Carmen likes to sleep in bed with her, under the covers, at her waist. When Mom isn’t looking Katrin lets Carmen drink milk from her breakfast glass. She knows sit and stay and paw, and lots more, but only does it if Katrin asks her to. Carmen is her dog. Just hers.
“No?” he laughs.
“Please,” she begs again. “Please. What did you do to Carmen?”
“None of your business,” he says, smiling. He holds the dog tighter, by the neck now. He slams Carmen’s head against the foot of the bed. He’s shouting. “You do not say a word to me. Just shut up. Is that so hard? To keep your mouth shut?”
He sucks at Katrin’s nipples, drawing them out, pressing them back. He turns her over. Spreads her thighs; she squeezes her eyes closed again. It will never end. Won’t it ever end?
“I’m sorry, Carmen,” she whispers. Softly, into the pillow. “I’m sorry.”
* * *
—
It’s a neighbor who makes the emergency call. And it’s not for Katrin’s sake but because of the dog. Something must have happened to the dog. It sounds like it’s gone insane.
The call is labeled low-priority. That’s the term they use when the dispatcher has no intention of sending help; it’s all perfectly routine. They cannot send out an emergency vehicle because someone next door forgot to take the dog out. There are more important alarms.
There’s always someone dying in a big city. Those in better shape spend their time fighting. And they drink too much and swim very badly, often simultaneously. Neglected toddlers shove their sticky fists into canisters of lye and are found with burns around their mouths. Buildings are set on fire and banks are robbed of people’s poorly invested savings. Families returning from the countryside crash head-on with oncoming trucks because they desperately want to make it home in time to watch a show. Disturbed teens cut their wrists in the hopes of feeling like a rock star, or at least feeling something. Lost souls call in to report homemade explosives they intend to place under the desk of their former boss. Someone has trouble breathing. Someone else is waving a knife.
Dangerous things happen all the time; serious events that demand acute intervention. Around the clock, all year long, no time off for vacations or holidays. But if your neighbor’s dog is barking — you don’t call the emergency line, you go next door to speak to the dog’s owner.
The neighbor calls again. And again. When the fourth call comes in, there happens to be a patrol car nearby. They send it over.
By the time the two officers arrive, Carmen is hoarse. At first, they can barely hear her. As they approach the door she begins to howl. The door is closed, but not locked. As one of them opens it, the colleague puts a hand on his secured service weapon. Their bulletproof vests are back in the car. One of them has to shove the dog aside with his boot so they can enter the hall. The animal reels and her hind legs buckle but she gets up again, unsteadily, snapping at the air.
The dog’s eyes are bulging and she wobbles and staggers; her matted sides heave like the gills of a freshly caught fish. The air is stifling with the smell from the excrement that has run from her rectum, it’s still trickling out uncontrolled under her stiff, raised tail. She cowers, whines, and runs off, slipping in circles across the parquet.
The officers stand just inside the door for a moment. The dog’s terror fills the narrow hall, creeping in under their clothes, trickling down their backs. The fear has barbs that hook into the officers’ skin. They hesitate, calling out a few times without expecting any response. Their radios crackle and click.
One of the officers heads for the kitchen. The other walks in the opposite direction. A well-worn sofa is arranged before a silent TV. The dining room table has been set for two. Upstairs, three doors are wide open. The younger of the two officers stops in front of the first. It doesn’t look like a young girl’s room. He clears his throat and calls for his colleague. But his throat closes up, burning with bile. His voice hardly carries. He has to call out again.
I don’t want to, he has time to think. He can hear the dog again, downstairs.
The white dress is laid neatly on a nearby chair, clean and whole. The quilt is on the floor and the curtains are drawn. His colleague comes up the stairs to stand beside him. He breathes heavily through his nose, his hand shakes, he has trouble unbuttoning the little case on his belt. At last it opens and he works the radio free and calls for help.
They go downstairs to wait. Soon the house will be teeming with officers, technicians, investigators. The dog has to go. They don’t want to touch her. When they aim their boots near her, she lets herself out. She sits on the steps, shaking, her nose in the air, her jaws slightly parted.
Then she barks, one last time, into the early summer night.
ONE
1
“Why?” she asked. “Give me one good reason.”
Stockholm’s Nation was poorly insulated; the wind whistled through the moldings and sills of the student union. Sophia Weber, longtime attorney, and Professor Emeritus Hans Segerstad were sitting near one of the tall windows. Sophia was freezing. The stubborn wind outside had nearly reached gale force. Despite the window recesses and the velvet curtains, leftover curls of the storm found their way inside.
Sophia pulled her cardigan tighter and rubbed the back of her neck. Just don’t let this damn draft give me a crick, she thought, and tried once more to get a reaction out of Hans Segerstad.
“Can you explain to me why you think I would want to work for Stig Ahlin?”
Because I need this case about as much as I need plantar warts and back taxes, Sophia thought, gazing around. Hans Segerstad still hadn’t responded. Either his hearing was going bad or he hadn’t bothered to listen.
The long, wide tables had been set with care and the glow of the candelabras hid the grime. The room was crowded and noisy, just the way Sophia recalled from her own student days. The sense of disorientation and arrogance, the plate full of leftovers going cold. Overcooked rice, watery chicken, and a couple of sad vegetables salted into obliteration — this was the very same food she had prepared back when she worked in the student union kitchen. It even smelled the same. The odor of unfulfilled dreams and the fear that this was all there was. Time stood still here.
A young man was sitting at the next table. Despite the dim lighting he was squinting as if the sun were shining in his eyes. Wait, he’s looking at me, Sophia thought, nodding at him and smiling in fake recognition. The man’s upper lip drew into a crooked smile and his eyes narrowed even more. Sophia’s cheeks went hot.
Aside from Hans Segerstad, Sophia didn’t know a soul in here. They only looked the same as they had when she was young, studying the same subjects and discussing the same topics. Blah, blah, blah, exams, blah, blah, blah, he never calls, he never leaves me alone, did you get your student aid grants, what did she do to her hair? Sophia didn’t know them. But she knew exactly who they were.
A long time had passed since Sophia had been a student of Hans Segerstad’s. Yet they had kept in touch. She was typically the one who called him, sometimes to ask for an expert opinion. But this time he had contacted her. She was flattered and hopped on a train up from Stockholm just a few hours later.
Segerstad rocked on his chair. The glass he was holding tipped considerably to one side. He was on his second bottle of dry wine, the most expensive on the menu. Sophia herself was sober. She usually was, even back when she was a student. While her friends drank for release, she avoided alcohol to keep from losing control. She raised her voice. It was time to speak up. She would let him finish the last of the bottle, but before he could order another she would explain that this was definitely not a case for her. That he would have to find someone else.
“Stig Ahlin has been in prison for sixteen or seventeen years and he’s already gone through four or five lawyers. Shouldn’t he put in a request to get his life sentence converted to a time-l
imited one and get out the usual way?”
At last Hans Segerstad reacted. He stopped rocking on his chair and raised his glass in triumph.
“It’s been thirteen years since he was put away. Almost to the day.” He took a long drink. “You’ll be his third lawyer and when you get him released you’ll go down in legal history. No other Swede has sat in prison so long before being granted an appeal by the Supreme Court. No one.”
Sophia shook her head.
“I started a seminar group about violence against women when I was at university. For the first few weeks we only had four members. When Stig Ahlin was indicted it became the most popular group that semester. Everyone wanted to show they were distancing themselves from…that they hated Stig Ahlin and everything he stands for.”
Hans waved his hand in the air in annoyance.
“Stands for? Everything he stands for? Jeez. What kind of idealistic nonsense is that?”
At the time he was taken into custody, Stig Ahlin was a researcher in endocrinology and metabolism. He was employed by the Karolinska Institute. The newspapers referred to him as Professor Death. But he wasn’t a professor, only a lecturer. He was also a thirty-five-year-old, recently divorced father with dark blue eyes and ash-blond hair. Sophia recalled the pictures of him in his white doctor’s coat, standing before full lecture halls in front of screens that depicted internal organs. And in the company of a small child with curly hair and a blurred-out face. His daughter. The media loved those blond curls.
The photographs and horrifying stories about Stig Ahlin were not the sort of thing you were likely to forget. He had murdered a young girl, and it was so easy to write headlines about him that he should have been a professor.
“I’m only trying to explain,” Sophia said, “why I don’t feel like working for free.”
Hans Segerstad leaned toward her.
“Do you plan to become minister of justice or a Supreme Court justice? Because in that case I understand why you’re talking rubbish. In that case, you must not challenge the establishment. Anything but criticism. Anything but questions. In that case you have to emphasize that our country is unique. Why, here in Sweden, no innocent person could ever be falsely convicted.”
“I have a hard time believing—” Hans cut her off.
“No, of course not! How could Stig Ahlin be innocent? Our police officers always tell the truth, our prosecutors are never careless, and the opinions of our judges never fail. Everything is perfect in our country. Anyone who claims otherwise only wants to harm our trust in the justice system. Right?” He stared at Sophia. “Right?”
Sophia wasn’t about to tolerate insults.
“No,” she said. As firmly as she could. “Not at all. What I’m trying to say is that I have a hard time believing there would be any point. This is a special situation. If Stig Ahlin had come to me thirteen years ago, I would have defended him. Sure, I was still a student at the time, but I defend alleged rapists and pedophiles and murderers, you know that. I always have.”
And I’m good at it, she thought. Even if I almost always lose.
“But this man has gotten the counsel he wanted. More than once, evidently. Now he’s a convicted criminal who can’t pay. And that’s the difference. If I’m going to work pro bono, which I do far too often, shouldn’t I have the right to choose clients and causes I believe in? This Ahlin…I don’t have time to defend every hopeless querulant who believes that…For all I care, he can stay where he is.”
She stopped talking. Hans Segerstad was right. This was nothing but emotional babbling.
“And we’re talking about an appeal to the Supreme Court for a retrial. My God, Hans. Those are hopeless. You know it as well as I do. We might as well launch a campaign to get Stig Ahlin the Nobel Peace Prize. Our chance of success would be about the same.”
Hans Segerstad was no longer looking at her. He was digging through his bag. Music floated over from the bar. The dinner guests had begun to leave. Segerstad started by handing her a plastic folder of photographs.
“I didn’t have the energy to scan these.”
Sophia accepted the folder. Then Hans fished out two thumb drives. She took those too.
“Take this home, read it, and call me when you’re done. You have to take this case. He needs help. Once you look at the material, you’ll agree. The preliminary investigation was substandard, the indictment was ill-founded, and with a single exception the chain of evidence was horribly weak. He never should have been convicted. But it’s going to take time and money to do anything about it. Naturally I have no problem finding a different attorney for Stig Ahlin. Most of your colleagues would piss themselves with excitement if they got the chance to be seen in this context. But I’m asking you.”
Then he sat up straight and looked Sophia in the eye. She felt all her follow-up questions evaporate.
“Really, the problem isn’t you. It’s Ahlin,” said Hans. “He hasn’t had a lawyer in eight years — he hates them. To some extent, I sympathize. The vulture he started out with managed to get a man with no previous record thrown in prison for life in a case based on precarious circumstantial evidence. I have promised there will be no more mistakes of that nature. Which, between us, was an easy promise to make, because it can hardly get any worse than it already is. Not even with a self-righteous idealist like you.”
Hans paused, sipping his wine and staring at Sophia over the rim of his glass. It was clear he thought it was her turn to speak.
“If you’re trying to butter me up,” Sophia said, “I’d like to point out that you’re terrible at giving compliments.”
“Eh. You don’t need flattery. I just think Stig Ahlin needs a lawyer who doesn’t scare easy. Who won’t be frightened by him, or by what it might mean to represent him. That’s why I’m giving you the chance. You see, I believe him. I believe he’s innocent.”
Wow, Sophia thought, reaching for her briefcase. Who’s the idealistic one now?
“I’m way too nice,” she said, putting the materials away.
Her attention was drawn once more to the man at the next table. Why was he scrunching up his face like that? Did he think it made him more attractive? But he was looking at her — he really was.
“I’ll take a glance at it, Hans. That’s all I’ll commit to.”
Innocent. Hans Segerstad was claiming that Stig Ahlin was innocent. She would need the peace and quiet of her office to decide how to formulate her refusal. Because she was not going to get involved with this, not on her life. Not Stig Ahlin — she would never sink so low. She glanced back at the dazzled man and closed her briefcase.
“But,” she inquired again, “aside from all the idealistic and emotional and completely uninteresting reasons you’ve just presented…” The young man at the next table refused to take his narrowed eyes from her. Sophia straightened her back and shoulders. “Why should I do it?”
“Because you’ll get him exonerated.”
“Do I really want to do that?”
“It’s worse than that. You will do anything to make it happen.”
Katrin
1998
It was just past six in the morning. The crime-scene investigation would go on for another couple of hours, but Chief Inspector Bertil Lundberg had seen enough. It was time to start working on other matters. He had arranged to meet with his colleagues in the third-floor conference room.
The prosecutor wouldn’t arrive until nine. She had children to drop off at day care, or it might have been school. Or else they were sick. It was always something with district prosecutor Petra Gren’s children. What does that husband of hers do? Bertil often wondered. But maybe she didn’t have one, what did he know?
He would have to arrange for a special briefing with Gren when she showed up. That might be just as well. That would allow him to postpone “becoming familiar with the case,” “dealing wit
h the media,” and “getting a handle on the situation.” Instead, he could concentrate on assigning tasks. His headache would ease up if they could just get started. If, in fact, that was why the inside of his skull was droning so badly.
His palm against his chest, Bertil tried to force down his reflux. He hadn’t been able to eat before leaving home. Typically, Sara would make oatmeal for him, with butter and whole milk. But when he left, she was still deep asleep. Snoring faintly, her upper lip sharp and her hand cupped over her round belly. Bertil had kissed the back of her neck, lingered a moment in her warm scent, before taking off. He had locked the deadlock with two turns of the key.
He’d thought it was too late, that he and Sara were both too old. But now they were going to be parents. Incredibly enough, he was going to be a dad. And he was almost happy; he’d stopped thinking about how old he’d be when his child finished school.
Bertil walked straight from the elevator to the conference room without a word; he took his place at the front of the room and leaned against the wall. He counted those in attendance. Everyone was on time — that was always something.
To start, the team consisted of fifteen or sixteen people. Not bad at all. But Bertil knew that high level of resources wouldn’t last forever. He guessed he had three weeks to a month to wind this up before he had to say goodbye to half the force at Midsummer and admit failure.
Bertil rubbed his temples. He couldn’t think that way. There was no reason to be so cynical. A fifteen-year-old, killed in her own home. It shouldn’t be all that complicated.
If Bertil were to guess, and he was happy to, they would just need to track down Katrin’s boyfriend. It was always the same sad song. The girl had met the wrong guy. She got it into her head that some real pig was sexier than James Dean. She fell in love with an idiot, a fool who had to hurt her to feel like a real man. And then it all went to shit.
Beyond All Reasonable Doubt Page 2
