Misterioso

interrogation.”

Bruun shrugged and started the tape again. First a brief pause, then Hjelm’s voice resumed:

“That unit specializes in one thing, and you know that as well as I do: their directive is to render the perpetrator harmless without injuring the hostages. Render harmless, meaning eliminate, meaning kill.”

“Do you really want us to believe that you shot him in order to save his life?”

“Believe whatever the hell you like.”

Bruun glanced at Hjelm, shaking his head sternly; now it was Hjelm’s turn to shrug.

“That’s precisely what we’re not allowed to do.” Grundstrom had spoken in his normal voice; the last couple of things he said had sounded different. “We’re here to determine right from wrong, to ensure that you haven’t committed any dereliction of duty, and then clear your name without issuing any reprimands. That’s how the justice system becomes undermined. If necessary, we may have to censure you. This has nothing to do with our personal beliefs.”

“For the record”-Hjelm-“the shooting took place at eight forty-seven A.M., the special unit arrived at nine thirty-eight. Were we supposed to just sit there taking cover outside, and wait for almost an hour, with a desperate gunman, terrified hostages, and a paralyzed Hallunda shopping center on our hands?”

“Okay, for the moment let’s drop the question of why and take a look at what you de facto did.”

Pause. Grundstrom and Martensson had switched places then, while Hjelm pondered what sort of person says de facto.

The sharp voice was replaced by one that was significantly coarser. “All right then. So far we’ve just skimmed the surface. Now let’s get down to brass tacks.”

With a frown, Bruun switched off the tape recorder and turned to Hjelm with genuine surprise.

“Do you mean to tell me that they in all seriousness tried to pull that good-cop-bad-cop routine on you? When you’re an experienced interrogator?”

Hjelm shrugged as fatigue overtook him. An already long day wasn’t going to get any shorter. When Martensson spoke again, his voice merged with words and images from all the other layers of Hjelm’s mind. For a brief moment as he hovered between wakefulness and sleep, these layers fought for dominance. Then he fell asleep.

“Okay, one step at a time. First, you shouted through the door without any warning; that alone could have caused a disaster. Second, you claimed to be unarmed even though your gun was sticking out of your waistband. All he had to do was ask you to turn around, which would also have been a disaster. Third, you lied to the perpetrator. If he’d been aware of certain facts, again, disaster would have ensued. Fourth, when you fired, you aimed at a spot that was not according to regulations; that also could have led to disaster.”

“How is he?” Hjelm’s voice.

“What?” Martensson’s.

“How is he?”

“Who the hell do you mean?”

“Dritero Frakulla.”

“What the fuck is that? The name of some kind of orange? A Transylvanian count? Just focus on the facts, for fuck’s sake!”

“It is a fact. That is a fact.”

The pause went on so long that Bruun fidgeted, wondering if it was over. Hjelm was sound asleep. Then Grundstrom’s voice piped up from the background.

“He’s in the Huddinge clinic, under around-the-clock guard. His condition is stable. I can’t say the same about your situation. We’ll continue tomorrow morning at ten-thirty. Thanks for your time today, Hjelm.”

Sounds of chairs scraping, a tape recorder being switched off, papers shuffled, a briefcase snapped closed, a door shutting.

Superintendent Erik Bruun lit another pitch-black cigar that had been unevenly rolled and listened. Then came what he’d been waiting for. It was Grundstrom.

“He’s incredibly cunning. Why the hell did you let him off so easy? ‘A Transylvanian count’? Damn it, Uffe! We can’t let this guy slip through our fingers. A Dirty Harry who knows how to use the system and come out unscathed opens the door to hundreds of others all over Sweden, all of them more or less racist.”

Martensson mumbled something, Grundstrom sighed, chairs clattered, a door opened and closed.

Bruun stopped the tape and for a moment didn’t move.

Outside the police station the bright spring day had dissolved into pitch darkness. Slowly and laboriously he got up from his chair and went over to Hjelm, still in a deep sleep. Before taking in a big breath and blowing smoke right in his face, Bruun studied his subordinate and gently shook his head.

I won’t be able to keep him here much longer, he thought. One way or another, he’s going to disappear.

Hjelm coughed himself awake. His eyes were running, and the first thing he saw through the cloud of smoke was the combination of a reddish-gray beard and a double chin.

“Ten-thirty,” said Bruun, packing up his ratty old briefcase. “You can sleep in. Try to be clear and concise tomorrow. Maybe a little better than today.”

Hjelm stumbled toward the door. He turned around. Bruun gave him a good-natured nod. It was his way of offering a hug.

What is it they usually say? Hjelm wondered as he opened the fridge and took out a beer. Middle-aged heterosexual men with full-time jobs and white complexions are the societal norm. It’s on that set of features that all assessments of what is normal are based. And health standards. Another phrase appeared in his mind: Being a woman is not a disease. But it is a deviation. Not to mention homosexuality and youth and old age and dark skin and speaking with an accent.

That was how his world looked: inside the boundaries were all those heterosexual, middle-aged white policemen; outside was everybody else. He looked at the deviants sitting on the sofa: his-how old was she now?- thirty-six-year-old wife, Cecilia, and his twelve-year-old daughter, Tova. Public Enemy was playing from the opposite direction, clearly audible.

“It’s on, Papa!” cried Tova. “It’s on now!”

He went into the living room, slurping the beer between his teeth. Cilla regarded this decades-old habit of his with a certain distaste but turned her attention back to the TV. The theme music of the evening news program was playing. The story was part of the headlines. Way out of proportion, he thought.

“A hostage drama was played out this morning at the Hallunda Immigration Office south of Stockholm. An armed man forced his way into the office just after it opened and threatened three staff members with a sawed-off shotgun. Fortunately, the drama had a happy ending.”

Happy, he thought. He said, “The Botkyrka Immigration Office. Located in Hallunda.”

The women in his family looked at him, trying to evaluate his statement, each in her own way. Tova thought, But that’s not the point. Cilla thought, You always have to make a point of your own dissatisfaction by finding little factual errors; emotions become thoughts; perceptions become facts.

The phone rang. Hjelm belched, then answered it.

“The Hallunda Immigration Office?” said Svante Ernstsson.

“Sawed-off shotgun?” said Paul Hjelm.

Laughter on both ends of the line, laughter only they shared. The Noble Art of Talking Shop Without Getting Noticed.

The requisite childishness.

The different types of laughter.

It’s possible to hear from the sound that it’s aimed only at somebody else.

It deepens if it’s aimed inward at the same time.

“How are things?” Ernstsson finally asked.

“So-so.”

“It’s on now,” said Cilla, Tova, and Svante in unison.

The weatherbeaten reporter was standing on Tomtbergavagen with Hallunda Square behind him. It was