by Jens Lapidus
The question came as a surprise. For some strange reason, Thomas felt honored—this paper-pushing detective valued his version of things, his opinion and intuition. He rejected the thought. The dude was sucking up. He answered appropriately—which is to say, rudely.
“I mean, he didn’t exactly look happy, so it was probably pretty painful.”
Hägerström didn’t get the joke.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he didn’t look happy, he had a strange facial expression. Bloody, might be the right word.”
Their eyes locked again. Neither lowered their gaze.
“Andrén, I don’t appreciate your kind of humor. Just answer the question, please.”
“Didn’t I just do that? Considering how damn bloody that basement was, it must’ve been a real psycho freak who made the hit.”
Thirty seconds of silence—a long time between two men who didn’t know each other.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get to leave soon. I just have one more question. What is your spontaneous, preliminary opinion about the cause of death?”
No point in making a fuss. If he did, the detective might keep him there even longer just to fuck with him. He offered his honest view: “I really don’t know. The dead guy had deep track marks on his arm, so it could’ve been an overdose that did him in, in addition to the assault.”
Hägerström’s mouth fell open, looked honestly surprised for a brief moment. Caught himself. Flipped back to throwing his weight around. “Didn’t I say I didn’t like your kind of humor?”
It was Thomas’s turn to look surprised. What did the guy mean? It wasn’t a joke.
“Hägerström, I’m gonna be honest now. I don’t like people from Internal Affairs. I think we should stick together and not spend time ruining the lives of good professionals. But I want to be accommodating and answer your questions, just so I can get out of here. The problem is that, right now, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No? I mean I want you to answer my question. What is your spontaneous, preliminary opinion about the cause of death? No fucking track marks, please.”
“Like I said, I don’t know. It was probably the assault, but it could’ve been an overdose, too. Considering the track marks.”
Hägerström leaned forward. Articulated, “There were no track marks or needle wounds. The corpse was completely free of that kind of injury.”
Silence again. Both were evaluating the situation. Their faces: less than three feet away from each other.
Finally, Thomas said, “Sounds like you didn’t read my report. The corpse’s right arm looked like a sieve. If he or someone else pumped drugs into all those holes, he could just as well have caught a chill from an overdose. Do you understand?”
Hägerström rummaged among the papers on his desk. Picked one up; it was Thomas’s report. The detective handed it over. Half a page. Terse sentences that he recognized. But there was something wrong about the end. There were words missing. Had he forgotten to save the last lines? Had his problems with the damn keyboard made parts of the text disappear, or had someone else deleted it?
He shook his head. Not a word about the needle wounds in the report.
Thomas looked up from the report.
“This is bullshit.”
* * *
AUTOPSY REPORT
The National Board of Forensic Medicine, June 4
The Department of Forensic Medicine
Retzius Road 5
171 65 SOLNA
E 07-073, K 58599-07
A. Introduction
In accordance with an order from the Stockholm County Police Department, an expanded forensic autopsy has been performed on an unknown body, found on June 3 at 10 Gösta Ekman Road in Stockholm, referred to below as “X.”
The investigation was carried out by the undersigned at the Department of Forensic Medicine in Stockholm in the presence of the autopsy technician Christian Nilsson.
The body has, according to the Stockholm County Police Department, not yet been positively identified. However, the following can initially be stated:
1. X is a man;
2. X is Caucasian;
3. X is between 45 and 55 years old; and
4. X died between 2100 and 2400 hours on June 2.
B. Additional Circumstances
The additional circumstances of the situation in question are made apparent by a primary report from the Stockholm County Police Department, registration number K 58599-07, signed by Martin Hägerström, Det. Insp.
C. External Examination
1. The dead body is 73 inches long and weighs 174 pounds.
2. General rigor mortis persists.
3. There are extensive and deep surface tissue wounds on the face, on the temples, and on the throat.
4. The hair on the head is ca. 4 inches long and blond, somewhat graying around the temples. There is dried blood in the hair.
5. The skin on the right temple has been scraped off within a 4x4-inch area.
6. There is substantial swelling on the left ear. A section of the ear lobe is missing, around 0.4x0.4 inches. Fringe-lined lacerations surround the area. The skin on top of the ear is scraped off within a 0.2x0.1-inch area. Furthermore, the skin is scraped off within a 0.4x0.1-inch area below the right ear.
7. There is substantial swelling, reddish-blue discolorations, and deep skin lacerations in a 6x2-inch area across the lower forehead, near the top of the eyebrows. Above the eyebrows, the skin is completely scraped off within a 1.5x0.6-inch area, which is sharply demarcated.
8. Within a 1.6x1.6-inch area 0.4 inches above the right eyebrow, there is a large cut, which also has a blurred, bluish discoloration around it.
9. There is substantial swelling on the eyelids, which also show bluish-red discoloration. There are lacerations with frayed edges on both eyelids.
10. There is a substantial number of cuts, deep skin lacerations, swelling, and discolorations on the cheeks, which continue over the edge of the jaw and down on the throat.
11. There is massive, confluent reddish-black bleeding in the eyes’ conjunctivae. The conjunctivae have been severed.
12. The nasal bone is broken in three places and the root of the nose is crushed. The skin in a 1.6x0.8-inch area on the upper section of the nose is scraped off. Furthermore, the left nostril is completely missing, replaced by a 0.4-inch-deep cut.
13. There is substantial swelling on the upper and lower lips. There is some confluent reddish-black bleeding in the mucous membrane. Furthermore, there are two 0.4x0.2-inch cuts that are a few mm deep with fringed edges on the upper lip. There are several large cuts with frayed edges and surrounding bleeding in the tissue and membranes of the lower lip.
14. All the teeth, except for three molars on the upper left side and two molars on the lower left side, are missing. Note: dentures were probably used. There is bloody saliva and vomit in the mouth.
15. All the fingertips on both hands are injured. The bottom side of each fingertip has a 0.3-inch-deep cut that tapers off, measuring 0.08 inches at the lower point.
Stockholm
Bengt Gantz, Head Pathologist, Department of Forensic Medicine
7
Abbou—Mahmud was impressed. According to his own view of things, Mahmud wasn’t the guy to get caught off guard by fly whips, boosted bling, or fat stacks. He was the guy who’d rolled in an ill Audi before things went wack. The blatte who’d slung juice for a hundred G’s a month. Muscle man. Pussy pariah. Million Program myth.
But he felt like a newbie in this situation. They were sitting in the most expensive ringside seats. You had to be someone in fighter Sweden to even be allowed to buy seats like this. And the king who’d made this happen was definitely someone—King of Kings, Radovan.
Things had to be nice when the Yugo boss himself graced the scene. A couple of big fights were being decided tonight. The odds were high: in other words, thick rolls involved. Course the boss wanted to see up close when the b
oys in the ring had their foreheads smashed in and the dough rose like crazy.
Master’s Cup, K-1. K-1 stood for the four K’s—karate, kung fu, kickboxing, and knockdown karate—that all went head to head with the same rules. But in reality, most styles were allowed. Ruthless animals who were used to owning the ring at their home gyms had to limp off the mat, beaten to bits. Bare-chested fighters pummeled each other so hard you could feel it all the way up in the nosebleed seats. Eastern European giants tore through Swedish immigrant boys one by one: kneed chins, dislocated arms, elbowed noses. The audience howled. The fighters roared. The judges tried to break up punch sequences that would floor a rhino.
The fighters came from Sweden, Romania, the former Yugoslavia, France, Russia, and Holland. Fought for the titles—and for who would advance to the big K-1 competitions in Tokyo.
Mahmud caught a glimpse of Radovan, eight seats away in the same row. Fired up like everyone else. At the same time, Il Padre maintained his calm, his dignity—a boss never breaks a visible sweat. The Yugo brand equaled dignity, which equaled respect. Period.
Mahmud’d arrived at the arena with time to spare—five-forty. People were lining up outside to buy returned tickets. Security was worse than at the airport. The only advantage: here, they didn’t care that he was a Muslim. He had to pass through metal detectors, put his belt, keys, and cell phone through. They ran a manual metal detector over him. Groped his balls like fags.
At six o’clock he sidled up to the seat with the right number. No one was seated around him yet. It was way too early. The Serbs let him wait. Mahmud’s thoughts zipped off to an unwanted place. Almost a week since the nightmare in the woods. The wound on his cheek would probably heal fine. But his wounded honor—he wasn’t so sure about that. Really, though, he knew—there was only one way. A man who lets someone walk all over him is not a man. But how the fuck would a vendetta go down? Gürhan was VP in Born to Be Hated. If Mahmud so much as breathed cockiness, he’d be as screwed as Luca Brasi.
What’s more: Daniel, the Syriac who’d made him eat the gun, had called two days ago. Asked why Mahmud hadn’t started paying off his debt yet. The answer was a given: not a chance Mahmud could get anywhere near enough gold in three days. The Daniel dude told him to fuck himself—that wasn’t Gürhan’s problem. Couldn’t Mahmud borrow? Couldn’t Mahmud sell his mother? His sisters? They gave him a week. Then he had to make the first payment: one hundred thousand cash. No escaping it. Right now, the knife was at his throat. The Yugos might be his chance.
At the same time: reluctance. He thought about his talk with Dad a few days ago. Beshar’d taken early retirement. Before that, he’d slaved away as a subway engineer and janitor for ten years. Busted his knees and back. Struggled for the Svens, for nothing. Proud. So proud. “I’ve paid every cent of my taxes and that feels good,” he liked to say.
Mahmud’s classic answer: “Dad, you’re a loser. Don’t you get it? The Svens haven’t given you shit.”
“Don’t you call me that. You must understand. It’s not about Swedes this or Swedes that. You should get a job. Do right for yourself. You embarrass me. Can’t they arrange something through the parole office?”
“Nine-to-fives are no good. Check me, I’m gonna be someone without a job and shit like that.”
Beshar just shook his head. He didn’t get it.
Mahmud’d known it already when he and Babak’d shoplifted their first candy bars. He could feel it in his whole body when they juxed cell phones from seventh graders in the hallway and when he blazed his first spliff in the schoolyard. He wasn’t made for any other life. He’d never get on his knees. Not for the parole people. Not for Gürhan. Not for anyone in Sven Sweden.
Twenty-five minutes later, a ways into the first fight, showtime: Stefanovic slid into the seat next to him. They didn’t shake hands, the dude didn’t even turn around. Instead he said, “Glad you could make it.”
Mahmud kept watching the fight. Didn’t know if he should turn to Stefanovic or if they were supposed to take care of the talk on the DL.
“Course. When you guys ask, you come. Right?”
“Usually, yes.”
They sat silently in the din.
Now and then Stefanovic turned to a guy sitting on his other side. Mahmud knew who it was: Ratko. He rolled with another huge Yugo, Mrado, who Mahmud used to hang with before he got locked up. It was damn shifty, those guys always said hi to Mahmud when they ran into each other at the gym, but here they didn’t move a muscle. Normally, Mahmud didn’t tolerate shit like that. But today he needed the Yugos.
Mahmud checked the place out. The Solna sports center: probably four thousand people rubbing elbows in the bleachers. Bodybuilding dudes—he said hi to some of them—young blattes with too much juice in their bodies and gel in their hair, combat-sports freaks who loved the smell of blood. Cheaper versions of himself—he loved that he wasn’t sitting up there with them. Ringside, another style ruled. More suits, more glamour, more expensive Cartier watches. Older, calmer, more respectable. Stirred into the mix: twenty-five-year-old honeys with tight, low-cut tops and highlighted hair. Somber bodyguards and underlings. Mahmud hoped he’d be spared running into anyone from Gürhan’s gang.
The spotlights lit up every fighter that entered the ring. On one short side: the fighters’ national flags, size XL, on the wall. On the other: the K-1 logo and the full name of the competition written across a banner: MASTER’S CUP—RUMBLE OF THE BEASTS. Speakers blared out the guys’ names, their clubs, and nationalities. 50 Cent on max volume between fights. During breaks, babes with fake tits, hot pants, and tight T-shirts with ads on them held up signs with the number of the next round. Shook their booties as they sashayed around the ring—the crowd howled louder than at a knockout.
The emcee of the night was standing in the ring, his soaring mood cranked up to max: Jon Fagert—full-contact legend, now a suit-clad combat-sports lobbyist.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is the night we’ve all been waiting for. The night when true sportsmanship, tough training, and, above all, bone-hard spirit decide the fights. Our first real title game tonight is within K-1 Max. As you all probably know, the competitors are not allowed to weigh over one hundred and fifty-four pounds within this subclass of K-1. Let me welcome two fighters into the ring who have solid successes behind them. One is the winner of the Dutch Thai Boxing Society’s national tour three years in a row. He’s got nasty speed, feared backward kicks, and famous right jabs. The other is a legendary vale tudo fighter with more than twenty knockouts to his name. Ernesto Fuentes from Club Muay One in Amsterdam against Mark Mikhaleusco from NHB Fighter’s Gym in Bucharest—please welcome them up!”
In the middle of the applause Stefanovic said something straight out into the air, as if he were talking to himself. “That fairy up there, Jon Fagert. He’s a clown. Did you know that?”
Mahmud followed suit—Stefanovic didn’t want the whole arena to see that they were talking, of course. He watched how Ernesto Fuentes and Mark Mikhaleusco stretched one final time before the fight. Then he answered, speaking straight out into the air, “Why?”
“He doesn’t understand who picks up the tab for this whole spectacle. He thinks it’s some kind of charity. But even a player like that’s gotta understand that if you put dough in, you want bread back. Right?”
Mahmud wasn’t really listening, just nodded along.
Stefanovic continued, “We’ve built up this business. You with me? The gym where you work out, Pancrase, HBS Haninge Fighting School, and the other joints. We recruit good people from there. Make sure that guy up there and the other enthusiasts can have their fun. Did you put any money down, by the way?”
The discussion was weird. They could’ve been buzzing about anything. Stefanovic had his poker face on. The entire time: ice cold.
Mahmud responded: “No, who’s hottest?”
“The Dutch guy, I put forty G’s on the Dutch guy. He’s got dynamite in his fists.”
&
nbsp; The audience was taut, like thousands of rubber bands ready to snap. The fight began.
Mahmud wasn’t completely green. He watched fights on Eurosport sometimes. Regular sports didn’t interest him; he didn’t get anything out of it. But watching the fights on TV gave him an adrenaline rush.
The Romanian had blinding technique, speed, timing, and footwork. Sick round kicks and jump kicks à la Bruce Lee. Punch sequences fast, like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. World-class blocking. No doubt about it—Stefanovic was gonna lose his dough.
The Romanian maintained the upper hand through the end of the first round.
The music switched on: gangsta rap on max. The trainers dabbed the fighters’ faces. Rubbed Vaseline on them so the punches would slide off easier. A chick swung her cheeks diagonally across the ring. Held up a sign with the number 2 on it.
The gong sounded. The fighters stepped back into the ring. Sized each other up for a few seconds. Then all hell broke loose. The Romanian continued to impress. Landed a perfect round kick to Fuentes’s head. The guy sank to his knees. The judge counted off.
One, two.
The audience roared.
The Dutch man’s saliva: like a spider’s thread from his mouth down to the floor.
Three, four.
Mahmud’d seen a lot of fights in his life. But this—perfection.
Five, six.
Fuentes stood up. Slowly.
The audience howled.
A few seconds left of the second round. The punches echoed. The Romanian tried to get three punches in. The Dutch guy lowered his chin, raised both gloves in front of his face. Successful block.
Mahmud glanced at Stefanovic. The Yugo’s face was rigid like a rock. No sign of panic about the forty G’s that were about to be flushed down the toilet.
The third round began.
Something’d happened. It was like the Romanian was kicking in slow motion. Looked tired. But Mahmud was watching from closer up than most—the guy wasn’t even out of breath. This had to be rigged. Was that really possible? Massive advantage two minutes ago, and now it looked like he was the one who’d almost been down for the count. Someone ought to react.
