The Golden Calf

by Helene Tursten

  “Wounded in the line of duty,” Kajsa said with a broad smile.

  Although Nurse Ann-Britt now understood the reason behind Kajsa’s appearance, she didn’t seem to relax.

  “So, where are the uniforms?” Irene asked. She felt that their standing like this, all in a group, would call more attention to them than they wanted.

  “Follow me,” said Nurse Ann-Britt.

  In the employee dressing room, there were scrubs, pants, and doctor’s coats in different sizes laid out neatly in a row on a bench.

  “This is the best I could do,” the nurse said apologetically. “We are always short on clean scrubs.”

  “These are fine,” Irene said. “Could you show us how to dress so we look authentic?”

  There were no pants big enough to go around Andersson’s stomach bulk, but they solved the problem with a stretchy band, and the top was long enough to conceal the makeshift closure. They added a doctor’s coat, a stethoscope, a few pens in the breast pocket, and a nametag that read NILS DÜRSELL, HEAD DOCTOR.

  Irene got a set of scrubs and an oval nametag decorated with a wreath of flowers around it. It said BRITT, ASSISTANT NURSE. Fredrik was dressed in a similar way to Andersson, but his nametag just said: ATTENDING DOCTOR.

  “These tags were left in a box here on the unit. All the employees know that you’ll be mixing with them. They’ll pretend nothing out of the ordinary is going on. Just don’t forget your names,” said Nurse Ann-Britt.

  “Nils Dürsell, Nils Dürsell,” Andersson mumbled to himself.

  Nurse Ann-Britt had found a disguise for Kajsa as a cleaning lady with the typical blue uniform and a cart she could push around. Her simple nametag just said DANOUTA. Kajsa took a pair of gray-tinted glasses from her shoulder bag. Sunglasses would have been too obvious, especially in October, but a bit of tint would draw less attention to the multi-colored area around her eyes.

  The most pressing problem was what to do with Fredrik’s Sig Sauer. The holster was far too apparent underneath his scrubs top, even if he put a doctor’s coat over it. They solved this by borrowing Kajsa’s shoulder bag.

  “Let’s stuff some folders and paper into it, so that it looks like you have a lot of paperwork,” suggested Nurse Ann-Britt. “Then you can put your, um, gun, right into the open bag.” Nurse Ann-Britt gave the weapon a nervous glance. Fredrik practiced drawing his gun out quickly a few times, and then they were ready to go.

  “If a patient or a relative stops you, just say that you don’t work in this unit,” Nurse Ann-Britt suggested. “You can also say things like, ‘This is not my patient, I’ll go get Nurse Ann-Britt for you.’ Then just come and get me. We’re going to put Head Doctor Dürsell in the nurses’ office. You’ll be able to look out through the glass wall and see everyone coming and going. Pretend you’re reading a medical journal or something.”

  Andersson nodded nervously. He hadn’t expected to deal with questions from patients or relatives.

  “On Sundays, we don’t have normal rounds,” explained Nurse Ann-Britt. “We usually just check on specific patients. For instance, it wouldn’t be unusual for the head doctor to take a peek into Sanna’s room.…” Nurse Ann-Britt said, smiling meaningfully.

  Andersson nodded again.

  “You can clean near the elevators and then at the doors to the entrance of the unit,” Nurse Ann-Britt told Kajsa.

  Kajsa nodded. “Just let me know when he comes into the building. I’ll have my cell phone on vibrate.”

  “Oh, so sexy,” said Fredrik.

  “You’re sounding more like Jonny every day,” said Irene. “You’ve been working with him too much.”

  “Stop chatting and let’s get down to business,” growled Andersson.

  Irene spoke up. “We have to leave one by one. Try to leave a minute or two between the person before you.”

  Irene and Nurse Ann-Britt kept each other company as they left the changing room.

  Once on the floor, they saw that the breakfast trays were being delivered. Irene got in line with the other nurses and was handed a tray. A young man behind her cleared his throat and then whispered into her ear, “Take another one. That patient needs to be fed by hand.”

  The young man was wearing a scrubs shirt with a piece of tape fastened on which the name MAGNUS was printed in blue marker. He had an astounding tattoo of a colorful dragon whirling up his neck. Irene shuddered in spite of herself, because the tattoo reminded her of an unpleasant case she’d had a few years back. His black hair was shaved on the sides and back, leaving only a tuft at the top of his head.

  Irene smiled gratefully and handed him the tray. She had never tried to feed a grown person, and if she did try, it would take too long. Instead, she took the next tray, which the card said was for “3:2 J. Fredriksson DK.”

  “Room three, bed two,” Magnus whispered from the corner of his mouth.

  Irene nodded slightly. Carrying the tray, she decided to reconnoiter a bit around the floor. She peered at each door; it was no trouble to look like someone new to the unit.

  The door to Sanna’s room was closed. The same policewoman was sitting at her place beside it. She looked up at Irene but didn’t appear to recognize her. Did Ann-Britt forget to inform her about their plans? Irene wondered.

  Irene hesitated, but then her colleague gave her an almost unnoticeable wink. Not much, but enough for Irene to feel calm again.

  Just to complete her tour, she also went down the hallway parallel to Sanna’s. She didn’t see anything unusual there, either. On her way back to Room 3, she spied Kajsa cleaning near the elevators. Kajsa was mopping the floor so professionally it looked like she’d been a cleaning lady all her life.

  Room 3 had two beds, each occupied by an elderly gentleman.

  J. Fredriksson was angry. “Finally! Here you are with my food! And it’s cold! Why am I always last? And I bet they forgot I need special food for diabetics!” He was tall and emaciated. His gold-tinged parchment skin looked like it was molded to his cranium. His hand, with visible blue veins, shook as he pointed an accusing finger at Irene.

  “Come now, Jocke, don’t complain so much. The girls are running as fast as they can,” his roommate said in a friendly tone.

  The roommate was already sitting up in bed and eating. He seemed to be a few years younger than Jocke Fredricksson. He was short and muscular. At the end of his bed was a wheelchair. Irene realized both his legs had been amputated above the knee.

  Irene smiled at both men as she placed the tray on the opened flap of Fredriksson’s nightstand.

  “I’m sorry,” Irene said. “I’m really new here.”

  “You don’t look all that new and fresh to me,” muttered Jocke Fredriksson.

  Jerk, Irene couldn’t help thinking. She kept her smile, however, even if it wasn’t as bright as usual.

  “So you’re a nursing assistant?” asked the amputee, who’d seen her nametag.

  “That’s right.”

  “So are you the one who will be turning me over today?”

  Irene hoped that the sudden anxiety she felt did not show on her face. “No, no, I believe that’s Nurse Ann-Britt. I’ll make sure to ask her,” she replied.

  The man nodded and seemed content with her answer. Irene slunk out of the room again.

  As she came back into the hallway, she saw Fredrik walking hurriedly toward her with his coattails flying behind him. Folders stuck up from his shoulder bag, and he held a thick book. He’d found some glasses to perch on his nose, and he peered over them as he strode along. From a distance, he even appeared fairly intelligent.

  Head Doctor Nils Dürsell was inside the glass wall of the nurses’ office with a thick compendium in front of him that he was pretending to read. One eye was trained on the entrance to the unit, which made him look somewhat cross-eyed.

  Irene jumped when she felt someone tugging on the back of her scrubs. She whirled around and saw nothing until she looked down at a tiny woman whose face was frozen in fear.
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  “Excuse me, nurse, could you tell me when my husband’s test results are in?” she said timidly.

  Irene fell back into her role quickly. “What’s your husband’s name?”

  “Jakob Fredriksson,” the tiny woman whispered.

  So, here we have the jerk’s unlucky wife, Irene thought. Aloud, she said, in a friendly manner, “Unfortunately, I’m not assigned to his room. I can ask Nurse Ann-Britt for you.”

  “Thank you … thank you so much. You want to know everything when you’re dealing with … cancer.” The tiny woman whispered the last word and headed into Room 3.

  Cancer. Irene’s father had died of cancer more than ten years ago. She remembered how hard it had been for everyone before he died. Certainly modern medicine had made great strides since then, and people who once would have been doomed to die were now being saved. Still, just the word “cancer” was enough to strike fear in anyone. Irene felt a rush of sympathy for old Jocke. He was going through a tough fight. Perhaps he’d already lost the battle; no surprise that he was gruff. But better that than passively accepting his fate. Then it’d be all over. You have to keep fighting to the bitter end, as her mother Gerd always said, using one of the few English idioms she knew.

  Magnus stuck his head, with its black topknot, through the doorway.

  “Britt, it’s soon time for coffee break. Can you start collecting the trays?”

  It took a second for Irene to realize he was talking to her.

  “Sure, I’ll get them,” she said.

  “I’ll stick around and help you,” said a small, blonde woman about Irene’s age. She introduced herself as Anette, and she was a real assistant nurse. She smiled at Irene.

  “We can wait a few more minutes, though. Let them have a chance to eat up. Then we can start at each end of the hallway, you on that side, and I’ll start on this one.”

  The assistant nurse pointed to the rooms at the end of the hallway by the entrance. Irene nodded and walked that way, passing the nurses’ office.

  The superintendent was really into his role as the head doctor. His eyeglasses had slid down his nose as he pored over the thick compendium, all the while keeping a good eye on the entrance. When he saw Irene, he raised the compendium as a discreet greeting. Irene read the title of the compendium: Hygienic Routines for Cleaning Infected Rooms in Both Open- and Closed-Care Units. It didn’t look like anything a head doctor would read on a Sunday morning, so Irene was relieved when he put the thick compendium back on the table.

  Fredrik was standing by the nurses’ office and appeared to be in deep discussion with Nurse Ann-Britt. He’s the perfect picture of an engaged and hard-working attending doctor, Irene thought, pleased.

  A glance at the clock told her that it was time to pick up the breakfast trays. They were supposed to be collected into a large cart, which would be wheeled back to the main kitchen.

  Four women were in the room at the very end of the hallway. One elderly woman had an IV and had not been given a breakfast tray, but the other three had eaten with good appetite. Irene exchanged a few words with everyone and explained that she was just an extra for the weekend. She said she was from hospice and not used to the routines of a surgical ward. The three women said they thought there must be a great difference in routine between hospice and surgical and that she was extremely brave to try something different. If you only knew just how different, Irene thought as she collected the trays.

  Just as she was leaving the room, she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pants pocket. Adrenaline shot through her, and she hurried as much as she could without calling attention to herself.

  Once in the hallway, she saw a doctor go into Sanna’s room. Otherwise, the hall was empty, except for Kajsa, who was running toward her. She gestured wildly toward the door where the doctor had just gone in.

  Irene ran into the room. The police officer was lying on the floor just inside the room. She wasn’t moving. Irene saw the back of the doctor, who was lifting his arm. In his hand was a gun.

  Her training kicked in. Irene instantly judged the distance, grabbed a sandwich plate, and hurled it like a Frisbee. With a dull thud, the plate hit the back of the doctor’s neck and broke in half. He fell forward without a word, but a dry bang indicated he’d still managed to fire the gun.

  And, of course, Sanna was screaming. Irene was used to her by now, but Kajsa, who had followed Irene through the doorway, was thrown by the noise.

  “Don’t worry. It just means she’s alive,” Irene said to Kajsa.

  Irene felt the man’s pulse. He was alive, too, but unconscious. His gun had a silencer. Irene pulled it from his grasp and held it carefully between her thumb and forefinger.

  Sanna was screaming like a banshee from the bed. There was a pool of red forming near her right shoulder.

  “Calm down, Sanna,” said Irene. “It’s just a surface wound.”

  Her words were in vain. Sanna’s screams filled the whole floor.

  A REAL DOCTOR, a surgeon by the name of Westerlund, came hurrying in. He ordered the officer and the wounded man to intensive care. The policewoman was beginning to wake up as she was placed on the stretcher. A deep red mark on the side of her neck showed that she’d been brought down by a single blow.

  Doctor Westerlund gave Sanna a tranquilizer and then put a pressure bandage on her shoulder. “I’m having her brought straight to surgery,” he explained. He smiled at Irene as he added, “That guy should be happy he’s alive. You really got in a good hit!”

  “I’m a handball player and a Frisbee thrower from way back,” Irene explained. “I love to play Frisbee with my dog.”

  “I’m not surprised,” the doctor said.

  Sanna had calmed enough to stop screaming. She looked at Irene from underneath a wrinkled brow as she stammered, “That … police officer. The clothes … Mike also had white clothes on.”

  “Mike? Was the man who shot you named Mike?” asked Irene.

  “Yes, he was dressed … like a doctor, too,” she said. She closed her eyes. At the same time, two men in green scrubs and paper caps came into the room.

  It’s getting pretty crowded in here, thought Irene.

  “I’ll go with you,” the doctor said to the two assistants.

  He nodded at Irene, and they all left the room, pushing Sanna in her wheeled bed.

  The room felt empty at once. Only Kajsa and Irene were left.

  “Mike.…” Kajsa said. “I thought I recognized him, but I don’t know from where.…”

  “When did you realize he was our suspect?” asked Irene.

  Kajsa sighed and took off her gray-tinted glasses.

  “He was damned smart about it. The elevator stopped, and three doctors got out at the same time. Two of them went to the unit on the other side, and he—Mike—waved at them before he came in here. If he’d been alone all along, I would have been suspicious at once, but since there were three of them and they all seemed to know each other, I didn’t react right away. He came down the hallway and then suddenly I thought—he might be our man. The description matched, but not the clothes, of course. He opened the door to Sanna’s room without a pause and I called you on your cell phone immediately. Good thing you got there in time!”

  It was easy to hear the relief in Kajsa’s voice.

  “What did Andersson do?” asked Irene.

  “He didn’t see him. He didn’t move until Sanna started screaming. Like me, he probably thought that the man was a real doctor. He looked absolutely believable. He had a stethoscope and everything. He moved as if he belonged here. He was totally self-confident,” Kajsa explained.

  Irene nodded. “He’d checked out the scene a few times before. We know he—”

  “I got it!” yelled Kajsa. “I know who he is!”

  “Who?”

  “Mike! He’s the head of security for Hotel Göteborg! Birgitta and I watched the security camera video of the parking lot when Ceder drove away the night he was shot. Mike showed us the video! M
ike—Michael Fuller, the American!” Kajsa’s voice was filled with triumph.

  Michael Fuller. The name rang a bell for Irene, too.

  “Sanna said that the head of security helped them install the security system in the house just before her husband was murdered. I’ll bet that Fuller had a key to the house. I can picture him standing beneath the spiral staircase waiting to shoot Kjell B:son Ceder right between the eyes.”

  “Absolutely, but why would he want to kill his boss? Why did he shoot Bergman and Rothstaahl? Why did he have to shoot Sanna? How does this fit with the murders of Thomas Bonetti and Edward Fenton?” Kajsa said.

  “That’ll be your homework for tomorrow,” Irene said. Her voice revealed her exhaustion. She smiled to let Kajsa know she was kidding and put her arm around Kajsa’s shoulders.

  Chapter 23

  A GUARD WAS assigned to Michael Fuller even though the doctors felt he wasn’t capable of fleeing. The blow from the edge of the plate on the base of the skull had left him in great pain, and he had trouble with his balance.

  The female officer remembered only sitting on her chair when a doctor walked up, but before she even had a chance to raise her eyes, everything went black. She’d suffered a karate chop to the neck, dealt by an expert. If it had carried just slightly more force, she might have died.

  Sanna underwent surgery to remove the .25-caliber unjacketed bullet lodged in the bone of her left shoulder blade. The technicians already had it at the lab. The gun and all the bullets collected from the murder sites were being shipped to the National Crime Laboratory for comparison. The detectives would have to cool their heels waiting for that result. It was really backlogged over there.

  On Monday morning, a doctor reported that his locker had been broken into. He was still angry when he showed up at the technician’s lab and identified the stolen items. Fuller had taken his outfit. Other police officers had searched for Michael Fuller’s civilian clothes on the grounds of Östra Hospital, and by Sunday evening, they’d found a rental car left in the lot. The dark blue jacket and dark pants were inside. Nurse Ann-Britt identified them as those she had seen on the suspect the morning of the attack.