The Fire Witness (12 page)

“I’ve lost all trust in you,” Susanne says, and turns on her heels and heads for the exit.

Gunnarsson takes off after her.

“If you talk to Daniel, you have to ask him about Dennis!” Joona calls after them. “Ask Daniel if he knows who Dennis is, and ask if he knows where Vicky would go. We need a name or a place. Daniel is the only person Vicky talked to and he—”

“Go home!” Gunnarsson waves without turning back.

41

Commissioner Gunnarsson has a fresh cigarette in his mouth as he leaves the elevator. He’s headed for Ward 52A in the psychiatric unit at Västernorrland provincial hospital.

A young man in a buttoned-up lab coat walks over to greet him. They shake hands and Gunnarsson follows him down a hall painted light gray.

“As I said on the phone, I don’t believe that questioning him will be useful at this time, so soon after—”

“You’re right, but I want to have a little chat with him anyway.”

The doctor stops and turns to look at Gunnarsson. “Daniel Grim is in a traumatic state of stress that we call arousal. It is activated by the hypothalamus and the limbic system—”

“I don’t give a shit,” said Gunnarsson. “Just tell me if he’s been stuffed with so many drugs he’s on Mars.”

“He’s able to talk, but I won’t let you near him if you—”

“We’re dealing with a double murder—”

“You know very well who has the last word in this building,” the doctor says calmly. “If I believe that the patient’s recovery will be hindered by a talk with the police, I will forbid it.”

“I understand.” Gunnarsson sighs.

“However, the patient himself has said that he would like to help the police, so I will allow you to ask a few questions in my presence.”

“Thank you.” They start along the hall again, turn a corner, and pass a row of dormer windows that overlook a courtyard. A few moments later, the doctor opens a door to a single-patient room. There’s a sheet and a blanket on the small sofa, but Daniel Grim is sitting on the floor with his back to the radiator. He looks serene and he doesn’t even glance at them when they come in.

Gunnarsson moves a chair near Daniel and sits down. Then he swears, gets off the chair, and squats in front of him.

“I have to talk to you,” Gunnarsson starts. “We are searching for Vicky Bennet. She’s a suspect in the murders at Birgittagården, and I—”

“But I…” Daniel murmurs.

Gunnarsson stops talking as Daniel keeps whispering. Finally he says, “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

The doctor stands by the door listening to them.

“I don’t believe she did it,” says Daniel. “She’s much too nice.”

He wipes the tears from his cheeks and from beneath his eyeglasses.

“I know that you are bound by patient confidentiality,” Gunnarsson says. “But is there any way you can help us find Vicky Bennet?”

“I’ll try,” Daniel says, but then presses his lips firmly together.

“Does she know anyone who lives near Birgittagården?”

“Maybe. I’m having trouble collecting my thoughts right now.”

Gunnarsson groans and decides to change tactics. “You were Vicky’s counselor,” he says. “Where do you think she went? We don’t give a shit whether she’s guilty. We don’t know anything yet. But there’s one thing we do know—she’s kidnapped a child.”

“No,” Daniel whispers.

“Who is she trying to find? Where is she going?”

“She’s afraid,” Daniel says. His voice is shaking. “She crawls beneath a bush and tries to hide … it … it … What did you ask, again?”

“Is there a hiding place you know about?”

Daniel starts mumbling about Elisabet’s heart and how he thought she’d died from her heart problems.

“Daniel,” the doctor says, “you don’t have to do this unless you want to. I can ask the police to come back later after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

Daniel shakes his head and tries to breathe calmly.

“Just give me a place,” Gunnarsson says.

“Stockholm.”

“Where in Stockholm?”

“I … I don’t know anything.”

“What the hell!” barks Gunnarsson.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Daniel’s chin is quivering. He turns his face away and starts sobbing.

“She killed your wife with a hammer and—”

Daniel throws his head back against the radiator so hard his glasses fall off into his lap.

“It’s time for you to go,” says the doctor. “Not another word. Bringing you here was a mistake, and I will not allow any further questioning.”

42

The parking lot outside the provincial hospital in Sundsvall is almost empty. The long, low building looks depressing, especially under these gray skies. Its brown brickwork is broken by windows that seem to have closed their eyes to the world. Joona strides up a path lined by bushes and through the front door.

There’s no one at the reception desk but in a moment a janitor comes by.

“Where’s your forensics department?” asks Joona.

“Two hundred and forty kilometers north of here,” the janitor says with a smile. “But if you want pathology, I can show you the way.”

He takes Joona down to the basement and through a pair of heavy metal doors. Down the hall Joona sees a sign over another door:
DEPARTMENT OF CLINICAL PATHOLOGY AND CYTOLOGY
.

“Good luck,” the janitor says as he points to the door.

Joona thanks him and walks down the empty hall. It’s cold and the tiled floor is cracked in places and scuffed with wheel marks from gurneys and carts. He passes a laboratory and opens the door to the autopsy room. No one is there and the stainless-steel autopsy table is empty. The overhead fluorescent fixtures bounce a cold, hard light off the white tiled walls. Joona waits and after a few minutes the door squeaks open, and two people wheel in a gurney from the morgue.

“Excuse me,” says Joona.

A thin man in a lab coat turns around and his aviator glasses glare in the light. He’s one of Joona’s old friends, Dr. Nils Åhlén, the head doctor at the National Forensic Laboratory, in Stockholm. His colleagues and friends call him “The Needle.” With him is his assistant, a young doctor Joona knows only as Frippe. Frippe’s dyed black hair hangs in wisps down to his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” Joona asks.

“A woman from the National Police threatened me,” The Needle says.

“Anja.”

“She terrified me. She was yelling that you’re not allowed to go all the way up to Umeå to talk to anyone in forensics.”

“But we’re going to Nordfest as long as we’re here,” Frippe says. Joona notices black leather pants under his lab coat and cowboy boots swathed in blue protectors.

“The Haunted are playing at Club Deströyer.” The Needle smiles.

“That explains it,” says Joona.

Frippe laughs.

“We’ve just finished the woman, Elisabet Grim,” The Needle says. “The only unusual thing about her were the injuries on her hands.”

“Defensive wounds?” asks Joona.

“Except they’re on the wrong side,” says Frippe.

“Perhaps she held her hands in front of her face,” Joona says quietly.

“We’ll get back to her in a moment,” says The Needle. “First, let’s take a look at Miranda Eriksdotter.”

“When did they die? Can you determine that?” asks Joona.

“As you know, body temperature sinks.”

“Algor mortis,” Joona says.

“Right, and this cooling follows a billowing graph, which evens out to room temperature.”

“He knows all that,” Frippe says.

“So, with that and the rigor mortis as well as the lividity, we’ve determined that the girl and the woman died at approximately the same time late Friday night.”

Joona watches them roll the gurney over, count to three, then effortlessly lift the body bag onto the autopsy table. Frippe opens the bag and the smell of moldy bread and dried blood escapes. Miranda is in the same position in which she was found: her hands over her face and her ankles crossed.

Joona knows that the rigor mortis won’t have passed yet and that it is going to take some effort to move her hands away from her face. For a moment he wonders if perhaps it isn’t Miranda behind those hands. Perhaps her face is gone or her eyes were poked out. Perhaps she didn’t want her face to be seen.

“We didn’t receive an examination request,” The Needle says. “Why is she covering her face like that?”

“I don’t know,” Joona says.

Frippe is photographing the body carefully.

“I take it this is a forensic autopsy and that you will need a certified autopsy report?” The Needle says.

Joona nods.

“I could use a secretary,” mutters The Needle as he walks around the body.

“Now you’re just complaining again,” Frippe says, and smiles.

“So I was,” The Needle says. He pauses behind Miranda’s head and then completes his circuit.

Joona is reminded of Rainer Maria Rilke’s idea that only the living insist on distinguishing between the living and the dead. Rilke thought that other beings, such as angels, didn’t notice any difference.

“The lividity indicates that the victim has not been moved,” The Needle starts.

“The way I read the blood spatter, I’m sure that she was moved immediately after she was killed,” Joona says. “Her body would still have been limp when it was placed on the bed.”

Frippe nods. “If she was moved right away, she won’t show any lividity elsewhere.”

Joona watches quietly as the doctors examine the body. He’s thinking that his own daughter is not much younger than this girl whose life has been stolen.

The yellow network of veins has started to show beneath her white skin, and her flat stomach has started to bloat and has darkened.

Joona observes everything the doctors are doing and listens as they describe what they’re seeing, but he’s thinking of what he saw at the scene of the crime.

The Needle determines that there are no defensive injuries, no soft-tissue injuries, no indications of a fight or domestic abuse. Perhaps she didn’t see the blow coming, Joona thinks. Perhaps she just sat there and waited for it.

The doctors pull some hair out by the roots for comparison tests and fill in EDTA tubes with blood, then The Needle scrapes beneath her fingernails and turns to Joona.

“No traces of skin. She did not defend herself.”

“I know,” Joona says.

They start examining the skull injuries, and Joona comes closer to watch.

“Strong, blunt trauma to the head. Most likely cause of death,” The Needle says, noticing Joona’s close attention.

“From the front?” Joona asks.

“From the front, though slightly to the side.” The Needle points at the bloody hair. “Depression fracture on the temporal bone. We’ll do a CT scan, but I imagine the major blood vessels behind the skull were ruptured and bone fragments impaled the brain.”

“As with Elisabet Grim, we’re going to find trauma to the frontal lobe,” Frippe says.

“Brain tissue in the hair,” The Needle says.

“There were broken blood vessels, and blood and cerebral spinal fluid had run through her nostrils,” Frippe says.

“And in your opinion, they died at about the same time,” Joona says.

Frippe nods.

“They’ve both been hit from the front. The same cause of death for both of them,” Joona says. “The same murder weapon—”

“No,” The Needle says. “The murder weapon was not the same.”

“But the hammer,” Joona murmurs.

“Elisabet’s skull was crushed by a hammer,” The Needle says. “But Miranda was killed by a rock.”

Joona stares at him. “She was killed by a rock?”

43

Joona stayed in the autopsy room until he saw Miranda’s face. He felt uneasy as the doctors forced her hands away. His earlier thought that she didn’t want her face to be seen rang in his brain.

Now he’s sitting at Gunnarsson’s desk in the Sundsvall police station. He’s reading through the early technical reports. A woman is sitting a few feet away in front of a computer. Her telephone rings and she mumbles something as she checks the number display.

One wall is covered with maps and pictures of the little boy, Dante Abrahamsson. There are binders and heaps of paper in the bookshelves lining the other walls. A copier rumbles ceaselessly. A radio is playing in the lunch room and when the pop music stops, Joona is able to hear the police alert for the third time.

“We have a missing person alert,” the radio host says. “The police are searching for a fifteen-year-old girl and a four-year-old boy, probably together. The girl has long blond hair and the boy is wearing a dark blue sweater and corduroy pants. They were last seen in a red Toyota Auris on Highway 86 heading toward Sundsvall. Please contact the police at 114 14 if you have any information regarding these missing children.”

Joona gets up, goes to the empty lunch room, and changes the channel to P2. He pours himself a cup of coffee. The radio plays a scratched recording of an unusually clear soprano voice. It is Birgit Nilsson singing the role of Brünnhilde in Wagner’s
Ring of the Nibelung
.

Joona sits back down at the desk and it occurs to him that the girl who took the little boy is probably psychotic. He pictures them hiding in a garage. Perhaps the boy has been forced to lie beneath a blanket with tape over his mouth. Perhaps he’s tied up.

If he is still alive, he must be terribly frightened.

Joona continues to read the technical report. It confirms that it was Elisabet’s key in the lock to the isolation room at Birgittagården and that the boots that had left bloody footprints in the main house were the same ones found in Vicky Bennet’s closet.

We have two murders
, Joona thinks.
One is primary and the other is secondary. Miranda is the primary victim, but to get to her, the suspect had to take Elisabet’s key.

The technicians’ reconstructed chain of events suggest that an argument could have been the triggering factor, even if there had been rivalry for some time. According to the report Vicky Bennet had gotten the hammer and the boots before lights-out and waited in her room. Once the other girls had gone to sleep, she’d approached Elisabet and demanded the key. Elisabet refused and fled through the hallway, out the door, and into the brewery. Vicky had followed her, killed her with the hammer, and taken the key. She’d returned to the main building, unlocked the isolation room, and killed Miranda. For some reason, she’d lifted Miranda onto the bed and placed Miranda’s hands over her face and crossed her legs at the ankles. She then returned to her room, hid the hammer, the blanket, and the boots, climbed out the window, and fled into the forest.