His world: he knew it, was secure in it.
Life, death, in here too, but in another way.
He passed central security and gave a brief nod to one of the new employees who’d been sitting reading some magazine but hastily put it to one side when Vernon approached, and now sat with a straight back studying the images on the various security cameras.
Vernon Eriksen opened the door to the corridor in East Block.
Death Row.
Twenty-two years as senior corrections officer among people who had been convicted and sentenced for capital murder, who were counting the days and would never live anywhere else.
There were one hundred and fifty-five prisoners in Ohio, sitting there waiting for death.
One hundred and fifty-four men and one woman.
Seventy-nine African Americans, sixty-nine Caucasians, four Hispanics, and three who until recently had a separate statistical column under other, but which now had been broken down into two Arab Americans and one Native American.
Sooner or later, most of them came here.
Either they were already serving their sentence in one of the cells along the corridor where he was standing, or they were transported here, with only twenty-four hours to live. It was here, in Marcusville, that those sentenced to death in Ohio were executed.
They’re here with me, he thought.
I know them all, every single one. My life, the family I never had, every day, like any other marriage.
Until death do us part.
Vernon stretched his long body. He was still slim, in relatively good shape, short fair hair, thin face with deep creases in the middle of his cheeks. He was tired. It had been a long night. Trouble with the Colombian, who made more noise than usual, and the new guy in Cell 22, who hadn’t been able to sleep, understandably, crying like a baby, like they usually did at the start. Then it had got cold. This damn winter was the hardest in south Ohio for many years and the radiators had never really gotten going before they broke down; the whole system was going to be replaced but the bureaucracy was slow, and, most important, it didn’t work here, therefore it wasn’t cold.
He walked slowly down the middle of the corridor. A kind of peace had fallen, regular breathing from some of the cells, deep sleep now just before the dark evaporated.
He passed cell after cell. A quick glance, left, right, quiet on both sides.
As he got closer, he moved away from the line that was painted down the center of the corridor and walked along the row of metal bars to the right, looked into Cell 12 and saw Brooks lying there on his back, into Cell 10 at Lewis with one arm under the pillow and his face right up against the wall.
Then he stopped.
Cell 8.
He looked in, as he had so many other times before.
Empty.
A prisoner had died there and they had chosen to keep it empty ever since. Superstition, really, that’s all it was. But prisoners were not supposed to die in their cells before their time; they were to be kept healthy and alive until they were executed.
Vernon Eriksen searched the emptiness. For better or for worse. The light on the ceiling that was always on, the bunk without bedclothes.
Until death do us part. He rested his eyes on the dirty walls that no longer incarcerated anyone, heard sounds from the toilet that was no longer used.
He felt the energy return to his legs, his headache lifted.
He smiled.
HE HAD BEEN AT HOME ON HIS OWN AND SHOULD PERHAPS HAVE TIDIED up and cleaned the place and he should have made supper and he should have collected Oscar from day care only two buildings away.
He had tried to sleep. All morning he’d lain on their bed and tossed and turned with a cushion over his face, but the light from the bedroom window had forced its way in through the blinds and bounced off the pale-colored walls, and his headache was now so intense that he felt sick.
John sat up, his feet on the soft rug by Helena’s side of the bed. He was sweating. He had kicked him in the face. He could feel his hands shaking, placed them firmly on his thighs and pressed his arms down, but they continued to shake, even when he increased the force.
Helena would be back any minute. She had sighed silently when he called and asked her to get Oscar, when he explained that he was tired, that it had been a long night and he needed a few hours’ sleep on his own.
Whatever you do, John, no trouble with the police, ever, his dad had whispered, and then held him tight before turning around and disappearing forever.
He heard the elevator laboring out in the stairwell, someone on their way up. It stopped, two pairs of feet got out, the high voice that shouted and whipped up an echo outside and the small fingers that pressed insistently on the doorbell, while Mommy looked for her keys in a chaotic fabric bag.
“Daddy!”
Oscar ran down the hall, tripped over the doorframe into the bedroom, fell on the floor, and then a short silence reigned until he decided he wasn’t going to cry, and got up instead, the final steps over to the bed with his arms stretched out in front of him.
“Daddy! You’re home again!”
John looked at his son; his whole face was one big smile. He leaned forward, lifted him up, held him close until the thin body started to wriggle, already tired of being still and wanting to break free. He followed the five-year-old, who continued to run through the apartment as if he was discovering it for the first time. He heard her steps too, looked toward the door, at Helena who was standing there.
“Hi.”
She was beautiful, red hair, eyes that made him feel loved.
“Hi. Come over here.”
He held out a hand, pulled her in toward him and hugged her, her cold coat against his cheek.
He had tried to do the normal things. He’d seen the way Helena looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, she’d been able tell that he was different, not that she’d said anything, but he knew. If he just went on as normal there would be no reason for her to ask.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“John, I can tell something’s wrong.”
Oscar was at Hilda’s on the fourth floor. Hilda was six and had the same amount of energy as her guest. As Oscar would be there for a while, he could talk.
“It’s nothing. Maybe just a bit tired.”
He was doing the dishes. Washing the dishes was normal.
She came and stood beside him. Some half-full glasses of milk in her hand, which she put down in front of him, under the running water.
“You’ve been away for three days. It’s the middle of the day. Oscar isn’t at home. You normally touch me, John. You normally can’t get close fast enough. ‘Nothing.’ You can do better than that.”
Helena waited beside him. Suddenly she took a step back, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the thick sweater going over her head, hands undoing her jeans, her camisole on the floor, bra, panties. She stood there, so beautiful, her skin cold, the fair springy pubic hair his fingers could always remember.
“I want you to touch me.”
He couldn’t bear to move.
“Look at me, John.”
That damn pressure in his chest.
She stepped up to him, her naked body so close. He wanted to hold her. He needed her.
“I can’t. I’ve got something I need to tell you first.”
He’d gone to get his bathrobe, wrapped it around her chill. They sat down at the kitchen table—he asked if he could smoke and to his surprise she hadn’t said anything, just shrugged. He went to get the pack from the top shelf of the cupboard full of bowls and glasses.
“There was a girl named Elizabeth. I was seventeen back then. The only person I’ve loved. Until I met you.”
He lit a cigarette.
“I saw her yesterday. Not her. But someone like her. And you.”
He inhaled the smoke, held it for a long time before releasing it. It was the first time he’d had a cigarette in this a
partment.
“She danced and we played. She sweated, just like you. She was having fun, laughing. Then a drunk fucking Finn started to grope her. Harass her. He stood too close and wouldn’t let go.”
He was nervous. His American accent got stronger, clearer, as it normally did when he was agitated, angry, sad, happy.
“There was trouble. I kicked him in the face.”
She sat in silence.
“I’m sorry, Helena.”
Still she didn’t move, just looked at him, for a long time, until she decided to speak.
“Elizabeth. Me. A sweaty woman. And someone you kicked in the face. I don’t understand.”
He wanted to tell her, he did. Everything. But he couldn’t. The past was so well encapsulated that he couldn’t reach it. He talked about the kick again, the person who sank unconscious to the floor in front of him. And she had reacted as he’d expected her to react. She shouted. That it wasn’t right. That he risked going to prison, that it was assault, probably aggravated assault. Then she cried, she wanted to know who he was. This person who hit other people, she didn’t know him, didn’t know who he was.
“Helena, listen to me.”
He held her, his hands searching inside the robe, her skin warm and safe and he was scared, more than he’d ever been before, of the loneliness that sat beside him.
“I will explain.”
He took her hands, held them to his cheeks.
“There’s more, so much that I haven’t told you. But I’ll tell you now.”
John tried to breathe normally. The fear tore at him. He took a deep breath, was just about to tell the only truth he knew, when the doorbell rang.
He looked at her, waited, then another ring.
He got up and walked toward the noise.
SVEN SUNDKVIST PRESSED HARD ON THE DOORBELL THAT LOOKED NEW and was screwed to the white plastic that framed the door. A shrill sound that reminded him of early mornings on the bus from Gustavsberg to Stockholm, mobile telephones lying in wait in teenage hands, irritating games on their way in to school in the city.
He looked at the door. He didn’t like being there.
A warrant had been issued by the duty prosecutor for the arrest of a dance-band singer, in his absence, who had kicked a patron in the head. He was now to be taken in for questioning, charged with attempted murder, and read his legal rights. Ewert had phoned several times, insistent, demanded that Sven and Hermansson should go and get him. Sven Sundkvist had protested; he was considered to be one of the best interviewers in City Police and didn’t want to skip the first rule of questioning: never confront the accused in a negative environment.
It was that simple.
Build up trust between the interrogating officer and the person being questioned.
Maintain that trust.
Exploit it.
Sven had suggested sending out a patrol car. As they usually did. Ewert had interrupted him brusquely, asked him to stop talking rubbish and just get the guy, he didn’t want any mistakes, he had no time for battered skulls on the Finland ferry.
Sven Sundkvist sighed loudly. To be standing here at the front door in a corridor on the fourteenth floor and meet the nut job for the first time.
He shook his head, looked at his colleague. A young woman with short, dark hair and a broad Skåne accent. She was calm, simply studying the locked door, prepared but not holding her breath.
“What do you think?” Sundkvist pointed at the mailbox and the nameplate. The surname. It was right.
“He’s coming.”
He liked her. They’d met for the first time the previous summer when she’d been on placement from Malmö and had ended up in one of the most bizarre investigations that Sven had ever been involved in. They had worked together with Ewert Grens, who was leading the investigation, and she had impressed him: she’d been smart, competent, assured.
And now she was a detective inspector already. After only three years.
Sven listened to the silence. They didn’t have time for this. Three different murder inquiries on his desk was enough, but this, which was at most attempted murder, was precisely the sort of thing that easily became a tightness across your chest, one preliminary investigation too many.
He was starting to lose patience, pushed the doorbell again, a long ring.
“He’s coming now.”
She nodded at the door. Someone was approaching, reluctant footsteps getting closer.
He didn’t look like much. Assault and kicking with pointed boots were not the first things that came to Sven Sundkvist’s mind when their eyes met. He was short, no taller than five foot seven, thin, winter white, straggly hair. He’d been crying. Sven was sure of it.
“Sven Sundkvist and Mariana Hermansson, City Police. We’re looking for a John Schwarz.”
The man in the doorway looked at the two police ID cards that were held out, then turned around and looked anxiously into the apartment. There was someone else there.
“Is your name John Schwarz?”
He nodded. Still turned away from them, as if he wanted to run but couldn’t.
“We’d like you to come with us. We’ve got a car downstairs. I think you know what it’s about.”
Whatever you do, John, no contact with the police, ever.
“Five minutes. Give me five minutes.”
Canadian passport. That could fit. An obvious accent, similar to other native English speakers. Sven gave a short nod, of course, five minutes. They followed him into the hall, stayed there while John Schwarz disappeared into the next room, in the direction he’d been looking. Sven looked at Hermansson. Still just as calm. She smiled at him, he smiled back. They heard voices from somewhere farther in. Schwarz’s voice and a woman’s voice—they were talking quietly, but she was upset, you could make that much out, she was crying and raising her voice and Sven Sundkvist was getting ready to go in when the face with the unkempt hair came back. A leather jacket from a hanger under the hat shelf and a long scarf from a basket on the floor, then he came out with them, closing the door behind him.
John Schwarz sat in silence while they drove from Alphyddan in north Nacka to Bergsgatan on Kungsholmen in central Stockholm. Sven had checked him at regular intervals in the mirror, at first in case of an attack but then out of concern; he seemed to be completely unreachable, absent, like they sometimes were just before they collapsed and disappeared into another world.
Hermansson was driving and seemed to be just as competent as he was at finding her way around the city’s busy road network. Sven recalled the conversation they’d had when they were on their own in the car, driving in the opposite direction, just before they’d stopped outside the block of apartments and taken the elevator up. She’d asked him, again and again, and she hadn’t given in until she got an answer. She had demanded to know how she’d got her position. How she could jump the long line of officers who had served longer than her. How much did Detective Superintendent Grens have to do with it? Sven had told her the truth. That Ewert had decided. And that when Ewert had decided something, that was what happened. His informal power in the police headquarters was greater than anyone dared to admit. Decisions rarely had anything to do with hierarchy and formal channels; in reality it was people like Ewert Grens who ruled.
John Schwarz remained silent. He stared at nothing, heard nothing, wasn’t there. Not when they stopped the car, not when they got out, not when the elevator doors opened into the Kronoberg detention center and they walked toward the debriefing room. Two officers met them and made sure that he took off his clothes. They searched his naked body and all the pockets in his clothes, then issued him with new ones, far too big and with the Prison and Probation Service logo on the shirt and pants. It wasn’t until one of the officers opened the door to the holding cell that he suddenly stopped, looked around, and started to shake. The cramped room in front of him—the size of a small bathroom with a bare bunk—made him resist; he threw himself back and gave voice to his terror.
“No! Not in there!”
He lashed out so that the two officers had to grab hold of his arms and force him up against the wall. He continued to scream as Sven Sundkvist and Hermansson rushed forward.
“I can’t breathe! Not in there! I need to breathe!”
John saw the policemen and saw the guards and perhaps it was the way they I can’t! were holding him or the strong smell from the bare cell walls, he I can’t breathe! could feel himself screaming and he couldn’t do anything about it, that his legs can’t wouldn’t carry him, that what was light suddenly went dark.
Sven Sundkvist glanced briefly at Hermansson. She nodded. Both the officers, quick looks. They were all in agreement. The person they were holding and who, according to his papers, was named John Schwarz was losing it. They relaxed their grip around the resisting arms.
“Take it easy. That’s where you have to go. But you can go in yourself. And the door, we’ll leave it open.”
The older of the two officers, in his sixties, silver hair that had once been dark, he’d seen this so many times before. They kick people in the face. But they can’t face the horror of a cell. Before, he used to lock the door, just like they deserved, but now he didn’t want the noise and fucking irritation of someone getting psychotic. And this one was pretty close. He looked at his younger colleague, asked him to accompany him into the cell and sit beside him with the unlocked door open. If the suspect was going to lie on the floor and go into spasms, he certainly wasn’t going to do it on his shift.
John registered the pressure easing around his arms someone gives me some air and that those standing around him took a few steps back, that they pointed at someone tells me to breathe the door that was open and the cell that smelled someone gives me some air through this sack and he tried to move, his feet shuffled on the hard floor, he went in.
CELL 8 Page 5