“Why!” said Munster.
“Correct! We can ignore for the moment when and how and if the victim emptied his bowels during the last eight hours. What we need to concentrate on is why. Why was Mitter murdered?”
“We’re assuming that it was the same killer?”
“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “If it isn’t the same one, it will be a different matter altogether. A case we won’t solve for a very long time, not using the methods we use in any case. No, dammit, it is the same person, I know it is. But why? And why just now?”
“He was warned?”
“Do you really think so?”
“But, sir, you said yourself. .”
“You can drop the ‘sir’ after ten o’clock.”
“You said yourself that the murderer must have been warned by Mitter himself. That Mitter must have remembered something to do with the first murder.”
“Let us assume that I’m certain of that. Mitter informed the murderer that he remembered who he was.”
“Or she.”
“Is that likely?”
“No.”
“We’ll assume it’s a man. Next question, Munster!”
Munster scratched the back of his neck.
“How?” he said. “How did he inform the murderer?”
“Correct again! You’re on top form, Munster!”
“And why did he say nothing to the police?”
“We’ll take that later,” said Van Veeteren. “First things first.
How? What do you think?”
“I. . he phoned, or wrote a letter. I don’t think he sent a fax.”
Van Veeteren’s baggy cheeks twitched to form something that might have been a smile. But it was so brief that Munster was unable to decide for certain.
“He wrote,” Van Veeteren confirmed.
“How do you know?”
“Because I checked. Listen carefully, and I’ll explain. Mitter wrote a letter last Monday. . the sixteenth. . and it was mailed the same day. He was given an envelope, paper, and a pen by the staff. They evidently have everything locked up, and hand it out to the patients on request. If they’ve been behaving themselves, that is. Everything seems to be locked up at that place-apart from the patients, but they get pills instead, of course. Anyway, it’s clear that he sent a letter last Monday. If we assume that the murderer lives here in Maardam, or in the district, at least, he should have received it on Tuesday. He spends Wednesday waiting, and then he strikes on Thursday evening. He gets dressed up, finds a way of entering the ward, waits calmly. Hides himself for eight or nine hours-just imagine that, Munster. That bastard stays in there for eight or nine hours until it’s time, that’s what’s so impressive about this whole business. It’s not just anybody we’re dealing with, I think we ought to be clear about that.”
Munster nodded. His tiredness was fading away now, thinning out and being penetrated by concentration. He looked out the window. The silhouettes of the cathedral and the skyscrapers at Karlsplatsen were outlined against the night sky, and that feeling came slowly creeping up on him, the feeling that always turned up sooner or later in an investigation, that could keep him lying wide awake in his bed, despite being so exhausted that he was on the point of collapse. This was the challenge, this was the core of their work. The murderer was somewhere out there. One of this town’s 300,000 inhabi-tants had taken it upon himself to kill two of his fellow human beings, and it was his duty, and Van Veeteren’s and all the rest of them, to nail the man-or the woman. It was going to be one hell of a job, in fact. They would work for thousands of hours before the case was closed, and when they eventually had all the answers, it would become clear to them that nearly everything they had done had been a complete waste of time.
They would realize that if only they’d done this or that right away, they would have cracked it in two days instead of two months.
But this was only the beginning. So far they knew virtually nothing. There was only Van Veeteren and him shut up in this messy office, hemmed in by questions and answers and guesses in a slow but inexorable search for the right track. If they didn’t find it, if they took a wrong turning at the very beginning-well, it could be that two months from now they would be sitting around in this very same room with their thousands of wasted hours and no murderer. This was the millstone around their necks: finding themselves at the far end of a cul-de-sac, knowing that they would have to walk all the way back. And it was always the first turning that was the most important one.
“We made a mistake,” said Van Veeteren, as if he’d been able to read Munster’s thoughts. “We jailed Mitter, and now he’s dead. The least we can do for him is to get the right man this time.”
“One thing has struck me,” said Munster. “They’re so different, these two murders. Assuming it is the same killer, that is. This second one is so much more. . professional than the first one. Perhaps Mitter was even a witness to the first one.
That seemed to be unplanned. . random. This second one is so much more. . ice cold.”
Van Veeteren nodded.
“Yes, I know. He’s acquired a taste for blood, he’s learned a thing or two. But let’s go back to that letter. Are you with me?”
“Of course.”
“Mitter writes a letter to the murderer, to the person he suspects had something to do with the death of his wife. .”
“Stop!” said Munster. “How do you know that he really did write to the murderer? Why couldn’t it have been an ordinary letter to. . to a friend?”
“We’ve started checking,” said Van Veeteren, inserting another toothpick into his mouth. “But the investigation isn’t quite finished yet. None of those close to him has received a letter-his ex-wife, his children, or his good friends. There are a few we haven’t managed to get hold of yet: Petersen and Stauff are working on that. But I don’t think they’ll find anybody.”
“But couldn’t that indicate. .”
“Yes, of course it’s very possible that the murderer is one of those; but I don’t think it will do any harm if he is made aware that we are not a bunch of idiots. If we then pin him down a week or two from now, all we have to do is nail him. There’s nothing like a murderer who’s been kept on tenterhooks for a while.”
Munster nodded.
“Back to that letter,” said Van Veeteren. “Let’s assume it is in fact a letter to inform the murderer about something. Questions, Munster!”
“Well, the address, of course. Could somebody have checked the address? But I don’t suppose so. .”
“Absolutely right! Those blind idiots who run Majorna haven’t seen a thing! Not a single letter! Even though somebody was standing over Mitter as he wrote, watching him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Either they keep a check on letters written for reasons of security, or there’s some weirdo writing a dissertation-the link between schizophrenia and left-handedness, who cares! The important thing-and listen carefully to this, Inspector, because it’s crucial-Mitter is given paper, pen, envelope, and stamp by a nurse, he sits down in the assembly hall-yes, that’s what they call it-and writes his letter. It takes no more than ten minutes; he hands it to the nurse who posts it in the box outside the entrance when he goes home two hours later. Until then, he’s been carrying it around in the pocket of his working jacket. Is that all clear?”
“Of course.”
“What strikes you about it?”
Munster closed his eyes. Leaned his head against the wall and thought about it.
“I don’t know. .”
“The address.”
