Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

CHAPTER III

Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End

Quantico, Virginia, in December

[SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1]

Johansson had fallen asleep at ten o’clock on Saturday evening but in his head the time was four in the morning on Sunday. When he woke up the time was still four o’clock on Sunday morning, because Johansson was at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, while his head was evidently still back on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan in Stockholm, where it was almost noon; Johansson himself was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Outside the window it was as black as the inside of a sack, although it would clearly be a fine day, thought Johansson. The local weather report posted on the bulletin board in the lobby promised fair weather, temperature in the lower 40s and sunshine; obviously, nothing foreseeable was left to chance in this place. Should I follow my big brother’s advice? thought Johansson. Or should I take a brisk walk instead? The only problem was that there were still three hours left before dawn, and security in the area was rigorous. “High-Ranking Swedish Police Officer Shot by FBI During Morning Constitutional,” thought Johansson, smiling wryly as he visualized the headline. Breakfast, too, was out of the question, as the dining room didn’t open until seven, and would any reasonable person want to have breakfast at one o’clock in the afternoon? Besides, he had a room with its own shower, in contrast to his coworkers, who were not as special as him and had to share a shower with the others staying on the same corridor.

Johansson went into the shower and followed his big brother’s advice while he thought about a woman with whom he had spoken only once before in his life and who was approximately five thousand miles away in a northeast direction. Wonder what she’s doing now, thought Johansson. I don’t expect she’s sitting in the post office on a Sunday. Then he returned to his bed and finished a novel in English that he’d bought to read during the trip, and when the dining room was finally open he was one of the first in line. Big brother was right, he thought while he had scrambled eggs and fried ham with rye bread. It’s even good for your appetite.

When Johansson was a child, his ten-years-older brother had been responsible for the essential aspects of his upbringing. As there were seven children-Johansson was number six-and his parents also had a large farm to run, they mostly had other things on their hands than little Lars Martin. It was not a conventional upbringing, of course, and it surely would have scared the wits out of a child psychologist, but Johansson never had any reason to complain. His oldest brother had always been kind to him. He was the first one to stop calling him Little Brother; he taught him to swim when he was five, took him hunting when he wasn’t much older, and beat up his middle brothers in well-measured doses when they were mean to him. He was also the first one to initiate him into the mysteries of adult life.

When Lars Martin was seven his brother had shown him his porno magazines in an intimate moment. Fat white ladies with giant breasts and no more hair between their legs than Lars Martin himself. There was definitely some kind of cheating going on, he had thought, experienced sauna-goer that he was.

“Though you can wait to read these till you get hair on your prick,” big brother explained. “Besides, you’ll notice it yourself. Yeah, when your love for reading starts to flow, I mean,” he added vaguely.

Lars Martin was content to nod. What could he say?

“Oh, hell,” said big brother, inserting a substantial wad of snuff. “I usually look at them when I beat off. It makes it easier,” he said, nodding. Mostly to himself, it seemed.

Beat off, thought Lars Martin, but he didn’t ask about that.

“Oh, hell,” big brother continued. “There aren’t any women here. Not like in Kramfors, anyway.”

For the past three months big brother had worked as a forestry apprentice at SCA paper down in Kramfors, so he was not only ten years older but well traveled too.

What’s this he’s saying, thought Lars Martin confusedly, no women? It’s swimming with women here, Mama Elna and our sisters and Grandma and all our aunts. And the old neighbor lady Mrs. Nordlund, and say what you will about old lady Nordlund, she was even fatter than the ladies in those magazines he had just been looking at.

And it kept getting stranger and stranger.

His big brother nodded seriously at him and tousled his hair.

“You’ll think about this when it’s time,” he said. “Forget about beating off if there are ladies around, but otherwise see to it that you jerk him off, say, two, three times a day.”

Kramfors, ladies, beat off, jerk him off, thought little Lars. What’s he talking about?

“For otherwise it can go straight to hell.” His brother nodded in great seriousness.

“To hell?” said Lars Martin inquiringly, for he knew what that was, anyway. “How so?”

“Yeah, hell,” said big brother and shrugged his broad shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “You can have pure hell with your prostrate.”

“Prostrate,” repeated Lars Martin vaguely.

“Yeah, you know Great-Uncle Einar. They had to take him to the hospital in the middle of the night and drive a whole canister up his prick so he could finally take a piss.”

A whole canister, thought Lars Martin, and our great-uncle was certainly a full-grown man, but still, wasn’t that impossible?

“A canister?”

“One of those hospital canisters,” his brother clarified with a fateful voice. “It was Bergqvist who told me when I was hunting with him right afterward. Think about it. A canister, I mean, hell…” His brother shook his head exhaustedly.

Bergqvist was the town alcoholic but a very highly regarded district physician, and big brother used to act as a hunting helper for him, so there was nothing wrong with the informant, thought Lars Martin. But a canister? Certainly only a hospital canister, but how much smaller could it be? Doctor Bergqvist was twice as big as the teacher at school.

“So let me give you a good piece of advice, if you don’t have ladies around then it’s a matter of beating off. And at least two or three times a day, otherwise it can go straight to hell,” big brother summarized.

So this was the mecca of the Western police world to which I’ve made a pilgrimage, like a pilgrim from the snow-covered North, thought Johansson, in an excellent mood as he began his brisk morning walk after finishing breakfast. But no minarets and no prayer callers, for this mecca was a little less than forty miles south of Washington, D.C., on the Potomac River, unobtrusively bedded down among Virginia’s gentle, forest-covered hills.

At the heart of the premises were twenty-some buildings of brick and whitewashed stone-built in some sort of postwar functional vernacular, which at ground level were joined by a network of glassed-in corridors. There were offices, laboratory facilities, workout rooms, a swimming pool and a library, classrooms, lecture halls, and a movie theater. There was a restaurant, a cafeteria, and three large buildings for accommodations with a few hundred individual rooms of between sixty and a hundred square feet for the lecturers, students, and other guests staying at or visiting the academy.

What this looks most like is a smaller American university, thought Johansson, who had never visited such a place but still had a definite and in fact quite correct idea of how things looked at a small, modern American university. Typical campus, Johansson decided knowledgeably. Although then it no longer added up: not with a small, modern American university, in any case.

Not far from the central facilities was a small American city, Hogan’s Alley, with a courthouse building, church, school, post office, bank, shops, theater, and casino, and what all those things had in common was that they weren’t real. It was here that police-related arts were practiced and perfected against hired actors playing murderers, robbers, bootleggers, thieves, swindlers, and con men. A Disneyland for people who want to play cops and robbers, thought Johansson, setting a course for the surrounding terrain with its gentle, tree-covered hills.

But there were only obstacle courses, jogging paths, and shooting ranges. In any case, none of it had been intended for brisk walks under a cloudless sky. This he gathered from the muddy, run-down surface and from the glassy stares he got from the totally exhausted runners racing along across the terrain. Damn, thought Johansson. They’re not even running, they’re trying to do themselves in. This is no university with teachers and students. This is an army encampment for an order of knights with castles and fortifications and a jousting field and fencing halls where preparations are being made for a holy war.

When he returned from his morning walk, his good mood was gone, his feet were muddy, and he went back to his room and lay down on his bed to read. Then he must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes it was getting dark outside the window and he had missed lunch. Dinner in an hour, thought Johansson, feeling a bit more alert. After dinner he and his two travel companions from the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation seated themselves at the bar, each ordering a beer, and chatted a little about things past and future. On one point they were touchingly in agreement. There was a bit too much boot camp about the place. The food was good, though, and it was clean and tidy too, and their hosts were cordial with a vengeance. Exactly as it should be in a secret order, thought Johansson.

“I took a turn on the cross-country track,” said the chief inspector from the narcotics squad, who was both a brother of the order and an exercise addict. “They were running like someone was chasing them with a blow torch. I was forced to put it in overdrive to get a little peace and quiet.”

“I took a brisk walk myself,” said Johansson. “The main street down and back.” He intended to keep his experiences of the surrounding terrain to himself.

“Hoover Road, after J. Edgar Hoover, head of the FBI for almost fifty years and the person who founded the place where we’re sitting right now with our beers before going to bed.” The chief inspector from the Interpol group smiled and raised his beer glass.

“I thought he founded the whole FBI,” said Johansson.

“There you’re mistaken, chief,” said the Interpol chief inspector, wiping a little foam from his upper lip. “The FBI was founded in 1908 as a special division of their department of justice. Hoover became its sixth director in 1924. On the other hand, he did found the academy we’re now visiting.”

“Not a day that you don’t learn something new,” said Johansson, smiling a little while his colleague from narcotics leaned forward and cleared his throat conspiratorially, at the same time wiggling his right hand a little.

“I’ve heard he wasn’t sure which locker room to use,” the narcotics chief inspector said, smiling wryly.

“Yes, interesting, isn’t it?” The one from the Interpol group nodded. “In the middle of everything, head of the FBI, macho man to the nth degree, deeply conservative, a believer, Christian American right wing, merciless persecutor of the least liberal peccadillo, not to mention anything to the left of that, and there he was, living in a lifelong relationship with another FBI agent. They lived in the same house, and officially he was Hoover’s chauffeur, servant, and bodyguard, but anyone who knew anything knew that they were a couple. And that his boss used to change into a dress on major occasions.”

“Yeah, what the hell,” said the narcotics chief inspector, shaking his head. “What a life.”

“Let’s hope they loved each other,” said Johansson in a neutral tone and raised his glass.

[MONDAY, DECEMBER 2, TO FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6]

The days had gone by quickly. Planned way in advance, scheduled down to the minute, filled with the content given in the program but only that and nothing else. Three meals a day, half an hour for breakfast in the morning, an hour for lunch, and an hour and a half to have dinner. After that the evening beer at the bar, included as a free social activity, which of course ended at ten o’clock at the latest, in spite of the fact that it didn’t say in the program that it should. Conference sessions, meetings in groups, lectures, seminars, and a scheduled hour per day for physical training.

Those who were naturally a part of the place-recruits, special agents, instructors, and higher officials-all looked as if they were cloned from some type of archived agent probably stored in utmost secrecy at headquarters in Washington. Medium height, hair cut short, straight-backed, head lifted, and eyes directed toward the person with whom they were speaking, broad shoulders, narrow waists, thick thighs and calves. And almost always small feet and small, chubby hands.

The sounds, the voices, the uniforms. The irregular popping from the pistol shooting range, the crackling bursts from the sharpshooter’s rifles, the coughing attacks of the automatic weapons. Wild shrieks from down at Hogan’s Alley, testifying that there was a breakthrough in an ongoing hostage situation. Recruits in columns, rhythmically treading marching boots, voices in chorus, the words impossible to make out, en route from one exercise to another, blue baseball caps, blue fatigues, loosely hanging trousers stuffed into the high shafts of boots. Yes, sir. Good morning, sir. No, sir. Good evening, sir.

Wednesday had been the best day. During the morning there had been two hours scheduled for physical training, and Johansson had exchanged his daily brisk walks, now always up and down the main street, for a visit to the swimming pool. The day before he had, among other things, bought a pair of swimming trunks in the academy’s gift shop, which like everything else were imprinted with the FBI emblem. In addition he had hesitated before a blue baseball cap with the same emblem, and finally he bought that too. Just in case, thought Johansson.

At the swimming pool was Special Agent Backstroem, who was the assigned host for the Scandinavian delegates on the strength of his ethnic heritage, but who in all other respects appeared to have been manufactured at headquarters in Washington.

“Sir,” said Backstroem, pulling in his stomach, sticking out his chest, and looking him right in the eyes. “You’re thinking about swimming, sir.”

No, thought Johansson, who despite the fact that it was only three full days since he had become aware of Agent Backstroem’s existence already hated him with a quiet Norrland fervor. I was thinking about listening to a Vikings concert and that’s why I’m at the FBI Academy’s swimming pool forty miles south of Washington dressed only in bathing trunks. But he didn’t say that. Instead he nodded like the country boy that he was.

“Yes,” said Johansson. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to swim since I’m here anyway.”

“Very good, sir,” said Backstroem, at the same time glancing at the lifesaving paraphernalia hanging on a hook on the wall.

“I would be very grateful if you could time me,” said Johansson.

“Yes, sir,” said Backstroem. “Very good sir. How many laps, sir?”

“Fifty,” said Johansson, nodding and gliding down into the water with the same controlled movements as a gray seal leaving its rock in the sea.

After forty laps Backstroem started acting crazy. He ran beside him along the edge of the pool, waving his arms. Held up the watch and displayed a varying number of fingers. When Johansson heaved himself up out of the pool and wiped the water from his hair, Backstroem was on the verge of collapse.

“Sir,” panted Backstroem. “You are an exceptional swimmer, sir.” He tapped the watch face with his index finger.

Johansson smiled amiably. Nodded.

“So-so,” he said. “It’s been a while since I was at it. Where’s the shower?”

Backstroem showed him the way with a forward-leaning upper body and inviting hand movements. Just so he doesn’t fall in love with me, thought Johansson.

The lecture after lunch had not been too bad either. Johansson was part of an exclusive group of invitees who were to be informed of the most recent findings of the most intellectual aspect of the ongoing fight against crime. They were to learn how to produce psychological profiles of unknown perpetrators of aggravated crimes of violence. The lecturer was an instructor at the FBI’s newly established unit for behavioral science, and aside from the fact that he was twenty years older than Special Agent Backstroem, it was quite obvious that he had been manufactured at the same place. Afterward an entire half hour had been set aside for a final discussion.

I see, thought Johansson. It wasn’t any more difficult than that, and as far as he could understand from the lecture, all serial murderers could be divided into six categories. Either they were asocial and didn’t give a tinker’s damn about what anyone around them thought or did, or they were antisocial and hated those around them, regardless of what they thought or did. And, within both categories, they could be disorganized or organized or both when push came to shove. Two times three equals six, thought Johansson, something he had already learned to do in first grade.

And what have we here? thought Johansson, observing the horrid images that the lecturer was clicking out from his slide projector with the tranquil, pathological delight that was clearly the profiling expert’s badge of honor.

I see, thought Johansson. Here we have a loony who knocked on his neighbor’s door because he’d just purchased a yellow canary. Hates anyone who has yellow canaries. Hates everyone. When the neighbor opened, he walloped him on the head with a pipe wrench. Dragged him into the hallway and thumped him a few more times for good measure. He got so excited by all this that he pooped on the neighbor’s hallway rug and when he finally pulled up his pants he had already forgotten what it was he really wanted to say. He had even forgotten to let the little bird out of its cage. After that he had clumped right through the pools of blood, out into the stairwell and into his own place. There he sat in front of the TV stuffing himself with a bag of glazed doughnuts.

“Now then,” said the lecturer in that stuck-up way characteristic of all ignoramuses who have been granted the good fortune to hold the answer sheet. “Gentlemen. What do you think about this? Any suggestions?”

Suspiciously like an antisocial, disorganized perpetrator, thought Johansson, but before he had time to raise his hand, his counterpart with the Danish Board of Police’s homicide commission had already answered. He was an exceptionally surly old geezer who, despite thirty years in the profession, still persisted in chasing his targets. He also spoke surprisingly good English.

“It was the neighbor who did it.”

The lecturer appeared shaken and, despite his frantic shadowboxing with single mothers, absent fathers, early attempts at treatment, bed-wetting, truancy, and repeated incidents of cruelty to animals starting in childhood, it all still only amounted to a few individual points for style.

“You had him there,” said Johansson when he and his Danish counterpart, after the end of the lecture and an unusually lively discussion, were walking away to the scheduled coffee break.

“Yeah,” the Dane said and grinned. “These damned academics. I hate them.”

“There are only three rules,” said Johansson and smiled.

“Yeah, what are they?”

“You should like the situation, don’t make things unnecessarily complicated, and finally, you should hate chance,” said Johansson.

“You’re a good fellow, Johansson,” said the old geezer with unexpected warmth in his voice, putting his arm around Johansson’s shoulders. “Now let’s have a beer.”

On Thursday he had called Jarnebring in Stockholm. For one thing, he wanted to hear if anything had happened. For another, he wanted Krassner’s address. Why he didn’t really know himself, but since he was here anyway he might as well take the opportunity to see how he lived. Maybe talk to a neighbor, thought Johansson vaguely. Snoop around a little. Set his ear to the rail. He already had the address of Krassner’s old flame. Not clear why he had written it in his notebook before he left.

“Brother,” said Jarnebring warmly. “How’s it going? Is it just beer and broads or is it back to school too?”

After the usual introductory remarks Johansson got to the point.

“How’s it going with that Krassner?” Johansson asked. Innocently and as though in passing.

“You never give up, Lars,” said Jarnebring. “I wrote that bastard off the day before yesterday. Suicide.”

“You don’t have his address,” said Johansson. “I mean here in the States.”

“And what would you do with that?” asked Jarnebring. “Thinking about delivering a wreath, or what?”

“Nah,” said Johansson. “I thought that since I was here anyway…”

“So you thought you’d take the opportunity to see how he lived, perhaps have a chat with a neighbor, snoop around a little…”

“More or less,” said Johansson.

“Sure,” said Jarnebring. “Just don’t come up with anything stupid. I have it here. Have you got pen and paper?”

“Fire away,” said Johansson.

On Friday afternoon, when Johansson and his two travel companions were sitting on the plane to New York, each with a small whiskey as a counterbalance to all the watery American beer they had been drinking that week, his colleague from narcotics suddenly started to laugh.

“Yes?” said Johansson. “Out with it, now.”

The colleague from narcotics nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I was thinking about the last conference I went to. It was with the narcotics unit, on the boat to Finland.”

“Yes?” said Johansson.

His colleague started laughing again.

“Yes, hell,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly like this one, if I may say so.”

Johansson smiled and nodded.

“I know what you mean,” he said.