“It’s hard to decide. On the one hand we want to identify him as quickly as possible. And on the other hand we don’t want him to know how close we are to him. We hope he thinks he’s smarter than we are and that his overconfidence will be his downfall. But I don’t know. . maybe we need to put out an APB on him in both Denmark and Sweden at the same time and very soon. The difficulty is knowing when the right time is. If we do it too soon, he may go into hiding and if we do it too late, he may have time to commit a new murder,” said Irene.
Svante nodded to show that he understood the dilemma. He looked down at his papers and continued, “We’ve enlarged the index fingertip that can be seen in the video of the dismemberment of Marcus Tosscander. It’s the index finger of a left hand and the nail is severely deformed. Here you go. There are five enlargements.”
He pulled out the photographs from a brown envelope and passed them around the table. The superintendent, Irene, Hannu, and Jonny each took one. The tip of the finger wasn’t round; it was flat and looked as if it had been chopped off. The nail covered just the nail bed, and its surface seemed to be dented. While the officers were examining the enlargements, Svante continued, “On the floor of the burial crypt we’ve found some stains that could very well be seminal fluid. But unfortunately they’ve started decaying and are too dried out to be useful. But we found more stains on the shroud inside the coffin where Tosscander’s head was lying, which are in better condition. We’re working on them right now.”
What if the semen turned out to have come from the same man who had left semen behind on the floor at Emil’s and in Bolin’s hair?
“What the hell is the sick bastard actually up to?” Superintendent Andersson exclaimed.
You don’t want to know, Irene nearly said, but she managed to stop herself in time.
IRENE SAT staring listlessly at
With a bang, the door hit the wall. Professor Stridner rushed in on clicking heels, dressed in a thin, light green dress of some shiny material, enveloped in the strong scent of Joy. Despite the fact that she was neither slender nor tall, she wore the dress with a superb confidence. Irene became uncomfortably aware of her own worn jeans and short-sleeved denim shirt. At least my sandals are new, she comforted herself.
Stridner came to a dead stop in front of Irene’s desk.
“Where is everyone? Are you the only one who’s on duty?” she asked.
“The superintendent went to a meeting and the others-,” Irene began.
“I came here myself since I was in the neighborhood. I’m flying to New York but before that I want to hand over the preliminary autopsy report on Erik Bolin. The medical odontologists have also confirmed that the head in the burial chamber belonged to Marcus Tosscander.”
While she was talking, she pulled out some papers from her elegant leather briefcase.
“Erik Bolin’s,” she said curtly, and threw them on the desk in front of Irene.
Without looking at them, Irene asked, “Is the mutilation the same type as with the previous victims?”
“Yes. The chest muscles, one buttock, and the penis. None of Bolin’s internal organs were removed; however, the head was. It was cut off with an extremely sturdy, sharp knife. I would guess a knife similar to our autopsy knives.”
“Why do necrophiles do this sort of thing?” Irene asked.
Stridner’s forehead wrinkled. “The question is not phrased correctly. Necrophiles don’t do this sort of thing. Necrophiles literally love dead people, but they don’t kill them. Necrophiles who devote themselves to necrosadism are, thankfully, an exceedingly small fraction. As I’ve already told you, the type of murderer we’re chasing right now is very rare. But sometimes they pop up and we become overwhelmed in the presence of what we regard as an inhumane atrocity. But actually a necrosadist isn’t any more gruesome than any other kind of murderer. The result is the same: a murdered person, a life that has been snuffed out forever. What terrifies us is the abuse of the dead body after the murder. We see it as something sick.”
While she was delivering her little lecture, Stridner clip-clopped around the room on her high-heeled pumps. She stopped in front of
“For a split second I had the feeling that I recognized this man. But I don’t know. No one I know poses for porn pictures,” she said finally.
Irene walked over to Stridner. “Interesting. Both Hannu Rauhala and I also think we recognize the man. None of the others are sure.”
The professor leaned forward so that she could study the photo more closely. Suddenly, she straightened up and exclaimed, “Now I know! He works with us.”
Irene realized that she had been holding her breath. She exhaled and asked, “Does he work in Pathology?”
“Yes. But he doesn’t have a permanent position because he’s a student.”
A medical student? It was quite common for medical students to find extra work as autopsy technicians.
Her voice shook when Irene asked, “What’s his name and what does he study?”
Stridner continued her examination of
“I don’t remember his name. But he’s an art student. He was the one who made the copy of Marcus Tosscander’s tattoo.”
Basta had spent several hours sitting next to the mutilated upper body of his victim, making an exact copy of the dragon tattoo. The thought was nauseating.
“Erik Bolin took the picture. The man in the picture is called Basta, and he’s probably Bolin and Marcus Tosscander’s murderer. In addition, he’s been linked to three murders in Copenhagen,” said Irene.
Stridner did not move. “I have a hard time believing that anyone at Pathology would be capable of this. But we’ll go up right away and try and find out his name. If for no other reason than so he can be exonerated and dismissed from the investigation,” she said finally.
YVONNESTRIDNER rushed into the employee lounge with Irene in tow, like a skiff in her wake. There were only two people sitting there. The man had very dark skin and hair. Irene guessed that he was Indian. She recognized the woman as Britt Nilsson, a young, newly hired pathologist. It wasn’t her name that had struck a cord when Svante Malm spoke about her, but the fact that he had referred to her as
Another person worked with Stridner, but not as her assistant; rather, just as an attendant. He was called Basta, and Irene had seen him in Pathology. Now she remembered the last time she had seen Basta. It was when she had asked for Stridner and he had pointed at the autopsy room, where the professor was in the process of performing a postmortem examination on pieces of Marcus. When he stretched out his arm and pointed at the autopsy room she recalled his well-trained arm muscles playing under his gleaming brown skin.
Basta had been helpful. He’d made a very skillful copy of Marcus’s tattoo. Had he thought they would never be able to trace the origin of the tattoo? Or had he seen no way to say no when Stridner gave him the assignment? These were just some of the questions Irene wanted to ask when they caught him.
Stridner described Basta to the two employees in the lounge. Before she was finished, the dark man nodded. “I know his name. .
He threw up his light-colored palms with an apologetic smile.
Britt Nilsson looked uncertain. “An attendant works here sometimes who matches the description. But I don’t know his name,” she said.
Stridner turned on her heel and said, “I have the employee records in my office. We have his first name to work with.”
Irene could feel a draft when the professor swished past.
YVONNE STRIDNER pounced on her yellow-spined cloth binders. She studied “Employees 1998–1999.” Her index finger wandered down the list. She stopped at a name and cried out, “Here! Sebastian Martinsson. Born March 7, 1970. Lives on Gamla Bjorlandavagen. His telephone number is also here.”
Yvonne Stridner handed the binder to Irene so that she would also be able to read the entry. Irene wrote
