Marked for Life (3 page)

CHAPTER
FOUR

THE AUTOPSY ROOM
was lit up by strong fluorescent ceiling lights. A shiny steel table stood in the middle of the room and on it, under a white sheet, you could see the contours of a body.

A long row of plastic bottles marked with ID numbers were lined up on another stainless-steel table along with a skull saw. The metallic smell of meat had permeated the room.

Jana Berzelius went in first and stood across the table from the medical examiner, whose name was Björn Ahlmann. She said hello, then pulled out her notepad.

Henrik went over and stood next to Jana, while Mia Bolander stayed back near the exit door. Henrik too would have liked to have stayed at a distance. He had always found it difficult to be in the autopsy room, and he by no means shared Ahlmann's fascination with dead bodies. He wondered how the pathologist could work with corpses every day and not be affected. Even though it was also part of Henrik's job, he still found death hard to witness up close. Even after seven years on this job, he had to force himself to keep a composed face when a body was exposed.

Jana, on the other hand, didn't seem to be bothered at all. Her facial expression revealed nothing, and Henrik found himself wondering if anything at all could get her to react. He knew that knocked-out teeth, poked-out eyes, chopped-off fingers and hands didn't do it. Nor tongues that had been bitten to bits, or third-degree burns. He knew that because he had witnessed the same things in her presence, and he inevitably had to empty the contents of his stomach afterward, whereas she never seemed disturbed.

Jana's facial expressions were indeed extremely restrained. She was never harrowed or resolute; she hardly showed any emotions at all. She rarely smiled and should a smile happen to cross her lips, it was more like a line. A strained line.

Henrik didn't think that her austere personality matched her appearance. Her long dark hair and big brown eyes gave off a warmer vibe. Perhaps she was only projecting her professional side to maintain others' respect. Certainly her navy blazer, three-quarter-length skirt and ever-present high heels played into her image as a strict, no-nonsense prosecutor. Perhaps she let out her personal feelings outside work... Perhaps not.

Björn Ahlmann carefully folded back the sheet and exposed Hans Juhlén's naked body.

“Right, let's see. We have an entry hole here and we have an entry hole here,” said Björn and pointed at two open wounds on the chest. “Both seem to be perfectly placed, but this is the one that killed him.”

Björn moved his hand and indicated the upper hole.

“So there were definitely two shots then?” Henrik commented.

“Exactly.”

Björn picked up an image from a CAT scan and clipped it up on the light box.

“Chronologically, it seems that he first received a bullet in the lower part of his rib cage, and fell down. He fell backward, which resulted in a subdural hemorrhage at the back of his head. You can see it here.”

Björn pointed at a black area on the image. “But he didn't die, not from the first shot or from the heavy fall. No, my guess is that when Hans Juhlén collapsed, the perpetrator went up close and shot him again. Here.”

He pointed at the second entry hole in Juhlén's body.

“This shot went right through the cartilage of the rib cage and through the pericardium, the heart. And he died immediately.”

“So he died from bullet number two.” Henrik again repeated the pathologist's words.

“Yes.”

“Weapon?”

“The cartridges that were found show that he was shot with a Glock.”

“Then it won't be so easy to trace,” said Henrik.

“Why?” said Jana, at the very same moment that her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She ignored it and asked again, “Why?”

“Because, as I'm sure you are aware, a Glock is a very common weapon. So common it's used by our army and by police across the world. So I just mean it will take a while to run a check on all those on the list of people holding legitimate licences,” he said.

“Then we'll have to put that task in the hands of somebody with patience,” Jana answered, and again felt a short vibration in her pocket. The caller must have left a message.

“Any sign that the victim tried to defend himself?” Mia asked from across the room.

“No. No signs of violence. No scratch marks, no bruises or marks from a stranglehold. He was shot. Plain and simple.”

Björn looked up at Henrik and Jana.

“The flow of blood shows that he died on the spot and his body was not moved, but—”

“Yes, Gunnar told us.” Mia interrupted him from across the room.

“Yes, I talked with him this morning. But there are...”

“No fingerprints?” she said.

“No. But...”

“Narcotics then?”

“No, no drugs. No alcohol. But...”

“Broken bones?”

“No. But will you let me finish now?”

Mia became silent.

“Thank you. What does seem interesting is the path of the bullets through the body. One of the entry holes—” Björn pointed at the upper of the two “—is not out of the ordinary. The bullet went horizontally through the body. But the other bullet went diagonally, at an angle. And judging by the angle, the perpetrator must have been kneeling, lying down or sitting up when he or she fired the first shot. Then, as I said earlier, when the man fell down, the shooter went up to him and fired a final shot right through his heart.”

“Execution style, then,” said Mia.

“That's up to you to judge, but yes, it would seem so.”

“So he was standing up when bullet number one hit him,” said Henrik.

“Yes, and he was shot at an upward angle from the front.”

“So somebody knelt or lay down and then shot up at him from the front? It hardly makes sense,” said Mia. “I mean, it's really weird that somebody would be sitting on the floor in front of him and then kill him. Wouldn't he have had time to react?”

“Perhaps he did. Or else he knew the murderer,” said Henrik.

“Or it was a bloody dwarf or something,” said Mia and laughed out loud.

Henrik sighed at her.

“You can discuss that among yourselves. According to my calculations, that, at any rate, is how Hans Juhlén died. My findings are summarized here.” Björn held out copies of the autopsy report. Henrik and Jana each took one.

“He died sometime between 18:00 and 19:00 on Sunday. It's in the notes.”

Jana thumbed through the report which at first sight seemed to be as comprehensive and detailed as Ahlmann was known to be.

“Thanks for the summary,” she said to Björn as she fished up her phone from her pocket to listen to the voice message.

It was Gunnar Öhrn who had left a single short sentence in a resolute tone. “Interview with Kerstin Juhlén, 15:30,” he'd said, and nothing more. Not even his name.

Jana put the phone back into her pocket.

“Interview at half past three,” she said quietly to Henrik.

“What?” said Mia.

“Interview half past three,” said Henrik loud and clear to Mia who was about to say something when Jana interrupted.

“Well, then,” she said.

The medical examiner adjusted his glasses. “Are you satisfied?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He slowly pulled the sheet back over the naked body. Mia opened the door and backed out to avoid brushing against Jana as she approached the doorway.

“We'll get back to you with any questions,” said Henrik to Ahlmann as they left the autopsy room.

He strode in the lead toward the elevator.

“Do that,” answered Björn behind them. “You know where I am,” he added, but his voice was drowned out by the drumming noise from the ventilation pipes in the ceiling.

* * *

The Public Prosecution Office in Norrköping consisted of twelve full-time employees with Chief Public Prosecutor Torsten Granath in charge. Fifteen years earlier, when Torsten Granath took over as head of the office, the office went through a radical change. Under his leadership, a policy was instituted of replacing staff members who were no longer pulling their weight with a few new hires who had highly productive track records. He had thanked several longtime employees for their service while at the same time encouraging them to retire, fired lazy administrators and helped underutilized specialists to find new challenges in other areas of their profession.

When Jana Berzelius was hired, Torsten Granath had already trimmed down the organization considerably; only four members were left on staff. That same year, the office was charged with a larger geographical area, and they also had to deal with crimes in the adjacent municipalities of Finspång, Söderköping and Valdemarsvik. The recently increasing trade in narcotics also called for more employees. For those reasons, Torsten Granath had recruited new staff and now they were twelve in all.

As a result of Torsten's policy, the office could now proudly display its competence. Torsten Granath at sixty-two ironically had slowed down a little himself and now occasionally found his thoughts wandering off to the well-kept greens on the golf courses. But his heart still belonged to his profession. Leading the work here was his mission in life and he would keep on with it until he reached pensionable age.

His office was of the homely type, with curtains draped in the window, gilded frames with photos of grandchildren on his desk and a green woolly rug on the floor. He always paced back and forth on that rug when he talked on the telephone. That was what he was doing when Jana Berzelius entered the department. She said a quick hello to the administrator, Yvonne Jansson.

Yvonne stopped Jana as she walked by.

“Hang on a sec!”

She handed over a yellow Post-it note with a familiar name written on it.

“Mats Nylinder at
Norrköpings Tidningar
wants a comment on the murder of Hans Juhlén. They've evidently found out that you're in charge of the preliminary investigation. Mats said that you owed him a few words since you sneaked out of court this morning. He had wanted a statement about the judgment and waited more than an hour for you.”

Jana didn't answer, so Yvonne went on.

“Unfortunately he isn't the only one who's rung. This murder has every paper in Sweden interested. They all want something to put in their headlines tomorrow.”

“And I'm not going to give them anything. You'll have to refer them to the police press officer. There will be no comment from me.”

“Okay, no comment it is.”

“And you can tell Mats Nylinder that too,” said Jana and headed toward her office.The sound of her heels echoed as she entered the room with its parquet floor.

The furnishings were Spartan, but had a touch of elegance. The desk was of teak and so were the functional bookshelves that were filled with bound case files. On the right side of the desk was a silver letter tray with three levels. On the left side there was a laptop, a 17-inch HP. On the windowsill stood two white orchids in high pots.

Jana closed the door behind her and hung her jacket over the back of her leather-upholstered chair. While her computer started up, she studied the flowers in the window. She liked her office. It was spacious and airy. She had chosen to position the desk so that she sat with her back to the window; through the glass wall she then had full view of the corridor outside.

Jana put a tall stack of summonses to be adjudicated next to her computer.

Then she quickly glanced at her watch. Only one and a half hours before the interview with Kerstin Juhlén.

She suddenly felt tired, leaned her head forward and started to rub the back of her neck. Her fingertips slowly massaged the uneven skin there and traced over its bumps. Then she neatened her long hair to make sure it covered the back of her neck and flowed down her back.

After looking through a few of the summonses, she got up to fetch a cup of coffee. When she came back, she left the rest of the paperwork untouched.

CHAPTER
FIVE

THE SMALLISH INTERVIEW
room was bare except for a table and four chairs, with a fifth chair in a corner. One wall had a window with bars; on the oppositve wall was a mirror. Jana sat next to Henrik with her pen and notepad in her hand as he started the tape recorder. She let him handle the questioning. Mia Bolander had pulled up the extra chair behind them. Loudly and clearly, Henrik recited Kerstin Juhlén's full name, then her personal identity number, before going on.

“Monday, the sixteenth of April, 15:30 hours. This interview is being conducted by DCI Henrik Levin who is being assisted by DI Mia Bolander. Also present are Public Prosecutor Jana Berzelius and Solicitor Peter Ramstedt.”

Kerstin Juhlén had been detained as a possible person of interest, but so far had not been charged with any crime. She sat next to Peter Ramstedt, her lawyer, and placed her clasped hands on the table. Her face was pale and she wore no makeup. Her hair was uncombed, her earrings removed.

“Do you know who killed my husband?” Kerstin Juhlén asked in a whisper.

“No, it's still too early in our investigation to say,” answered Henrik and looked gravely at the woman in front of him.

“You think I've done it, don't you? You think that I was the one who shot him...”

“We don't think anything.”

“But I didn't do it! I wasn't home. It wasn't me!”

“As I said, we don't think anything yet, but we must investigate the circumstances surrounding his murder and determine how it all happened. That's why I want you to tell me about Sunday night when you came home to the house.”

Kerstin took two deep breaths. She unclenched her hands, put them on her lap and straightened up in the chair.

“I came home...from a walk.”

“Did you walk alone, or was somebody with you?”

“I walked by myself, to the beach and back.”

“Tell us more.”

“When I came home, I took my coat off in the hallway as I called out to Hans, because I knew that he ought to be home by then. ”

“What time was it then?”

“About half past seven.”

“Go on.”

“I didn't get an answer so I assumed that he had been delayed at work. You see, he would always go to the office on Sundays. I went straight to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I saw the pizza box on the kitchen sideboard and realized that Hans was actually home. We usually eat pizza on Sundays. Hans picks it up on his way home. Yes, well... I called out again, but still got no answer. So I went to check if he was in the living room and what he was doing and... I saw him just lying there on the floor. In shock, I called the police.”

“When did you phone?”

“Straightaway...when I found him.”

“What did you do then, after you phoned the police?”

“I went upstairs. The woman on the phone said I should do that. That I mustn't touch him, so I went upstairs.”

Henrik looked at the woman in front of him. She looked nervous, with a shifting gaze. She fingered the cloth of her light gray pants anxiously.

“I've asked you before, but I must ask again. Did you see anybody in the house?”

“No.”

“Nobody outside?”

“I noticed that the front window was opened, so I closed it. In case someone was still lurking about. I was frightened. But no, I've already told you. I saw no one.”

“No car on the street?”

“No,” Kerstin answered in a loud voice. She leaned forward and rubbed her Achilles tendon on one foot, as if she were trying to scratch an itch.

“Tell us about your husband,” said Henrik.

“Tell you what?”

“He worked as the head of asylum issues at the Migration Board here in Norrköping, correct?” said Henrik.

“Yes. He was good at his job.”

“Can you elaborate? What was he good at?”

“He worked with all sorts of things. In the department he was in charge...”

Kerstin became silent and lowered her head.

Henrik noted that she swallowed hard, he imagined, to prevent tears from coming.

“We can take a little break if you like,” said Henrik.

“No, it's okay. It's okay.”

Kerstin took a deep breath. She looked briefly at her lawyer, who was twirling his pen on the table, and then she started talking again.

“My husband was indeed the head of a department at the board. He liked his job and had worked his way up, devoted all his life to the Migration Board. He is...was the sort of person people liked. He was kind to everybody regardless of where they came from. He didn't have any prejudices. He wanted to help people. That was why he liked it there so much.

“The Migration Board has had to put up with a lot of criticism recently,” Kerstin said, then paused before going on.

Henrik nodded. He knew the National Audit Agency had recently examined the Migration Board's procedures for arranging accommodation for asylum seekers, and they cited it for improper practices. During the last year, the board spent fifty million kronor on buying accommodations. Of that, nine million kronor had been spent on direct agreements, which are forbidden if done without the proper procedures. The Audit Agency had also found illegal contracts with landlords. In many cases no contracts were used at all. The local papers had published several articles about the audit.

“Hans was upset over the criticism. More refugees had been applying than they had anticipated. He had to quickly arrange accommodations for them. And then it went wrong.”

Kerstin became silent. Her lip quivered.

“I felt sorry for him.”

“It sounds as if you are well aware of your husband's work,” said Henrik.

Kerstin didn't answer. She wiped a tear from her eye and nodded at the thought.

“There was the problem with improper behavior too,” she said.

She quickly described how there had been assaults and thefts at the asylum accommodation center. Because of the stress of their situation, often arguments broke out among the new arrivals. The staff that had been temporarily hired to run the center found it hard to keep order.

“Which we know about,” said Henrik.

“Oh yes, of course,” said Kerstin and straightened her back again.

“Many of them were in poor mental condition, and Hans tried to do everything he could to make their stay as comfortable as possible. But it was difficult. Several nights in a row somebody set off the fire alarm. People got scared and Hans had no alternative but to hire more staff to keep an eye on the center. My husband was personally very committed, I can tell you that, and he put his very soul into his work.”

Henrik leaned back and studied Kerstin. She didn't look quite as miserable now. Something had gradually come over her, perhaps a pride in her husband's work—perhaps a sort of relief.

“Hans spent a lot of time at the office. There were late evenings, and every Sunday he left home after lunch and didn't come back until dinnertime. It was hard to know exactly what time he would get home, what time to have dinner ready, so he always used to buy a pizza instead. Just like yesterday. As usual.”

Kerstin Juhlén hid her face in her hands as she shook her head. The anguish and the misery of it all had immediately come back.

“You have the right to take a break,” said Peter Ramstedt as he carefully put a hand on her shoulder.

Jana studied his touch. She knew this lawyer had a reputation of being strongly attracted to women and rarely hesitated to physically console his clients. If he got the chance, he was open to do more than that.

Kerstin raised her shoulder slightly in discomfort, which evidently made the solicitor realize that he should remove his hand. Peter pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her. Kerstin gratefully accepted, and she blew her nose in it audibly.

“Sorry,” she said.

“That's all right,” said Henrik. “So if I've understood you correctly, your husband had a difficult job.”

“No, I mean...yes, but I don't know. I can't really say exactly... I think...it would be best if you were to speak with my husband's secretary.”

Henrik wrinkled his brow. “Why is that?”

“It would just be for the best,” she whispered.

Henrik sighed and leaned forward over the table.

“What's his secretary's name, then?”

“Lena Wikström. She has been his assistant for almost twenty years.”

“Of course we'll speak with her.”

Kerstin's shoulders sank and she clasped her hands.

“May I ask,” said Henrik, “if you and your husband were close?”

“How do you mean? Of course we were close.”

“You didn't have a disagreement about anything? Argue a lot?”

“What are you getting at, Chief Inspector?” interjected Peter, leaning across the table.

“I just want to be sure we get the full picture for this investigation,” said Henrik.

“No, we rarely argued,” Kerstin answered slowly.

“Apart from you, who else was close to him?”

“His parents have been dead a long time, unfortunately. Cancer, both of them. He didn't have any real friends, so you could say that our social life was rather limited. But we liked it like that.”

“Sister? Brother?”

“He has a half brother who lives in FinspÃ¥ng. But they haven't had much contact with each other in recent years. They are very different.”

“In what way?”

“They just are.”

“What's his name?”

“Lars Johansson. Everyone calls him Lasse.”

Mia Bolander had been sitting with her arms crossed, just listening. Now she asked straight out, “Why don't you have children?”

Kerstin was surprised by the question and hastily pulled her legs back under her chair. So hastily that one shoe came off.

Henrik turned around and looked at Mia. He was irritated, but she was pleased that she'd asked. Kerstin bent down and groaned as she stretched to reach her shoe under the table. Then she sat up straight again and put her hands on the table, one atop the other.

“We never had children,” she said briefly.

“Why not?” said Mia. “Couldn't you conceive or what?”

“I think we could have. But it just sort of never happened. And we accepted that.”

Henrik cleared his throat and started talking to prevent Mia from asking more questions along this line.

“Okay. You didn't mix with many people, you said?”

“No, we really didn't.”

“When did you last have visitors?”

“That was a long while ago. Hans was working all the time...”

“No other visitors to the house? Repairmen, for example?”

“Around Christmas a man knocked on the door selling lottery tickets, but otherwise there haven't been...”

“What did he look like?”

Kerstin stared at Henrik, surprised by the question.

“Tall, blond as I remember. He seemed nice, presentable. But I didn't buy any tickets from him.”

“Did he have any children with him?”

“No. No, he didn't. He was alone.”

“Do you know anybody with children?”

“Well, yes, of course. Hans's half brother. He has an eight-year-old son.”

“Has he been to your house recently?”

Kerstin stared at Henrik again.

“I don't really follow your question...but, no, he hasn't been in our house for ages.”

Jana Berzelius drew a ring around the half brother's name on her notepad. Lars Johansson.

“Do you have any idea who might have done this to your husband?” she said.

Kerstin squirmed a little, looked out of the window and answered, “No.”

“Did your husband have any enemies?” said Henrik.

Kerstin looked down at the table and took a deep breath.

“No, he didn't.”

“Nobody he was angry with or had argued with or who was angry with him?”

Kerstin didn't seem to hear the question.

“Kerstin?”

“What?”

“Nobody who was angry with him?”

She shook her head no so violently that the loose skin under her chin wobbled.

“Strange,” said Henrik as he laid out copies of the threatening letters on the table in front of her. “Because as you know, we found these at your house.”

“What are they?”

“The letters from your closet. We are hoping you will tell us about them.”

“But I don't know what they are. I've never seen them before.”

“They seem to be some sort of threats. That means your husband must have had at least one enemy, if not more.”

“But, no...”

Kerstin shook her head again.

“We are very anxious to find out more about who sent these—and why.”

“I have no idea.”

“You haven't?”

“No, I've told you I've never seen them before.”

Click-click
could be heard from Peter Ramstedt's pen.

“As my client has said twice, she does not recognize these papers. Would you be so kind and note that now for the record? Then you don't have to waste time repeating the same question.”

“Mr. Ramstedt, you are surely well aware as to how an interview is carried out. Without extended questioning, we won't get the information we need,” said Henrik.

“Then be so kind as to stick to relevant questions. My client has clearly stated that she has
not
seen these papers previously.”

Peter looked straight at Henrik. CLICK-CLICK.

“So you don't know if your husband felt threatened in any way?” Henrik continued.

“No.”

“No strange phone calls?”

“I don't think so.”

“Don't think or don't know?”

“No, no calls.”

“You don't know anybody who wanted to warn him? Or get revenge?”

“No. But the nature of his work of course made him rather vulnerable.”