Death Angels

14

BERGENHEM HAD ASKED HlMSELF MORE THAN ONCE WHY HE had been assigned to the county criminal investigation unit. It wasn’t his decision, or maybe it was, after all-they knew perfectly well what he wanted to do. He had no interest in the narcotics, technical or white-collar crime divisions, and larceny didn’t have nearly the same appeal. Violence was tangible and concrete-dirty business committed by people who were settling private scores, however bizarre.

It wasn’t until the victims were wholly innocent-when one side held all the power, when children lay on stretchers and faced a lifelong disability-that his job began to trouble him. Three-year-old girls who would never see again, six-year-old boys who kicked soccer balls one day and were beaten black and blue by their fathers the next.

He wasn’t going to become thick-skinned. He wanted to be just the opposite, a warrior battling all the odds.

Bergenhem buried his face in Martina’s hair until he could scarcely breathe. They had been married a year now, and she was eight months pregnant. Their child would be kicking a soccer ball before they knew it. Bergenhem would play goalie.

An inspector almost straight out of the National Police Academy. He felt as if he had won some kind of award but had no idea what for. He was promising material, someone had said. Material for what?

The first few weeks had been particularly lonely. He had been a little shy at the academy, and making his mark among forty other inspectors at Homicide-or the thirty who weren’t in the wanted-persons group-was an even more daunting challenge. He didn’t really understand why they were keeping him on Winter’s team as the investigation went forward.

He had his assignment, and he knew that his position was secure even if it took a while before things started to happen. Something always happened, eventually. That was Winter’s mantra. Nothing stands still, everything flows-but better a deceptive calm than chasing your tail without ever getting anyplace.

Loneliness. He recoiled from the jargon of his profession, and he wasn’t cynical enough to learn it-not yet, at least. He couldn’t simply laugh off the misery he encountered, and that made him feel like a square peg in a round hole.

He noticed that Winter rarely smiled. Winter wasn’t a square peg in a round hole, and he didn’t laugh at the wrong times like Halders was in the habit of doing, or even Ringmar every once in a while.

Bergenhem admired Winter and wanted to be like him but didn’t think it would ever happen. It wasn’t Winter’s style-his elegance or whatever you wanted to call it-that Bergenhem craved for himself. That quality ran deeper in Winter than in others, sure, but it was his toughness that struck Bergenhem. An iron fist in a velvet glove. Winter was surrounded by an aura of stern concentration, and when he worked, his features shifted but his gaze remained steady. Maybe he let his guard down when he was off the job, but Bergenhem didn’t see him then.

There were all kinds of rumors about Winter and women, that he used them to relieve the pressures of his job. He had a reputation that would have been devastating if he weren’t a man. But the rumors all had to do with the past, and Bergenhem suspected that Winter had learned to be more discreet in his erotic adventures. He didn’t really give a damn one way or the other. Winter meant something else to him altogether.

Where will you be in twelve or thirteen years? The aroma of Martina’s hair filled his lungs. Will you be lying here and brooding over the same thoughts about the world around you? Some people walk in worn-out shoes. How many more will be destitute in twelve or thirteen years?

“What are you thinking about?”

Martina turned over on her side, a little clumsily, supporting herself on her right elbow and lifting her left leg. He ran his hand over her belly. It stuck out like one of those orange cones they used during soccer practice. He didn’t play soccer anymore. His coach had said that he hoped Bergenhem had learned his lesson and would be more careful in other areas of his life.

“Nothing special,” he answered.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Some people walk in worn-out shoes.”

“What does it mean?”

“That’s all. Some people walk in worn-out shoes. The phrase just popped into my head.”

“It sounds like a song or something.”

“Right, that’s where it’s from. I heard Marie Fredriksson sing it once with Eldkvarn. But Cornelius Vreeswijk wrote it a long time ago.”

“Some people walk in worn-out shoes.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a good title.”

“Hmm.”

“I can see them in my mind, all the unfortunate ones in their worn-out shoes.”

“Right now?”

“They’re not so unusual these days,” she said, pointing vaguely at the world outside the bedroom window.

“Is that the kind of thing you think about?”

“Not that much, especially now, to be honest about it.” She placed her hand on her belly. “Right there, do you feel it?”

“What?”

“Put your hand… No, there.”

At first he didn’t notice anything, but then there was a tiny movement, or the hint of one.

“Do you feel it now?”

“I think so.”

“What does it do to you?” she asked, her hand on top of his.

“I can’t really describe it. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll come up with something.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“This time I promise.”

She closed her eyes, and he felt another flutter under his hand.

They lay there silently.

The egg timer went off in the kitchen.

“The potatoes,” she said, not moving.

“To hell with them.” He smiled.

“Do you think I’m too soft to be a police officer?” Bergenhem asked over dinner. “Like I’m not up to the job?”

“No.”

“Be honest.”

“How could I say you’re too soft? The softer, the better.”

“To be a policeman?”

“What?”

“Too soft to be a policeman?”

“It’s a good thing.”

“To be too soft?”

“It’s the kind of job where you get hard too fast, and that’s the worst thing that can happen.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I doubt if I’ll make it through the day.”

“Don’t let go of that doubt.”

“What?”

“Don’t let yourself get stiff and hard.”

“So it’s better to be soft?”

“It’s much better to be soft like overcooked asparagus.”

“But sometimes I’m more like raw asparagus, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Not all of me.”

“What part of you?” She reached across the table and squeezed his biceps. “Overcooked asparagus.”

“I’m not talking about anything above my waist.”

Bergenhem stepped inside Bolger’s bar. He’s just as tall as Winter, Bergenhem thought, but seems twice as big. It could be his leather vest, or his features. You’ve been here for three minutes and his expression hasn’t changed. He’s as old as Winter, but until people get past forty, their age is always hard to pin down.

“You don’t strike me as a restaurant goer,” Bolger said.

“No.”

“Not much for nightlife?”

“It depends on the night.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Bolger turned toward the rows of bottles behind him. “Since Erik sent you, have one on the house. Even if you’re not used to sinning in broad daylight.”

“I’ll take some juice, if you don’t mind.”

“Ice?”

“No, thanks.”

Bolger found a carton of juice in the refrigerator underneath the bar and filled a glass from the hanging shelf above. “I’m afraid that I’m not all that familiar with the part of the industry you’re after,” he said.

The drink had a tangy sweetness over the orange flavor that Bergenhem couldn’t place.

“Clubs have been sprouting up like weeds in this city over the past few years,” Bolger continued, “and I’m not talking about restaurants either. It’s all happened so fast I’ve pretty much lost count.”

“Illegal clubs?”

“That may be an accurate way to describe them, but most have licenses these days. Which only goes to show that crime pays, right?”

“In what way?”

“You open an illegal club and a week later, bam, you’re holding a license in your grubby little hands.”

“I see.”

“After two weeks, you close the joint down and start all over someplace else. But that’s all old hat to you guys.”

“Some of us, anyway.”

“That’s not exactly the information you were looking for, is it?”

“I’m grateful for anything you can give me.”

“Like what’s going on in the illustrious porn world?”

“For example.”

“What does Erik expect to find out, anyway?”

Bergenhem took another gulp of his juice.

“The industry has grown,” Bolger continued. “It’s a different scene from back when I played a bit part.”

“What’s so different now?”

“It’s a lot more than tits and asses, to put it bluntly.”

“Hardcore?”

Bolger’s teeth gleamed in his dark face and the windowless room. “More like supercore. From the little I’ve seen, what goes in isn’t as important anymore as what comes out. Or both at the same time, if you catch my drift.” He took down a glass, filled it with beer and sipped it once the foam had settled. “I got out of there just in time.”

“Do they have illegal joints too?”

“Illegal strip joints? It depends on how you look at it.”

“I’m not following you.”

“There’s the part that the general public sees-a magazine rack, a few books, sex toys, peep shows and a couple of large screening rooms.”

“Strippers?”

“They’re called exotic dancers.”

“And?”

“What?”

“You said that’s just what the public sees.”

“Now, I’m going strictly by hearsay. But one or two of those places have a room where you can find things that are a little out of the ordinary. Magazines with a special twist, maybe movies.”

“Movies?”

“Movies where the actors engage in unusual acts.”

“Unusual acts?”

“Don’t ask me what they are, but it’s no Sunday school picnic.”

“You know that these movies exist?”

“That’s what they tell me, and also that there are a couple of small, anonymous joints that don’t even pretend to be anything else.”

“Where?”

Bolger threw out his hands.

“Can you look into it?” Bergenhem asked.

“Maybe. It might take a little time, though. I’ve got to watch my step.”

“Who are the customers?”

“You ask as if I knew the answer.”

“What’s your best guess? As opposed to the customers you had, or the ones who look for the ordinary stuff.”

The sunlight from the other room suddenly dimmed, and Bolger put on a pair of metal-frame glasses with thin lenses.

They add character to his face, Bergenhem thought.

“My best guess? I don’t think there’s that much of a difference. Interest breeds interest, like when you start with beer and move on to the harder stuff. Or from smoking grass to shooting up.”

“You develop more of an appetite?”

“Some people just want more and more. It’s hard to say where it all stops. Others are sexually aroused by the fantasy of being strangled or having a limb cut off. Who knows what kind of movies they like to watch?”

“Where can I find them?” Bergenhem asked.

“People who dream about somebody cutting off their leg?”

“All of these sick people. When they’re not at a club, I mean, or at home, or in a hotel room.”

“Since I drive a BMW, I’d say in Volvo’s boardroom. Or in the boardroom of your choice. Or on the county commission. There are crazy people everywhere.”

“Creepy.” Bergenhem got up.

“Be careful out there. I’m not kidding.”

Bergenhem waved from the doorway and walked out into the sunset. The wind swooped down from the rooftops and raised his collar. A glass broke somewhere behind him.