Cop Killer

by Maj Sjowall

November 27, 1973

  To: National Police Administration

  Subject: Resignation

  28

  Lennart Kollberg typed slowly, with two fingers. He knew that this letter, which he had thought about for such a long time, had to be considered a formal document, but he didn’t want to make it too long-winded. And as far as possible, he tried to keep the tone of it informal.

  After long and careful consideration, I have decided to leave the police force. My reasons are of a personal nature, and yet I would like to try and explain them briefly. Right at the outset, I feel compelled to point out that my decision is in no way a political action, even though many people will see it in that light. To be sure, the police establishment has been increasingly politicized over the last few years, and the police force itself has been exploited for political purposes more and more often. I have observed these developments with considerable alarm, even though I, personally, have managed to avoid coming into contact with this aspect of police activity almost completely.

  Nevertheless, during the twenty-seven years that I have served on the force, its activities, structure, and organization have altered in a manner that has convinced me that I am no longer suited to being a policeman—assuming that I ever was. Above all, I find that I cannot feel any sense of solidarity with the kind of organization the police department has become. Consequently, it seems to me that my own best interests and those of the department would be best served by my resignation.

  The question of whether or not the individual policeman should be armed has long struck me as an especially important one. For many years, I have held to the opinion that, under normal circumstances, policemen should not be armed. This applies to uniformed patrolmen as well as to plainclothesmen.

  The great increase in the number of violent crimes over the last decade is, in my opinion, largely due to the fact that policemen invariably carry firearms. It is a known fact, and can be demonstrated with statistics from many other countries, that the incidence of violent crime immediately increases when the police force sets, as it were, a bad example. The events of recent months make it seem more obvious than ever that we can expect our situation to deteriorate even further with regard to violence. This is especially true of Stockholm and other large cities.

  The Police Academy devotes far too little time to providing instruction in psychology. As a result, policemen lack what is perhaps the most important prerequisite for success in their profession.

  The fact that we nevertheless have so-called police psychologists, who are sent out in difficult situations to try and bring the criminal to reason, seems to me to be nothing but an admission of defeat. For psychology cannot be used to camouflage violence. To my way of thinking, this must be one of the simplest and most obvious tenets of the science of psychology.

  I would like to emphasize in this connection that for many years I myself have never carried a gun. This has often been a direct violation of orders, but I have never had the feeling that it hampered me in the execution of my duties. On the contrary, being forced to carry arms might have had a strong inhibiting effect, it could have caused accidents, and it could well have led to even poorer contact with persons outside the police force.

  What I am trying to say, essentially, is that I cannot continue to be a policeman. It is possible that every society has the police force it deserves, but that is not a thesis I intend to try and develop, at least not here and now.

  I find myself confronted with a fait accompli. When I joined the police department, I could not have imagined that this profession would undergo the transformation or take on the direction that it has.

  After twenty-seven years of service, I find that I am so ashamed of my profession that my conscience will no longer permit me to practice it.

  Kollberg rolled the paper up an inch or two and read what he had written. Once he had started, he had the feeling he could have gone on indefinitely.

  But this would have to do.

  He added two more lines:

  I therefore request that this resignation be accepted effective immediately.

  Sten Lennart Kollberg.

  He folded the sheets of paper and stuffed them into an official plain brown envelope.

  Wrote the address.

  Threw the letter into his Out basket.

  Then he stood up and looked around the room.

  Closed the door behind him and went.

  Home.

  29

  The cabin in the Haninge woods near Dalarö was a good hideout. It was so isolated that no one was likely to come upon it by accident, and it was outfitted in a way that showed Lindberg The Breadman had no illusions. There was food and drink, weapons and ammunition, fuel and clothing, cigarettes and piles of old magazines—in short, everything that might be needed for a lengthy period of seclusion. It might even be possible to withstand a not overly ambitious siege. Hopefully, of course, nothing of that kind would occur.

  When the police stormed the apartment at Midsommarkransen, Caspar and The Breadman had escaped almost too easily. This cabin, on the other hand, was their very last resort.

  If they were trapped out here, there were by and large only two choices—to surrender or to fight.

  The third possibility—another escape—was not even worth considering. For it would be a solitary flight, on foot, and straight out into the forest. The rapidly approaching winter made this prospect less than inviting, especially since it would entail leaving a large stash of valuable stolen goods behind.

  The Breadman was no great luminary in the criminal sky, and his plans were of the simplest possible nature. He had buried valuables and money in and around the cabin. Now he could hope only that the police manhunt would quieten down enough for the two of them to venture back into Stockholm. Once there, they could quickly convert their goods into cash, buy false papers, and flee the country.

  Ronnie Casparsson had no plans at all. He knew only that the police were hunting him with every means at their disposal for a crime he had not actually committed. As long as he stuck with The Breadman, at least he wasn’t alone. Besides, The Breadman took an optimistic and uncomplicated view of life. When he said their chances of getting away were good, he honestly meant it, and Caspar believed him. The reason Lindberg had not retired to the cabin earlier was simply that he didn’t want to be alone.

  Now there were two of them, which immediately made everything more cheerful.

  For Caspar, there was really only one serious problem, namely, that The Breadman always got caught. But they both reasoned that sooner or later the wind had to change and that all they needed was a little luck. Over the past few years, quite a few habitual criminals had succeeded in getting out of the country after successful jobs and had managed to disappear somewhere in Western civilization with their money and their health intact.

  The cabin had a number of advantages. It lay in the middle of a clearing with an uninterrupted view in all directions. There were only two outbuildings—an outdoor toilet and an old ramshackle barn where they had hidden The Breadman’s car.

  The cabin itself was in good condition. It was an ordinary Swedish crofter’s cottage with three windows in front, one in the back, and one on either side. The lower floor consisted of one main room with a kitchen and a bedroom opening off of it. There was only one road to the cabin, and it led directly into the front yard and up toward the little porch in the middle of the house.

  The very first day, The Breadman carefully inspected their weapons. They had two Army model submachine guns and three automatic pistols of varying make and caliber. They also had plenty of ammunition, including two whole boxes for the tommy guns.

  “The way the police are these days,” said The Breadman, “there’s only one thing to do in the unlikely event they find us and surround us out here.”

  “What?”

  “Shoot our way out, of course. If we hit a cop or two, it won’t change our situation one little bit. It’ll be hard for them to get us unl
ess they set fire to the house. And if they try tear gas, I’ve got some gas masks over there in that trunk.”

  “I don’t even know how one of these things works,” said Caspar, picking up one of the submachine guns.

  “It takes about ten minutes to learn,” The Breadman said.

  He was right. A quick ten-minute course was all he needed. They tested all their weapons the next morning with excellent results. The house was so isolated they didn’t even have to worry about the noise.

  “So now there’s nothing to do but wait,” The Breadman said. “If they come, we’ll give them a warm welcome. But I don’t think they will. Where shall we celebrate Christmas? On the Canary Islands or somewhere in Africa?”

  Ronnie Casparsson had never thought as far ahead as Christmas, and didn’t do so now. Christmas was still several weeks away. But he did think about what it would be like to shoot at someone. It was hard to imagine that it would be difficult or strange to put a couple of bullets into one of those bloodthirsty sons of bitches.

  From what he’d seen of the police in raids and street fights, it was hard to think of them as human or even as distinct individuals.

  They listened to the radio constantly, but it didn’t have much to tell them that was new. The hunt for the cop-killer continued with unabated energy. It was now known for certain that he was in Stockholm, and the tactical command considered an arrest imminent.

  It was a completely unpredictable factor that did them in.

  Maggie.

  If Maggie hadn’t been injured, she would have been no danger to them whatsoever, for she was a good, loyal friend, who knew how to keep her mouth shut.

  But the fact was that she had been injured and was now at Söder Hospital.

  The dog bites were not critical, but they did have a wicked look to them, as the doctors put it.

  They operated, and following surgery she developed a high fever and became delirious.

  Maggie talked a great deal in her delirium. She didn’t know for sure where she was, but she did have the feeling she was talking to someone she knew, or at least to someone who was interested and attentive.

  And true enough, at the head of her bed sat a person equipped with a tape recorder.

  This person was Einar Rönn.

  Rönn asked no questions. He merely listened and put Maggie’s chatter on tape.

  He realized immediately that he had been given some important information, but he didn’t know exactly what he ought to do with it.

  After thinking it over for a few minutes, he searched out a telephone and called Gunvald Larsson in his office at police headquarters on Kungsholmsgatan.

  “Yes, Larsson here. What do you want?”

  He could tell right away that Gunvald Larsson was not alone. He sounded brusque and irritable.

  “Well, this girl over here is delirious. She just told me where The Breadman and Caspar are holed up. In a cabin out toward Dalarö.”

  “Did you get any details?”

  “Yes, a very precise description of how to get there. If you gave me a map I could probably point to the house.”

  Gunvald Larsson was silent for a long moment before he answered.

  “This is a very complicated, technical decision,” he said cryptically. “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  There was another pause.

  “Don’t we have to tell Malm?” Rönn said.

  “Yes, you must definitely do that,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Naturally.”

  And then he added, in a lower voice:

  “But not until you see my car drive up outside the door. Do it then. Quick as hell.”

  “Okay,” Rönn said.

  He went down to the huge hospital lobby and took up his post by a coin telephone.

  He did not have to wait more than ten minutes before he saw Gunvald Larsson drive up in front of the entrance. He immediately called Kungsholmsgatan again, and after a brief delay he got through to Malm. Rönn reported exactly what Maggie had said.

  “Splendid,” Malm said. “You may return to your post.”

  Rönn walked straight out to Gunvald Larsson, who reached over and opened the door for him.

  “There’s a map and a pistol in the glove compartment,” he said.

  Rönn hesitated for a moment and then stuck the pistol inside the waistband of his trousers. Then he studied the map.

  “Yes,” he said. “Here’s the house.”

  Gunvald Larsson examined the network of roads and then threw a glance at his watch.

  “We’ll have about an hour’s start,” he said. “Then Malm will move in with his so-called main force. That staff of his has planned for this very situation, God help us. He’ll have a hundred men, two helicopters, and ten dogs. Besides that, he’s requisitioned twenty huge shields of armor plate. It’s to be a massacre.”

  “Do you think those boys will put up a fight?”

  “Pretty likely,” Gunvald Larsson said. “Lindberg’s got nothing to lose, and this manhunt has probably driven Casparsson half out of his mind.”

  “I suppose,” said Rönn philosophically, fingering his pistol.

  He was no lover of violence.

  “For that matter, I don’t really give a damn what happens to Lindberg,” Gunvald Larsson said. “The man’s a professional criminal, on top of which he just recently committed murder. It’s the boy I’m thinking of. So far, he hasn’t shot or injured anyone, but if Malm has his way you can be damned sure he’ll either get himself killed or else kill a couple of cops. So we’ve got to get there first and act quickly.”

  Acting quickly was one of Gunvald Larsson’s specialties.

  They drove south, through Handen and the latest ghastly high-rise development, called Bandhagen.

  Ten minutes later they reached the turnoff, and ten minutes after that they saw the house. Gunvald Larsson stopped the car in the middle of the road, about 150 feet from the cabin.

  He studied the situation for a moment.

  “This will be hard but okay,” he said. “We’ll get out here and walk toward the house, on the left side of the road. If there’s any shooting, we’ll take cover behind the shithouse over there. I’ll move right on around and try to take them from behind. You stay under cover and fire slowly toward the roof or the eaves to the left of the porch.”

  “I’m such a miserable shot,” Rönn mumbled.

  “You must be able to hit the house, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yes. At least I hope so.”

  “And Einar …”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t take any chances. If something goes wrong, stay under cover and wait for the great invasion.”

  Inside the cabin, The Breadman and Caspar had heard the car even before they saw it. Now they stood looking out the window.

  “Funny car,” The Breadman said. “Never seen one like that before.”

  “Maybe they’re just out for a drive and got lost,” Caspar said.

  “It’s not impossible,” said The Breadman dryly.

  He picked up one of the submachine guns and gave the other one to Caspar.

  Rönn and Gunvald Larsson got out of the car and started toward the house.

  The Breadman checked them out with his binoculars.

  “Cops,” he sighed. “I recognize both of them. Violence Division in Stockholm. But this’ll be an easy match.”

  He knocked out the middle pane of the window with his elbow, took aim, and started firing.

  Rönn and Gunvald Larsson heard the glass breaking and knew what it meant. They reacted quickly, ran to one side, and dove down behind the outhouse.

  The salvo would have missed in any case, since The Breadman was unused to the weapon at such a distance and held it too high. But he seemed pleased nevertheless.

  “Now we’ve got them right where we want them,” he said. “All you’ve got to do, Caspar, is cover the rear.”

  Gunvald Larsson didn’t stay behind the outhouse for more than a few seconds. He
crawled on under the cover of some low blackberry bushes.

  Rönn was well protected behind the stone foundation of the privy. He stuck out his pistol and one eye and fired off two shots toward the roof. The answer came at once. A longer salvo this time, and more accurate. Cascades of gravel flew up into his face.

  Rönn fired again. He probably didn’t hit the house, but it didn’t matter much.

  Gunvald Larsson had reached the cabin. He crept swiftly along the back wall, twisted around the corner and stopped below the side window. He rose to his knees and drew his Smith & Wesson 38 Master, which he carried clipped to his belt. Then he raised himself a little farther, held his pistol ready, and peered in. An empty kitchen. Ten feet away, a door standing ajar. Presumably Caspar and The Breadman were in the room beyond.

  Gunvald Larsson waited for Rönn to fire again. He waited thirty seconds and then he heard Rönn’s pistol bang twice.

  The answering salvo came immediately and ended with a metallic click indicating that the magazine was empty.

  Gunvald Larsson planted his feet and threw himself in through the window with his arms in front of his face for protection.

  He landed on the floor amidst a shower of glass and wood, rolled over once, came to his feet, kicked open the door, and rushed into the adjoining room.

  Lindberg had taken one step back from the window and was bent slightly forward, changing magazines. Ronnie Casparsson was standing in the corner behind him with another submachine gun in his hands.

  “Shoot for Christ’s sake, Caspar,” The Breadman yelled. “There’s only two of them. Shoot him!”

  “That’s enough, Lindberg,” Gunvald Larsson said.

  He took one step forward, raised his left hand, and struck The Breadman a heavy blow across the collarbone right next to his throat.

  Lindberg let go of his weapon and dropped like a sack.

  Gunvald Larsson stared at Ronnie Casparsson, who let the submachine gun slip from his grasp and covered his face with both hands.

  That’s right, said Gunvald Larsson to himself. That’s the way.

  Then he opened the front door.