Three Seconds

by Anders Roslund

  They had as good as bloody nothing.

  They were no closer to a solution than they had been in Copenhagen Airport the evening before.

  "There are fifteen flats in that block. I've interviewed everyone who was there at the time of the murder. Three of them have observations that might be of interest. On the ground floor- Are you listening, Ewert?"

  "Carry on."

  "On the ground floor there's a Finn who can give a pretty good description of two men he'd never seen before, as he has the best possible observation point-everyone who goes in or out passes his door. Pale, shaved heads, dark clothes, forties. Only through the peephole and only for a few seconds, but you can actually see and hear more than I thought from there and he also mentioned a Slavic language, so it all fits."

  "Polish."

  "In terms of the tenant, that would seem likely."

  "Mules, bodies, Poles. Drugs, violence, Eastern Europe."

  Sven Sundkvist looked down at the older man on the floor. He just lay there and couldn't care less what anyone else thought, with a confidence that Sven could never achieve, as he was the sort who, no matter how much he had tried to change it over the years, wanted to be liked and therefore tended to be amenable and not make a fuss.

  "There's a young woman who lives on the fourth floor, a couple of doors down from the crime scene, and an old man up on the fifth floor above. Both of them were at home at the time of the murder and said that they heard what they describe as a clear bang."

  "A bang?"

  "Neither of them was willing to say more than that. They don't know anything about weapons and couldn't say whether it was a gun shot. But they are both certain that what they called a bang was loud and a sound that was not a normal part of the building."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all."

  The ringing from the phone on the desk was sharp and irritating, and did not let up, despite the fact that Sven remained sitting on the sofa and Ewert stayed on the floor.

  "Should I answer?"

  "I can't understand why they don't give up."

  "Should I answer it, Ewert?"

  "It's on my desk."

  He got up patiently and lumbered toward the loud ringing.

  "Yes?"

  "You sound out of breath."

  "I was lying on the floor."

  "I want you to come down here."

  Grens and Sundkvist didn't say anything, they just left the room and went down the corridor, waited impatiently for the elevator that took for ever to go down. Nils Krantz was at the door to the forensics department and showed them into a narrow room.

  "You asked me to extend the search area. I did. All the stairwells between numbers seventy and ninety. And in the trash store of Västmannagatan 73, in a paper recycling container, we found this."

  Krantz was holding a plastic bag. Ewert Grens leaned closer and put on his reading glasses a few moments later. Something in fabric, gray-and white checks, partially covered in blood, a shirt perhaps, or maybe a jacket.

  "Very interesting. This could be our breakthrough."

  The forensic scientist opened the plastic bag and put the fabric on something that looked like a serving tray, and with a bent finger pointed at the obvious stains.

  "Blood stains and gunshot residue that take us back to the flat in Västmannagatan 79, as it's the victim's blood and gunpowder from the same charge that we found in the flat."

  "Which doesn't get us anywhere. Which doesn't give us a damn shit more than we already knew."

  Krantz pointed at the gray-and-white piece of clothing.

  "It's a shirt. It's got the victim's blood on it. But there's more. We've identified another blood group. I'm certain that it belongs to the person who fired. Ewert, this is the shirt that the murderer was wearing."

  A courtroom. That's what it felt like. A room that smelled of power. A document that described a violent incident lying on an important table. Göransson was the prosecutor who checked the facts and asked the questions; the state secretary was the judge who listened and made the decisions; Wilson, to his right, was the defense who claimed self-defense and asked for leniency. Piet Hoffmann wanted to get up and walk away, but was forced to stay calm. After all, he was the accused.

  "I didn't have any choice. My life was in danger."

  "You always have a choice."

  "I tried to calm them down. But I could only go so far. I'm supposed to be a criminal, through and through. Otherwise I'm dead."

  "I don't understand."

  It was a bizarre feeling. He was sitting one floor away from the Swedish prime minister in the building that ruled Sweden. Outside, down on the pavement in the real world, people were walking back from lunch with a warm low-alcohol beer and a cup of coffee because they'd chosen to pay five kronor more, while he was here, with those in power, trying to explain why the authorities should not investigate a murder.

  "I'm their number one in Sweden. The people who were in the flat have been trained by the Polish intelligence service and know how to sniff out anything that doesn't feel right."

  "We're talking about murder. And you, Hoffmann, or Paula, or whatever I should call you, could have prevented it."

  "The first time they put the gun to the buyer's head, I managed to stop them shooting. But the next time, he had just exposed himself, he was the enemy, a snitch, dead… I didn't have a bloody choice."

  "And as you didn't have a choice, neither do we, and so should we just pretend that the whole thing never happened?"

  All four of them looked at him, each with the report in front of them on the table. Wilson, Göransson, and the state secretary. The fourth person had remained silent. Hoffmann couldn't understand why.

  "Yes, if you want to break this new mafia branch before it gets established. If you want to do that, then you don't have any choice."

  This courtroom was like all the others, just as cold, no real people. He had been in this situation five times before, the accused, in front of people he did not respect but who would decide whether he should be part of society or live in a few square meters behind a secure door. A couple of suspended sentences, a couple of acquittals due to lack of evidence, and just one prison sentence, and a year from hell in Österåker.

  That time he had not been successful in defending his case. He would not do it again.

  Nils Krantz leaned nearer the computer screen as he pointed to the image of small red peaks that all pointed upward over different numbers.

  "The top row, if you look here, is from Copenhagen police. The DNA profile of a Danish citizen called Jens Christian Toft. The man who was killed in Västmannagatan 79. The bottom row is from the National Laboratory of Forensic Science, an analyzis of all the blood stains on the shirt over there that we found in the trash at Västmannagatan 73 that are at least two by two millimeters. You see, identical rows. Every single STR marker-that's the red peaks-is exactly the same length."

  Ewert Grens listened to him, but still only saw a very uniform pattern. "I'm not interested in him, Nils. But I am interested in the murderer." Krantz considered a sarcastic retort or irritated comment. But he did neither, chose to ignore Grens instead, as it often felt better.

  "But I also asked them specifically to give the same priority to analyzing even smaller spots of blood. Too small to stand up as evidence in court. But big enough to establish any marked difference."

  He showed the next image.

  A similar pattern, red peaks, but with larger distances and different numbers.

  "These are from another person."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know."

  "You've got the profile."

  "But no hits."

  "Don't be so damn difficult, Nils."

  "I've matched and compared them with everything I've got access to. I'm certain it's the murderer's blood. But I'm equally certain that this DNA won't be found in any Swedish database."

  He looked at the detective superintendent.

  "Ewert,
the murderer is probably not Swedish. The course of action, the Radom gun, no DNA matches. You'll have to start looking farther afield, in other places."

  It looked like it would be a lovely evening. The sun was already dipping like a ripe orange at the point where the sky melted into Riddarfiarden, the only thing you could see from the large window of the state secretary's office. Piet Hoffmann looked into the light that made the sad, expensive birch meeting table look even sadder. He longed to be out of here, for Zofia's soft body, for Hugo's laugh, Rasmus's eyes when he said Daddy.

  "Before we continue the meeting-"

  He wasn't there. He was as far away from it all as he could be in a room that contained power and the people who could decide whether he should be put even farther away.

  Erik Wilson, the defense lawyer in this trial, cleared his throat.

  "Before we continue the meeting, I want a guarantee that Paula will not be charged for anything that might have happened in Västmannagatan 79."

  The state secretary had one of those faces that showed no emotion. "I understood that that was what you wanted."

  "You've dealt with similar cases before."

  "But if I am to grant criminal immunity, I also have to understand why." The microphone was still in place, halfway down his thigh.

  But it was about to slip again, he could feel the tape was gradually becoming unstuck. The next time he got up, he was sure that it would not stay where it was.

  "I'd be more than happy to explain why."

  Wilson gripped the report firmly in one hand.

  "We could have smashed the Mexican mafia in an expansion phase nine months ago. We could have eliminated the Egyptian mafia in an expansion phase five months ago. If we'd had the mandate for our infiltrators to respond in full. But it didn't happen. We stood by and watched as two more players happily helped themselves. Now we have another opportunity. This time, with the Poles."

  Piet Hoffmann tried to sit still and with one hand under the table attempted to untangle the lead and the pieces of tape that had started to stick together.

  Small movements with searching fingers.

  "Paula will continue to infiltrate. He will be in the right place at the point when Wojtek takes over all drug dealing in Swedish prisons. He is the one who will supply Warsaw with reports about deliveries and sales and at the same time supply us with information about how and when to launch an attack and smash them."

  He'd got it. A microphone the size of a pinhead under the material of his trousers. He fixed it again, trying to pull it up, back toward his groin, as it sat better there and it was easier to point in the direction of whoever was talking.

  He stopped abruptly.

  Göransson, who was sitting directly opposite him, suddenly started to stare, his gaze unflinching.

  "High security Swedish prisons. And Wojtek are going to concentrate on two categories of prisoner. First of all, the millionaires, the ones who have earned their money through organized crime and are inside for a long time, and who will transfer their ill-gotten gains gram by gram, day by day, to a property on ul. Ludwika Idzikowskiego. And then the lackeys, the ones who have no money and who leave prison with substantial debts and in order to survive, pay off these debts by selling large quantities of drugs or committing violent crimes, debts that Wojtek can link to a dangerous criminal network."

  He let go of the microphone and placed both his hands on the table, where they were visible.

  Göransson was still looking directly at him and it was as hard to breathe as it was to swallow, each second an hour, until he looked away.

  "I can't say it anymore clearly than that. It's you who decides. Let Paula continue or stand by and watch once again."

  The state secretary looked at each of them, and then out of the window at the sun, which was so beautiful. Maybe she also longed to be out.

  "Could I ask you to leave the room?"

  Piet Hoffmann shrugged and started to walk toward the door, but stopped suddenly. The microphone. It had come unstuck and slithered down between his right leg and the material of his trousers.

  "It will only take a couple of minutes. Then you can come back in."

  He said nothing. But he held up his middle finger as he left the room. He heard a tired sigh behind him. They had observed it, were irritated, kept their eyes averted. That was what he had intended, he wanted to avoid any questions about what was being dragged behind his foot as he shut the door.

  The state secretary's face still gave nothing away.

  "You mentioned nine months. Five months. The Mexican and Egyptian mafia. I said no because the criminals you use as infiltrators can only be deemed to be high risk."

  "Paula is not a high-risk source. He is Wojtek's ticket to expansion. The whole operation is built around him."

  "I will never give criminal immunity to someone who neither you nor I trust."

  "I do trust him,"

  "Then perhaps you can explain to me why Chief Superintendent Göransson body-searched him out there not long ago."

  Erik Wilson looked at his boss and then at the woman with the blank face.

  " I am Paula's handler, I am the one who works with him every day. I trust him and Wojtek is already here! We’ve never managed to position an infiltrator so centrally in an expanding organization before. With Paula, we can cut them down with one fell swoop. If he's given immunity with regard to Västmannagatan. If he is allowed to operate fully from the inside."

  The state secretary went over to the window and the golden sun, and a view of the capital that was going about its afternoon business without any idea of the decisions that governed it. Then she turned and looked at the fourth participant in the meeting who had not yet said anything.

  "What do you think?"

  She had opened her door for Detective Superintendent Wilson and Chief Superintendent Göransson. But it was in decisions like this that she turned to the top man in the police authority and asked him to sit down at the table with her and listen.

  "The criminal elite, multimillionaires, major criminals as Wojtek's financiers. The criminal grass roots, those indebted, the petty thieves, as Wojtek's slaves."

  The national police commissioner had a sharp, nasal voice.

  "I don't want that to happen. You don't want that to happen. Paula doesn't have time for Västmannagatan."

  Piet Hoffmann had a couple of minutes.

  He checked the CCTV close to the elevators, and positioned himself right underneath to be certain that he was in a blind spot. He made sure that he was on his own and then undid his trousers and soon got hold of the thin microphone lead and pulled it up to his crotch and positioned it on his groin.

  The tape had dislodged.

  Göransson's hands had disturbed it when he searched him.

  A few more minutes.

  He pulled a thread loose from one of the inner seams, and with clumsy fingers tied the lead to the fabric and angled the microphone toward the zipper of his trousers, then pulled down his sweater as far as he could over the waistband.

  It was not the best solution. But it was the only one he had time for.

  "You can come in again now,"

  The door midway down the corridor was open. The state secretary waved to him and he tried to walk as naturally as he could, with short steps.

  They had decided. At least, that's what it felt like.

  "One more question."

  The state secretary looked first at Göransson, then at Wilson.

  "Just over twenty-four hours ago, a preliminary investigation was opened. I'm guessing it's being led by the city police. I want to know how you'll, er, deal with that."

  Erik Wilson had been waiting for her question.

  "You've read the report that I sent to the head of homicide."

  He pointed at the copies of the document that were still lying in front of each one of them on the table.

  "And this is the report that the investigators, Grens, Sundkvist, Hermansson, and Krantz, have writt
en. What they know, what they've seen. Compare it with the contents of my report, with the actual events and background as to why Paula was taking part in the operation in the flat."

  She leafed quickly through the pages.

  "A real report. And one that shows how much our colleagues know."

  She didn't like it. As she read, the dead face came alive for the first time, the mouth, the eyes, as if it was warding off the contempt and a decision that she thought she would never have to consider.

  "And now? What's happened since this was written?"

  Wilson smiled, the first smile for a long time in a room that was being suffocated by its own solemnity.

  "Now? If I've understood rightly, the investigators have just found a shirt in a plastic bag in a gargabe bin near the scene of the crime."

  He looked at Hoffmann, still with a smile on his face.

  "A shirt covered in blood and gunshot residue. But… blood that's not recorded in any Swedish database. My guess is that it may be a red herring, one that will get them nowhere but that will take time and effort to investigate."

  The shirt was gray-and-white checks and had stains that now, after twenty-four hours, were more brown than red. Ewert Grens picked at it in irritation with a glove.

  "The murderer's shirr. The murderer's blood. But yet we're getting nowhere."

  Nils Krantz was still sitting in front of the image of red peaks above various numbers.

  "No identity. But maybe a place."

  "I don't understand."

  The cramped room was just as damp and dark as all the other rooms in forensics. Sven looked at the two men beside him. They were the same age, balding, not particularly jolly, tired but thorough, and, perhaps the greatest similarity, they had lived for their work until they became their work.

  The younger generation that was just starting out was not likely to ever be the same. Grens and Krantz were the sort of men who no longer had a natural place.

  "The smaller flecks of blood, the ones that belong to the murderer, don't come from anyone in our databases. But a person with no name has to live somewhere and always takes something with them when they move around. I usually look for traces of persistent and organic pollutants that are stored in the body, difficult to break down, that have a long life and don't dissolve easily-sometimes they point the investigation in the direction of a specific geographic place."