This Land is no Stranger

by Sarah Hollister

  Hammar finally broke the silence. “I’m sitting in a room without windows, alone.”

  “Me, too. Talk to me if anything happens.” They hung up.

  Eleven minutes later by the clock on her cellphone, a Ljusdal Detective Inspector named Sven Bok entered. He took his place across the table from Brand. The man struck her as impossibly green. His spiky haircut and boyish features made him appear too young to be a cop.

  “So, Detective Brand,” he began. Then he stopped. He fixed his eyes on a sheaf of papers he had brought in with him. She waited him out. Brand realized the guy was disturbed by the case.

  Bok swallowed hard and continued. “Could we go again through your actions earlier this afternoon?”

  “I’ve already told the responding officers,” she said, playing for time.

  “Well, yes, of course.” Bok was deferential. “As you know yourself from your police work, going through an experience repeatedly can bring up new facts you hadn’t thought of before.”

  She was impressed by the man’s easy command of English. The younger the person was in Sweden, she thought, the better they were with foreign languages.

  “Sure, okay,” she said. “As soon as I realized the side door to the garage hung open—”

  “I have to interrupt,” Bok said, holding up his hand. “Why were you at Sofieborg Manor House in the first place?”

  “My attorney—would it be possible to have my attorney present here? I don’t know the protocols.”

  “I’m sorry, just for now, if you could simply answer my questions.”

  “Yes, of course,” Brand said.

  “I realize you’ve been through this already. But as we said, perhaps some additional details will become clear.”

  Brand liked the detective. She didn’t want to give him a hard time. “We visited the manor house because Mr Hammar believed it would be good for me to see an example of fine old Swedish architecture.”

  “Your visit was…tourism?”

  She felt a need to dodge the whole “reason for your visit” line of questioning. “I realized something was wrong as soon as I saw that a door had been left open. No one was around. The place was deserted. So naturally the wide open door concerned me. You have an issue around here with burglaries in unoccupied summer homes?”

  “Well, yes, it is a problem.”

  “I directed Mr Hammar to remain in the car. I approached the house. I saw blood. A great deal of it. I entered the ground floor and proceeded upstairs following the trail of blood.”

  “I’m sorry, I have to ask, why not call the police right away? Why enter? Couldn’t that have been a dangerous decision?”

  “I felt I had to address the safety of anyone inside. I did tell Mr Hammar to call emergency.”

  “So you discovered the two victims. What did you do?”

  “I checked for signs of life. Then I immediately exited and waited for your responding officers.”

  “Yes, okay,” Bok said. “Did you disturb anything at the scene?”

  “No. The scene disturbed me, not the other way around.”

  “Remove anything from the scene?”

  “No,” Brand lied. “Oh wait, I had maybe a little bit of blood on the bottom of my boots.”

  Brand thought of the wedding dress. Along with her Glock, she had left the vest, the dress and the clump of soiled tissues in the Saab. “I pulled up a window shade. I thought what little light there was left outside might make it easier to see. I wanted to make sure there were no additional victims.”

  “Raised a window shade,” Bok repeated.

  “There were five windows on the right side as you enter the main room on the second floor. I unshaded a single window in the middle.”

  Bok stared at her for a long beat, then looked away. “I’m sorry you had to see this on your first visit to our country,” he said briskly, gathering his papers together. “Very upsetting.”

  “Yes,” Brand said, trying to sound noncommittal. “One of those scenes, you know, we’ve all encountered them—they make it hard to believe that there’s a hell below this.”

  “We’ve all seen them, we’ve all seen them…” the Swedish detective repeated. “Of course you may have encountered worse during your time in New York City. You see, here we are a small town. We don’t all see such scenes. Not often. Never, in truth. Some crime comes out of big cities. Mostly for extreme injuries or deaths such as this, it’s traffic accidents. But here…”

  Bok closed the file folder in front of him with an air of finality. “We’ll have to ask you to stay in the country until this incident is sorted out.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For now,” Bok said.

  Before Brand could rise, a knock came at the door. It swung part way open. A uniformed woman summoned Detective Bok. He rose immediately and went to her. Brand remained where she was.

  The two of them conferred in whispers outside in the corridor. She heard a third party join in, too. Out of nowhere she picked up a single sentence in murmured Swedish.

  “Det är den där bitchen Dalgren.”

  Brand could hardly believe her ears. Even with her limited grasp of the native tongue, it was not hard to work out what the words meant. As a child she had understood some due to her experience at her grandparents farm. Even when speaking with her, Gustav and Klara used Swedish more often than their newly acquired second language, English. Gradually Brand gained an understanding as children do, simply by the process of osmosis. Now it seemed the longer she remained in Sweden, the more the language came back to her.

  She had just heard herself insulted, characterized by a slur. The offensive word had been invoked by an unseen third person. She was too stunned to do what she should have, which was to leave the station immediately.

  Det är den där bitchen Dalgren. That’s the Dalgren bitch.

  Brand couldn’t be sure she understood. Who in the world would say such a thing? She had been listening to lowered voices through a half-closed door. Her hearing—or maybe her mind—was playing tricks.

  She didn’t object to the slur. She had often been called much worse on the job. But she could not understand how anyone in a little crossroads town in the middle of nowhere would be able to link her to the Dalgren family. It didn’t make sense.

  The uniformed woman returned alone from the hall. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Forcing a smile, she took Sven Bok’s place across the table from Brand.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said. “My name is Naima Lindblad, and I’m District Police Commissioner here in Ljusdal.”

  Brand realized she had just been handed up the chain of command. Lindblad looked about her own age, late 30s. Her neatly coiffed, light-colored hair prompted Brand to question whether every woman in the country was blond.

  “I know this will be frustrating for you,” Lindblad said. “But I must inform you that your interrogation is suspended. Since you have a great deal of police experience, you will understand. This incident involves an ongoing investigation which we cannot compromise.”

  “What does that mean?” Brand asked.

  “I’ll have to ask you to say nothing about it to anyone. You’re free to go.”

  Brand shook her head in puzzlement. “I’m a little confused,” she said. “So you’re the national police, am I right? Maybe more like our FBI?”

  “We really need to terminate this interview,” Lindblad said. “I’m not at liberty to explain right now.”

  12.

  Commissioner Lindblad stood and motioned to the door, gesturing the way out. “I also request that you refrain from sharing any details about what you’ve seen. No contact with the media.”

  Brand was doubly mystified. She shook her head. “All right. Okay. But no.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Remaining stubbornly seated, Brand stared evenly at the police commissioner. “I need you to tell me what is going on.”

  “I can’t say anything more. You must understand.�
�

  “What I understand is that I just stepped out of a slaughterhouse,” Brand said. “That room ranks up there with anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my share. In fact, I’ve probably seen your share, too. Now you’re telling me goodbye, farewell, don’t let the door hit your butt on the way out?”

  “I’m sorry it has to be that way.”

  “I’m a cop. You’re a cop. A little professional courtesy would be nice.”

  Lindblad turned back to the table. She spoke in a low, even voice. “But you’re not a police officer, are you? Not anymore.”

  “Oh, I see. You’ve just learned of my situation in New York, and now you’re shutting me out. Sorry, that’s not good enough. Shouldn’t the press know about something like this?”

  Brand saw the hit land. The police commissioner hesitated. Having mentioned Brand’s uncertain status as a police, Lindblad seemed to relent.

  “I’m telling you this only with the understanding that it’s in strict confidence,” she said. “We’ve been seeing the practice of dog fighting spread in certain immigrant communities. There’s no indigenous tradition of it here in Sweden. We have reason to believe some employees at the Sofieborg Manor House are involved.”

  “Dog fighting? Really? That’s your theory of the crime? Have you seen the size of those bloody paw prints?”

  The door opened abruptly. A man walked in who Brand immediately pegged as an American. He wore a parka and, underneath that, a business suit.

  Detective Inspector Bok followed him in. “Here is a countryman of yours,” he said to Brand. Bok then addressed his superior. “Naima, this is Charles Joyner, an attaché at the US Embassy.”

  “Charlie Joyner,” the man said, holding out a hand for the commissioner to shake. He smiled broadly and, as far as Brand could tell, falsely. “May I have a private moment with this fine upstanding American citizen here?”

  It was almost comical, Brand considered. Her situation kept getting kicked upstairs. Next, the prime minister of Sweden was going to walk in. Maybe the King.

  Bok and Lindblad shuffled out. They appeared dazed and chastened by the consulate man’s brimming energy.

  “Hello, Detective Brand,” Joyner said briskly. He moved to sit in the chair Lindblad had vacated. He decided against it. “The Japanese have a word for the uncomfortable sensation of warmth experienced sitting in a seat another person has just left. I mean, ugh, you know?”

  He perched on the edge of the table instead. “How are you? Well, you don’t have to answer that. I understand you’ve encountered some pretty gruesome stuff. An NYPD detective comes all the way to Sweden, what does she run into? More blood and guts.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brand said. “Who are you?”

  “No, I’m sorry!” Joyner clapped his hands. He spoke in clipped sentences. “Deputy consul. Your man in Sweden. You caught me at home, Uppsala. A real special city, if you haven’t been. College town. All it needs is a little more sunlight, like everywhere else around here this time of year.”

  Charles Joyner pronounced the name of the town as “Oopsala.” Brand had him categorized as some sort of flunky assistant. Somebody’s junior’s junior. Sent out to clean up the Ljusdal mess.

  The deputy consul leaned in. Brand could smell his breath, tobacco overlaid with a heavy mint smell.

  “What I would recommend to you, right now? Return home. I know you’ve got a heap of trouble back there. Just between you and me and these four walls, I’ve been on the phone with New York. Things are happening. The situation might develop in your favor. The deputy commissioner indicated she needs you back in the fold. Your testimony would be crucial, she said. Well, I didn’t hear her say that personally. I only talked to her subordinate. I don’t recall the name. But that’s good news, right?”

  He practically bellowed out his last sentence. Brand imagined the man’s superior at the consulate giving Joyner his marching orders. For chrissakes, Charlie, get the woman detective out of there. Have her airlifted if needs be. For the second time in half an hour she witnessed someone make a gesture indicating that she should exit the room.

  “Sure, sure, good news," Brand agreed. She stood. “It’s just that, the local constables, sir, they say, please don’t leave the country for now. Then you tell me to get the hell out of town. I’m sorry, I’m feeling jerked around here. It’s ping-pong city in this place.”

  “Don’t worry about those guys!” Charlie Joyner crowed. “I’ll take care of them. You just have a good flight back to NYC. Sweden in February, brrrr! Am I right?”

  Brand let him guide her out of the little office and along a corridor to the station lobby. He had a limousine waiting at the curb. A car from the consulate, he said. The trip to Arlanda would be all taken care of, he said.

  “Arlanda?”

  “Back home!” Joyner said brightly.

  Brand was half stunned and half amused by the man’s presumption. Like she was a mere chess piece he could move around the board at will.

  Joyner stood poised holding the station door open, waiting for Brand to head outside and dive directly into the limo.

  Through the lobby’s glass windows she saw the ancient blue Saab. The owner sat inside, head lowered with only the light from his phone illuminating the interior of the car against the dark afternoon sky. Even from a distance, his hunched profile gave away the fear of someone who had never been on the wrong side of the law. Brand was surprised at the sense of relief she felt upon seeing Hammar. She stepped through the door.

  “My ride’s here,” Brand said. She pushed past Joyner.

  “You’re making a mistake, Detective,” Joyner called after her. “No one wants you here.”

  Brand turned. “That never stopped me before.” She strode on.

  “From now on, you’re on your own,” Joyner said. “You get into trouble, we can’t pull you out.” Then he climbed into the car from the consulate and left.

  ◆◆◆

  Brand crossed to Hammar. She stood beside the car, waiting outside the Saab’s driver’s side door. Shaking his head, Hammar yielded his place to her.

  “You’re impossible,” he said.

  When she entered, she simply sat at the wheel without making a move to start the engine. Something didn’t add up.

  “They knew I was a Dalgren,” she said. “Someone did, anyhow.”

  “What?”

  “Someone in the cop shop, I didn’t see who—someone said I was a Dalgren.”

  “Okay, yes,” Hammar said. “Well, we must have told them. Or maybe I told them, back at the manor house, that we had just come from a family reunion. You said that, too, maybe? So the police already heard the name Dalgren, isn’t that right? What’s so wrong about that?”

  That’s the Dalgren bitch.

  Had she heard the words, or just imagined them?

  She turned the ignition key, engaged the Saab’s clutch, slipped the transmission into gear, and performed a U-turn in the police station driveway in order to head back toward the highway.

  Except for occasional navigating instructions from Hammar, they rode in silence. Brand was thinking about a dog, or bear, or bear-dog. A beast, anyway. A blond beast that moved in the underbrush like a ghost.

  The vision was already fading from her mind. The light had been bad. At the time when she thought she saw the beast, her body’s physical chemistry was understandably disrupted by encountering a horrific crime scene. Her respiration had been heightened. Fight-or-flight biochemicals were flooding her system. She was probably mistaken about the whole thing.

  Hammar broke the silence. “You think I’ve tricked you, that I played you, as you say. But I’ve actually done you a favor.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Brand said. “A huge favor, introducing me to that scene back there.”

  “You’ve got the Voss family on your mind, right? You’re a detective. You want to find out all about them.”

  She glanced over at him. “Yes.”

  “What was in that house tel
ls a basic truth. The Vosses are capable of violent extremes. Maybe the two dead men betrayed them somehow, or had to be silenced.”

  “You admit that you suspected the Voss name was somehow connected to human trafficking. That’s why you brought me out there. Under false pretenses.”

  “What could be a better front for human trafficking than a trucking company?” he asked. “I don’t think you realize who the Vosses are.”

  “You don’t have the faintest idea what I realize,” Brand said irritably.

  “You know, in Sweden, you and I are equal,” Hammar said. “You are not a police detective, are you? Not here. Just an ordinary person on a visit to the homeland.”

  “Your point is? I know you must have one.”

  “A bit of humility might be good.”

  “So everyone tells me,” Brand said.

  13.

  Within the NYPD, the line on Detective Lieutenant Veronika Brand was simple and direct. She was a good cop saddled with serious personality flaws. Certain characterizations followed her during her ascent to Detective Lieutenant, opinions ranging from “blunt and stubborn,” “arrogant and harsh,” to “not a people person.” Brand heard the whispers, dismissing them as male takes on an forceful woman. She kept her head down, aced the sergeant’s exam, saw herself steadily promoted out of uniform and into plainclothes. After Brand gained her lieutenancy, the brass saw fit to assign her to one prestigious criminal task force after another.

  No one in the department ever described Brand as easygoing. So much in life consists of looking the other way, and this was especially true in the day-to-day grind of a police detective in New York City. In her rise through the ranks from patrol to anti-crime to work on a dedicated sex crimes unit, Brand balked at the code of silence. She refused to wear the blinders that were as much standard issue for cops as a duty belt and a countdown calendar to retirement.

  Over the recent winter holidays came a series of actions that wound up effectively derailing Detective Brand’s career after a decade and a half on the force. In retrospect she at least partially blamed her devotion to amphetamine. She was just coming off a twelve-hour watch, crashing from a speed high. Maybe her judgment was a little off. Maybe she rushed a very delicate and explosive rape investigation.