Death Angels

43

MACDONALD CALLED AGAIN. HOUR AFTER HOUR, WINTER SAT deep in thought with his palms pressed against his forehead. Days had come and gone, bringing light and darkness and the whisper of a new kind of wind when he crossed Heden Park.

His phone jolted him out of his reverie.

“Publicizing those photos of Bolger may have yielded us some results,” Macdonald said. “For whatever it’s worth.”

“You said yesterday you’d never manage to sift through everything.”

“That was yesterday.”

“So what happened?”

“A couple called. They live near Christian’s hotel and say that they saw him sitting with a man outside a pub on Camberwell Grove.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s that upscale street with Georgian architecture. I pointed it out to you when you were here. Our inspectors had knocked on all the doors in the neighborhood, but this couple was away at the time and we never had a chance to go back.”

“Okay.”

“They saw a black guy around twenty years old drinking beer with a tall blond man who could have been in his midthirties.”

“And they’re sure about that?”

“They’re sure it’s your high school buddy.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“What?”

“Please don’t use that expression.”

“Sorry. Anyway, the woman is positive. She watched them out of the corner of her eye when her boyfriend was inside the pub.”

“But all they’ve seen is a photo.”

“She also said she figured the kid was a foreigner because it’s so unusual to see a black person at that pub.”

“Local blacks are afraid to go there.”

“Right.”

“And she thinks it was Bolger?”

“Yes, but I’m going to reserve judgment until we can arrange a real lineup.”

“And suddenly they’ll all look the same to her.”

Silence at the other end of the line. The static was like fragments of Macdonald’s thoughts, crystallized in the emptiness of space.

“How’s the interrogation going?” Macdonald asked.

“He’s not talking. When he opens up a little, he claims he can’t remember. He’s had a lot to say about amnesia the past few days.”

“It’s not so unusual for a murder suspect to say he can’t remember.”

“I have my doubts. Deep down I know for sure, but I still have my doubts. Maybe it’s time for someone to take over the investigation who’s more capable. Or at least less emotionally involved.” He heard his own breathing in the receiver. “I’ve talked with Skogome, the forensic psychologist. He’s working on a profile of Bolger.”

“I have a lot of respect for those guys.”

“So do I.”

“As you know, people can feign amnesia to avoid confessing.”

“Yes.”

“Or it can be for real. That would make things a bit tougher for us, wouldn’t it? We’d find ourselves in unknown territory.”

Winter didn’t respond.

“Am I right, Erik?”

“He’s never going to confess under interrogation. I know what he’s like, and he’s simply not going to do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I also know what his motive was.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I’ve thought through it, finished writing.”

“Writing?”

“My story.”

Macdonald waited, but Winter had nothing more to say. Macdonald was breathing heavily, and it sounded to Winter like he’d caught cold in the middle of the British spring.

“How are things with Frankie?” Winter asked.

“He’ll never let himself get drawn into something that endangers his own safety.”

“But what’s he looking for? Remember all that stuff he had to say about torture scenes?”

“I couldn’t tell you. He left a message for me this morning. I called back but he was out.”

“Maybe he’s found something.”

“Frankie? You never know.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Depends on what you mean by trust.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Frankie may be black, but his soul is white as snow.”

“Would he appreciate that comparison?”

“Of course not. Would you? I’ll call you right away if he comes up with anything you need to know.”

“Great.”

“Going back to Bolger’s memory problems-according to the statistics I’ve seen, 30 percent of the most violent criminals claim they can’t remember what happened.”

“The numbers are about the same here in Sweden.”

“We do lots of simulations, and it seems they have a naïve hope of holding on to their innocence.”

“Exactly.”

Winter knew that memory lapses needed to be taken seriously. If you wanted to get as close to the truth as possible, they had to be acknowledged and diagnosed. It was called dissociative amnesia. “But many offenders with amnesia have had mental problems at some point in their lives,” he said to Macdonald.

He had just spoken to an expert about it. Amnesia might be limited to the point at which the actual crime was committed. Or it could involve a personality change and loss of identity for several days. Or a split personality.

Winter had a moment of terror during their conversation. He had given the expert the photograph and handwritten material from Bolger’s apartment, and they’d discussed possible connections.

The expert explained that one cause of genuine amnesia was trauma or profound, emotionally charged conflict earlier in life.

Committing a crime was accompanied by strong feelings and extreme stress.

Criminals don’t generally exhibit any anxiety about their amnesia.

Bolger didn’t exhibit any anxiety. He alternated between indifference and scorn, his eyes darkening as he insisted he was doing his best to remember. He carried himself as if he were asleep.

But there were clear indications of feigned amnesia. Winter had read what the researchers said about it-how you had to be on your guard if the amnesia started right after the crime, or if it varied from one interrogation session to the next.

That’s the way it was with Bolger. No two sessions were the same. But he was now certain that he wouldn’t be able to remember what happened even if he had more time or more clues to help him out.

It’s like permafrost that covers the whole world, Winter thought. Only a huge explosion in the brain can save us and rescue the victims from the scourge of their assailants’ willful ignorance.

“You still there?” Macdonald asked.

“I’m still here.”

“No turning back, then.”

“It’s our only chance.”

“Do you know how much it’s going to cost?”

“Money is no object for me.”

“I forgot about that.”

Winter was scouring his brain for one particular event, and if he could remember what it was, the answer would be there. Everything would be over.

How many hours had he devoted to thinking about the past? The early years, when he and Bolger had spent so much time together…

What had it been like?

There was the rivalry. He hadn’t thought about it much at the time, but it was always there. And he had always turned out to be right. Or he had won the game, which perhaps was the same thing.

He surrounded himself with silence that night. The intermittent cries of the city were his only link to the years he had spent there, beyond the balcony.

Bolger had been briefly committed for mental problems. It had all been hush-hush. His father was like barbed wire coiled round and round the family secrets.

Bolger had always walked one step behind him and slightly to the side, and Winter had rarely turned around. How must that have felt?

Was that an oversimplification? Maybe that’s what he was looking for-the simple, unadorned truth.

They give you funny looks at police headquarters, he thought. Unless it’s the phantoms in your brain making you imagine things.

His conjuring might be a reconstruction of events, another caper of the phantoms, but he could follow the signs of the last few months backward like a thin but unbreakable thread. A series of messages, clues.

There had been words, fragments of music, as if Bolger had planned the whole scenario far in advance: if you’re so brilliant, pal, here’s something to get your mental juices going. Winter was starting to see the pattern.

His friend had challenged him. Was that the word for it? There was an unspoken plea in everything Bolger did, explicit but coming from another place-one step behind him and slightly to the side.

Bolger had known Winter would go to London, could read his intentions. Nothing that he had said was a matter of chance. It was all in the story, the one Winter had thought he was writing.

Maybe you’ve spent your days and nights dreaming, he thought. This could all be an illusion. Everything is unfounded, a misunderstanding. There’s no concrete reason to hope that our efforts have succeeded, that we’ve found the real murderer.

Do you want to be right or wrong?

Winter tried to persuade himself that it wasn’t about him, that it was something bigger. You could be anyone-a pawn in his fury to commit deeds so terrible that no hand can undo them.

Another memory emerged. His memories were like a photo album and a diary lying open side by side. Something had happened to Bolger, but he couldn’t recall what it was.

There were two days left before they would have to release Bolger, unless something else happened in the interim.

He splashed water on his face and fell into a dreamless sleep.