The Swede

To the memory of Hugh Swaney, homicide detective.

New York, May 17, 2008

T
HE
S
WEDE’S BREATHING SLOWED
. H
E
could actually analyze it, how he grew calm. How the adrenaline drained away when he squatted down and rinsed his hands in the water. The gravel crunched under the soles of his shoes. Most of the blood was on his hands, as if he’d dipped them in it. Blood had splashed his jacket, his face. He rinsed and scrubbed, took his time. But he had no mirror. He was maybe a half mile north of the Williamsburg Bridge, with the East River and Manhattan’s whole skyline splayed before him. It was a still-life of light and dark, without visible movement. He heard no sirens, only the murmur of Brooklyn traffic and nightlife. He pressed his lips together one last time to avoid getting the river’s filth and oil in his mouth. Then he stood, snorted, and shook the water from his hands. He could still feel the man struggling beneath him like an eel being squeezed to death. He looked at his hands, spread his fingers apart, turned them over. Hands that had done more than defend.

Clean enough.

He pulled a plastic bag of clothes from under some bushes in the vacant lot. Removed the ones he was wearing and threw them in a
pile, even his shoes. He didn’t feel the night chill. Between the dark buildings, he could see the Brooklyn clock tower. He switched old clothes for new, tied up the bag of bloody laundry, and hacked holes in the plastic with an awl from his pocket.

With one clean throw the tool sailed far out into the river, followed by the sack. The current bubbled and gurgled as the sack slowly sank. He stood rooted to the ground, legs apart with his hands in his pockets, a solitary silhouette on a spur of land near the electrical plant.

Only then did the shaking come, his whole body racked with the trembling of exhaustion, of adrenaline ebbing away. It was the aftermath. The man had thrashed with all his strength. But the Swede had overpowered him, nailed the bastard’s face in an iron grip.

In the Wyckoff Street emergency room a man lay screaming. The truck driver, a petty thief released on bail, had promised to testify. Except that he’d gotten himself involved in something bigger than he could handle. Even among the nurses who thought they’d seen it all, there were some who had to look away. He would survive, but with empty eye sockets. He would never be able to pick out anyone in a lineup, never recognize anyone again, never talk about who he’d seen where, or when.

The Swede by the river could breathe.

Three weeks earlier

US Federal Building, 26 Federal Plaza, New York City

S
HE FLIPPED THE COIN THROUGH
her fingers, moving it back and forth while absentmindedly sorting papers with her other hand. She was expecting a call, passing the time with files, newspapers, and photographs.
Kansas City Star
: “Topeka Murderers to Be Executed Next Month,” a front-page story. She picked up a photo of a haggard, overweight man in an orange prison jumpsuit, set it aside. The coin wavered between her thumb and index finger, then started moving again. Next to the press clippings lay a stack of witness statements labeled “Murder with robbery, Central Park. Unsolved.” And next to those, a black-and-white photocopied picture of a woman who’d been dead for several years. A few art books, and a receipt from a bar in Toronto.

The phone rang.

As if the coin had been waiting for the signal, it ran swiftly over to her little finger and back. She caught it in her hand. Answered, then hummed in response while someone else talked.

“So it’s settled then,” she said after a while, and leaned back with the picture of a stone sculpture in her hand.

“What name did you get?” She nodded. White marble. The sculpture in the picture was human, neither woman nor man. An outstretched bare body lustfully asking for more.

“Grip,” she repeated. “Ernst Grip. Good. No, that’s not necessary. I’ll send people to meet him at the airport.”