Melander turned the pages to a certain passage and read out:
'”He is probably under thirty, often shy and reserved but regarded by those around him as well-behaved and diligent It is possible that he drinks alcohol, but it is more usual for him to be a teetotaller. He is likely to be small of stature or afflicted with disfigurement or some other physical deformity which sets him apart from ordinary people. He plays an insignificant part in the community and has grown up in straitened circumstances. In many cases his parents have been divorced or he is an orphan and has had an emotionally starved childhood. Often he has not previously committed any serious crime.''
Raising his eyes, he said, 'This is based on a compilation of facts that have emerged from interrogation and mental examinations of American mass murderers.'
'A mass murderer like this must be stark, raving mad, Gunvald Larsson said. 'Can't people
'‘A person who is a psychopath can appear quite normal until the moment when something happens to trigger his abnormality. Psychopathy implies that one or more of this person's traits are abnormally developed, while in other respects he is quite normal - for instance as regards aptitude, working capacity, etc. And in fact, most of these people who have suddenly committed a mass murder, recklessly and apparently without any motive, are described by neighbours and friends as considerate, kind and polite, and the last people on earth one would expect to act in this manner. Several of these American cases have told that they have been aware of their disease for some time and have tried to suppress their destructive tendencies, until at last they gave way to them. A mass murderer can suffer from persecution mania or megalomania or have a morbid guilt complex. It is not unusual for him to explain his actions by saying simply that he wanted to become famous and see his name in big headlines. Almost always, a desire for revenge or self-assertion lies behind the crime. He feels belittled, misunderstood and badly treated. In almost every case he has great sexual problems.''
When Melander finished reading there was silence in the room. Martin Beck stared out of the window. He was pale and hollow-eyed and stooped more than usual.
Kollberg sat on Gunvald Larsson's desk, linking his paper clips together into a long chain. Irritated, Gunvald Larsson pulled the box of clips towards him. Kollberg broke the silence.
'That man Whitman, who shot a lot of people from the university tower in Austin,' he said. 'I read a book about him yesterday, in which an Austrian psychology professor stated that Whitman's sexual problem really was that he wanted to have intercourse with his mother. Instead of boring into her with his penis, he wrote, he stuck a knife into her. I haven't Fredrik's memory, but the last sentence of the book went like this: 'Then he climbed the erect tower - a distinct phallic symbol - and discharged his deathly seed like arrows of love overt Mother Earth.''
Mansson entered the room, his everlasting toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
'What the blazes are you talking about?' he asked.
'Maybe the bus is some sort of sex symbol,' Gunvald Larsson said reflectingly. 'Horizontal, though.'
Mansson goggled at him.
Martin Beck got up, went over to Melander and picked up the green booklet
'I'll borrow this and read through it in peace and quiet,' he said. 'Without any witty comments.'
He walked towards the door but was stopped by Mansson, who took his toothpick out of his mouth and said, 'What am I to do now?'
'I don't know. Ask Kollberg,' Martin Beck said curtly and left the room.
'You can go and talk to that Arab's landlady,' Kollberg said.
He wrote the name and address on a piece of paper, which he gave to Mansson.
'What's bothering Martin?' Gunvald Larsson asked. 'Why's he so moody?'
Kollberg shrugged.
'I expect he has his reasons,' he said.
It took Mansson a good half hour to make his way through the Stockholm traffic to Norra Stationsgatan. As he parked the car opposite the terminus of route 47 the time was a few minutes past four and it was already dark.
There were two tenants called Karlsson in the building, but Mansson had no difficulty working out which was the right one.
On the door were eight cards, fastened with thumb tacks. Two of them were printed, the others were written in a variety of hands and all bore foreign names. The name Mohammed Boussie was not among them.
Mansson rang the bell and the door was opened by a swarthy man in wrinkled pants and white vest.
'May I speak to Mrs Karlsson?' Mansson said.
The man showed white teeth in a broad smile and flung out his arms.
'Mrs Karlsson not home,' he said in broken Swedish. 'Back soon.'
'Then I'll wait here,' Mansson said, stepping into the hall.
Unbuttoning his coat he looked at the smiling man.
'Did you know Mohammed Boussie who lived here?' he asked.
The smile was wiped off the man's face.
'Yes,' he said. 'It goddam terrible. Awful. He be my friend, Mohammed.'
'Are you an Arab too?' Mansson asked.
'No. Turk. You foreigner too?'
'No,' Mansson replied. 'Swedish.'
'Oh, I thought you had a little accent,' the Turk said.
As Mansson did have a broad Skane accent, it was not surprising that the Turk took him for a foreigner.
'I'm a policeman,' Mansson said, looking at the man sternly. 'I'd like to look around if you don't mind. Is there anyone else at home?'
'No, only me. I sick.'
Mansson looked about him. The hall was dark and narrow; it was furnished with a kitchen chair, a small table and an umbrella stand of metal. On the table lay a couple of newspapers and some letters with foreign stamps. In addition to the front door, there were five doors in the hall; two of these, smaller than the others, probably belonged to a toilet and a coat closet One of them was a double door; Mansson went over to it and opened one half.
'Mrs Karlsson's private room,' the man in the vest cried out in alarm. 'To go in, forbidden.'
Mansson glanced into the room, which was cluttered with furniture and evidently served as both bedroom and living room.
The next door led to the kitchen, which was large and had been modernized.
'Forbidden to go in kitchen,' said the lurk behind him. 'How many rooms are there?' Mansson asked. 'Mrs Karlsson's and the kitchen and the room for us,' said the man. 'And the toilet and closet.' Mansson frowned.
'Two rooms and kitchen, that is,' he said to himself.
'You look our room,' the Turk said, holding open the door.
The room measured about 23 feet by 16. It had two windows on to the street with flimsy, faded curtains. Along the walls stood beds of various types and between the windows was a narrow couch with the head to the wall.
Mansson counted six beds. Three of them were unmade. The room was littered with shoes, clothes, books and newspapers. The centre of the floor was occupied by a round, white-lacquered table, surrounded by five odd chairs. The remaining piece of furniture was a tall, dark-stained chest of drawers, which stood against the wall by one of the windows.
The room had two more doors. A bed was placed in front of one of them, which without doubt led to Mrs Karlsson's room and was locked. Inside the other was a small built-in wardrobe, stuffed with clothes and suitcases.
'Do six of you sleep here?' Mansson asked
'No, eight,' the Turk replied
Walking over to the bed in front of the door, he half drew out a trundle bed and pointed to one of the other beds.
'Two like this,' he said 'Mohammed had that one.'
‘Who are the other seven?' Mansson asked 'Turks like you?'
