Postcard killers

Chapter 28

She heard herself gasp. that was starting to become a habit, a very bad one.

"I've done what you said," Jacob Kanon said, stepping toward her with his arms outstretched.

She looked at him. He had shaved and washed his hair.

"H and M," he explained.

He was wearing the same jeans, the same jacket, but possibly a new Tshirt. It was hard to tel: it was black, just like the previous one.

"Fantastic," Dessie said. "What a transformation."

"They sel soap as wel," he went on.

"I hope you didn't wear yourself out shopping," Dessie said. "What do you want?"

He looked at her with his sparkling eyes.

"The Swedish police wil be making a huge mistake if they don't listen to me," he said. "They won't catch these kil ers, even if they trip over them. The Germans did nearly everything right and stil didn't catch them."

Dessie closed the door to her apartment. She stayed out in the hal way with him. She wasn't afraid of him anymore, just a bit leery.

"This type of murder investigation is the worst to try to clear up," the American went on. "The victims are picked at random, there are no connections between them and the kil ers, no obvious motives, no shared history going back more than a few hours. And the kil ers are traveling like ordinary tourists, which means that no one notices their absence, no one cares when they come and go, no one notices if they act strangely…"

He appeared sad, restrained, and not quite sober, but something in him seemed entirely genuine. He wasn't putting it on, he wasn't exaggerating.

Maybe it was the contrast to Hugo Bergman's supercilious sense of selfcongratulation that made Dessie notice it. And now that she could see what he looked like behind al the grime, he was actual y pretty good-looking. And those eyes of his were something.

Watch yourself, she thought and crossed her arms.

"What's this got to do with me?" she asked.

Jacob held up a smal sports bag that she hadn't seen before.

"Al we've got is a pattern," he said. "I've got copies of the pictures of most of the bodies in here, and postcards from almost al of the murders. The kil ers are communicating through these pictures, but I can't work out what they're saying. Can you help me?"

"I don't know anything about murder," she said.

He laughed, a sad, hol ow laugh.

"Who else can I turn to?"

Of course. He was here, outside her door, because he had nowhere else to go.

"Look," she said, "I'm tired and I have to be up in a couple of hours."

The timed lights in the stairwel went out. Dessie didn't bother to switch them on again.

"You've been working late," Jacob Kanon said in the darkness. "Has something happened? They didn't kil again, did they?"

She realized to her surprise that her mouth was dry.

"I've been on a date," she said.

She could see only his silhouette against the lead-framed window in the stairwel.

"With Hugo Bergman," she went on. "A famous crime writer. Maybe you've heard of him?"

Jacob pressed the light switch again and the lights came on.

"Time's passing," he said. "The kil ers usual y stay only a few days in a place once they've already done their kil ing. They're probably stil here, but they'l soon be moving on."

He took a step closer to her.

"Kimmy dies," he said. "Kimmy dies over and over again, and we have to stop them."

Dessie backed away.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Come to the paper tomorrow. If you're lucky I'l get you a cup of coffee from the machine."

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and looked like he was about to say something but changed his mind.

Instead he disappeared down the marble staircase.