“I’ll meet you there and you better bring plenty of cash. I can’t be bought off cheap anymore.”
Tomas put the phone on the table next to his armchair and leaned back, thinking. A little more police pressure and Jakobsson would crack. And his demands for money would always increase. He picked up the phone and called the Keeper.
After he described his conversation with Jakobsson, the other man was silent for a moment.
“Very well,” the Keeper said. “We’ll deal with him.”
18
AN UNEXPECTED DEATH
Thursday, January 26, 5:40 a.m. Ekman had just come out of the shower with a large towel wrapped around his waist when the phone on the bedside table gave a muted ring. He picked it up quickly to avoid disturbing Ingbritt who was curled up on the other side of their queen-size bed.
“Ekman,” he said in a low voice.
“Walther, it’s Alrik. A patrol near the waterfront has found a body. His ID was on him: it’s Jakobsson. He’s been strangled. They’ve cordoned off the crime scene and a forensics team is on the way. I’ve told them to wait for us and not move the body.”
Ekman was silent for a moment absorbing this totally unexpected news. After getting directions from Rapp, he said, “I’ll meet you there in forty minutes.”
He was about to finish getting ready when Ingbritt propped herself up on an elbow and said, “Walther, what’s the matter?”
Early morning phone calls weren’t uncommon in his work, but she was concerned.
“It’s a new development in the case we’ve been working on,” he said in a reassuring tone, sparing her the grisly details. “I’ve got to leave right away. Go back to sleep.”
But she was already out of bed and pulling on her robe.
“I’ll get the coffee started, and you should at least have an egg sandwich.”
“You don’t have to go to the trouble, but thanks, sweetheart,” he said, heading for the dressing room.
It was still black and almost freezing when Ekman pulled up beside the police vans with their winking blue strobes. Brilliant klieg lights on tripods illuminated the crime scene. As he got out of the car, buttoning his heavy overcoat, he could smell the fishy scent of the nearby River Lagan. Through the mist rising from the river, he could make out the outlines of boats docked at the small marina down the cobblestoned street to his left.
Ekman ducked under the blue-and-white tape that cordoned off the area. The uniformed officer logging in personnel saluted and made an entry on his tablet computer as Ekman walked slowly toward the center of the scene, looking carefully about him.
Rapp nodded a greeting. “Jakobsson must have sneaked out another entrance and evaded the surveillance car I placed. He shouldn’t have,” he said, pointing at the body sprawled just inside a narrow alley between two large warehouses.
“The medical examiner got here a few minutes ago. The photographer and technicians have already worked the scene, but no one’s touched him since he was ID’d.”
Ekman bent down to look more closely. Jakobsson’s once handsome face was distorted in a twisted grimace, a blackened tongue protruding from his wide-open mouth. A thin red line bit deeply into his neck. His fingers were curled into fists.
“Bohlander will have to open his hands carefully,” he said to Rapp, who also was peering at the body. “Jakobsson may have gotten hold of something from his killer.”
“It looks like the guy used a wire,” said Rapp. There was no doubt in his mind that the murderer was a man. He’d never heard of a woman using this method and few would have had the strength.
“Yes,” said Ekman. “A garrote is unusual. If he’s done it before, it would be a distinctive MO. We’ll have to check it out.”
Roffe Bohlander was the medical examiner, trim and sandy-haired, in his late thirties. Ekman had found that he wasn’t arrogant, as some other examiners he’d worked with were, and his autopsy reports were always revealing. Even more important to Ekman, Bohlander shared his profound respect for the victims. When Ekman attended an autopsy, it was obvious to him in the gentle way the pathologist handled the dead.
Bohlander pulled on latex gloves and, kneeling in his white protective suit next to the body, began to examine Jakobsson. Watching him, Ekman was impressed as the doctor carefully tied plastic bags over Jakobsson’s hands.
“I know it’s too soon to tell us much, but what do you think, Roffe?” he asked.
“Rigor has set in, but because of the cold it’s not possible to determine the exact time of death without getting his internal temperature. I need to put him on a table to give you an answer.”
“But roughly, you’d say …?” Rapp persisted.
“Sometime late yesterday evening seems likely. But don’t hold me to it.”
“Do you think this is where he was killed?” asked Ekman.
“Yes. There’s no indication his body was moved. If you’ve seen enough, I’ll take him.” Turning, he gestured to two white-suited morgue attendants standing next to a gurney. With some difficulty they maneuvered the stiff corpse into a large, zippered black body bag and, placing it on the gurney, wheeled it to their van, followed by Bohlander.
Rapp nodded to three crime scene technicians who had been waiting to examine the area under the body. As they started their work, Ekman turned to Rapp.
“We’d better get a forensics crew over to Jakobsson’s apartment right away. Let me know if anything more turns up. I’ll be at headquarters.”
19
A CONNECTION
Thursday, January 26, 7:15 a.m. The egg sandwich Ingbritt had made for him had staved off hunger for a little while, but Ekman was now ravenous as he walked into the busy, brightly lit police cafeteria. Perhaps it was standing around in the cold early morning air that had done it. Looking at Jakobsson’s body hadn’t made him lose his appetite. If the victim had been someone other than who he was, Ekman might have felt differently.
When he’d first seen how a brutal death had ravaged that young, handsome face, he’d been shocked by the horrific transformation. He would do everything he could to find Jakobsson’s killer. But Ekman couldn’t help feeling that mankind hadn’t been much diminished by this death.
He waved to a group of junior inspectors at a table to his left as he came in, but didn’t join them. Going up to the counter, he ordered a smoked salmon sandwich with sliced cucumber and a double espresso. He took his food to a table against the glass wall overlooking the interior courtyard.
While he ate, he looked out at the now-bare trees, their branches quivering in a brisk wind, and the old-fashioned wooden benches that offered welcome respite in warmer weather from claustrophobic cubicles. It was the single feature of this new, too starkly modern building that he actually liked.
Checking the clock over the doorway, he saw it was twenty to eight, got up, and took his tray to the kitchen conveyor belt. Before he left, he went over to the counter and paid for two carafes of coffee and a large basket of sweet rolls to be sent up to his conference room. The cafeteria manager didn’t like having his assistant provide room service, and wouldn’t do it for anyone else, but this was the chief; besides, he was a very generous tipper.
Ekman took the elevator to his office. Holm wasn’t at his desk in a cubicle outside Ekman’s door. He went in, hung up the hat and coat, sat down, and flipped through his overflowing inbox, but saw nothing important.
At exactly eight, he went in to find all the team members, except Rapp, standing around munching on sweet rolls as they sipped coffee.
“Thanks for this,” said Vinter, gesturing to the side table.
“My pleasure,” said Ekman, going over to help himself. He was still hungry.
When everyone was seated, Ekman said, “Let’s get started.”
The corridor door opened and Rapp entered. “Sorry I’m late. I was held up. The chief will tell you why.” Tossing his coat over a chair, he grabbed a cup of coffee and a pastry and sat down.
“Alrik, why d
on’t you tell them what’s happened,” said Ekman.
Rapp went over his and Ekman’s interview with Jakobsson late yesterday and the startling murder.
“Forensics hasn’t found anything at the crime scene yet that’s likely to be helpful, but they’re still examining some refuse near the body. Others are going over his apartment right now. So far we’ve found nothing. Let’s hope the autopsy turns up something. Bohlander will be taking fingerprints and DNA to see if Jakobsson was the other man who raped Dahlin. We should know more tomorrow.”
The others sat in stunned silence until Holm, looking first at Rapp and then turning to Ekman, said, “Jakobsson must have been involved in some way in Dahlin’s death and someone decided to shut him up … permanently.”
“Yes, when we spoke with him our instincts told us so. I should have pushed him harder,” said Ekman. “If I had, maybe he’d still be alive.”
“There was no way you and Alrik could have known what would happen, Chief,” said Vinter.
“I suppose you’re right, Gerdi. It’s just that we were apparently much closer than either of us realized to finding the answer to Dahlin’s death. It’s frustrating.”
“Chief,” put in Alenius, the usually silent team member, who’d been listening attentively, “I’ve a question. How did Jakobsson get in touch with whoever met him in that alley?”
Ekman looked at the taciturn detective with surprise, and thought, that’s why he’s on the team.
“You’ve put your finger on it, Alenius. Someone could have gotten up to his apartment and they went out together. But the most likely answer is that he called, arranged to meet his killer, and somehow slipped out without being seen. We need to get our hands on that phone,” Ekman said.
Turning to Rapp, he asked, “Was it on him?”
“No, it wasn’t. And that’s strange, because young people never seem separated from them.”
“The killer must have taken it,” put in Rosengren.
“Yes,” said Ekman, “and if he did he must have searched the body for it. Maybe we can find some DNA.” Looking at Rapp, he went on, “Alrik, have forensics go over Jakobsson’s coat and pockets looking for new DNA. And call the other team at his place and see if they’ve picked up that phone.” Ekman was hoping for a breakthrough if they could discover who Jakobsson called after they’d left him.
Rapp made the call, listened for a moment and then shook his head. “They haven’t found one, but they’ll keep looking. It’s unlikely they’ll find it if they haven’t already. It would have been lying around in plain sight, not hidden away somewhere.”
“We can be pretty sure he phoned from his apartment, right?”
“Yes, but that won’t get us anywhere,” said Rapp. “As a drug pusher, he probably used a ‘burner,’ a prepaid, untraceable cell phone. Without the phone, we can’t find out who he called.”
“But we can find out which mobile towers serve his area,” Holm said.
“Whatever type of phone he used, the call had to go through a tower. He probably phoned no more than two hours after you questioned him, most likely right after you left. He must have panicked because he was involved with Dahlin’s death.
“We can get a warrant for the numbers that passed through the local towers during those two hours, then we can look for a nonsubscriber number. It’s likely to be Jakobsson’s and we can get the number he called. If that phone has GPS, we can ‘ping’ it electronically and get its location. We won’t be able to if it doesn’t have GPS, but it’s worth a try.”
“But there could be a thousand regular subscriber calls,” protested Rosengren.
“Yes. And sifting through them is what’s called police work,” Ekman said, while smiling wolfishly at the little inspector. Rosengren knew who would be doing the sifting.
“That’s a brilliant idea, Enar,” said Vinter, smiling at him. She was very proud of her lover.
“Good thinking, Enar. You’re officially appointed our team’s techno-geek. And I mean that as a sincere compliment,” said a grinning Ekman. “Write up an affidavit for the warrant and I’ll take it over to Kallenberg.” He was going to have to bring the prosecutor up to date, especially with this latest death. Ekman hoped he wouldn’t want to simply take over the investigation himself, but would be willing, at least for now, to rely on Ekman’s reports.
“Gerdi, were you able to find out something about Chafik’s finances?”
“I spoke with people at the electric utility, the Internet service, and the two department stores that had sent him the old bills we found. Since there’s an arrest warrant for Chafik, they didn’t argue with me. Fortunately for us, he was something of a pack rat or we’d have had a hard time tracking his accounts because a year ago he started doing everything online. He paid by credit card over the Net.”
“Which bank issued the card?”
“It was Scandinaviska Sparbank. I spoke with the manager of the branch he used, but they wouldn’t give me access to his account information without a warrant.”
“Prepare an affidavit and you’ll have it today.”
“Rosengren,” said Ekman, “what’s been happening with the tip line?”
“Mostly crank calls, but I think we’ve gotten a few good leads, Chief. Chafik was recognized by three callers who said they’d known him. Alenius and I will be interviewing them later today. Better still, a woman in the building where Dahlin was held called to say she’d seen some people going into that apartment. We’ll be talking to her first.”
“I knew you and Alenius could separate the wheat from the chaff. Good work.” Rosengren beamed and Alenius managed something that almost resembled a smile.
“Alrik, what do we know about Dahlin’s estate. Did she have a will?”
“There’s no will. I guess someone that young thought she wouldn’t need one for a long time.” He was silent for a moment.
“There’s really no estate to speak of and no insurance policy. Her brother will get her personal effects and that’s it.”
“Okay, let’s say the brother is out of it unless something else implicates him. The focus remains on Chafik and Jakobsson. We need to find out everything about them. I’ll be speaking with Kallenberg this afternoon and will let him know the affidavits are on the way,” Ekman said, looking at Holm and Vinter.
“Although we missed a chance with Jakobsson, knowing he was involved in Dahlin’s death gives us another avenue to explore. Let’s make the most of it.”
20
REPORTING
Thursday, January 26, 11 a.m. Ekman sat gingerly on one of Malmer’s instruments of torture, while the deputy commissioner pretended to busy himself with some papers on his desk. Finally after several minutes he lifted his head, his face registering mock surprise at seeing Ekman somehow materialized before him.
“So, Walther, you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Olav,” he replied, not letting Malmer get away with using his first name as he tended to do with subordinates, not out of friendship, but patronizingly.
“You’ll have a written report later today; however, I wanted to bring you and the commissioner up to date personally on what’s been happening in the Dahlin case.”
After Ekman briefed him about the investigation and Jakobsson’s murder yesterday evening, Malmer took a moment to ponder the potential media and political risks, his first consideration.
“Do we need a media conference?”
“I think it would be a good idea,” Ekman said. “We’ve already gotten them involved in the hunt for Chafik and they, and the public, will want to know where the investigation stands. News of Jakobsson’s murder will also be on TV this afternoon and hit the papers tonight. The publicity is to our advantage because it could generate more leads.”
Despite run-ins with the media, and the personal vendetta newspaperman Bruno Haeggman had launched last year, Ekman still believed they could be useful, as long as they didn’t get in the way of an investigation.
“I’ll spe
ak with the commissioner about the conference and get back to you,” Malmer said, and then, turning to his paperwork, pretended Ekman had vanished as mysteriously as he’d appeared.
Later that afternoon, Ekman called on Kallenberg.
“Can I get you some coffee, Walther?”
“Thanks, that would be great,” Ekman replied, settling himself into the cushions of the comfortable leather couch.
Kallenberg asked his receptionist to bring them some coffee and biscuits. Taking an armchair facing the couch, he asked, “So how is that case going?”
He listened attentively, his hands steepled, as Ekman described where they were in the Dahlin investigation. When Ekman came to Jakobsson’s sudden death, Kallenberg straightened in his chair in apparent surprise.
“This happened last night?”
“Yes, that’s what Bohlander believes.”
“Incredible. Someone must be very frightened.”
With a knock at the door, the receptionist, a short, white-haired woman of fifty, came in with a tray and, smiling, placed it on the coffee table between them, before leaving.
“Thank you, Greta,” Kallenberg said.
He poured the coffee and gestured at the plate of chocolate and orange biscuits.
Ekman took a sip and put two biscuits on his saucer.
As Ekman described the warrants needed for Jakobsson’s phone call and Chafik’s bank account, Kallenberg was silent.
“You realize you’ll be invading the privacy of everyone who used those mobile towers?”
“Yes, but the time window is just two hours and it will only be to eliminate calls of regular phone subscribers. Our theory is that Jakobsson’s phone was an untraceable throwaway with a unique number. Once it’s identified, then we can find out the number he called and take it from there.”
“You’re assuming, of course, that he didn’t call another untraceable phone.”
“That’s our hope. The search may lead to a dead end, but we can’t ignore it.”
Kallenberg hesitated. “You’re asking me to persuade the district judge to authorize an invasion of privacy of possibly hundreds of citizens on the slender hope of finding a traceable phone number. Does that sum it up?”
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