EQMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Of course.”

  “Pistols as well as rifles and shotguns?”

  Hakanson gave Rhindtwist a disapproving look. “Listen, sport, if you're thinking I was involved in Olaf's murder you're barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “Then what would the right tree be? You stood to gain as much as anyone from Herr Gedda's death.”

  Hakanson surprised Rhindtwist by saying, “If not more. But as big a pain in the butt as Olaf was at times, he'd been my business partner for over thirty years and, what's more, he was my closest friend. If I've put up with our arrangement for this long, why would I suddenly do something so rash?”

  “Greed?”

  “Sounds good if you're Shakespeare, who you're not,” Hakanson said, “but in real life it's nonsensical because eventually the business will become my family's, no matter what.” He stood. “I think we've played this little game long enough. I'd suggest you spend more time with your editor, who's as obvious as a mare in heat, and leave the police work up to the professionals, because right now it's clear you're in over your head.”

  “What I do with Annika is none of your business,” Rhindtwist said. “Now, get out of here.” He watched Hakanson saunter through the office with Uggla following him. He thought their goodbyes were inappropriately intimate and drew a coffee from the espresso machine and settled at his desk and buzzed for her. Before he knew it Uggla was standing in the doorway to his office. “What did Gunnar have to say?” she asked.

  “Oh, it's Gunnar, is it? Not Herr Hakanson?”

  She nodded.

  He sighed.

  She shrugged.

  He lit a Chesterfield.

  Finally she asked, “What did you find out?”

  Rhindtwist took a drag on his cigarette. “Gotilda, Paulsson, and your friend Gunnar all had a lot to gain from Gedda's death. On the one hand, both Gotilda and Paulsson got a lot of cash. On the other hand, Hakanson stood to benefit the most because he inherited the business, but he has the best alibi: He was in Helsinki when Gedda was murdered. Paulsson doesn't have an alibi and I don't know about Gotilda. Hopefully, she'll have a good story. If not, things will get even more difficult for her.”

  Uggla walked from the doorway and straddled Rhindtwist in his chair. “I think my jealous little boy has forgotten to ask where Hakanson stayed while he was in Helsinki.”

  Rhindtwist smiled a satisfied smile. “The Hotel Kamp.”

  Uggla reached for his phone and punched in 00-358-9-42419393. In quick order she was connected with the Hotel Kamp through Helsinki information. “Good morning,” she said. “This is Herr Gunnar Hakanson's secretary calling from Stockholm. I'm trying to reconcile his monthly expense report but I'm afraid I've misplaced some of Herr Hakanson's receipts. Could you please give me his charges for . . .” She gave Rhindtwist a questioning look.

  He whispered, “Thursday, July the third.”

  “For July third and fourth?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Are you sure?” Uggla said.

  Another pause.

  “Thank you very much for your trouble.” Uggla wiggled to face Rhindtwist again. “Well, Hakanson's lying about his whereabouts. The hotel has no record of him staying there this month.”

  “Hmm,” Rhindtwist said. “Now, what else have I forgotten?”

  “Two things,” Uggla said. “First, none of our staff are coming in today and, second, I've locked the door and pulled the shades.”

  “Hmm,” Rhindtwist said again, amused that Hakanson thought he was in over his head, because now Hakanson was the prime suspect in the murder of Olaf Gedda.

  “Umm-hmm,” Uggla said as she began to prove, once again, that she was a most excellent choice for managing editor.

  * * * *

  PART 2

  Lumbricus Terrestris

  Because they help aerate and enrich the soil, Charles Darwin wrote of earthworms, “It may be doubted whether there are any other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world, as have these lowly creatures.” For this very reason Aristotle called earthworms “the intestines of the soil.” They are also frequently called night crawlers because they crawl around at night, and angleworms because they make good bait for fishing. They are indigenous to Europe and are hermaphrodites, but cannot see or hear. Some have been known to have survived in captivity for ten years. Neither Darwin nor Aristotle commented on the fact that most fishermen are born honest but get over it pretty quickly, whether they fish with a worm, a jerkbait, or a fly.

  * * * *

  Friday, July 11

  Salamander drummed her fingers impatiently on the security barrier in front of her as Rhindtwist seated himself. He smiled at her and said, “That color goes well with your purple hair.”

  Salamander looked down at her DayGlo orange one-piece prison coveralls and said, “Drop dead.”

  “Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way,” Rhindtwist said, “will you answer some questions for me?”

  “It depends on the questions,” Salamander said.

  “Gotilda, drop the attitude,” Rhindtwist said. “And trust me.”

  “I tried that once, remember? Look where it got me.”

  Rhindtwist placed a hand on the chainlink window that separated them. “Please, not now, Gotilda.” He sat back in his chair and opened his notebook. “Let's start with your whereabouts the morning Herr Gedda was murdered.”

  “I was in my apartment getting ready to go to work when Tonsoffun called me and asked me to come up here.”

  “Was there anybody with you?”

  “I haven't been with anyone since—”

  “My mistake,” Rhindtwist said hurriedly. “Any witnesses?”

  “No one except the hoods who threatened me outside my apartment.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Ask Tonsoffun, but I'd say around quarter of ten.”

  “Problem number one,” Rhindtwist said. “The coroner's report indicates that Herr Gedda was killed between six and seven, giving you plenty of time to get back to your apartment and carry on as though nothing had happened.”

  Salamander gave Rhindtwist an icy stare. “Is that what you think?”

  Rhindtwist wasn't sure what he thought but hedged his bets and said it didn't matter. “What counts is that's what the police think, and Paulsson and von Otter think you did it too.”

  Salamander felt like a bag of bananas that had been left too long in the sun. “Guilty until proven innocent?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He tapped his notebook with his pen. “But what's with the bucket of worms?”

  Salamander looked down at her hands and twirled her thumbs.

  Rhindtwist sensed that, once again, he'd struck a nerve. “Are you keeping something from me?”

  “Between you and me?”

  He nodded.

  She sighed.

  He closed his notebook as a gesture of confidentiality.

  “I've had a hard time catching a trout big enough to qualify for the Lunkersklubb with a fly so, on occasion,” she smiled sheepishly, “I fish with a worm.”

  “That's it?”

  She raised her hands to silence him. “I lost a really good one a few weeks ago—must have been seven pounds—but I know where that bad boy lives and I'll catch him yet.”

  Rhindtwist was exasperated and confused. “Not if you go to prison, you won't.”

  Glum silence.

  Finally, he asked, “Did you know you were in Herr Gedda's will?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course?”

  “He told me.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime last year.”

  Rhindtwist asked if Herr Gedda had told her how much he planned to leave her.

  “All he said was that I'd be very comfortable. Von Otter told me about the twenty billion kronor.”

  “When?”

  “A few months ago.”

  More gl
um silence.

  Rhindtwist opened and closed his notebook. “So, you don't have any witnesses to confirm your whereabouts the morning of the murder and you knew you stood to inherit an obscene amount of money when Herr Gedda died. Both are bad for you. The fact that the murder weapon is nowhere to be found is both good and bad.” He sighed. “The bucket of worms could be viewed as a red herring but it also shows that you can be dishonest.”

  “Me? Dishonest? What about you, Jerkoff? You lied to me about Annika when I thought you were finished with her. You left me out in the cold with no family, no nothing, except Papa Gedda, and now he's dead.”

  “Save that for later,” Rhindtwist said. “Right now we've got bigger fish to fry. Unless we come up with something in a hurry, you're going to be charged with murder, so think: Who might have done it?”

  “Could it have been someone who wasn't in the will?” Salamander asked.

  “Hmm.” Rhindtwist scratched his head. “Maybe, but I don't think so. I've already caught Hakanson in a lie which could prove to be very important.”

  “Hakanson?” She paused. “Maybe. He's slippery as an eel. When he thought I was sleeping with Papa Gedda he got really pissed when I wouldn't give him a go. Maybe he was jealous; maybe it was a crime of passion.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You're just lucky I didn't kill you,” Salamander said.

  “Gotilda, please.”

  “Please, nothing. But I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot,” Rhindtwist said, then hurriedly added, “Sorry.”

  “Are you still seeing Annika?”

  Rhindtwist gave a noncommittal shake of his head.

  “Interview's over,” Salamander said. She pushed her chair back, stood, and walked away. Jerker Two-Timing Lying Pig Rhindtwist.

  Saturday, July 12

  By the weekend, Salamander had been officially charged with the murder of Olaf Gedda and Tonsoffun had been ordered to transfer her to the Kronoberg prison in Goteborg on a Saturday, when the media would least expect it. He was delighted at the thought of no longer having Salamander as his responsibility even though something about her case didn't feel quite right to him. Putting aside her lack of an alibi and the fortune she stood to inherit and the bucket of worms with her fingerprints, there was something about the girl that made it hard for him to believe she was a murderer. And there was a nagging sense of familiarity he couldn't explain. He sat at his desk sipping his second cup of coffee when Noonesson knocked on his door. The deputy was giggling when Tonsoffun asked if he was ready.

  “In a minute,” Noonesson said. He was having a hard time controlling his laughter. “I just heard a new one.”

  Tonsoffun rolled his eyes. “Okay. Then get on with it.”

  “Here goes,” Noonesson said. “Three blondes applied for the job of criminal inspector. They were shown a picture of a suspect by a policeman and asked what struck them most about the photo. The first answered that the man only had one eye. The policeman said that would figure, seeing that the picture was taken in profile. The second said he only had one ear. Again the officer explained that the picture was of the man's profile. The third blonde said the suspect was wearing contact lenses. The policeman said she was right and asked how she knew. The blonde said it was simple: With only one eye and one ear, how could he wear glasses?”

  Tonsoffun shook his head.

  “Get it?” Noonesson asked. “With only one eye—”

  “For Christ's sake, Nils, I get it!” Tonsoffun said. “Now go get the girl.”

  * * * *

  Salamander heard Noonesson unlock the outer door to the cell block and immediately felt like a radar installation on high alert. Inspektor Out-to-Lunch Noonesson. She sat on her cot, lowered her head, and took a deep breath.

  Noonesson unlocked her cell door.

  Salamander didn't look up.

  Noonesson stepped toward her. “Time for a change of scene,” he said, and freed the handcuffs from his belt.

  She extended her hands and then, quick as a lizard, struck Noonesson in the esophagus with a restrained knifehand blow that rendered him speechless and, in the time it takes to say Jack Robinsson, jerked his SIG-Sauer P226 9mm pistol from his holster and said, “You make so much as a peep and you're toast.”

  Noonesson clutched his throat and nodded pathetically.

  “Now, take off your clothes,” Salamander said.

  “Huh?”

  She waved the Sig Sauer at him. “Your uniform and your shoes and socks. And hurry.”

  Noonesson stripped to his skivvies and T-shirt and arranged his uniform in a neat pile on the floor.

  “Okay, up against the wall.” Salamander began to unbutton her prison clothing. “And turn around,” she said, as she stripped to her Body by Victoria bra and bikini panties. When she was finished she threw the DayGlo orange suit at him and told him to put it on, adding, “Let's see how you like wearing it, you chauvinist pig.” Noonesson turned to pick up the suit. When he caught a glimpse of Salamander wearing only her bra and panties his eyes grew big as saucers.

  Salamander watched as he clumsily stepped into the suit and fumbled with each button. When he was through, she handcuffed his hands behind him and quickly dressed in his uniform. She turned slowly and asked in a mocking fashion how she looked.

  Noonesson simply shook his head.

  “Look, dopey,” she said, holstering his SIG Sauer P226, “if you keep your motorized mouth shut for five more minutes, everybody's going to be okay.” She paused to make sure what she'd said had sunk into his thick skull. “If you can't, things could get pretty ugly.”

  She locked the cell door and walked purposefully to Tonsoffun's office. Without looking up from his paperwork he asked, “You got the girl?”

  Salamander couldn't help but giggle as she pointed the pistol at him. “I'm afraid the dumb blonde's got me.”

  “What the—”

  She disarmed Tonsoffun, took away his Nokia mobile phone, Sepura digital radio, expandable baton, keys, and pepper spray and handcuffed him and forced him into the cell with his deputy. “Now you boys pay attention,” she said. “You've charged the wrong person with Herr Gedda's murder and I'll do everything I can to clear my name.” She locked the cell door and walked to the solid steel door that, once bolted, would seal Tonsoffun and Noonesson from the outside world. “I'll call this evening to make sure someone finds you in time for your supper.” She reached for the latch on the door and then stared at Noonesson. “Remember this moment the next time you think about telling one of your idiotic dumb-blonde jokes. They're not so funny now, are they?” She paused. “Oh, by the way, where are my belongings?”

  “In the evidence closet by my desk,” Noonesson mumbled.

  “That's more like it, Inspektor. Thank you.” She smiled at Tonsoffun and said, “You take care,” and bolted the heavy door behind her.

  Once in the office area, Salamander fumbled with the keys on Noonesson's large stainless key ring until she found the one she was looking for. The evidence closet was empty except for her North Face Off Site shoulder bag and a six-pack of Heineken and a stack of Playboys. She unzipped the compartments to her shoulder bag and took a quick inventory: her wallet, her Apple PowerBook, her Palm Tungsten T3 and Ericsson T10 mobile were all there.

  She piled both sets of keys on Noonesson's desk, where they could easily be found, and scooped up his car keys and slipped on his Ray-Ban Cockpit sun-glasses. She checked to see if the coast was clear and walked to the white Volvo V70 wagon with its distinctive blue and fluorescent yellow markings that was parked at the side of the station house. She drove slowly south on the E4, turning quickly onto the less trafficked 84 West and soon onto the even more rural 305 North toward Hassela.

  A Saab 9-3 Sport Sedan slowed as Salamander drove up behind it. The Saab's left-rear brake light didn't work. Salamander thought for a moment and turned on the cruiser's flashing red light and then hit the siren button, just once, just for the hell of it. The Saab
pulled onto the gravel shoulder followed by the polis car. Salamander pulled her hat low over her eyes and strode confidently to the driver's window. Before she could speak, the driver asked if there was a problem. Salamander told her she was driving without a brake light and asked to see her license and registration. Salamander walked back to her car, seated herself, and studied the woman's documents.

  Click. Ms. Margareta Sorenstam. Probably single. Probably lives alone.

  Click. Lives at #13 Rottengatan in Hassela. Just around the corner on route 307.

  Click. Twenty-two, blond, and 5'11". Almost my age and height exactly.

  Click. An organ donor. A caring person.

  Salamander had all she needed. She walked to the passenger's side of the car and tapped on the window. Sorenstam lowered it and Salamander handed back her documents. “Mind if I get in for a moment, Froken Sorenstam?” she said. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

  The woman nodded and collected a pile of literature from the passenger's seat and tossed it onto the backseat, but not before Salamander could read some of the headings: Women's Front. The Swedish Federation of Liberal Women.

  Click. A feminist. My kind of girl!

  Salamander sat and took the keys from the ignition. “Good news, bad news.”

  “I . . . I don't understand,” Sorenstam said.

  “The good news is that all you need to do is get your taillight fixed and you won't get a ticket.”

  “Phew!”

  Salamander took off her sunglasses and turned to Sorenstam, her blue eyes bright in the midday sun. She smiled.

  Sorenstam smiled back.

  “Margareta, the bad news is I'm an escaped convict and I stole this uniform and the police car and soon I'll be reported as violent, armed, and dangerous.”

  Sorenstam clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. “You're not Officer Noonesson?”

  Salamander looked down at Noonesson's name badge, which was pinned to his uniform blouse. “No, but more bad news/good news: I'm armed but I'm not dangerous, so please try to relax.”

  Sorenstam hurriedly lowered her window and chucked her cookies all over the Snow Silver Metallic door panel of her Saab 9-3 Sport Sedan.

  Salamander took a Kleenex from a packet on the dash and handed it to her. “If you cooperate with me I promise you won't regret it. I've been falsely charged with the murder of Olaf Gedda and—”