Cop Killer

by Maj Sjowall

  “You idiot,” said Kvastmo. “How can a full-grown policeman think about crap like that? Those teams aren’t even Swedish.”

  Kristiansson took this very badly. He was from Skåne, and in southern Sweden the word “idiot” is very bad. It is very nearly the worst thing a person can be called.

  Kvastmo had no feeling for this at all and continued heedlessly.

  “What I’m trying to say is that we don’t have enough legal protection, and the police officials are a bunch of namby-pambies. A lot of our fellow officers don’t dress properly, and no one does anything about it. Do you remember that motorcycle patrolman last summer? The one who didn’t even have his cap on? And had his jacket strapped on behind?”

  “But it was ninety-five degrees.”

  “What difference does that make? A policeman is a policeman in any weather. I read in the paper that in New York the patrolmen often get stuck in the asphalt when there’s a heat wave. They stay at their posts, by God, and they have to pry them loose when they’re relieved. If they ever get relieved.”

  By “paper” Kvastmo meant their magazine, Swedish Police, which often reported curious facts to its readers.

  Kristiansson didn’t respond. He’d seen a lot of American riot police in training films and he was wondering what it would look like if several hundred men were stuck to the street when the order came to charge.

  “Are you listening, Karl?”

  He was also wondering what clothes had to do with legal protection.

  “Why don’t you answer me, Karl?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh …”

  “It’s really a waste of time talking to you. The fight against crime needs every man every minute of every day, and you just sit there thinking about soccer and all you can say is ‘Oh …’ and ‘Well …,’ and when something happens, the most you can say is ‘Jesus.’ Can’t you get it through your head what a tough spot we policemen are in? The Minister of Justice is the biggest namby-pamby of them all. That’s why we don’t have any decent legal protection. We’ve hardly got any protection at all. Like this shit about not having a cartridge in the chamber. Now suppose you’re suddenly face to face with some armed gangster, what are you going to do? You don’t have any cartridge in the chamber.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, that’s crazy,” said Kvastmo indignantly. “That’s against police regulations. Well, anyway, you’re not supposed to have. So there you stand, helpless. Done for. And whose fault is that? Whose responsibility? The Minister of Justice, that’s who. How are we supposed to clean things up if we’re not even allowed to have a cartridge in the chamber?”

  “I fired my pistol once,” said Kristiansson suddenly. “In a bus.”

  “Did you hit anyone?”

  “Well, there wasn’t anyone there. But I hit the bus, of course.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was hell to pay. That tall, ugly guy from Violence really chewed me out.”

  “There, you see? No support from above. So it’s no wonder. Look at those three guys down in Skåne. Cut down. What do you suppose their wives and children think of the Minister of Justice? And they haven’t even caught the killer yet. You know what? I think he’s hiding out someplace here in town. Goddam, if we could collar him. I hate those bastards. I wouldn’t hesitate a second if I got the drop on him.”

  “Oh …”

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh …’? Two of our fellow officers are in the hospital, right? And one of them is dead. That guy Borglund. Dead. Murdered.”

  “Well …”

  “What the hell do you mean, ‘Well …’?”

  “I heard he got bitten by some poison animal, a frog or something.”

  “How can you believe anything as dumb as that? Didn’t you hear that lecture about the perversive forces in society? No, I mean subversive. Communists and that kind of vermin. They spread lies like that to damage and weaken the police force. So they can destroy the very foundations, the very basis, of society. But I didn’t really think we had anyone on the force who would fall for it. Sometimes you scare me, Karl.”

  “I do?”

  Kristiansson had started thinking about something else. He had a constructive plan. Several days earlier, he had seen a gigantic loaf of marzipan in the supermarket. It was probably meant to be used in a bakery. But the next time he picked up any money on the soccer pools, he was going to buy it and put it down in the front seat between them. Kvastmo was exceptionally fond of marzipan and wouldn’t be able to resist it. But there were two things that worried him. First, how long would the marzipan last? It was enough to last Kristiansson a lifetime, but maybe Kvastmo would wolf it down in half an hour. The second was equally serious. What if Kvastmo was such a great talker that he could rattle on uninterruptedly through a mouthful of almond paste?

  He suddenly glanced at Kvastmo and said, “What is it that goes oink-oink and never gets to the door?”

  “A pig.”

  “Wrong. A cat with a speech impediment.”

  “You scare me, Karl,” said Kvastmo, shaking his head. “Why doesn’t it get to the door?”

  “Oh …”

  “There’s a limit,” Kvastmo said. “There’s a limit to what a simple, ordinary policeman should have to put up with. Norman Hansson, for example. He’s the limit. Last week when you were out sick I had to go check out this domestic disturbance and arrest this jerk who started resisting violently when I collared him. So I worked him over a little with the old night stick on the way down the stairs and then out in the car, you know, just to calm him down. Next morning Norman Hansson calls me in and wants to know if I’ve mistreated this editor what’s-his-name. Well, I tell him, I used my night stick to calm him down a little, but there was no question of brutality. And you know what Norman Hansson said?”

  Kristiansson was wondering what the enormous loaf of marzipan might cost.

  “Why don’t you answer me, Karl?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know what Norman Hansson said?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he shook his head and he said, ‘There’s got to be a stop to this, Kenneth. The next time someone complains I’m going to put you on report.’ I mean, he’s going to put me on report because some son of a bitch gets drunk and plays his hi-fi too loud.”

  “I thought you said it was a domestic disturbance.”

  “Well, a disturbance is a disturbance. The guy was sitting home alone getting drunk and playing records. But that’s not my fault, is it? They can’t blame me for that, can they? Can I help it if the guy’s a pantywaist and Norman Hansson’s a milksop?”

  Kristiansson stared wearily at the highway as it seemed to wind up and disappear beneath the car. Norman Hansson was one of the precinct commanders. By and large, Kristiansson liked him.

  “I expect unswerving loyalty from other policemen, no matter what,” said Kvastmo firmly. “Well, look at that. Look! Did you see that, Karl?”

  They were passed by a red Jaguar. It was undeniably traveling very fast.

  “After him, Karl!”

  Kristiansson heaved a sigh and floored the accelerator, while Kvastmo flicked on the siren and the flashing lights.

  “That might be our cop-killer,” Kvastmo said.

  “In a red Jaguar?”

  “Stolen, of course.”

  Kristiansson happened to know how hard it was to steal a Jaguar, unless the door was open and the key in the ignition. Along with his late buddy Kvant, he had once been close to capturing a famous car-thief who specialized in expensive English cars and who was known respectfully as The Jag. The conclusion of the adventure was that Kvant drove into a haystack while The Jag disappeared in the distance.

  The police car bellowed through the night. The tail lights of the car in front came closer. All around them, but especially to the right, lay Stockholm with its hundreds of thousands of glittering lights reflecting in dark bays and in
lets. Church spires stood silhouetted against a starry sky. The moon was out.

  “Now we’ve got the son of a bitch,” Kvastmo said. “I was just waiting for something like this to happen.”

  Kristiansson glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-five. He held his foot down and pulled up alongside the red Jaguar. Kvastmo already had the STOP paddle in one hand and his night stick in the other.

  And then something odd happened.

  The driver of the car they were pursuing looked over at Kristiansson, smiled, and raised his right hand as if he were greeting him or maybe thanking him for something. Then he accelerated and pulled away from them.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Kvastmo said. “Did you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But now I recognize him, at least. Got the description. I never forget a face, as you know. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Did you get the number, too?”

  “Sure. You think I’m asleep over here? FZK 011, right?”

  “I didn’t notice. Shall we call it in?”

  “No, by God, we’ll handle this bird by ourselves. Just stick with him. Can you do it, Karl?”

  “Well …”

  His chances would have been minimal except that the red rocket turned off the expressway and headed in toward the center of town. This forced the driver to reduce his speed, and Kristiansson managed to keep him in sight.

  The chase screamed on through deserted night-time streets. As far as Kristiansson could tell, their bandit was not even trying to get away, and the patrol car was only a couple of hundred yards behind when the red Jaguar screeched to a stop outside a building on Nybrogatan in Östermalm. The driver jumped out and hurried across the sidewalk without even locking his car.

  Before he was shot, Kristiansson had served in Solna—and before that in Malmö—so he was no expert on the capital. Had he known Stockholm a little better, he might possibly have been surprised to see the villain disappear into the Betania Foundation Hospital.

  In the event that Kvastmo recognized the building, it raised no doubts in his mind. Nothing a criminal did could ever surprise him. He was fond of pointing out that a person could expect just about anything in this society of gangsters.

  “No more than what you might expect, the way things are today,” he said. “Right, Karl? But now we’ve got him where we want him. Is he ever going to be surprised! We’d better both go in.”

  Kristiansson had pulled up right behind the red car. He studied it through the windshield and then looked doubtfully toward the door where the man had entered the building.

  “Well …” he said.

  Kvastmo said nothing for once. He threw open the door and heaved himself out of his seat. The expression on his face was one of grim determination.

  “The number checks,” said Kristiansson. “FZK 011. It’s the same car all right.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Well …”

  “Hurry up,” said Kvastmo.

  Kristiansson sighed and stepped out of the car, straightened his shoulder belt, and followed Kvastmo reluctantly across the sidewalk.

  Kvastmo marched firmly through the entrance, up a flight of stairs, and through a half-open door.

  They found themselves in what appeared to be a waiting room. Directly in front of them was a door with an opaque glass panel. Behind it, someone was talking in a hushed voice.

  Kvastmo threw Kristiansson a conspiratorial look that was all one-sided, grabbed the handle of the door, threw it open, and strode in.

  Kristiansson stayed behind on the threshold. The scene before him filled him with uncertainty. He saw two people—the man from the Jaguar, who was now wearing a green gown of some strange material, and a middle-aged woman. The woman was also dressed oddly. She looked like a nurse, or perhaps a nun. She was holding up a pair of plastic gloves which the man obviously intended to put on.

  He also saw Kvastmo, who moved his right hand from his holster to his breast pocket and took out a notebook and pen.

  “All right, what’s going on here?” he bellowed.

  The man threw a distracted and slightly astonished look at the two policemen. Then he pushed his hands into the transparent gloves.

  “Thanks for the help,” he said.

  And then he turned his back on them and started to walk away.

  Kvastmo turned red in the face.

  “Don’t get smart with us,” he said loudly. “What’s your name? And let’s see your driver’s license. We’re just doing our job. My partner here can vouch for that, can’t you Karl?”

  “He’s just doing his job,” Kristiansson mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  The man seemed to have lost interest in them altogether. The woman had just covered his face with a mask, and he was taking a step toward a large double door, when Kvastmo grabbed him by the arm.

  “Now that’s enough of this bullshit. Or maybe you’d just like to come with us?”

  The man in green turned around, gave Kvastmo an uncomprehending look, and hit him.

  It was a good blow, quick and hard. It caught him right on the chin, and Kvastmo dropped on his seat with a meaty thud. Pad and pen fell from his hand and his stare grew even more vacant, if that was possible.

  Kristiansson didn’t move a muscle.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  The man and the woman left the room. The massive doors closed behind them. A key turned in a lock.

  Kvastmo remained seated on the floor. He looked a lot like Harry Persson after the famous knock-down in the match with Johnny Widd.

  “Jesus,” Kristiansson repeated.

  Kvastmo seemed to recover somewhat after a minute or so. But the recovery was uncertain and, in any case, hardly perceptible. He crawled around on all fours for a while and then got to his feet, heavy and unsteady.

  “This is going to cost that son of a bitch,” he said very groggily. “Assaulting an officer of the law.”

  He took hold of his chin and whimpered like a sick dog. It obviously hurt him to talk.

  “Karl,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “I can’t talk.”

  Too good to be true, thought Kristiansson.

  And then he was seized by gloom.

  Now there were bound to be complications again.

  Why were there always so many difficulties? he wondered misanthropically. Even though he never did anything to cause them.

  He put his arm around Kvastmo to hold him up.

  “Come on, let’s go,” he mumbled.

  “Yes,” Kvastmo said. “We’ve got to go write the report. He’ll get thirty days for this. At least. No, ninety days and damages for pain and suffering.”

  He sounded as if he were trying to talk through a mouthful of almond paste.

  26

  Gunvald Larsson was furious. He couldn’t remember having been this angry for several years. He pounded his big hairy hand on the desk and demanded silence.

  They had finally promoted him to Chief Inspector one year earlier. The automatic promotion program hadn’t left them much choice—they either had to kick him upstairs or get rid of him.

  But his new title hadn’t changed him. It was only the years, forty-eight of them now, which were slowly leaving their mark. He had not grown any taller, but he now weighed a good 230 pounds, and the blond hair combed back across his head had begun to recede at the temples. He was stronger than ever, or at least he felt he was, and would make a formidable physical opponent.

  Even as a verbal opponent, he was no picnic.

  “Don’t stand there mumbling, man,” he said to Kvastmo. “Can’t you talk?”

  “Only with great difficulty,” said Kenneth Kvastmo in a much clearer voice than he had just been using.

  Gunvald Larsson turned to Kristiansson.

  “It’s funny how often we’ve found ourselves in this situation over the last ten years. Is that possibly a result of the fact that you are an even bigger blockhead than all the other idiots that
infest the police force in this town?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Kristiansson unhappily.

  The two policemen were standing at attention by the door. For Kristiansson, this situation was by no means unique, but it was new to Kvastmo, and he seemed to be taking it more to heart.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell me exactly what happened?” said Gunvald Larsson in a tone of voice that he himself would have characterized as gentle and understanding.

  “Well …”

  Said Kristiansson and looked appealingly at Kvastmo, who, however, remained silent for the time being.

  “We were patrolling as usual on Essingeleden,” said Kristiansson softly. “And then all of a sudden we were passed by this … gentleman, who came tearing along in a red Jaguar.”

  “At an excessive speed,” said Kvastmo.

  “What did you do then?”

  “We caught up to him,” Kristiansson said.

  “And what was his response.”

  “He waved at me,” said Kristiansson. “And then he pulled away from us.”

  His expression was so sheepish that Gunvald Larsson felt suddenly several years older and many pounds heavier. He sighed heavily.

  “And so you gave chase?” he said.

  “We thought he was the cop-killer,” Kvastmo said.

  “Did he have blond hair? Did he look to you like an unusually youthful nineteen-year-old?”

  Kvastmo didn’t answer.

  “Now the fact is,” said Gunvald Larsson, “that this man is fifty-seven years old and a professor of medicine. He was on his way to perform a very urgent and complicated Caesarian section of twins. Do you know what that is?”

  Kristiansson nodded. He and his wife had had several children.

  “He was still driving too fast,” said Kvastmo stubbornly.

  “Cretin,” said Gunvald Larsson.

  “That’s insulting an officer of the law,” said Kvastmo. Kristiansson frowned.

  “Not when one of your superiors says it,” he said.

  “Moreover, this professor called the police ten minutes earlier and asked for an escort,” Gunvald Larsson said. “And so he figured you were there to help him. What were you doing ten minutes earlier?”