The Dark Heart: A True Story of Greed, Murder, and an Unlikely Investigator

by Joakim Palmkvist

  Ställe Farm’s front door is locked at night and whenever the house is empty. The murderer and any colluders must therefore have used a key to get in.

  Over at the Törnblad farm, the day would have started several hours before the shotgun blast that ended Göran Lundblad’s life. Had they heard anything over there? Doubtful. At the Törnblad dairy farm, the cows make a constant racket, and the early-morning milking makes a lot of noise as well. Besides, with doors and windows closed, the sound of the shot would likely not have traveled far.

  The body is loaded onto Ställe Farm’s red pickup. The sides of the flatbed are almost a foot high, concealing what is inside it, so there is barely any point in covering the bloody load. The wrapped body keeps leaking into the flatbed while it is transported. The stain will have time to set considerably before anyone takes an interest in it.

  The truck rumbles along between the fields of Norra Förlösa. The easiest route to the field with the hole runs west through the village and up onto a road that cuts through the Törnblad farm. It is possible to go around in the opposite direction as well, but that would mean having to drag the body farther through difficult terrain. Better, then, to load the body into a wheel loader in the farmyard, hide it in the bucket. That also makes it easier to transport it across the field.

  Out in the field, the view to the north is unobstructed for about half a mile. Theoretically, anyone from a bird-watcher with rubber boots and binoculars to a local farmer could be moving about the area, which would speak against transporting and burying the body in broad daylight.

  On the other hand, driving around winding forest roads in the middle of the night with a dead body could easily draw even more attention, especially here in Norra Förlösa, where everyone notices everyone else at all times. Better, then, to pretend you are doing regular work in the fields during the day.

  In late August, the flies are more active than ever. But no fly eggs are laid on Göran Lundblad’s remains before he is put in the ground, which suggests that the body, wrapped in the green tarpaulin, is dumped into the hole on the morning of the murder. The corpse falls about 170 to 180 centimeters before hitting bottom. The height of a man, around six feet down. The timing of the burial will play a deciding part in determining how guilt will be assessed in this case. But that is a long way off yet.

  When the grave is filled in, the topsoil is mixed with the clay of the hardpan. Considering the volumes that need to be shifted, this too is likely done using a wheel loader, which would also make it easier to tidy up afterward. But when the black nutrient-rich topsoil is mixed with the less fertile, lighter clay, it leaves striations in the field that can only be erased with persistent plowing.

  By around lunchtime on August 30, 2012, Göran Lundblad has vanished off the face of the earth. Buried under hundreds of pounds of soil. Gone.

  For the first time in days, there is heavy rain. Almost an inch of rain falls on Norra Förlösa that day. The downpour helps mix the soil in the field, obliterating the tracks.

  PART TWO

  CORPUS DELICTI

  10

  REASONABLE SUSPICION

  The Kalmar Police Station is located at 4 Galggatan, Gallows Street, on the western edge of the city. An appropriate address, one might say, as this was the local execution site until well into the nineteenth century.

  According to local legend, Kalmar residents would sneak out here at night to cut the fingers off evildoers because the blood of the executed was thought to possess magic healing powers.

  It was not because of the street’s history, however, that the police headquarters, which also house the prosecutorial authority’s offices, were relocated here at the end of the 2000s, but rather because factory closures had made the property available. The building, with its patrol vehicles and offices, was practically located near a thoroughfare for easy access to every part of the county.

  The gory local history was not at the forefront of Detective Chief Inspector Ulf Martinsson’s mind when he went through a stack of memos and reports in his office in the autumn of 2012. It wasn’t until late October that the stalled case was passed up to Martinsson from his uniformed colleagues. His supervisor, Ann Åsenius, had asked him to go over and assess a missing-person case: the disappearance of one Göran Lundblad.

  This was not usually the kind of case violent crime would concern themselves with, but this case turned out to have many layers, as Martinsson soon discovered. He read through the memos from his colleague Jonas Blomgren.

  “Uniform had taken the case as far as they could, with some interviews and checks, but they didn’t have the means to process anyone, not without access to more resources,” said Martinsson. “More means were needed to get to the bottom of the matter, that much was obvious. I was heading a team of detectives at violent crime, and I agreed that something was off. There was nothing to indicate that Lundblad had been attacked and robbed, that there could have been unknown assailants who had found out he was rich and so on—no indication at all.”

  He noted the lack of bank-account activity or records of travel, as well as the existence of several ongoing projects and planned meetings that the missing man had simply abandoned.

  “The report said his daughter Sara had told officers they had quarreled and been at odds. And there was quite a bit of information about the conflict between the Lundblads and their neighbors the Törnblads. But nothing concrete.”

  Other pieces of the puzzle affected his early assessment as well, chief among them the younger daughter’s, Maria’s, call to the Södermanland police earlier in October, during which she had pointed the finger at Sara.

  Or a phone call that autumn from an Eva Sterner, Göran Lundblad’s tenant in Stigtomta. Among other things, Eva had pointed out to the Kalmar police that Göran had vanished without confirming a contract with a new tenant farmer up there. That was not how things were done in the country. Tenant farming was serious business, especially for Göran Lundblad.

  Martinsson noticed several small, simple pieces of information, which, considered individually, seemed meaningless enough, but when taken together, gave the unshakable impression that something was awry.

  “Reading through everything we had, it just didn’t tally with Göran Lundblad’s way of life that he would abandon all his business interests and obligations, from Stigtomta down to Förlösa,” Martinsson said.

  On that autumn day, his supervisor, Ann Åsenius, stopped by his office. The time had come to make a decision: either they put the case on the back burner and wait for Göran Lundblad to turn up one way or the other, dead or alive, or they reassign their staff and do everything in their power to solve the case.

  “We didn’t have a formal meeting about Göran Lundblad,” Martinsson said. “It was like any other workday. Ann sat in the visitor’s chair and I sat at my desk, and we went over the case. She also had the strong impression that something was amiss. That more needed to be done.”

  Such are the ostensibly simple workings of a criminal investigation. The basic everyday decisions made by the police can mean the difference between prison and freedom for a suspect, or, in extreme cases, the difference between life and death.

  The police, of course, aren’t free to do whatever they please, not even detective chief inspectors or more senior management. Martinsson and Åsenius must always adhere strictly to the laws, as well as ordinances on how to interpret the law and apply it to daily police work.

  That day, the conversation between the two detectives on Galggatan in Kalmar was graver than it may have first appeared. On one hand, they could order steps to be taken that would make life hell for just about anyone who knew Göran. Background checks, interviews or interrogations, covert surveillance, interviews with neighbors, friends, employers. Activities that ruin reputations and invade personal spheres. Or they could close the folder and walk away.

  If they chose the first option, even a completely innocent person could have their social framework destroyed when police pro
cedure kicks in. That being said, anyone abusing their position of authority that way, without very good cause, would be charged with misconduct and lose their job. There needed to be a solid reason to justify reaching for the more extreme tools. Martinsson and Åsenius couldn’t be sure what else might be found out about multimillionaire Göran Lundblad if they were to commit all available resources to the investigation.

  If they did so, they risked all other criminal investigations being neglected, other unrelated victims being affected, perpetrators remaining free, and the rule of law being undermined as other crimes are not responded to as swiftly. Yet, they could not shake the sense that there was the call for justice for a man who had disappeared under strange circumstances. What if the two detectives were dealing with a murder case, where one or more perpetrators could be convicted?

  Or it could all turn out to be nothing, after a number of able police officers had wasted meaningless man-hours on a case that was never going to go anywhere.

  It takes nerves of steel to assess a case file under such circumstances.

  Anyone who thinks the police can throw together an investigation team comprising interviewers, technicians, detectives, and administrators in an afternoon and launch a murder investigation based on a missing-person report, just to be on the safe side, has spent too much time watching TV.

  What in fact takes place is a constant balancing of cases, where no one knows, or can know, at the outset which one is more important, which one has a higher “success factor.”

  Around one and a half million crimes are reported in Sweden every year, a number that includes everything, even bicycle theft. If the statistics are whittled down to violent crime only, the number drops to around one hundred ten thousand a year. In Kalmar: around two thousand. These big numbers are difficult to comprehend, given that the police employ around twenty-eight thousand people nationally. Of those, fewer than twenty thousand are trained officers, and the rest are civilians.

  If we home in on the most serious crime, lethal violence, which would include both murder and manslaughter, something like eighty to one hundred cases are typically reported in Sweden every year, an average that goes back a number of decades. Almost all are solved.

  There are strict guidelines for these kinds of investigations; specifically, there is a handbook that is known as the Murder Bible. The name was coined as early as 1970, when the document was first drafted by the then-active National Murder Commission. Back then, it was a thirty-five-page handbook with a checklist of initial measures—roadblocks, background checks, the use of K9 units—as well as flowcharts on how to set up an investigation with a lead investigator, a communications center, and several teams of investigators.

  The Murder Bible has subsequently been revised as technology has developed and methods have been refined. For example, in 1970, DNA techniques as we know them today didn’t exist. Meticulous crime-scene investigations have become increasingly important to discover the smallest flake of skin from a suspect.

  To untangle convoluted personal relationships or keep track of several thousand instances of evidence, interviews, and steps taken, computers have taken over what used to be done with pens, papers, and binders.

  In its modern form, the Murder Bible is ninety-seven pages long, with detailed instructions on which roles need to be filled—lead investigator and assistant, crime-scene coordinator, head of the interview unit, head forensic technician, various caseworkers, tips receivers, and administrators. An investigation team needs to have at minimum twenty-five people on it to be considered fully effective.

  As all readers of crime novels know, the first few days, not to say hours, after a murder are crucial. The more time passes, the smaller the chance of the guilty person being found, if experience is to be believed. It is all the more important, then, to quickly secure evidence according to the Murder Bible checklist, which includes everything from seizing CCTV recordings before the camera records newer material onto the old film, and interviewing witnesses as thoroughly as possible before their memories are affected, to identifying all conceivable evidence before it is destroyed by the elements.

  Of course, it is also about trying to apprehend the perpetrator while he or she is still in the area, which requires roadblocks, door knocking, and searches of vehicles, properties, and people. These techniques are primarily effective in relatively fresh crimes, but the regulations contained in the Murder Bible are to be followed regardless of the age of the crime.

  A dead mobster, shot to pieces in his car, or a person stabbed to death in the street—in these cases, things are straightforward. Cordon off the streets, stop everyone in the vicinity, and take statements whether they want to give them or not. Extract data from phone companies about which cell phones have been active in the area, then map every phone within a couple of miles’ radius.

  But the code at the top of Martinsson’s papers didn’t indicate a violent crime. It was simply an administrative code—0911, missing person—which barely gave him the authority to do anything.

  All he and his supervisor really had to go on was an unsettled feeling based on previous experience—whether that be called prejudice or empirical knowledge. Hunches need to be combined with cold, hard facts in order to constitute what is termed reasonable suspicion about a crime having been committed. Only then can the police formally launch an investigation.

  Reasonable suspicion is a vague concept in jurisprudence, not an exact science. This is what the law, chapter 23, section 1, of the Swedish Code of Judicial Procedure says:

  A preliminary investigation shall be initiated as soon as possible when there is cause to believe that an offense subject to public prosecution has been committed, either through a crime being reported by someone or for other reasons.

  Pretty straightforward if a member of the public comes forward to point out a criminal, or when the crime is obvious because a dead body has been discovered.

  But what are the “other reasons”?

  Granted, Göran Lundblad had been missing for too long for it to be voluntary. Given what was known—no bank-account activity, no signs of life—common sense would argue that there was reasonable suspicion. But there was no body. And the common sense of a police detective isn’t enough to have someone convicted in a court of law.

  For its part, Sweden’s Parliamentary Ombudsman defines reasonable suspicion as the police requiring “concrete, objectively provable circumstances” with “a level of certitude” that would indicate that a person has committed a crime.

  Without getting bogged down in just how certain “a level of certitude” is, the police would typically achieve reasonable suspicion with the help of, for example, contradictions in what an interviewee says on different occasions.

  Like when Sara Lundblad was inconsistent about when she last saw her father—was it August 29 or 30? The length of time she took to report her father missing also raised questions. What did she get up to in the meantime? Was she getting rid of evidence?

  Moreover, several witnesses insisted that it was unlike Göran Lundblad to not honor agreements and that he had never left without warning before. And once again, more decisively: the fact that Maria Lundblad had called the police to report that her sister may have harmed her father.

  “My god, that’s incredibly bizarre,” Martinsson said. “Why would this young girl contact the police to say she suspects her sister? That’s a fairly serious charge if she has nothing to back it up.”

  In an effort to get to the bottom of the matter, the police planned to interview a large number of people in several locations across the country about their interactions with Göran. At the same time, they still had to consider the possibility that what they were dealing with was a voluntary disappearance, so they needed to take a harder look at potential travel plans and contact other countries’ border authorities.

  “It’s important not to get stuck and start speculating about this and that and the next thing,” Martinsson said. “You’ll never get a
nywhere that way. Instead, what you do is set a course and check each thing off as you go—flights, relatives, business interests, and so on. Then we’ll see.”

  Put differently: formulate the hypothesis that Göran Lundblad was killed, then test it systematically.

  After much discussion in the office on Galggatan in Kalmar, Martinsson’s supervisor concluded that what they were looking at was a murder case and gave the go-ahead for further action.

  “Ann Åsenius is an experienced detective herself and had the same feeling I did,” Martinsson said. “We agreed I should start moving on this with a number of colleagues from Kalmar. But we also agreed that we should head up to Stigtomta and take statements from the people there and bring in both technicians and forensic dogs.”

  Martinsson contacted the detectives on his investigation team and asked them to prioritize the case. They needed to start calling around to schedule interviews, contact all relevant authorities to map out the life of the missing man, and request documents.

  At 4:23 p.m. on November 1, 2012, he logged the formal decision to initiate a police-led preliminary investigation of the crime of manslaughter, a crime that carries a minimum sentence of six years.

  “I chose to label it as manslaughter since the perpetrator was unknown. But with the launching of the preliminary investigation, the toolbox was opened.”

  Based on that decision, the police gained the right to enter Ställe Farm and the farms at Rogsta and Tängsta, to use forensic dogs on Lundblad lands, and to search cars and interview people.

  Some doors remained closed a while longer. In order to use phone tapping, bugging, or geolocating, one or several suspects must be identified and a prosecutor must be brought in. In order to get to that point, the police need to be able to present more substantial hunches, compiled in a persuasive way. When this happens, a prosecutor can sign a decision to take more coercive measures.