The Postcard Killers

    “It isn’t the media’s job to do the work of the police like this,” she said.

    “We’re supposed to report murders, not solve them.”

    “We see this as a chance to do both at the same time,” the editor in chief said in a rather strained voice. “People are dying, Dessie.”

    She crossed her arms over her chest.

    “Then I think you should sign the letter,” she said. “Why should I have to put my name to it?”

    Forsberg twisted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn’t like disagreements.

    “They chose you,” Mats Duvall said. “It won’t have anything like the same impact if someone else does it.”

    She stared at the floor.

    “This is wrong,” she said. “It’s wrong to pay them for their crimes.”

    “Dessie,” Gabriella said, “come on. They won’t get any money. It’s just to lure them in.”

    “And if I refuse?”

    Suddenly Jacob stood up, took her arm, opened the door, and pulled her into a corner of the sports section.

    Dessie looked back over her shoulder and had time to register the editor in chief’s surprised expression and Gabriella’s pursed lips.

    “For god’s sake,” Jacob said. “You’ve got to go along with this. We’ve never been so close to the killers. Your editors are doing exactly the right thing by publishing this. They’re doing what they’ve got to do.”

    Dessie shrugged free of his grip.

    “Like crap, they are!” she said. “Stenwall’s just thinking of the extra sales. He wants to be quoted in the Washington Post. It goes against every moral principle!”

    The American’s eyes darkened. He took a step toward her, his breath hot.

    “You’re talking about principles. I’m talking about saving lives. If you do this in the right way, you can get them to break their pattern, and that’s exactly what we need. This’ll be where they make their mistake.”

    She looked into his eyes, which were glittering like wild stars.

    “Do you realize how much shit I’ll get from my colleagues for this?” she said.

    He stared at her, speechless for a few moments.

    “So your career, your comfort, is more important than young people’s lives?” he said.

    Dessie blinked.

    “No,” she said, “that’s not what I’m say-”

    “Yes it is,” Jacob interrupted. “That’s exactly what you’re saying. You just said your reputation is more important than catching Kimmy’s killer and stopping the murder of others.”

    He ran both hands angrily through his hair and turned away from her. He looked like he was about to kick something.

     She suddenly became unsure. What if he was right? Maybe her responsibility as a human being was more important than her responsibility as a reporter. Or her reputation, which wasn’t worth that much, anyway.

    “What’s the letter going to say?” she asked. “Apart from the offer of money?”

    He closed his eyes for a few moments.

    “You’ve got to challenge them,” he said. “Shake them up, provoke them into doing something irrational. I’ll help you, of course. If you want my help.”

    “What language? English or Swedish?”

    “Can you do both?”

    “I’m writing my doctoral thesis in English.”

    They looked at each other in silence.

    “I’m going to regret this,” Dessie said.

    “No,” Jacob said, “not if we catch them, you won’t.”

Chapter 44

Tuesday, June 15

    SYLVIA FLUFFED AND ADJUSTED THE pillows on the queen-size bed, then opened the copy of Aftonposten. She let out a little groan of disappointment.

    “That’s not very flattering at all,” she said, looking at the composite picture of Mac that dominated page 6. “You’re much more handsome in real life.”

    “Let me see what I look like,” Mac said, trying to take the paper from her.

    “Hang on a moment,” Sylvia said, pulling the paper back. “I want to read what it says.”

    Mac was put out and went into the bathroom. Sylvia looked admiringly at his buttocks as he disappeared into the shower. She pushed aside the breakfast tray on her lap to read the story better.

    The letter was written in both English and Swedish, and addressed to the

    “Postcard Killers.” The headline ran: “Accept My Challenge - If You Dare.”

    Sylvia ran her eyes across the page to see who had signed the letter.

    “Hey,” she called toward the bathroom. “Our new friend Dessie Larsson’s written us a letter. How sweet of Dessie. How thoughtful she is.”

    The shower started up. Mac didn’t answer.

    Be like that, then, she thought, and started reading out loud.

    “You wrote to me, and now I’m writing to you. Unlike you, I’m prepared to put my name on my correspondence. I’m not hiding, I take full responsibility for my actions. And I shall carry on doing that. So I and Aftonposten have chosen to reply to you with this letter…”

    She skimmed through the text.

    It said that the police were hot on their heels, that it was only a matter of time before they were arrested. That they had gotten too cocky, that they had started to make mistakes. That they were close to giving themselves away. That the Germans on Dalarц would be their last victims.

    She looked up to see Mac standing in the doorway with the bath towel around his neck, watching her read.

    “What does it say? Don’t be such a controlling bitch. You know I don’t like that.”

    “Oh, sorry, baby. Most of it’s bullshit,” Sylvia said, “but the end is interesting. She wants to interview us.”

    Mac snorted out a laugh.

    “What a moron. Why would we let her interview us?”

    Sylvia passed him the paper.

    “They’re offering us a hundred thousand dollars.”

    Mac’s eyes opened wide.

    “No way,” he said, taking the paper with both hands and sinking onto the unmade bed. “Fuck. A hundred thousand dollars. That’s pretty good!”

    Sylvia stood up and went over to the window of the hotel room. She stretched her slender arms above her head and yawned loudly, well aware that she was fully visible in all her nakedness. “Look at me,” she whispered. “Here I am. Catch me!”

    On the other side of the street was a building constructed in the Swedish National Romantic style, with towers and a copper roof, its grille-covered windows glittering in the morning sun. It was Stockholm’s municipal courthouse, the place where clumsy criminals were taken to atone for their pathetic misdemeanors. She stood on tiptoe. Behind the courthouse was a creamy yellow palatial building with pinnacles and a bell tower and decorative balustrades: Stockholm’s police headquarters, where funny little officers were tearing their hair out in despair and thinking up lies to get them to give themselves away.

    “Sylvia,” Mac said, “this is actually worth considering. She’s promising complete anonymity, that she will never reveal her sources. And we could really use the money. Look, there’s a phone number for us to call.”

    She let her eyes roam across the gray-brown facade of the courthouse.

    “That’s not a bad idea,” she said, turning to Mac. “But why stop at a hundred thousand dollars?”