Never Fuck Up sn-2

by Jens Lapidus

  “I have to go. Sorry. But this was nice. Let’s stay in touch?”

  Benjamin looked surprised.

  On the way down into the subway. The thoughts were spinning even worse now: insane, bizarre. Niklas called his mom back. Told her to take it easy. That Claes was probably fine. That Claes was an asshole so she shouldn’t care either way.

  She cried anyway.

  He thought, Claes deserved what he got. Justice’d finally been served. God’d answered a prayer.

  He said, “Mom, you have to promise me one thing. Don’t tell anyone about this. It wouldn’t be good. Can you promise me that?”

  12

  Like a tattoo on Thomas’s retina: the basement guy’s busted face, torn up like a lottery ticket scratched with a meat cleaver. It was hard core and harrowing. At the same time, genius execution. If he hadn’t gotten curious, broken the rules, and checked the guy’s arm, everything would be so simple. Now: something was wrong. Okay, to accidentally delete a few lines from his own report—it could happen. But the forensic pathologist’s report? That was improbable. He wondered if Hägerström believed him or the reports. Probably the latter.

  Usually, it was the opposite. Say someone pounded on a junkie; once everyone saw the track marks on the arms and tests were taken to show the levels of illegal substances in the blood, it was assumed that it was an overdose and the investigation was shut down within a few weeks. Here the assault was the overly obvious part. The track marks were hidden.

  He met Hägerström at the entrance to Danderyd Hospital, a large complex just outside the central city. Ljunggren remained in the patrol car. Sulky—he’d been whining about going here the whole way from Skärholmen. “Come on, you really gotta look at that dead drunk again?” Thomas responded that a detective’d asked him to come, that he had to. Ljunggren didn’t quit it. “What’s he after, that Hägerström? You know where he worked before, right?” Thomas just mumbled in response, “I know, he’s a traitor.”

  Hägerström came walking toward him near the entrance to the hospital. He was shorter than Thomas remembered. Kind of rolled on his feet, rising on his toes at the end of each step. Thomas thought this was a walking style that must’ve been developed by Hägerström as a teenager in order to gain a few inches in height. Then the walk’d been solidified, made permanent. He wasn’t in uniform—dressed in a cotton jacket, jeans, a bag slung over his shoulder. Thomas thought, Typical detective style. They don’t understand the importance of wearing a uniform when approaching people—the power it commands. If his type even had uniforms.

  Danderyd’s morgue was situated a good distance from the regular hospital area. First they walked through the hospital’s hallways. Came out the back. Between smaller buildings, special clinics, old housing units for nurses, rehabilitation gyms. A kind of park. An underpass. Onward on a gravel path near the water.

  They walked in silence until Thomas said, “You could’ve told me it was half a day’s hike to get to this place. This is wasting taxpayer time, don’t you think?”

  Hägerström turned to him. Stopped.

  “I thought we could use this time to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know I’m from Internal Affairs. I know all about people like you. Your kind is everywhere in the Swedish force. People who do everything.”

  It was an attack. Every policeman knows what it means to be willing to do “everything.” Some cops got a little too rough in the field sometimes. Many of them focused on demonstrators—beat animal-rights activists and antifascists bloody. Others made sure heroin addicts, alcoholics, and homeless people got what they deserved. Some cops looked the other way at minor crime in exchange for certain offers—under-the-table rental contracts for apartments, stolen property, free tickets to the racetrack. Others didn’t report pimps if they got a lay now and then. Then there were others, not many, who did “everything”—they didn’t just rough people up too much sometimes or look the other way at crimes committed by others in exchange for certain favors—they were deep in the shit themselves. Dirty businessmen. Bad seeds. Fallen cops.

  Thing was, it really wasn’t true. He wasn’t like that. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” Thomas responded coolly.

  Hägerström ignored the comment. Just went on, “But you’re a smooth player, too. I might call you street-smart. I know your kind, guys like you don’t subject themselves to unnecessary risks. And that’s why I can’t drop the thought that maybe, this time, you’re being honest. Your reaction when you were up in my office in Kronoberg seemed unprompted. Your call the other night was unwarranted, unless you really wanted to tell me something. And that’s why we’re here now, going to the morgue together. I’m not going to rule out that you actually saw something that didn’t make it into the report.”

  Thomas was more impressed than he cared to admit. Hägerström was stretching it, sure—he didn’t do everything. But still, the guy was right on: he didn’t like risks.

  “The investigation is ninety-five percent desk work and five percent field research,” Hägerström said. “But if something goes wrong with that five percent, like the medical report, for instance, then the whole investigation goes kaput. It’s worth double-checking every fact.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “This isn’t just any old homicide. Homicides with no known suspects are always tricky. But in this case we don’t even know who the deceased is. That’s unusual. The face was beaten beyond recognition, so routine methods of identification are out. The fingertips were cut, so that kind of database search is impossible. Which also points to the fact that whoever committed the crime knew that our old print system doesn’t read handprints, which they do in a lot of other European countries. We’re so damn behind in Sweden.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “Lose the sarcasm. It’s actually a real problem.”

  “Yeah, I understand that. And I assume the teeth are busted.”

  “Unfortunately. The guy hardly had any teeth left in his mouth, so we can’t run anything through the dental database either. He probably had dentures, and the murderer pocketed them. We’ve checked his blood type, but the guy’s A positive, the most common type in Sweden. That won’t get us anywhere.”

  Thomas thought about the dead guy’s toothless mouth. It sounded totally hopeless; there had to be something to go on. “Can’t you run his DNA?” he asked. “We take spit samples on every fucker we pick up these days.”

  “Yeah, sure. We can check it, but for that to work he needs to be in the database already. Then we can check his liver, scars, birthmarks, whatever. But to search for cirrhosis and scars is difficult. Too general. We need something else. If this dead guy’s in the DNA database, great. But the database is pretty new, from 2003. And, like you said, nowadays we swab everyone. But we only started doing that a couple of years ago.”

  “Right. I’m guessing it’s got something to do with a terrorist law.”

  “That’s probably correct. But for him to be in the database from 2003 he must’ve done some heavy stuff. To be completely honest—and my gut feeling is pretty strong about this—I don’t think we’re going to find him in the DNA database.”

  “But since someone went to all the effort to get rid of the dead guy’s prints, he should be in the fingerprint database. Right?”

  “My thoughts exactly. That seems unnecessary otherwise. And what does that suggest?”

  “Lots of stuff, but nothing certain. The person or persons who ended the old guy knew he was in the fingerprint database. But the killer also knew Mr. Dead hadn’t been arrested for any serious crimes in recent years, because then he’d be in the DNA database.”

  “Pretty much, but of course it’s not certain that the perps knew him personally. They could’ve been hired assassins. That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “Well, the usual stuff. To start, the technicians’ve swabbed the whole basement level of the building and half the stairwe
ll. But that kind of thing often doesn’t yield as much as you’d think.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are always plenty of clumsy fools messing things up. Someone opens a window, so any potential fiber traces blow off with the wind, people clomp around inside the cordoned-off area so the DNA material gets all mixed up. But we do other stuff, too. Knock on doors in the area, look into missing-persons databases to try to figure out if there’s a match. Wait for further answers from SKL—you know, the forensic lab. We’ve questioned the people who were first on the scene, the neighbor who called in the murder, you, the other officers on patrol. The usual, you know. You have to ask the right questions. Open-ended questions, don’t expect specific answers, get people to really remember and not make things up. That’s the key.”

  Thomas’d heard detective talk before. Martin Hägerström sounded like them—tried to make it seem like he was on top of things.

  “Right now, the hottest lead we’ve got is an incomplete phone number. There was a folded piece of paper with a cell-phone number in the victim’s back pocket. Unfortunately, it’s a bit smeared. The slip must’ve been sweating in there for quite a while. One digit is illegible. That gives us ten possible numbers that we’re checking up on now. Hopefully the person with the number knows who the man is.”

  Hägerström stopped talking. In front of them: a long, rectangular brick building. White tin roof. Small, square windows and a wide entrance. Above the entrance were big black letters against a gray background: DANDERYD MORGUE—COLD CHAMBERS.

  They went in.

  A small waiting room. An unmanned reception desk. Hägerström fished out his cell phone. Called someone.

  They had to wait. Thomas and Hägerström were standing with their arms crossed. Silent. After ten minutes, a man in a blue county uniform came into the waiting room. He extended his hand.

  “Hi, Christian Nilsson, autopsy technician. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. We’re a little understaffed today. You wanted to look at the guy who came in from the Southern District police, right?”

  It was cool in the autopsy room. Nilsson explained: it was really cold in the room where they kept the actual cold chambers—freezing. Thomas thought, Is that why the guy looks like he walked through a snowstorm? There was a thick layer of dandruff on his shoulders.

  This was Thomas’s first time at a morgue. Patent feeling of unease in his gut—something was on the move in there. He looked around. White tiled walls. Two stainless-steel autopsy tables in the middle of the room. Above each: a strong lamp—dentist-style, but bigger. Gigantic floor drains. Thomas thought about what they probably flushed down those drains after a completed autopsy. On the shelves: bowls, instruments, tools, scales. Everything was made out of stainless steel.

  Right when they were about to step inside, Nilsson’s phone rang. He picked it up. Walked off a few feet. Spoke in a low voice for a minute or so. Thomas and Hägerström remained standing in silence.

  Nilsson led them on toward the cold chambers. There was a sticker on the metal door: At this workplace the atmosphere is good, friendly, and relaxed—but a little stiff. Thomas thought: Clever—like cop humor.

  The room where the bodies were stored was freezing cold. Same white tiles on the walls. They entered through the short end of the room—the two long ends were completely made up of compartments that could be pulled out like drawers: the cold chambers. There were air fresheners strung up. Didn’t help. The corpse smell wasn’t thick, but it filled the room nonetheless, like a tickling sensation in the nose—Thomas breathed through his mouth.

  Nilsson pulled a drawer out. Stainless steel. The corpse was wrapped in a white cloth with the county emblem on it. Two feet stuck out. An identity tag was tied around the big toe in the classic manner. Nilsson looked at it, showed Thomas and Hägerström: Nr. E 07-073. Identity unknown. Admitted at above given date. Southern Police District, dossier number K 58599-07. Danderyd Morgue’s notes: Autopsy completed. Resp. autopsy technician: CNI.

  Hägerström nodded and set his shoulder bag down on the floor.

  He lifted the cloth away from the face.

  Thomas was cold. Breath rose like steam from everyone’s mouth but the corpse’s. Just like outdoors on a cold winter’s day.

  There wasn’t much to see. The whole mug: like ground beef. Thomas’d seen a lot of dead people. Examined dead people. Touched and squeezed dead people. Tried to perform mouth to mouth on dead people. He’d seen even more pictures of dead people. Beaten to bits, abused, raped, injured. Flesh wounds, bullet holes, stab wounds. He considered himself a veteran at this. Still—the feel of the morgue disgusted him. The nausea came as a surprise. He turned his face away. Heaved.

  His radio crackled. He didn’t realize that it was his at first, since he’d set it to only receive calls from his own squad car. “It’s yours,” Hägerström said.

  Thomas responded, “This is Andrén. Over.”

  “Hey, it’s Ljunggren. You gotta come out now. And book it. There’s a shoplifter in Mörby Centrum. We’re the closest car.”

  “I’ll be there in five. Just gotta wrap up here.”

  “No, come now. Code red.”

  “This won’t take long. It’s just a shoplifter, anyway.”

  “Get with it. Where are you?”

  “I’m still with Martin Hägerström. We’re taking a look at the body.”

  Moment of silence.

  “Forget Hägerström. Let him look on his own. I’m not waiting. Come out, now.”

  Hägerström looked at Thomas.

  “Ljunggren, we’ll talk later. Over and out.” Thomas switched the radio off.

  Hägerström didn’t say anything. The autopsy technician continued to pull away the wrapping, slowly. It was held together with little clips. Took time. Thomas wondered if they’d really be understaffed at this place if this guy just learned to pick up the pace.

  Thomas felt the suspense growing in his stomach, pushing the nausea away.

  They could now see the entire white body inside the chamber. The wounds were only visible if you looked closely. The autopsy technicians’d done a good job.

  “On which arm did you see the track marks?” Hägerström asked.

  Thomas walked over to the right arm. Pointed.

  Hägerström picked up the arm. No marks. He ran his hand over the dead man’s arm. Thomas wondered what it felt like. Then, in the spot where Hägerström’d run his hand, he saw them: the needle marks.

  “Sometimes you have to pull the skin apart a little to see,” Hägerström said. “It gets all saggy.”

  Thomas felt like a badass CSI agent.

  Hägerström picked up his bag from the floor. Rummaged around in it. Fished out a digital camera.

  “Time to document what the forensic pathologist obviously didn’t see.”

  At that moment, they heard a sound from the autopsy room. The door flew open. A suit-clad man entered. It was Stig Adamsson, unit chief, head of the Patrol Unit in the Southern District. Thomas’s boss.

  “Hägerström, you have no authority to be here,” Adamsson said with a powerful voice. “The same goes for you, Andrén. Put that frozen dead guy back.”

  Hägerström remained calm. Slowly put the camera back in its case.

  “What’s going on, Adamsson? I’m in charge of this investigation. I investigate when I want and where I want.”

  “No, you need a permit from the prosecutor to do this kind of thing. Damn it, Hägerström, you could get charged with official misconduct for this. The dead man’s already been autopsied and the forensic pathologist’s done his job. You can’t just clomp in here and pull out corpses like this.”

  “I’m sorry, but I disagree.”

  “In what way, may I ask?”

  For the first time, Hägerström raised his voice a notch.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. But I’m the lead investigator on this case. That means I own this investigation. Even if I don’t have permission to be
here, it’s not your place to meddle. Understood?”

  Adamsson looked up. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this.

  The morgue was quieter than death.

  Nilsson pushed the corpse back into the chamber. It echoed in the cold room.

  Steam rose from Adamsson’s nostrils.

  “I am your superior, Hägerström. Don’t forget that.”

  Then he walked out. Long, deliberate, angry steps.

  They remained silent until they were back out on the gravel path. Thomas assumed that Ljunggren’d left with the car, so he’d have to catch a ride with Hägerström instead.

  “Were we just in a movie, or what?” Hägerström asked. Grinned.

  Thomas couldn’t help himself; he grinned back.

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  “If they made a movie about your life, who’d play you?”

  “Why would anyone make a movie about me?”

  “’Cause of what just happened, for instance. It’s like a damn thriller.”

  Thomas almost laughed out loud. But he held back. To keep his distance.

  “He’s a real old ballbuster, Adamsson. But I don’t get what he was doing here.”

  “Exactly. Something is way off.”

  “But what?”

  “I have no idea,” Hägerström said. “Yet.”

  13

  The gym: beef-marinated, gorilla-infiltrated, muscle-fixated. Fitness Center: the place where Stockholm’s meatiest men hung out around the clock. The place where you didn’t show unless your biceps were at least sixteen inches in diameter—unpumped. But also—the place where the camaraderie wasn’t just based on a shared interest in bodybuilding and Dbols. The gym was open twenty-four/seven, year-round. Maybe that’s why it was a watering hole for so many of Radovan’s boys. Minions with the right attitude: protein shakes scored high, fat biceps scored higher, the Yugo boss came in first place.