Death Angels

7

THE MORE THE CORE GROUP SHRANK, THE HIGHER THE STACKS of paper seemed to grow. Cartons and file folders filled up with bizarre evidence-hair, skin, a piece of a fingernail, impressions, marks, bits of clothing, photos that showed the same scene over and over from different angles, a watchcase echoing the cries for help that Winter had heard the last time he was in the room.

Winter had talked to Pia Fröberg, and she didn’t think that all the blows had come at once. She was a top-notch coroner, meticulous. Now, with the remainder of his team gathered in the conference room, he took out a scrap of paper with his notes on it. Geoff Hillier had died of suffocation. The details of his long agony were familiar to everyone in the room.

“How long did it go on?” Fredrik Halders asked. The detective inspector had just turned forty-four. He had stopped combing his hair over his bald spot the year before and left the rest in a crew cut, which had relieved him of the need to smile awkwardly every time someone spoke to him.

“It was a long performance,” Winter said.

“No intermissions?”

“Quite a few,” Ringmar said.

“The first and last wounds were three or four hours apart,” Winter explained. “That’s the best estimate they can come up with.”

“Fucking sadist,” Bergenhem said.

“Yes,” Ringmar said.

“Geoff ’s upper arms were uninjured,” Möllerström said.

“That’s where the bruises are,” Djanali said.

“He must be a strong son of a bitch,” Halders said. “How much did Geoff weigh?”

“Close to a hundred and eighty,” Möllerström answered. “And he was six foot one, so dragging him around was no easy task.”

“If that’s what he did,” Djanali said.

“That’s what he did,” Ringmar said.

“Something like it anyway,” Möllerström said.

“Size ten-and-a-half footprints spinning around the room,” Bergenhem said.

“The only place where he could get hold of him,” Halders said.

“You didn’t have to explain that,” Djanali scoffed.

“Worn-down heels, but with a distinct pattern on the edge,” Möllerström continued.

Winter had asked the group to keep talking. It was a kind of inner monologue turned up for everyone else to hear. Details, thoughts, analyses, day in and day out, new stuff and old, the latest evidence. Don’t hold anything back, let everyone know. They whittled the facts down until the edges took shape and they could start putting it all together.

“How did he manage to sneak out?” Bergenhem asked.

“He changed while he was still there,” Winter answered.

“Even so,” Bergenhem said.

“He bided his time,” Winter said.

“There was a bathroom in there,” Djanali pointed out.

“But still,” Bergenhem said.

“He might have run into two or three people on the way out,” Ringmar offered.

“I’ve been reading some background material,” Winter cut in, “and it seems like everyone looked the other way. Students don’t want to stick their noses into other people’s business these days.”

“It was different back in my time,” Halders mused.

“You went to college?” Djanali asked, her eyes wide open.

Halders sighed.

“Then there are those marks on the floor,” Möllerström continued.

“I don’t understand how they can know for sure that it was a tripod,” Halders said.

“That’s why you’re here and they’re there,” Djanali said.

Halders sighed again. “A damn tripod.”

A damn tripod, Winter thought. It didn’t have to mean anything. When they had finished interviewing all the potential witnesses, knocked on a thousand doors, entered all known psychopaths in the database, recorded everybody’s comings and goings down to the last detail, completed the inquiry into the victim’s background, examined and compared the particles found at the scene of the crime, made a million phone… “Have we traced all the calls that were made from the phone in the hallway of the dorm?” he asked.

“We’re working on it,” Ringmar said.

“I want a list.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll take care of it. How about the Malmströms?”

Winter thought for a minute. “Yes, all the calls from their house too.” The tripod. What was attached to the top of it? he wondered. And what had happened to the device after the murder? That’s what would tell them all they needed to know. A videotape somewhere. Or several, or one with different segments, or…

“We’ve got witnesses from the Brunnsparken area,” Möllerström said.

“Have you finished going around the neighborhood a second time?” Bergenhem asked.

“Almost,” Ringmar answered.

“I want a report of everything the neighbors have to say by tomorrow morning,” Winter ordered. “Something doesn’t jibe here.”

“I have something I want to show you,” the man had said offhandedly, taking the items out of his duffel bag as they stood in front of Jamie’s building. Then he had continued along Drottninggatan Street, and Jamie had gone to work.

Now he rang the doorbell just as Jamie was stepping out of the shower.

The anticipation was almost too much to bear. A thrill of expectation rippled down Jamie’s back as the warmth slowly filled his groin. It was a pleasant feeling. This could be for real.

He’s big, Jamie thought. He’s putting the equipment together now. He sees the bottle of wine on the table. Now he’s coming over and taking the glass from me. I don’t understand what he’s saying. What’s this creepy mask he’s putting on? He’s going back and turning on the camera. Isn’t it supposed to make more noise than this? There’s the whir.

Jamie was spun around to face the black lens, and he opened his eyes in confused horror. A rag was twisted into his mouth and his arms were tied behind his back. He tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat.

The man brought him a chair from the kitchen. The whir grew louder and Jamie’s eyes were glued to the lens. This is one sick motherfucker, he thought. I don’t mind trying something a little different, but it’s freaky that he’s not saying anything. Some games are just too weird. I don’t want to sit here anymore. He’s standing there and staring at me. Get up and turn your back to show him that you want him to untie your arms. Here he comes.

Jamie felt a jolt behind his back and something that burned in the pit of his stomach. When he jerked his head down to see what it was, a pain throbbed under his belly button and it felt like his back was being slit open. The ache was so intense that he was afraid to lift his head back up, and he saw a pool form at his feet. The bastard is pouring wine all over the floor, he thought.

Now he was spinning around. There was the mask again, or maybe it was a new one. And when he saw what the son of a bitch was holding in his hand, he realized that he had let things go much too far. The fear sapped all the strength from his legs and he fell forward toward the object that glimmered in the light from the table lamp and the camera flashes. He tried to scream but nothing came out and he could no longer breathe.

He stood up again. He knew what was happening to him now. He tried to make his way toward the south wall of the room, but the gesture was mostly in his mind. He slipped and struck his hip as he fell. He slid along the floor.

He heard a voice. There’s a voice inside me and it’s calling to me, and the voice is me. I know what’s happening to me. Now I’ll go over to the wall, and if I stay calm, it’s going to be all right.

Mom! Mom!

He heard a whir like when time freezes and the world stops before your eyes. He couldn’t escape it.

Get away from me.

Go away.

It went on for a long time. He grew tired and was lifted up. He didn’t think so much now. The wires and cables in his head had been clipped in two and his thoughts spilled out and careened around his brain. He was lifted up again.