The Blinded Man aka Misterioso

7

The A-Unit had its first meeting in one of the smallest conference rooms in the enormous complex of police headquarters, located within the rectangle formed by Kungsholmsgatan, Polhemsgatan, Bergsgatan, and Agnegatan. The original headquarters building, constructed in 1903, still boasts dreams of power; its yellowish expanse faces Agnegatan. It is the central hub of the Stockholm police. The opposite side of the rectangle faces Polhemsgatan, mirroring the entirely different but equally absurd architectural ideal of the seventies. That’s where the offices of the National Police Board are located.

And it was there that Paul Hjelm was headed a few minutes before three P.M. He was expected. A guard showed him on a map near the entrance how to find his way to the small conference room. Hjelm wasn’t paying attention, and so he arrived a bit late.

Five people were already in the room, sitting at a table and looking almost as bewildered as he felt. As unobtrusively as possible, he slipped into a vacant chair. As if on cue, a blond man in his fifties wearing a serious expression and a custom-tailored suit appeared. He took up position at the head of the table, placing his right hand on the telescope-like arm of the overhead projector. He glanced around, looking for a face that he didn’t see. He left the room again, clearing his throat. Just as he closed the door behind him, the door on the other side of the room opened, and in came Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. He too glanced around, looking for a face that he didn’t see.

“Where’s Mörner?” he asked.

The constituents of what was evidently the proposed A-Unit stared in confusion at one another.

“Who’s Mörner?” asked Hjelm, not offering much help.

“A man was just here,” said the group’s only female member, a dark-haired woman from Göteborg who was in the process of acquiring the first wrinkles on her face but clearly didn’t give a damn. “But he left.”

“That sounds like him,” said Hultin flatly. He sank heavily onto a chair and set a pair of half-moon reading glasses on his big nose. “Waldemar Mörner, the commissioner of the National Police Board, and the official boss of this group. He was planning to deliver a little welcome speech. Oh well, maybe he’ll come back.”

Hjelm had a hard time picturing this distinguished and efficient man with the controlled, neutral voice as a vicious soccer player.

“Okay, you all know what this is about,” Hultin continued. “You are now members of what for lack of a better term and for lack of much else is going to be called the A-Unit. You answer directly to the National Criminal Police, or NCP, but you’ll be working closely with the Stockholm police, primarily with their homicide department, which is housed in the Kungsholmsgatan wing, around the corner from here. Stockholm is the scene of the crime, at least for the moment. All right then.

“The point is that all of you, regardless of rank, are in a position of higher authority than those who will be assisting you, whether it’s the Stockholm police or the NCP. This case has top priority, as they say on TV. Since you’ve been hand-picked from districts all over the country, I don’t think you know each other, so let’s start by introducing ourselves. As you know, my name is-”

The door was flung open, and the man they’d seen before entered again, out of breath and ill tempered.

“There you are, Hultin. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Is that so?” said Hultin. “Well, here you have your A-Unit.”

“Good, very good,” Waldemar Mörner said impatiently. He took up the same position as before, standing at the head of the table and leaning one hand on the raised section of the overhead projector. “So, gentlemen. And madam. You are a hand-picked unit consisting of six individuals-five men and one woman-and I assume that Detective Superintendent Hultin has already informed you of your assignment. So now you’ve got to get busy. It’s of the utmost importance to the security of this nation that you stop this insane serial killer before Sweden loses all of its leading citizens. You and you alone can end this rampage through the country’s streets. Yes, that’s right. Yes, indeed. I can see that you are all young and ambitious, fully aware of what’s at stake, and raring to take on this task. So let the game begin. May the guardian angel of police officers offer you protection.”

He left the room at the same whirlwind pace as he had arrived. Several jaws that had dropped open during his speech were now firmly back in place.

Jan-Olov Hultin closed his eyes and reached over his glasses to rub the corners of his eyes. “All right, so now everybody knows what this is about,” he said calmly. It took a second before smiles began to appear around the table. It would take much longer before they fully understood Hultin’s subtle sense of humor. “Let’s continue from where we left off. My name is Jan-Olov Hultin, and I’ve worked here for a number of years, often directly under the former, nationally known boss, whose name we no longer mention. They’re just about to appoint a successor, with the new title of National Criminal Director, a title that carries the status of director-general. Gone are the police titles of the past. So why don’t you introduce yourselves now? Moving clockwise.”

This abrupt transition caused more confusion. Finally a balding, rather stout man in his early fifties spoke up. He was sitting on the far right in the small, bare conference room. He tapped his pen lightly as he spoke.

“Yes, well, my name is Viggo Norlander, and I’m the only one here who has worked on this case from the very beginning. So I’ve been transferred directly from the Stockholm police criminal division around the corner. You might say that I’m the one who has traveled the shortest route to get here. I also see that I’m presumably the oldest one present, except for Mr. Jan-Olov, of course.”

Hultin nodded slightly, without changing expression. They clearly knew each other well.

Next to Norlander sat the woman.

“I’m Kerstin Holm. As you can no doubt already hear, I’ve been imported directly from the North Sea coast. I’ve worked in the Göteborg criminal division all my adult life, and even before that.”

Then came the youngest and shortest member of the team, a dark-haired young man who couldn’t be much over thirty. He spoke with great clarity.

“My name is Jorge Chavez, and until yesterday I was the only ‘blackhead’ cop in the entire Sundsvall police district. I’m leaving behind a real void, believe me. Apparently all the minorities have to be represented here. Including heroes, I see.”

He cast a meaningful glance at Hjelm, who sat next to him. Hjelm blinked a few times before attempting to speak. Off in the background, he saw the shadow of a smile cross Hultin’s lips.

“I’m here because of a foolhardy act and not because of some heroic deed, and we’ll just have to see whether this assignment is meant to be a punishment or a reward. My name is Paul Hjelm, and I’m from the Huddinge police. I’m sure you haven’t missed the charming photograph from my youth that’s been plastered all over the media the past few days.”

Quite a decent response, considering the circumstances, he thought, though he was sweating so much afterward that he missed part of the next introduction.

The man on his left looked very Finnish. He appeared to be several years older than Hjelm, who immediately thought about Martti Vainio, the famed long-distance runner from Finland who had ended up testing positive for drugs and then became a conservative politician. The man’s accent was minimal but still noticeable, compared to Chavez’s complete lack of accent.

“Arto Söderstedt, your typical Finnish buffoon,” he said laconically. “Flown here from Västerås early this morning in the NCP boss’s private jet.”

Then there was only one man remaining, a huge guy wearing slovenly clothes, muscular but also with the rolls of fat often left by anabolic steroids when not combined with regular workouts. Hjelm tried not to draw any conclusions based on this initial observation.

“I’m Gunnar Nyberg from the Nacka police,” he said. They waited to hear something more, but nothing came.

Hultin took the floor again. “We have five offices at your disposal: my office, this-what should we call it?-conference room, where we’ll have our meetings. And three other offices. That means you’ll have to share rooms, so you’re going to be working in teams of two for a while. That’s nothing new. I suggest the following pairs: Norlander and Söderstedt in room 302; Holm and Nyberg in room 303; Hjelm and Chavez in room 304. In each office you’ll find two desks, two phones, an intercom, two cell phones, and a fully equipped computer system. You’ll find me hunkered down in room 301, and this is of course room 300. On each desk you’ll find a file folder with a complete rundown of the case. With these administrative details now out of the way, I’ll ask Norlander to present a summary of what’s far more important, meaning the details relating to the police investigation. I’ll hand out your work assignments afterward. It’s all yours, Viggo.”

Norlander got up and perched on the edge of the table next to Hultin. He took a colored marker from the whiteboard behind him and fidgeted with it as he talked.

“There won’t be a scrap of technical evidence to go on. The perp didn’t leave a single clue, not even a strand of hair. The very lack of evidence has led us to believe that we’re dealing with some sort of professional. So we can leave the technical reports until later. An ordinary nine-millimeter weapon. But big firepower. The bullets passed right through the skulls of the victims and were afterward plucked out with some type of pliers. In both cases, the perp was sitting in the living room when the victim arrived home, and he fired the shots from that position. Even though in both instances the victim had a wife, it seems as if the perp knew that the victim would be coming home alone and also that he would arrive late in the evening. I’ll make a sketch of both living rooms so you can get an idea of the similarity of the modus operandi.”

Norlander drew two blue rectangles on the whiteboard and then filled them in with a number of smaller squares and rectangles. Then he drew a short line that stretched diagonally from the same side of both rectangles.

“That’s the living room door,” he explained. “As you can see, both rooms are basically square-shaped. The arrangement of the furniture and the layout are practically identical. It was here, on the sofa along this wall farthest from the door, that the perp was sitting. He waited until the victim moved slightly to one side so that the slugs would end up in the wall and not go flying off to some unknown fate outside the door. Then he fired two shots through the victim’s head.”

Norlander drew a diagonal line through each square, indicating the path of the shots from the sofa positioned directly opposite the doorway.

“The similarity may have two functions. Either it indicates a ritual, meaning that we’re dealing with a highly specific method of execution, and the intention could be for someone to recognize this method and feel threatened by it. Or else it’s a trick, directed at us, to make us anticipate the same pattern the next time; if the symmetry is broken, we might then think that the crime isn’t part of the series. But I think someone should do some checking on this M.O. with Interpol and the rest of the international contact network, to see if this is a recurring execution method used by any existing terror groups or mafia organizations.

“But right now our most important job is to predict who the next victim will be. It’s not going to be easy. As I’m sure you can imagine, there are scores of connections between Kuno Daggfeldt in Danderyd and Bernhard Strand-Julén in Östermalm. We can divide them up into five parts: common enemies, common circles of friends, common leisure activities, common business interests, and common board memberships. These areas will probably overlap somewhat, so they should just be taken as general guidelines.”

Norlander went back to his place at the table and sat down. Hultin nodded and took the floor.

“Okay, if we assume that this pattern also applies to time, then nothing is going to happen tonight. The first murder took place in the very early morning hours of March thirtieth; the second sometime after midnight on April first, today. I think Commissioner Mörner stated it quite clearly. If the pattern holds, though I grant you it’s based on premises that are still much too vague, then murder number three will take place tomorrow night.

“It’s unreasonable to think that before then we’ll be able to close in on a suspect and put him under surveillance. But it would be good to at least narrow the field of possible targets so that we can then call on the willing assistance of the Stockholm police force and watch maybe five or six of the most likely candidates. Keep in mind the home-alone and arriving-home-late element.

“I suggest the following work assignments: Viggo will handle Interpol and the M.O. angle; Nyberg will try to track down any common enemies, with particular attention to the distant past, the Stockholm School of Economics, and their paths to prominence. Holm will call people in their circles of friends and find out if there are any secret lovers or the like. Hjelm will focus on their leisure activities: sailing, golf, fraternal orders, and anything else that can be discovered. Söderstedt will tackle their business interests. And be sure to get all the help you need from the National Economic Crimes Bureau; that’s probably going to be the toughest area to deal with. And Chavez will check up on the various board memberships that both victims have held, both now and in the past.

“I’ll be in charge of the overall picture, the assignments, decision making, and so on. This damned whiteboard is going to fill up with flow charts. It’s almost four o’clock now. I suggest we put in a few hours so we can set up an effective work plan for tomorrow.”

Hultin paused to think. Then he nodded slightly, as if to indicate that he’d said all he wanted to say. Just as he was about to stand up, Arto Söderstedt cleared his throat, and Hultin sank back into his chair.

“What’s the work schedule going to be?” asked Söderstedt.

“Well, as I said, we’re all going to be putting in a lot of hours until this thing is solved. You can forget about any union contracts and legal work hours for the time being. In principle, the entire group is on call twenty-four-seven. You can choose to see it from the bright side-special loopholes have been created so that we can make use of the maximum allowable overtime. If this thing goes on for long, you may be earning a lot of extra pay. Or you can choose to see it from a negative point of view. Marriages and the like are going to suffer, especially if this goes on through the summer.”

Again Hultin made a motion to get up; again he sank back into his chair.

“Just one more question,” Söderstedt said. “What about Säpo?”

Hultin nodded. It was impossible to interpret his brief pause. “Right. Well, the Security Police will certainly be involved. As usual, they’ll carry out their parallel investigation in secret, but the plan is for us to ‘exchange information.’ ” Hultin’s quote marks fluttered around the room like little death’s-head hawk-moths. “One day in the very near future, their group is going to show up here to introduce themselves and discuss the security aspects of the case. I’ve had certain indications, you might say, that the security division of the military will also step in at the slightest hint of any international military involvement. So we have several reasons to hope that this can stay on a national level.”

That was as far as Hultin’s subjective opinion went.

He got up and went out to the corridor. They followed, single file, well aware of what lay ahead of them, and disappeared, two by two, into their respective offices.

Jorge Chavez and Paul Hjelm went into room 304. It was so small that it really had only enough space for the two desks, which had been shoved together. The computer stood on the crack between the two desks; the monitor could be turned to face in either direction. Squeezed into the corner of the room was a little table with a coffeemaker.

At least the minuscule room had a window facing the courtyard. Hjelm stepped over to the window and looked out. He could see sections of police headquarters surrounding a small, concrete yard. Under the window stood a little table with an old dot-matrix printer; the cables stretched like tripwires across the floor from the computer.

“If we quickly swallow our disappointment at not getting our own offices, this will probably do just fine,” said Chavez. “Which desk do you want?”

“It doesn’t look like it makes any difference,” said Hjelm.

Chavez sat down on the chair closest to the door, and Hjelm took the other. Both tested the chairs by rocking back and forth as they absentmindedly leafed through the file folders on the desks in front of them.

“Better than Sundsvall,” said Chavez.

“What’s better?”

“The chairs. At least they’re better.”

Hjelm nodded, noticing the unanswered questions hovering in the air between them. He imagined that the other man noticed it too.

Chavez broke the rather oppressive silence by jumping up and asking Hjelm, “Coffee?”

“That might be a good idea.”

Chavez lifted the lid of the coffee container sitting on the little table in the corner. Then he bent down and sniffed.

“Ah,” he said as he let the coffee grounds slide through his fingers. “Ah. What is it they call this? The King’s Coffee? Would you mind if I brought along a South American blend tomorrow instead?”

“Okay, but leave that one here.”

“Absolutely,” said Chavez as he returned to his desk with the empty coffee pot in his hand. He leaned toward Hjelm. “But I think I’ll be able to make you a convert to genuine Colombian coffee, hand ground.”

Hjelm looked at the short, eager man. “Can you brew that sort of thing in an ordinary Swedish coffeemaker?”

“Ah,” said Chavez. “It has many unused capabilities.”

He disappeared out into the hallway, then returned carrying the pot filled with water. He went over to the corner table and gently tipped the pot toward the coffeemaker.

“That part about being a hero…” said Hjelm as he heard the first drops hitting the tabletop. One by one they landed on the floor. The rest of the water ended up, as intended, in the coffeemaker, which Chavez switched on as he stuffed a filter in the basket and dumped in several spoonfuls of the King’s Coffee.

“It just slipped out,” Chavez said to Hjelm, with his back turned. “That happens. It’s an old defense mechanism.”

“Do you have reservations about working with me?”

“I don’t even know you,” said Chavez to the wall.

“Give me a break,” said Hjelm.

Chavez turned around, went back to his chair, and sat down, fixing his eyes on the desk. “It’s true that I know nothing about you. I have no idea what really happened during that… hostage drama. All I know is how people reacted.”

“In Sundsvall?”

“Let’s just say this: I’m glad I’m here and not there.”

“With me?”

“In a closed room.”

“The media story isn’t correct.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. And it does in terms of our working relationship.”

Both fell silent. Neither man looked at the other. It started to get dark in the room. Hjelm got up to switch on the ceiling light. An unpleasant fluorescent glow gradually filled the office. Hjelm was still standing, garishly illuminated. “Tomorrow I’ll ask Hultin to find you a different officemate,” he said, and went out into the hall.

The men’s bathroom was right next door, and he stood there for a good long time after taking a piss. He shut his eyes and leaned forward against the wall. “There are no simple acts.” Damn Grundström. And Hultin, who’d obviously teamed him up with Chavez as a test. He picked a speck of dirt from the corner of his eye and flicked it into the toilet bowl. He flushed it away, and as he slowly and methodically washed his hands, he avoided looking in the mirror.

“Now I get it,” said Chavez when Hjelm returned. “You’re the one who wants to change officemates. Get away from the Sundsvall blackhead with the big mouth.”

“Better a Sundsvall blackhead with a big mouth than a world-famous blackhead exterminator,” said Hjelm as he poured two cups of coffee.

“Just one question,” said Chavez, taking the cup Hjelm handed him. “Would you have gone in if the guy was Swedish?”

“He is Swedish,” said Hjelm. For a moment neither of them spoke. “So should we get to work?”

Chavez slapped the file folder against the desktop a few times. “Let’s roll,” he said, and then raised his index finger. “And hey-”

“Let’s be careful out there,” they both said foolishly, in unison.

“Our age is showing,” said Chavez, looking shamelessly young.

It was close to seven by the time Hjelm finished compiling his list. Kuno Daggfeldt and Bernhard Strand-Julén had both been members of the RSSS. Before finding out what the acronym stood for, Hjelm toyed with the idea that they had played in a punk band from the southern suburbs. But RSSS stood for the Royal Swedish Sailing Society, which had its headquarters in Saltsjöbaden. Apparently lots of Swedish sailing enthusiasts were members, which meant this particular link wasn’t of great interest. On the other hand, their sailboats happened to be docked in the same place, provided they had already been launched for the season: in the Viggbyholm marina in Täby, north of Stockholm. The two men were also members of the Viggbyholm Boat Club. Hjelm wondered why Strand-Julén would dock his boat so far away when he had the Djurgården small-vessel marina practically at his doorstep. At any rate, a visit to Viggbyholm was on the agenda for the following day.

The two men were also both members of the Stockholm Golf Association, which was headquartered at the Kevinge Golf Course in Danderyd. And that was where they both played whenever they were in town. Hjelm would have to go out there as well.

Finally, the men were both members of the same fraternal lodge, the Order of Mimir. Since Hjelm didn’t know one thing about fraternal orders, he was forced to do some serious checking up on the subject. This form of activity, which for all practical purposes was unknown to the general public, was apparently widespread among the upper classes throughout Sweden. The Freemasons alone had 25,000 members divided up among 125 lodges all over the country. After he’d read through the available material and become familiar with various orders of monks as well as military associations, with government groups and nonprofit organizations, all of them orders, both big and small, and after he’d learned about a whole series of founders of orders from the Middle Ages onward, and after he’d become familiar with the different training procedures and levels of promotion, each one more peculiar than the last, even then he didn’t have a clue as to the true nature of the activities of these orders. Their real purpose was secret and kept hidden from public scrutiny with the help of strange laws, many centuries old, but the reference books hinted that the most obscure rituals took place within those high-class walls. In general, women were excluded.

The Order of Mimir was one of the smallest and least known groups, which made this connection significantly more interesting than if the two men had been Freemasons or Good Templars (membership in the latter, it turned out, was impossible because of the gentlemen’s drinking habits, which were apparently well known). There were no written materials to be found about the Order of Mimir, but Hjelm managed to track down an address via a tax evasion lawsuit in which the order had been involved six years earlier. He blessed the search engine on the Internet.

No other common leisure activities showed up. As if three weren’t enough for hardworking businessmen.

So Hjelm put together a short list of activities to be investigated further the next day: (1) The Viggbyholm Boat Club, Hamnvägen 1, Täby; (2) The Stockholm Golf Association, Kevingestrand 20A, Danderyd; and (3) The Order of Mimir, Stall-gränd 2, Gamla Stan. Talk about stepping into another world.

Hjelm stretched. They had turned off the ceiling light. It was unusable for anyone who wasn’t a masochist specializing in migraines. They were now working with the light from the two desk lamps, using ordinary 40-watt bulbs. The sky outside had not yet turned dark, although it no longer provided them with any appreciable light.

Chavez had lifted the computer keyboard to his side and was typing madly.

“Have you figured out any connections regarding their board memberships?” asked Hjelm as he stood up.

“Just a minute,” said Chavez, continuing to type. “It’s a hell of a mess.”

“I was thinking of taking off. Where do you live? Are you headed south?”

With an emphatic gesture, Chavez pressed enter, and the old dot-matrix printer started rattling underneath the window. He took a gulp of coffee and grimaced. “I live here,” he said, then continued melodramatically, “This is my home.”

Hjelm stared at him, his right eyebrow raised.

“It’s true,” Chavez asserted. “There’s a room where I can spend the night two floors up. They’re going to find me a proper place to stay tomorrow. At least I hope so.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

“Sure, see you,” said Jorge Chavez as he went over to the shuddering printer.