More Bitter Than Death (27 page)

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Roger Johnsson answers his phone before I even hear it ring, as if he had had spent his whole Saturday morning just waiting for my call. He explains rather brusquely that he wants to see me, preferably today. I suggest Monday instead, but he says that it’s important and that he would appreciate it if I could stop by. When I ask what it pertains to, his answer is evasive, a strategy I am familiar with from Markus. He wants me not to know when we meet, so he can observe my reactions, my spontaneous reactions. We decide to meet that afternoon in Nacka Strand where he works.

Where he and Markus work, same precinct station.

Markus and Roger are colleagues, which Roger quickly mentions to me. They know each other, chat sometimes, occasionally get coffee. But they’re not working together on this case.

I open the glass door. The birds are gone and a strange silence has spread over my little bay. There’s almost no wind and the water is smooth and leaden gray. Dark clouds have spread across the sky from the north and the air feels colder.

It looks like there’s a storm coming.

Roger Johnsson is middle-aged. He’s wearing jeans, a dress shirt and blazer, and a leather belt with a big brass buckle. He’s also one of very few Swedish men with a mustache. For some reason it makes me think about the men on the TV show
Dallas
. He looks like one of Bobby Ewing’s buddies straight out of 1980s Texas, just without the cowboy hat—a sort of anachronism in a cowboy shirt plunked down in a small town in Sweden.

“Ah, Siri. I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” He looks at me and I make out a restrained smirk behind his bushy mustache. “I want to talk to you about Malin Lindbladh. You were a witness to the fatal shooting at Medborgarplatsen, and I have some questions that relate to that and to another violent crime. Markus might have mentioned the investigation?”

Roger leans forward and gazes at me, studying me intently, in a way that makes me uncomfortable, as if I were sitting naked in front of him. I’m grateful that I’m here voluntarily and not as a suspect. I’m guessing that Roger would be really uncomfortable to have to deal with, the kind of person you want on your side.

We’re in his office at the Nacka police station. It’s already dark outside, even though it’s only three in the afternoon, one of the pleasures of living so far north. The glow of the streetlights reflects off the wet asphalt, and a few people scurry by, huddled over, toward the bus station or maybe the ferry, in the heavy rain that has moved in from the north. Roger’s office is small and cluttered with books, papers, and files. A radio is on low playing easy listening. Someone named Monica dedicates a song to her honey, and then Ronan Keating starts singing.

“Weren’t you involved in some other case several years ago? Wasn’t a patient murdered in your yard? It seems like having you for a therapist is dangerous. Shit, I didn’t know therapy could kill,” Roger jokes.

He laughs a brief, horselike laugh, and I feel even more unsettled. He must be aware of my background, know what I’ve been through. And yet he’s sitting here teasing me about what happened to me and my patient. It’s preposterous and offensive. Plus he’s asking questions about one of my current patients. I feel increasingly irritated.

“Yes,” I say, in a tone that says,
Get to the point, would you?

“Right, Malin. She is in some kind of group for abused women that you’re leading. Is that correct?”

Roger studies me, in his eyes a mixture of compassion and condescension. I feel small, vulnerable. Aren’t the police supposed to be helping people like me? To serve and protect? Or is that just on American TV?

“It’s a group for women who have been the victims of violence, not just domestic abuse. And as for Malin, I actually can’t discuss her. Information about my patients is confidential. Nor can I divulge who my patients are.”

“Confidential, I see. But Malin herself said that she is in therapy with you and that we could talk to you. We know that she is. We questioned her after the fatal shooting of . . .”

He hesitates, as if he can’t remember Hillevi’s name.

“Of the female patient in the same group. Anyway, we would like you to confirm some information. Could you maybe tell me a little about the group?” He gives me an encouraging look.

“Yes, well . . . It’s a sort of support group for women from the municipality of Värmdö who have experienced violence. The idea is for the participants to gain strength from working through their problems on their own, even after the group ends.”

“Ah, yes, that sounds uh . . . good, I guess. We here at the police rarely have time to give crime victims the attention they deserve.”

I see a spark of something in his eyes. It’s weak and yet there’s something there, pathos maybe. Empathy? And I suspect that behind the cop façade and the oversized mustache, he actually is committed to helping.

“Malin Lindbladh was raped in Gustavsberg two years ago. Are you aware of this?” he asks.

“Absolutely, that’s one of the things we’ve discussed in the group.”

“So she told you what happened?”

“She explained in detail what happened to her, yes. She also told us that you let the perpetrator go free.”

“Well now, we’re not the ones who decide whether criminals are guilty or not and what consequences they receive. The court acquitted him.”

“Because some of his buddies gave him an alibi, yes.”

Roger shrugs and says, “Stuff like that happens. You can’t catch everyone. I’m sure you understand that. If you’re so familiar with what happened to Malin, perhaps you also know that Susanne Olsson was one of the five people who gave her accused rapist an alibi?”

“Yes, she told me that. Not the others in the group, but me,” I say.

“What did she say about it?”

“That’s all she said. That Susanne gave him an alibi and that you had questioned her. She was upset.”

“Upset, why?” Roger asks.

“Well, surely that’s not so unlikely, what with everything that happened. Your questioning her stirred up memories of the rape and the trial, and that upset her.”

Roger nods and runs his hand over his graying mustache.

“And what is your take on Malin Lindbladh? Is she sane, clinically speaking? Is she credible?”

I picture Malin, how she looked when she showed up at my cottage, her tired face, her hunched posture, the fear, the dejection.

“I absolutely think she’s sane, a little peculiar perhaps, but absolutely sane.”

“Peculiar? In what way?”

I squirm a little on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, afraid of putting it the wrong way and arousing unnecessary suspicion of Malin.

“I think she had a really tough time after the rape. She subjects herself to rigorous training, dieting, and other types of self-discipline to control her anxiety. That’s my impression, my clinical impression,” I say, and cock my head to the side.

Roger smiles.

“And what about her reliability, do you think? Do you trust her?”

I contemplate Malin’s story for a bit. Nothing she said seems to have been a lie or an exaggeration. I don’t see any reason not to believe what she says.

“Yes, I think she’s reliable. I mean, you can never know for sure, of course, but I still think . . . yes, I believe her.”

Roger grins.

“Interesting that you say you can never know for sure. You have a bunch of forensic psychology colleagues who are willing to swear under oath to all manner of things. Just think about all the testimony in Thomas Quick’s murder trials, talk about incompetence.”

Roger shakes his head, as if he pities me for belonging to such a pathetic profession, full of naïve know-it-alls and quacks.

“My assessment is that she is reliable, and that you can never know.”

He nods again, looks at me, and slams his little black notebook shut. Our conversation is over.

Excerpt from Investigative Notes, in Accordance with the Provisions of the Social Services Act Regarding Young People

The 14-year-old boy was charged with the aggravated assault of a 34-year-old shop owner after the shop owner accused the boy of shoplifting in his store. The event was reported to the police and is under investigation. The boy claims that he did indeed hit the shop owner but that the shop owner was holding on to him and threatening to call the police, and that he panicked and struggled to escape. He also admits that he entered the store, which sells athletic clothing, with the intent to steal a heart rate monitor, but refuses to comment on what happened.

The boy’s parents say the boy has had a very troubled history at school throughout his entire adolescence. In recent years he has only been attending school sporadically and has instead been hanging out with a gang of older boys downtown. There is suspicion of both criminality and drug use among these teens. The family had previously been working with Pediatric Psychiatric Services but didn’t feel like that was going anywhere. The guidance counselor did not have any success either in changing the boy’s destructive behavior or getting him to return to school.

The parents say they’re desperate and no longer know what to do. They are very worried about their son’s trajectory. They also say that all the conflict about their son has taken a toll on their relationship and that they are now considering separating. However, they believe this might cause even more trouble for their son since he has a hard time dealing with change. The mother also admits that she is afraid to be alone with her son since he sometimes has awful angry outbursts if he doesn’t get what he wants. He attacked her physically a few days ago when, after repeatedly warning him to stop, she switched off his computer
because he had been playing computer games for longer than the agreed time. On that occasion he shook her and called her a bitch. The parents think their son might need some alternative living arrangement.

Jovana Stagovic, social secretary, Youth Group

Office meeting.

Elin has a stack of invoices in her lap and doesn’t look happy. She came to work this morning with hair that was suddenly red instead of black, and her usual black clothes had been replaced with a retro 1950s-style dress and Doc Martens–style boots.

“Well, but then who needs to approve these invoices?” she asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sven says tiredly. “As long as it’s one of us. You can’t just pay them. You’re simply going to have to understand this.”

Elin blushes and looks down at the table without answering.

Aina shoots Sven a chilly look and puts a motherly hand over Elin’s. Aina soothes, “Come on, Elin. It was only a thousand kronor. Let’s forget about it now.”

Sven starts in again, “Swedish Address Registry Inc.? How could you be so freaking stupid that you paid that? Anyone with half a brain can tell that’s a scam.”

Sven runs his hand through his unwashed, graying hair and I smell the scent of sweat spreading through the room. Both Aina and I are nervous that Sven is in a tailspin, that he’s drinking too much.

I think about the conversation he and I had a few weeks ago when he said he was done with love and alcohol, that he wasn’t going to touch the booze again. I note that he didn’t keep that promise very long. But that’s how it goes, right?

“Sven,” Aina warns.

“We should take it out of your pay,” he continues.

Elin drops the stack of papers on the floor with a thud, flings her hand up to her mouth as if she wants to stop herself from saying something, and then rushes out of the room.

“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it? Just because you have problems doesn’t mean you can take them out on other people,” Aina says calmly, but there’s a harshness to her voice, a sharp tone that reveals she’s on her way to getting really upset.

“My problems have nothing to do with this,” Sven protests.

“Your problems have everything to do with this, and you know that,” Aina replies.

“Oh, really? Well, I’m not the one attracting crazy people with guns to the place!” Sven exclaims.

“Hey,” I say, since even I am growing weary of Sven’s bad moods. “It’s not like that was our fault.”

Sven mutters something about Vijay.

“What was that?” Aina says. “If you have a problem with us working for Vijay, then just say so instead of sitting there mumbling.”