Otherwise these facts were hardly instructive. Revolvers of the relevant caliber had been on the market for over thirty years before the Swedish prime minister was shot. Millions of specimens had been manufactured and sold over the years, and their owners had fired hundreds of millions of shots using the same caliber bullets. How many of these had been metal piercing was uncertain, but the largest manufacturer, Winchester Western, had sold millions of them in any event.
On top of all this, from the start there had been serious doubt about the two bullets that had been found because it wasn’t the police who had found them but two members of that great group of detectives, the general public, who moreover were kind enough to immediately turn them over to the police. Among many journalists and ordinary citizens it was therefore suspected that these bullets were actually false leads planted at the crime scene to deceive the investigators.
Because both bullets had quite visible traces of the substances they had passed through, that is Olof Palme’s clothing and body and Lisbeth Palme’s clothing, that issue could have been solved almost immediately, if normal criminological procedures had been followed and these fiber and tissue traces had been secured before the bullets were cleaned to determine their caliber.
This had not been done. Wiijnbladh and his associates at the Stockholm police department’s tech squad had put them in separate little plastic bags and sent them to the National Laboratory of Forensic Science in Linköping for “caliber determination.” This was the only request that had been checked on the form that was enclosed with the plastic bags.
At the crime lab the request had quickly been satisfied. The two bullets were placed in a basin with spirits; cleaned of fibers, body tissue, and blood; and rinsed off under ordinary tap water. Whatever was washed off the bullets and remained in the basin was lost when the liquid was poured off and the bullets’ caliber was measured with a micrometer.
Not until some years later were helpful physicists at the University of Stockholm able to straighten out the question marks that the police had created for themselves. An amiable professor of particle physics made contact with the police and reported that what ordinary people called lead could actually be very different things depending on what was added to it. Lead could have various isotope combinations, and when, for example, bullets were manufactured, lead was almost always mixed with various isotope combinations, resulting in bullets with different combinations of lead isotopes.
The professor therefore ventured to propose a simple scientific investigation: the isotope combination in the two bullets would be compared with the traces of lead it should be possible to secure in the victims’ clothing, to see whether they matched.
This they did, and the technical investigation had taken at least a small leap forward. The two bullets that had been found were with “very high probability” identical to the bullet that killed Olof Palme and the one that grazed his wife, and the constant nagging about planted false leads could finally be set aside. And that was not all. By means of the bullets’ isotope combination, it had also been possible to trace the lead batch from which they originated.
True, the batch included hundreds of thousands of bullets, which the Winchester Western had supplied to a number of countries, but only six thousand of them had ended up with gun dealers in Sweden. The deliveries had been made during the years 1979 and 1980, in good time before the assassination of the prime minister. It was hope-instilling enough as a lead file, but they never got any further than that.
What remained was the weapon that the police had never found, but a number of other experts had put in their two cents’ worth. Far and away the most common weapons in the relevant caliber were Smith & Wesson revolvers in various models and barrel lengths. Hence the first investigation leader’s conclusion that “with the greatest probability” it concerned a Smith & Wesson revolver.
At the same time this was a conclusion that could be challenged on both statistical and forensic grounds. It was true that the traces from the barrel on both bullets did agree well with a Smith & Wesson, but at the same time they also agreed just as well with half a dozen revolvers of different manufacture, and taken together the latter made up a quarter of the world’s combined stock of revolvers of the relevant caliber. The great consolation in this context was that the ballistic traces on the bullets did not correspond with the second most common Magnum revolver, the one manufactured by Colt—the legendary armory that was Smith & Wesson’s foremost competitor on the market for Magnum revolvers.
What made Bäckström happy was that the traces on the bullets also agreed very well with revolvers that came from the third largest American manufacturer, Sturm, Ruger & Co. in Southport, Connecticut. Even the barrel length agreed with the weapons technicians’ conclusions to a fraction of an inch. If the barrel had been shorter than that the bullets should have “mushroomed up” in back, and they had not.
This is going like a fucking dance, thought Bäckström. If he’d only been able to run this from the very start, it would most likely have been settled right off.
One small question remained. How to connect—with sufficiently high probability—the two bullets from the crime scene to the revolver that was used to shoot the prime minister. The technical report that Bäckström found in his computer was from 1997, and the anonymous expert who wrote it was doubtful on that point. Both bullets were “in pretty poor condition.” They could be used for comparisons of various types of weapons and they had been good enough to rule out the hundreds of various weapons that had been test fired over the years. But this was not to say that they could be linked to the murder weapon with certainty in the event it was found.
What a fucking ditchdigger, thought Bäckström. Technology was advancing by giant leaps! He’d seen this with his own eyes, on his own TV, at home on his own couch. The hundreds of miracles that his associates on CSI delivered all the time just by tapping on their computers. If it didn’t work out some other way, it probably wouldn’t involve more than his taking the weapon with him and traveling over to the other real constables, on the other side of the water.
Las Vegas or Miami, thought Bäckström. That’s probably the big question.
35
After having freshened up his knowledge of the Palme investigation’s weapons track—most of it he already knew, and it was really no great art to figure out the rest—Bäckström proceeded to more active internal detection on his computer. The results had unfortunately been meager. He had found only two Magnum revolvers of the Ruger brand entered in the registry of stolen, missing, or sought-after items in his computer.
The first had been stolen in a break-in a few years earlier at the home of a Finn who lived outside Luleå and was evidently both a marksman and a hunter. During vacation “one or more unknown perpetrators had forced entry into the plaintiff’s residence, broken open his gun case, and taken three sporting guns, a combo gun, three shotguns, and a revolver.” None of the stolen weapons had been recovered.
The revolver was a Ruger caliber .357 Magnum, but that was also the only thing that tallied. It was blued with a short barrel and rubber-clad butt, and for once there was even a picture of it on the computer.
Lapp bastards and Finns, thought Bäckström. How the hell could you put weapons in the hands of such people? It was bad enough that they could go to the liquor store and buy all the booze they poured into themselves all the time.
The second case seemed to offer more hope. Two years earlier the Stockholm police had made a house search in an apartment in Flemingsberg. Living there was the girlfriend of a known thug who was suspected of an armored car robbery in Hägersten a few months earlier, and behind the refrigerator they found a Ruger brand Magnum revolver. It was a pure mystery, according to both the girlfriend and the suspected robber. Neither of them had seen it before, and the only explanation was probably that the previous occupant of the apartment had left it behind when he moved out. It would probably be simplest to ask him directly, but unfortunately
they could not help out because they didn’t know what his name was or where he lived.
The technical investigation had not produced anything either. The weapon could not be linked to any crime, nor to the people living in the apartment. It was not reported as stolen and was not in the registry of legal weapons. The prosecutor had written off the case, the revolver had been confiscated and was now with the Stockholm police department’s tech squad, but more detailed information than that was not available on Bäckström’s computer.
Worth a try, thought Bäckström, and called the tech squad. He explained his business to his fellow officer who took the call, and asked him to immediately e-mail a picture of the weapon in question.
“Have you changed occupations, Bäckström?” asked his colleague, who sounded pretty reserved.
“What do you mean changed occupations?” said Bäckström. What the hell is the bastard yapping about? he thought.
“I thought you dealt with used office furniture.”
“Forget about that now,” said Bäckström. “Do as I say.”
“I promise to think about it,” his colleague replied, and then hung up without further ado.
While waiting for the colleague at the tech squad to be done thinking and finally get his ass in gear and send him the photo of the revolver, Bäckström engaged in his own musings.
Three murders and a suicide, thought Bäckström. Apparently as some kind of spring cleaning in the circles of greater and lesser riffraff. Perhaps more, even, he thought hopefully. The weapon had been knocking around for more than twenty years and could certainly have been used for one thing or another during that time. Perhaps by some secret organization of professional murderers? More or less like what went on with the Brazilian colleagues, who periodically did a vigorous weeding out in their own slum neighborhoods.
That part about the lion’s own den sounded interesting too. Didn’t all those camel riders, date stompers, and suicide bombers have a lion as a symbol for their secret society and terrorist activities? Hadn’t the victim rubbed elbows with a lot of hook noses from Arabia, and everyone knew how it usually ended when you associated with that sort? This may have limitless ramifications, thought Bäckström. He would beneficially continue pondering at home in his cozy lair that was only a convenient stone’s throw from his run-down office.
Still no e-mail from that fucking lazy ass at the tech squad, and because it would soon be three o’clock it was time for something better. Now if one of his so-called bosses was wondering about where he’d gone, he actually had a crime scene of his own he had to inspect. Furthermore it was in the vicinity of a real crown estate where fine people lived, even though apparently they made a habit of dining with that fool who was his so-called boss.
Duty calls, thought Bäckström. He entered code two, as in official business, on his phone and quickly and discreetly left the building for so-called external duty. On his way home he took the opportunity to go past the liquor store and replenish his supply of malt whiskey and shop for some mixed snacks at the nearby deli. Fifteen minutes later he was on his couch in front of the TV with a little highball within comfortable reach. After the first gulp the blessed malt had dispersed the Baltic haze.
Suddenly it came to him which of all his crazy colleagues used to brag that he knew that half-fairy who had evidently offered the most well-known murder weapon in crime history to his old acquaintance GeGurra.
It was that fucking Wiijnbladh, thought Bäckström, shaking his round head in amazement.
36
The following day Bäckström decided it was time to get cracking, which is why he started work in good time before lunch.
First he turned on the computer to go through his e-mail. Nothing from that lazy ass at the tech squad, even though the hottest lead in Swedish police history might very well be sitting at the tech squad getting cold.
How the hell can someone like that be a cop? thought Bäckström, sending yet another e-mail.
Then he called Johansson’s secretary and asked to speak with her boss.
“Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström,” said Bäckström. “I want to speak with the boss.”
“He’s not in,” his secretary answered in a reserved tone. “What does this concern?”
“Nothing I can talk about on the phone,” said Bäckström curtly. In any case not with you, you little cunt lips, he thought.
“Then I suggest you e-mail a few lines and mention what it’s about.”
“Not that either,” said Bäckström. “I have to see him.” Even her jaw must sit perpendicular, he thought.
“I will convey your message and ask if he has time.”
“Do that,” said Bäckström, hanging up before she had time to. What the hell do I do now? he thought. It was only eleven-thirty. Too early to eat lunch if you wanted to have a real pilsner with your food. Even too early to punch out of prison, because his so-called boss was roaming around in the corridor, like an eagle eyeing his meagerly allocated time. Wiijnbladh, he thought suddenly. It was time to put the squeeze on that little fairy and see what he had to offer.
Not very much, it appeared. Wiijnbladh was on all fours under his desk, and it looked like he was searching for something.
“How’s it goin’, Wiijnbladh?” said Bäckström. “Are you inspecting the cleaning, or what?”
Wiijnbladh twisted in place, shaking his head and giving Bäckström a shy glance.
“My pill, I’ve lost my pill.”
“Pill,” said Bäckström. What the hell is he babbling about? he thought.
“My medicine,” Wiijnbladh clarified. “Right when I was going to put it in my mouth, it fell on the floor, and now I can’t find it.”
“Have you thought about switching to suppositories?” Bäckström suggested. Try to stay alive until I’ve had time to talk with you, he thought.
That little half-fairy is completely gone, thought Bäckström as he closed the door on Wiijnbladh.
For lack of a better alternative he returned to his office. First he thought about calling a relative who worked at the police union and knew most everything about all his so-called colleagues. Upon further thought, however, he decided not to. Despite the blood ties that united them, his cousin was a little too curious and much too unreliable for Bäckström to dare approach him in such a sensitive matter.
Because it was now the stroke of twelve, with room for a quick walk between the police building and his usual lunch place a few blocks away, it was time to see about putting something in his craw. Especially as his own hawk had evidently changed territory. Best to take the opportunity to keep starvation away from your own door, thought Bäckström. He punched in code zero—as in lunch—on his phone and quickly left the building.
It turned out to be a short mealtime. Before two hours were up, he had returned to the building and still had time to purchase some invigorating breath mints en route. Though still no e-mail from the tech snail and nothing from the Lapp bastard either.
He must have his hands full with reindeer sorting, thought Bäckström.
Then the good Henning called and wondered how it was going. Because almost everything in Bäckström’s life these days concerned keeping him in a good mood, he laid it on a little. It looked rather promising, Bäckström assured him. He reported that he was fully occupied with internal surveillance of both person and object.
“There are a number of interesting leads, actually,” Bäckström observed.
“Anything you can talk about on the phone?” asked GeGurra.
Unfortunately not. Much too sensitive. On the other hand Bäckström himself had a question.
“You said he bought a Zorn from you. How did he come up with the money for that? That’s not like anything policemen usually hang on the wall. Mostly things like those crying children, I would think,” said Bäckström. Personally he also had one that he hung in the bathroom in his apartment. Right above the privy so the little crybaby could at least enjoy the Bäckström super-salami
the few times they met.
“Rich parents,” Gustaf G:son Henning said. “Both his mom and dad and then several generations back. The great mystery is perhaps that he chose to become a police officer. Not an ordinary police officer fortunately, but a policeman nonetheless.”
“So what do you mean?” What do you know about real police officers? thought Bäckström.
“He seems to have had his faults, if I may say so. Rather special faults, if you understand what I mean.”
“No. Explain,” Bäckström persisted.
It was not something one discussed on the phone, and because he had customers waiting GeGurra suggested they be in touch after the weekend.
You stingy bastard, thought Bäckström. What’s wrong with meeting and having a bite to eat?
Then he called Johansson again. It was already past two, and because it was Friday it was presumably much too late. Someone like Johansson had surely already slipped away from work.
“Bäckström,” said Bäckström urgently. “Looking for the boss.”
“Unfortunately he’s not available,” answered Johansson’s secretary. “But I promise to convey your message as soon as I have a chance to talk with him.”
“That’s probably best,” said Bäckström.
“Excuse me?”
Shit your pants, you little sow, thought Bäckström and hung up.
For lack of a better plan he punched himself out with a code four. A short business trip to look at the crime scene twenty miles north of the city, and as soon as he was at a safe distance from the building he went straight home.
In some respects the weekend was more or less like it usually was. Some decent boxing on the sports channels and at least one memorable match where a giant palooka hacked a banty rooster half his size down to chicken feed, and the ringside audience looked like they had a case of measles after the first round.
Free Falling, As If in a Dream Page 26