Lilja stood up. From now on, they would have to work according to the theory that the killer wouldn’t rest until the whole class was obliterated. Her phone rang. It was Tuvesson.
“We have another victim.”
“You mean Elsa Hallin?” Lilja said.
“No. Camilla Lindén. But, wait, did you find Hallin?”
Lilja felt her sense of balance vanish.
January 9
The first day of my new life. I had to meet with my teacher and the principal. Mom and Dad were there too. I confessed everything and said I was sorry, but I wasn’t. Not even a tiny bit. It was best to play along, let them think I’m still the person I used to be. I wanted to seem sorry even though I just wanted to laugh in their faces. Spit on them! They said he had a concussion and he would have to stay home all next week. How could he have a concussion? He doesn’t even have a brain!
At lunch a few people stared at me but no one was brave enough to do anything. As soon as I looked back, they turned around. Fucking wusses. His buddy was there and gave me cut-eye, of course. He looked like he was thinking about doing something. I walked over and punched him in the ear. He was just about to hit back, but I threatened him with a fork. Soon it will be his turn to carry my tray.
After school some of my old friends came up to me and wanted to talk, but I told them to go to hell. I don’t have any friends anymore. Instead I picked a fight with Jonas. His ugly clothes have always annoyed me. I hit him in the stomach until he fell down. I saw the fear in his eyes. So fucking awesome.
To do:
1. Start working out
2. Get a switchblade
3. Visit the concussion
70
FABIAN RISK RAN AS fast as he could along the gravel path. The voices behind him were yelling, “Theo! Theo! Theo!” He turned around and saw Lina, Jörgen, and several of his other classmates running after him; they were all about fifteen years old.
He was in the middle of nowhere, his upper body naked, and the rays of the sun were burning the back of his neck. He could hear his pulse, and the smacking sound as he tried to swallow a sip of water, but he didn’t have any left. Soon he wouldn’t be able to manage any longer. The voices behind him grew louder and louder: “THEODOR!”
What would happen if he gave up? No, he couldn’t. It was impossible. He couldn’t give up at any price. He was approaching a rock wall and could hear other voices, begging and pleading for their lives. He started climbing up, higher and higher, as fast as he could. The higher he climbed, the steeper the rock wall became. He looked down and saw his two old Stockholm colleagues, Tomas and Jarmo, climbing up after him. They were shouting. If he lost his balance he would fall the whole way down and all would be lost.
A hand came out of nowhere, pulling him up over the edge and leading him into a large, underground cave. There were costumed people — or beings — everywhere, wearing large, round headdresses that looked like big balls. He bent down and allowed a boy with golden-brown skin to place a similar headdress on his head while someone else hung a thick, white, crinkly shroud over his shoulders. It felt nice and cool.
An older man approached, looked him in the eye, and said something — but he couldn’t understand what. Yet he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. He held out his left hand and let the older man run an instrument with a beam of light across the back of his hand. The light penetrated his skin and bubbled through his veins, just as a peacock a few centimetres tall ran up his arm...
Fabian opened his eyes. Everything grew brighter, but not much clearer. He noticed two long, narrow lights on the ceiling. The protective casing of the fixture was missing, so the cables and the capacitor were visible. Not only did strip lighting shed ugly light, it was ugly to look at too, he thought as he attempted to sit up. The burning pain in his back intensified immediately and spread up toward his neck.
He reached for his phone to check the time, but he couldn’t find it. It was gone. So were his computer and the yearbook. He was bewildered. Hadn’t he found the killer hidden behind Claes in the yearbook? Or was that a dream too? He reached for the alarm button and jabbed it a few times, although he heard the alarm sound out in the hallway the very first time he pressed it.
The door opened. It was the brunette nurse, the one who was not exactly super helpful.
“So it’s time to get up again?”
“Where are my things? My phone, computer, and...”
“Apparently you were up working until five this morning.”
Was that true?
“And that is not what we would describe as resting. If you had followed the doctor’s orders, you almost certainly could have been home by now.”
“But I have to call —”
“No, you have to rest.” She pressed him down into the bed. “Right now, your body is working overtime to heal, and it needs all the strength it can get. So, do you want tea or coffee with your breakfast?”
“I just want to know what time it is.”
“It’s just after two. Let me ask you again: Tea or coffee?”
Fabian wanted neither of the two options. The coffee was as watery as the tea, which he was sure they used the coffeemaker to heat the hot water for. “Juice... give me two glasses of juice instead. And I would be eternally grateful if I could get some toast and a boiled egg.”
The nurse allowed herself a crooked smile. “With our current government, you can forget about the egg, but I’m sure we can offer you some toast.”
By now, Fabian was sure he hadn’t been dreaming about the connection between the crime scene in Söderåsen and the class picture from ninth grade. As soon as the nurse left the room he ignored the pain and sat up. He had five minutes — max — before she would be finished in the kitchen and back behind the reception desk, with a full view of the corridor. He slid onto his feet from the edge of the bed and tried to straighten his back as best he could. His pants, socks, and shoes were in the closet with his shirt and jacket, which had been far too damaged by the flames to be salvaged. He had no idea why anyone had put time and energy into hanging them up.
He opened the door and saw one of the silent officers flipping through a Wheels magazine.
“I’m just going to grab a few things from the reception desk,” he said.
The officer nodded and went back to his hot rod article.
As usual, the nurses’ station was unattended. He searched among the binders and stacks of paper but couldn’t find any of his stuff. If none of it was here in the reception area, he had no idea where to look.
The brunette nurse walked into the corridor carrying his breakfast tray. Fabian bent down behind the desk and clenched his teeth. The pain in his back triggered sweat to start dripping from his forehead. He peered under the desk: his laptop case and a bag containing his phone and documents were stuffed in the corner. He let the nurse pass, took his things, and headed for the elevators.
71
ANOTHER VICTIM IN CLASS OF EVIL
Tuvesson, Lilja, Klippan, and Molander were standing around the table, looking at Kvällsposten; a picture of the wrecked car lying upside down on the E6 dominated the cover.
“Why didn’t we know about this?” Tuvesson asked, wondering if she could allow herself to send Florian out for cigarettes.
“According to dispatch, it came in as a car accident and nothing more,” Klippan replied.
“How did no one catch onto the fact that she was in the same class as the others?” Lilja said.
“Well, it’s not their job to keep track of that — it’s ours. And since we didn’t even know she was dead...”
“How did Kvällsposten get wind of it?” Molander asked, paging through the paper.
“Either the perpetrator tipped them off himself, or they were just doing their job and put two and two together,” Lilja said.
“But so far, we don’t have confirmation whether it was an accident or not,” Tuvesson said. “The car is on its way here, so we’ll see if Molander finds anyt
hing, but in the meantime, I want us to work on the assumption that our guy is behind it.”
“You’re suggesting he committed two murders yesterday?” Klippan said. “And not just any run-of-the-mill murders. I’m not sure of the details of what happened out on the E6, but the library couldn’t have been easy. It would have been difficult to just get her into that room without anyone noticing. The ritual itself...” Klippan grew flustered and shook his head. “He must be so cold-blooded.”
“What do I know? Maybe this supports Risk’s ‘two different killers’ theory,” Tuvesson said.
“Hold on, let’s try to look at this logically,” Molander said. “All we know for sure about the car accident is that it took place yesterday at 5:38 p.m. on the E6. My investigation will show whether the killer was there or whether he sabotaged the car. And as for the library, has Braids come up with a time frame for when she actually died?”
“Between three and five yesterday afternoon,” Tuvesson said.
“Suppose he cut her up around one or one thirty and that she died an hour or an hour and a half later, that gives him plenty of time to manage both murders.”
“Well, in any case, we know he’s started up again — and then some,” Tuvesson said. “Let’s compare these two incidents to Jörgen and Glenn’s murders. What was Elsa Hallin guilty of, for example?”
“According to one of her colleagues, she had a sharp tongue,” said Lilja.
“Maybe she was a bully too, but a verbal one? That would certainly explain her tongue being cut out.” Tuvesson turned to Klippan. “Has anyone in the class mentioned something about that?”
“Not in so many words.” Klippan flipped through his papers. “A few people said she was pretty cocky.”
“Who said that?”
“Camilla Lindén.”
Tuvesson sighed. “Typical. Didn’t Elsa Hallin say something negative about Camilla, too?”
“Yes — Elsa said she stood by and watched Jorgen and Glenn tease Claes.”
“So there’s nothing that can be linked to the car accident?”
“Not as of now.”
“And we still haven’t heard from Seth Kårheden?” Tuvesson asked, checking to see if there was more coffee in the Thermos.
“No,” Lilja replied. “But I was able to confirm that he was on a plane to Pamplona on June fifteenth, and he’s booked on a flight back from Santiago de Compostela late tonight.”
“Was he walking the St. James’s path?” Klippan asked.
“Maybe that’s what he wanted people to think,” Molander said, “But he could have driven back up here by car just as easily.”
“What was written in that locker?” Tuvesson said.
“No one sees me. No one hears me. No one even bullies me.”
“No one even bullies me... It fits with Risk’s theory about the moss.” Tuvesson stopped speaking and looked at everyone. “That it was his image of himself in the shadow of Claes Mällvik, who at least did get bullied.”
“Right, there’s a guy you’d really want to trade places with,” said Klippan.
“Easy for us to say. Which is actually worse: being bullied, or being completely ignored and treated like you don’t exist?”
“You think that’s what he wants to change?” Lilja said.
“Yes, I believe that’s the point of all his actions: he wants to be someone you can’t just ignore; a person no one will be able to forget, ever again.”
“So why not make his identity known?” Klippan said. “What’s the point of being famous if no one recognizes you?”
“It depends on how famous he wants to be,” said Molander. “Say we discover his identity or he reveals it now: it would definitely make headlines, but after a few years things would cool off and his name would be forgotten. By the time he’d served his sentence, no one would remember him anymore, which is why he keeps killing.”
“Agreed,” Tuvesson reiterated. “He’s building up his own myth, showing everyone how smart and invincible he is, and how no one — not even the police — has a chance of stopping him.”
“He’s killing his former classmates in order to immortalize himself,” Lilja said, while the others nodded. “How many people do you think he will have to kill before he succeeds?”
“We all remember Columbine,” Molander said. “Twelve students and one teacher died there.”
“So you think he has to make it to thirteen?”
Molander shook his head. “Unfortunately, I don’t think that would be enough to secure his place in history. Columbine was the biggest school massacre of its kind: all the ones that have followed in its wake are forgotten six months later. Even if this killer is in a completely different category when it comes to the murders themselves, he’s still just another mass killer, which we’ve seen before. If he gets up to eighteen or twenty people, it will be a completely different story.”
“He would have to kill the whole class to get up to those numbers.”
Molander nodded. Silence descended around the table.
“Well, the mood sure seems cheerful around here.”
Everyone turned around to see Fabian Risk in the doorway, stooping forward slightly and supporting himself with one hand on the door frame.
“Fabian? What are you doing here? Where’s your police detail?” Tuvesson walked up to him, but he fended her off with one hand.
“I know who did it.” He took a few steps into the room and looked at the printouts of graffiti all over the walls. “Wow, someone’s been busy.”
“Fabian, what are you —”
“I found him. Here he is.” Fabian placed his index finger just above Claes on the enlarged class picture on the whiteboard. “He was there all along, right before our eyes.”
Tuvesson and the others gathered around and looked at the photo.
“But that’s Claes.” Klippan turned to Fabian. “Fabian, Claes is dead.”
“No, it’s not Claes — there’s a guy standing right behind him. Look closer, that’s not Claes’s hair.”
“Let me see,” Molander said, crowding his way in with a magnifying glass to study the picture. After a moment he turned around and nodded. “He’s right.”
“They forgot to add his name to the list,” Fabian said.
“Maybe that’s not too surprising,” Lilja said. “He’s certainly easy to miss.”
“But shouldn’t he still be listed as not pictured?” Klippan said.
“You’d think so.”
“Not if you look at it logically,” Molander said. “He clearly was there, so he wouldn’t have been declared absent.”
“So in other words he should be in some of the yearbooks from the other grades,” Tuvesson said.
Fabian nodded. “And that’s exactly why I’m here.” He turned to Klippan, who threw up his hands.
“Everyone we’ve been in contact with has promised to look at their yearbooks, but so far nothing has turned up,” he said.
“Maybe his name just ended up in the wrong place and is listed somewhere else in the yearbook,” Lilja said as she started flipping through the pages.
“That actually happened to me once; or rather, to my entire class,” Klippan said. “I think it was in fifth grade — all our names got switched with the names of the grade three students. Suddenly my name was Ragnar Bloom, and everyone called me ‘Flowers’ for the rest of my school days.” Klippan laughed. “One of the other guys got stuck with the name Greta. He got that forever.”
“Fabian, how are you feeling?” Tuvesson asked, grabbing him as he was about to lose his balance and looked like he might pass out at any moment. Molander came to her assistance, and they helped him over to a chair.
Fabian felt the exhaustion wash over him, and the cold sweats and nausea that came in its wake. “I’m fine... I just need some water.”
Tuvesson placed a large glass of water on the table in front of him. “It’s not okay. You’re injured, and you should be at the hospital. According to the doctor
you’re supposed to stay in bed until the day after tomorrow.”
“I have to go home... Theo, my son. He’s all alone.” Fabian picked up the glass and took a sip; he felt the water spread through his body like a cool caress. “They wouldn’t let me work at the hospital, so I had no choice but to come here.”
Tuvesson waited until he’d finished the glass, and then she sat down and looked him in the eye. “Fabian, listen to me. We are the ones working on this case. We, not you, okay?”
“I just have to call the school and find out the name of the person standing behind Claes.”
“No, you don’t, Fabian. You are no longer working on this investigation. You are on vacation, not to mention sick leave. All you should be worrying about is getting some rest. I’m sure we’ll find your classmate’s name somewhere; it can’t be that difficult. The important thing is that you follow the doctor’s orders. What’s more, you and the rest of your classmates are clearly in danger. So I want you to go back to —”
“Number 349? Is that the locker number?” Fabian pointed at the Post-it note next to the picture of the worn graffiti from the inside of a locker door. Klippan nodded.
“Fabian, did you hear me?” Tuvesson asked.
“We think the killer might have written the message,” Molander said.
Fabian held up the picture and tried to decipher the text.
“No one sees me. No one hears me. No one even bullies me. I. M,” Molander said.
Fabian looked at Molander. “I. M?”
“The Invisible Man. He used that signature in a few other places, too.”
“The invisible man who no longer wants to be invisible — he wants to come forward and be seen.”
Tuvesson nodded. “But we don’t think he’s going to reveal his identity until he’s killed more people.”
“How many is that? The whole class?”
“We think so.”
Tuvesson was right. A few clever murders wouldn’t suffice if you wanted to be remembered forever. The media-fatigued public demanded at least two-digit totals for unforgettable killers. The perpetrator might as well try to wipe out the whole class as long as he was at it. After all, every one of them had been party to making him feel invisible, which was the very reason he couldn’t stop killing and wait for Klippan and everyone else to do their jobs. If Fabian did nothing fast, it would all be over soon.
Victim Without a Face Page 32
