The Glass Devil

Satan. She felt a strong desire to throw it out the window. “Avoid that which comes from evil,” as Eva Moller would probably say.

“Lots of Jacob’s fingerprints were inside the book, and only his. There were some unidentified ones on the outside, probably from the employees at the bookstore. Jacob had done some underlining and written a few notes here and there in the margins.”

“Have you read it?”

“I’ve skimmed through it. Haven’t had time to read it properly, but I’ll certainly borrow it again. It’s interesting.”

“Why do you think it’s interesting?”

Hesitantly, Svante said, “It’s probably because of the criminal investigations with Satanic connections that I’ve worked on. At first you think it’s absolutely incomprehensible, how people can devote themselves to Satan- worship and strange rituals. Then, in some way, you become interested against your will. You wonder what makes these people tick.”

“What is it that makes them tick, then?”

“Power. They want power over other people and power to accept themselves. According to LaVey, nothing limits you more than yourself and your own conscience, until you realize that no one else is allowed to make decisions about you. No one else is allowed to judge your acts. You are free to look after yourself and your needs. As long as you personally feel good, then everything is okay.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. It’s no coincidence that in the USA in particular, there have been major investigations where they’ve found that young children have been drugged and used sexually during rituals. Satanism gives people permission to live out forbidden desires. Most of the meetings within the Satanic church end in group sex. Sex with animals is also common. And, as we know, they also sacrifice animals during their black masses. The ultimate sacrifice, of course, is a human sacrifice. It has happened, but it isn’t as common.”

Irene thought about what Svante had just said.

“Could you say that Satan is the same as God for them?”

Again Svante looked uncertain. “Not really. From what I understand, they have their black masses in order to gain some of the devil’s power. That’s the power that allows people to free themselves from their upbringing and religious conventions. You dare to let Satan loose inside you. The figure of God in different religions often has a law-giving role. The god says what you are and aren’t allowed to do. That’s not the case in Satanism. There, you’re supposed to accept yourself, and Satan gives you the power to do so.”

Irene looked at the book on her desk with distaste.

“ ‘ I’ is the secret word,” she said.

Svante nodded. “And complete satisfaction of one’s own desires. I can trace Satanism in most of the crimes we investigate.”

Irene was taken aback by his statement. When she had pulled herself together a bit, she said, confused, “What. .? Satan in most crimes. . What do you mean?”

“Most crimes are about satisfaction of one’s own needs. Money, sex, power, or as a way of finding an outlet for one’s anger. The guy waiting in line to get into the pub, who wasn’t let in and then out of anger stabbed the bouncer, may have been inspired by the devil who is in us all.”

“Cut it out. Drugs are always involved in those cases. Everyone doesn’t knife someone just because they don’t get into a club! And to start blaming the devil. .!”

Irene stopped her angry flood of words when she saw that Svante was mischievously smiling at her.

“Well. Maybe some of us have more of Satan inside than others.” He turned around and waved to her before he disappeared.

Irene sat for a long time looking at Church of Satan.

Why had Jacob Schyttelius read this book? Was it to learn more about how followers of Satanism think, or did he have entirely different motives? Was that why he had hidden the book? But maybe it was so that Pappa Pastor wouldn’t accidentally see it.

The question was whether Satanism really had anything to do with the triple murders.

The only person who might have the answer had been admitted to a psychiatric ward on the other side of the North Sea.

SUPERINTENDENT ANDERSSON’S mood hit rock bottom when he neared Pathology Professor Yvonne Stridner’s door. To his relief, he saw that the yellow “Wait” light was on; but as he was just about to leave, it went off. With heavy steps, he walked forward and pushed the visitor’s button. An unconscious sigh escaped him when the green light immediately came on.

The head of Pathology was enthroned behind her cluttered desk. Her Dior eyeglasses had slid down her nose, and she looked unusually stressed. A blush was evident on her cheeks.

“Andersson? For once maybe you can be useful. What do you do when the computer has frozen? I can’t work on my presentation!”

Irritated, she hit the plastic cover of her IBM.

“I. . I’m not so good with computers,” Andersson stammered.

“But don’t you use a computer for work?” Stridner stared the superintendent in the eye with her sharp gaze, and he felt himself shrinking. He always became a nervous, sweaty schoolboy when he was around her, a blithering idiot.

“Yes. . yes, of course,” he said, but he could hear how unconvincing he sounded.

Stridner pursed her lips and mumbled something about “technology-hating bosses in middle management.”

This made Andersson angry, and he said stiffly, “I haven’t come to repair computers, but to find out if the tests have been able to pinpoint the exact time of each death.”

Stridner’s eyes were frosty, and her voice tinkled like icicles when she replied, “I could have looked it up if my computer hadn’t been out of order.”

Back to square one. Andersson glared at the pathologist with the flame-red hair. Resigned, he was turning to go when he heard her say, “But I can use the other computer.”

Without waiting for a reply, she clattered past him on her stiletto heels and disappeared down the corridor.

Andersson sank onto the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. It was both lumpy and covered in vinyl. Andersson suspected that most people who sat in this chair soon found themselves in varying states of nervousness and general dissolution. From his own experience, he knew how quickly one began to perspire on a vinyl chair. Medical students or police officers, it didn’t matter: Everyone broke into a sweat during a meeting with Professor Stridner, the superintendent continued his gloomy train of thought.

He was interrupted when the clattering of the professor’s heels in the corridor grew closer. She rushed in and stepped up to her ergonomically designed office chair, which was covered in Bordeaux-colored soft leather. It looked more like a small comfortable recliner than a work chair, Andersson noted jealously as he squirmed in his uncomfortable chair.

Stridner straightened her glasses and looked down at the paper she held in her hand. She read directly from the page: “‘Jacob Schyttelius’s stomach contents showed the half-digested remains of a hot dog and mashed potatoes. He drank orange soda along with it. His last meal was consumed at around six o’clock.’ Does that match your information?”

Stridner peered at Andersson over the edge of her glasses.

“Yes. The assistant at the hot-dog stand on Sodra vagen got in touch with us. She remembers him. Apparently he was a regular and usually came around six o’clock, several evenings a week. She remembers that it was Monday, because the next day she had a backache and was out sick. And the owner of a men’s clothing store on Sodra vagen also phoned us. Jacob was there just before closing on Monday evening.”

The superintendent became annoyed at himself when he heard how he blurted out his information, strutting to show that, by golly, he was in the know. A simple “yes” would have been sufficient.

Stridner nodded and looked down at her paper again. “Then I would like to place the time of the murder at