cry with shame and guilt.
I tried the same thing on Stella a few times.
“Does that feel good in your heart?” I asked when her headmaster called to say she had thrown another girl’s hat up onto the roof of the school.
Stella stared back at me.
“My heart doesn’t feel anything. It’s just beating.”
For almost ten years, Ulrika and I tried to give Stella a sibling. At times, our whole lives revolved around this missing part, taking up all the energy we could spare. We went to war, both of us armed with the worst kind of determination to win. We told ourselves that a little plus sign on the pregnancy test was the solution to everything.
We couldn’t see what was happening to us, how we were digging ourselves into a pit of guilt, shame, and inadequacy.
The last couple of years, we were so into our battle against nature and each other that we probably forgot what we were fighting for. I’ve read about soldiers in the trenches in World War I who eventually forgot who they were at war with and started shooting at their countrymen.
* * *
Late that Sunday afternoon, the police finally vacated our house. When I returned home, Ulrika was off being questioned by Chief Inspector Agnes Thelin, and my stomach crawled with discomfort as I unlocked the door and slowly walked through room after room. I could have no complaints when it came to the police’s degree of care; what traces they had left were few in number and hardly noticeable. But the feeling of having had my private life invaded gnawed at me.
I walked around the first floor and inspected the laundry room, the hall, and the living room; I even opened the woodstove and peered in. Then I went upstairs to Stella’s room. I stood in her door for a moment and was struck by how empty it felt. The police must have seized quite a lot of her belongings.
I stood before the window in our bedroom for a while, gazing at the photograph I’d broken. I let my index finger glide across the picture and it felt good in my heart. There’s nothing more important than family.
Outside the window, dusk was bathing the land in a thin layer of darkness. My eyes followed the glimmering string of streetlights off to the horizon and I thought about how mercy comes to the patient. The righteous hold to their way.
I noticed that a few neighbors were standing across the street and pointing at our house. I pulled down the blinds with a crash. Even as I did so, I decided to call the chairman of the parish council and take sick leave. He sounded honestly sorry for me; he shared a few words of comfort and advised me to stay home as long as I needed to and told me not to worry about the congregation.
When I called Ulrika, her interrogation had just come to an end.
“It’s not as simple as Blomberg first thought,” she said.
Her voice seemed to come in waves. I couldn’t tell whether the connection was bad or Ulrika was about to burst into tears.
“What do you mean?”
A few pops came over the line. I heard her gasping breaths.
“The police must have found something in our house. The prosecutor has just submitted a request for detention.”
15
Michael Blomberg’s office was three floors up in one of the fanciest buildings on Klostergatan, just a stone’s throw from the Grand Hotel. Come Monday morning, Ulrika and I were all but hanging from the lock. The lack of sleep was clearly reflected in my wife’s face. Although I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in the last forty-eight hours either, my exhaustion was the least of my concerns. There was too much else going on inside of me.
We were served coffee under the high ceiling with its plasterwork and flourishes, while Blomberg tucked his thumbs into his back pockets and shuffled his shiny leather shoes on the floor.
“The detention hearing will be at one.”
I felt butterflies. Finally, we could see Stella.
“The police found a footprint at the scene of the crime,” Blomberg went on, scratching his neck. “From a shoe the same size as Stella wears, with the same pattern on the sole.”
I squeezed Ulrika’s forearm.
“Is that all?” I asked. “The only evidence? Did they find anything when they searched our house?”
“It’s too soon to say. Some of what they seized from your residence has been sent to the lab for forensic analysis.”
“Doesn’t that usually take time?” I asked.
“It won’t take more than a few days to get answers,” Blomberg said. “What we’re dealing with here is what’s called investigative detention. In blunt terms, it means that they’ll keep Stella in jail while the police wait for an answer from the lab. It doesn’t take much to get someone detained for reasonable suspicion.”
“Just for a footprint?”
Blomberg looked at Ulrika as if he thought she should chime in. As if it was her job to explain things to her dim-witted husband.
“I think you need to be prepared for Stella to remain in jail.”
It sounded so fateful. So resigned. I looked at Ulrika, who just nodded in confirmation. What was going on?
“Who’s the prosecutor?” Ulrika asked.
“Jenny Jansdotter.”
“She’s supposed to be good. One of the best.”
It was hard for me to tell whether this was an advantage or disadvantage for us. I’d never needed to immerse myself in the legalities involved with deprivation of liberty. Most people, happily, never have reason to do so. Even though I’m married to a lawyer, my knowledge was basic at best. Now I know how little evidence it takes to keep a p
erson under lock and key. I had heard the opposite many times—despairing police officers claiming that the suspect was set free before they had the chance for an arrest, the general view that the Swedish justice system was broken and would rather protect the rights of suspects and convicts than deal with the suffering of victims. Demands for tougher punishments and stricter measures. I’d worked in jails before and had shared these thoughts myself. There had never been a reason for me to shift perspective.
“What’s more, the prosecutor has a witness. The neighbor,” Blomberg said, leaning across the desk to read from the document. “My Sennevall.”
He sounded so calm, as if this was something that must simply be accepted. Shouldn’t he be furious? Want to take action?
“The witness,” I said. “How can she be so certain it was Stella she saw? She doesn’t know her.”
“She claims to recognize Stella from H&M.”
“Recognize her?” I muttered.
Ulrika elbowed me in the side.
“What does Stella say?”
Blomberg cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair. Once again he turned to address Ulrika directly. With every passing second, I became more convinced of his incompetence.
“After closing time, Stella and a few colleagues went up to the Stortorget restaurant. They ate and had a glass or two of wine. Around ten thirty, Stella left the restaurant. All of her colleagues have confirmed this. She said nothing about where she was going, but everyone assumed she was going to bike home.”
“But she didn’t?”
“Stella herself says she biked over to Tegnérs and went around to a few other pubs in town. She doesn’t remember exactly where she was at any given point in time.”
Ulrika and I exchanged glances. This didn’t sound like a very solid alibi. In fact, it seemed evasive, the sort of thing a guilty person would say. Why hadn’t she made an effort to remember more details?
“There must be something more she can recall,” I said. “There must be other people who saw her. She knows half the city.”
Blomberg glanced at Ulrika, whose response was to stretch and gaze past him and out the large window.
“Do we know anything else about the timeline?” she asked. “That witness, Sennevall, said she heard screaming and fighting around one o’clock?”
“That’s right. The first reports mentioned just after one in the morning, but now they’re waiting for the medical examiner’s report before nailing anything down.”
Ulrika looked at me.
“If it’s determined that Christopher Olsen died at one o’clock, that means Stella has an alibi.”
“That’s correct.”
My vision swam.
“And not just any alibi,” the star attorney went on, a smug smile on his face. “Everyone I’ve spoken with says you’re the personification of honesty, Adam.”
I swallowed heavily.
16
The custody hearing took place right after lunch. I had passed by the county courthouse in Lund thousands of times, that unusual façade with its irregular shale siding and copper details, the little clock tower out front. Now, for the first time, I stepped through the doors and was forced to empty my pockets. I stood in the entry like a crucifix as a security guard patted me down. Once inside, Ulrika and I sat on a cot-like bench in the corridor to wait. The air was thick.
Each time the door opened, we flew up, causing the security people to startle until finally they told us to take it easy.
At last Stella arrived, flanked by two uniformed men. She just hung there, a slender ghost between the broad-shouldered guards. Didn’t even look our way. Ulrika dashed up and threw her arms around her but was quickly fended off by one of the uniforms.
“Stella! Sweetheart!”
I tried to force my way between the guards to touch my little girl, but one of the large men put out both his bulging arms and blocked my path.
“It’ll be over soon, Stella,” Ulrika said.
Stella was pale, her eyes sunken, and there was something else about her, something I’d never seen before. She was resigned. The exhaustion in her face was the kind you only see in people who have acquiesced, abandoned themselves to their fate, or, in this case, to the system. People who say, “Do what you want with me.” You can see it in their eyes, how all the life has been sucked out.
I’ve met others who capitulated. People so thoroughly drained of purpose and volition that they can no longer muster up the strength even to inflict harm upon themselves.
As Stella was guided into the courtroom, I was flung down into a limbo of uncertainty. I’m still suspended there in midair, kicking for my life, grasping for stability.
* * *
The courtroom was no larger than a living room. The presiding judge was paging through some documents as we took our seats in the gallery. Blomberg pulled out a chair for Stella and as she tried to sit down she looked like she’d gone to pieces, as if her body were no longer articulated, and Blomberg had to hold on to her with both hands.
Ulrika and I squeezed each other’s hands. Our little girl was just five meters away from us and we weren’t even allowed to touch her.
The prosecutor entered, wearing heels that could be heard from all the way down the hall. Springy steps in expensive clothing, tinkling jewelry around her neck and wrist, the body of a gymnast: short, slim, fit, and bowlegged. Her glasses had square, black frames and her hair was slicked down, not a strand out of place. She arranged her documents in three prim stacks on the table, straightened their edges with her ruby-red nails, and then shook hands with Blomberg and Stella.
I hardly had time to understand that the hearing had begun before the presiding judge ruled that it would take place behind closed doors and a bailiff explained that Ulrika and I needed to leave.
“That’s my little girl!” I shouted right in his face.
The guard glared at my clerical collar in surprise.
* * *
Love is a human’s most difficult task. I wonder if Jesus understood what He was asking of humanity when He urged us to love our neighbor as we love ourselves.
Can you keep loving a murderer?
As I sat there outside the courtroom, during that first detention hearing, the thought grew stronger and stronger. It had tried to force its way into my mind earlier, but this was the first time I dared to linger on it. The thought that Stella might be guilty.
The stains on her blouse. They might be from anything. But why hadn’t anyone seen Stella? Someone who could say where she had been, what she had been doing. There was a gap of several hours on that Friday night. What had she done in that time?
I have sat across from abominable killers and promised them the unconditional love of God. Human love is of a different type. I thought of Paul’s words about love that rejoices when truth wins out, love that is faithful no matter the cost.
For my family. That’s what I was thinking. I have to do whatever it takes for my family. Far too many times I had failed in my endeavors to be the world’s best spouse and father. Suddenly I had the chance to mend my ways. I would do everything I could to protect my family.
By the time the door to the courtroom opened again, my body felt so heavy that Ulrika had to help me up and inside. Before us sat Stella, her face buried in her hands.
Ulrika and I clung to each other like two people drowning in rough seas.
The door closed behind us and the judge’s gaze swept the room.
“Stella Sandell is under reasonable suspicion for murder.”
No parent ever expects to hear their child’s name in that context. No one who has held their child to their chest, all tiny floundering feet and gurgling laughter, could have imagined this. This happens to other people. Not to us.
I held tight to Ulrika’s hand and thought, This isn’t the kind of parents we are. We aren’t substance abusers; we’re academics, high earners. We are in good health, both physically and mentally. We’re not a broken family from a mar
ginalized area with social and economic problems.
We were a perfectly ordinary family. We weren’t supposed to be the ones sitting there. And yet there we were.
17
After the detention hearing, Ulrika and I waited in silence outside Blomberg’s office. I stood up, then sat down, then stood up again. Walked over to the window with a sigh.
“Where is he?”
Ulrika was sitting perfectly still, staring at the wall.
“When can we talk to Stella?” I asked. “It’s inhumane to keep her isolated like this.”
“That’s how it works,” Ulrika said. “She’ll be under restrictions as long as the investigation is ongoing.”
At last Blomberg came bustling in. The orange-peel skin on his cheeks was even redder now. He spoke rapidly, like a wind-up toy.
“I’ve got all my people checking out Christopher Olsen. It turns out he had more than one skeleton in his closet, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
I didn’t, but I was far too curious to speak up.
“Tell us!”
“It’s easy to make enemies as a businessman,” Blomberg said. “But in Olsen’s case, they’re not just any enemies. Apparently he’s found himself in hot water with some Poles whose rap sheets are as long as the Gospels.”
I made a skeptical face. That sounded like something straight out of a bad police procedural.
“It’s about a property Olsen purchased last spring. The Poles have a pizza place on the ground floor, and Olsen was eager to get rid of it. I imagine it didn’t do him any favors when it came to the rent he could have charged.”
“But the method hardly suggests a mafia hit,” Ulrika said.
“Who said anything about the mafia? I’m talking about Polish pizza bakers. But it gets even better.”
I disliked the whole concept. In my world, the police were the ones who handled homicide investigations, not lawyers. What’s more, it didn’t feel at all right to cast suspicion on the victim like this.
A Nearly Normal Family Page 5