The Glass Devil

Chapter 6

SUPERINTENDENT ANDERSSON SEEMED TIRED during the evening meeting. Irene became concerned when she saw bags under his eyes and wrinkles that seemed to have deepened in just a few hours. He was, after all, getting close to retirement age. Maybe it wasn’t strange that he looked exhausted.

“The press has been hounding me! I can’t set foot outside the station, and I’ve told the operators not to put through any phone calls from the media. We still haven’t any information about the pentagrams and that Satanic crap, and I don’t know how long it will be before we do.” He drank some warm coffee from a mug that bore the inscription “I’m the boss.” He had gotten it as a Christmas present the year before, and he was childishly fond of it. He continued, “I’ve spoken with Georg again.”

At first, Irene didn’t remember who Georg was. Then she recalled that the superintendent’s cousin was Georg Andersson, and he had been Jacob Schyttelius’s boss.

“According to Georg, Jacob Schyttelius was a good teacher and well-liked. He taught computers and physical education and … what else was it?”

Andersson started rummaging through the pile of papers in front of him and finally found a wrinkled notepad. His tired features brightened as he flipped through it. “Here! Computers, P.E., and math, for grades one through seven. Isn’t there a hell of a difference between a student in first grade and one in seventh? In my time. . ”

He stopped and looked down at the notebook again.

“He started as a substitute at the end of the fall semester and was given a full-time position for the spring. All his reports were good, and Georg said that he was very pleased with Jacob. The school is a charter school with an ecumenical profile, so Jacob’s background was an added bonus. And Georg has known his parents for many years.”

Fredrik asked, “What does ‘ecumenical profile’ mean?”

“Oh. . I asked as well. It takes students from all Christian denominations. Georg said that, for example, there are Christian Syrians, and Russians who are Pentecostal.”

Now Irene asked permission to speak. “The reason you and I went out to Norssjön on Tuesday was because your cousin had called and was worried about Jacob: He hadn’t shown up at work during the day and didn’t answer the telephone. But I remember you mentioned that the principal had said that Jacob might be depressed. Why did he think that?”

“Jacob was on sick leave during the fall for depression. It was probably due to his divorce,” Andersson replied.

A divorce might well result in depression, especially with Jacob’s genetic predisposition.

“But more than six months had passed, and he had started working again. Why should his depression return?” Irene persisted.

The superintendent’s color rose and irritation could be heard in his voice. “I’m no headshrinker, but can’t depression return without any particular reason?”

Irene nodded; maybe he was right.

The superintendent stared grimly down at his notebook. “Our pathology professor called me a little while ago. Jacob Schyttelius was first shot in the chest near the heart, with a round fired from a distance of a few meters. The second shot went straight through his brain, and was fired at very close range when he was lying on the floor. The bullet was found in the floorboards. Each shot would have been fatal.

“The pastor and his wife were each shot between the eyes. Those shots were also instantly fatal because large-bore ammunition was used, so the damage was extensive. The bullets have been sent to the lab, but Stridner thinks they are of the same caliber. Ballistic tests aren’t complete yet.

“It is interesting to note that Jacob was shot two hours before his parents.”

“What did the killer do between the murders?” Irene wondered.

“Erased the hard drives,” Fredrik Stridh replied.

“Bam bam. One shot in the chest and one in the forehead for Jacob. Bam bam. One shot between the eyes for the two other victims. A Husqvarna 1900 is a type of Mauser rifle and can be loaded with five rounds. This killer is familiar with guns. There couldn’t have been much time between shots at the rectory, as the victims never stirred,” Tommy thought out loud.

“Chambering a round with a Mauser-type rifle takes less than one second for someone who is trained in its use. I think he shot Sten Schyttelius first and then popped Elsa,” the superintendent said.

“That sounds plausible. But we don’t know for sure,” Tommy agreed.

“It’s the most likely scenario, since Elsa was full of sleeping pills according to Stridner.”

Irene felt some sense of relief. Even if Elsa had been awake in the last few seconds before her death, she would have been too dazed to understand what was happening.

“I’ve checked the license for the rifles. The ones from the gun cabinet belonged to Sten Schyttelius. The Husqvarna under the bed is registered to Jacob Schyttelius,” said Hannu.

“Is there a gun cabinet at the cottage?” Irene asked.

Hannu shook his head.

“Then he must have left his weapon in his father’s cabinet. It was just coincidence that the murderer chose that particular rifle,” said Tommy.

“Very possibly. But that would mean that the murderer took the rifle and ammunition from the rectory, then headed over to the cottage to shoot Jacob. Then he returned two hours later to shoot Sten and Elsa. My question is why didn’t they see the murderer take the weapon, since they were alive and we know that both of them were in the rectory all afternoon and evening,” Irene objected.

“Could he have taken the weapon earlier? Maybe several days ago?” Tommy suggested.

“But I think that would have been a big risk. Sten Schyttelius might have discovered that the weapon was missing. He-”

Irene was interrupted by a knock at the door. Åhlén stuck his round head in.

“Interesting find at the cottage,” he informed them as he entered.

In one hand he held a simple cloth bag made of unbleached cotton. He took a thick clear plastic bag from it. Inside was a book.

“This is a book about Satanism. Written in English. We found it behind some loose boards in the wall of the bedroom. Along with a tin of ammunition.”

He set the book on the table in front of the superintendent and took out another plastic bag. Irene glanced at the tin in the bag and recognized it. Norma 30–06 is the most common type of large-caliber ammunition.

“Was the space behind the panel big enough to hold a large rifle?” Tommy asked.

“Yes. But not several. It wasn’t that big.”

“But there was room for the book,” Irene commented.

She took the thick plastic-wrapped book. The title was Church of Satan and the author was Anton LaVey. Åhlén pointed at the book and said, “Ljunggren recognized that name. He’s a leader of a Satanic cult in the USA. Svante may know a little more, but he has gone home. He hadn’t slept in a day and a half.”

You probably haven’t either, Irene thought. But maybe it was more peaceful at work than at home with all the kids.

“Fingerprints?” the superintendent asked.

“Yes. Jacob Schyttelius’s and a few others. But they are smudged and could have been acquired at the bookstore before it was purchased. Schyttelius left a lot of prints on it. He must have read the whole book; several passages are underlined.”

“Can we keep it?” Irene asked.

“No. We aren’t done with it yet. I’ll bring it back as soon as possible.”

The investigators had to be satisfied. The technician replaced the two plastic bags in his cotton sack and left.

The room was silent after his exit. Then Andersson cleared his throat and said, “This changes things. Jacob may have had a rifle and ammunition hidden at the cottage, as well as a hidden book that some damn leader of Satanists in the USA wrote. Why?”

Hannu was the first one to break the silence. “The rifle may mean that he felt threatened.”

“Yep. Otherwise, according to law, he should have stored the weapon and ammunition in his father’s gun cabinet. You’re forbidden to keep them unlocked as he did.”

Irene nodded. “Since Jacob was shot first, it seems likely that the murderer found the rifle and ammunition behind the panel and used it to kill him. Then he took the loaded weapon with him to the rectory and shot Mr. and Mrs. Schyttelius. How many rounds were still in the murder weapon?”

The superintendent consulted his notes before he answered. “Three.”

Irene went on. “Then he reloaded between the murder of Jacob and the murders of Sten and Elsa.”

She turned toward Hannu. “When did Jacob buy his rifle?”

“In June last year.”

“The moose hunt isn’t until October, right?”

“He may have wanted to practice before the autumn hunt. Or maybe Hannu is right: Jacob might have felt threatened,” Tommy said.

“By whom? And how did the killer know that Jacob had hidden the rifle behind the wooden panel?”

“No idea.”

“We won’t get any farther with the rifle. But I’m sitting here wondering why he hid the book,” Andersson said.

“Because it was pro-Satanic? It wouldn’t have looked good, since he was said to be helping his father trace the Satanists,” said Fredrik.

Irene mused, “Maybe he was trying to understand the Satanists. Maybe it helped him to search.”

“Maybe. But I think we need to question Rebecka Schyttelius as soon as possible,” Superintendent Andersson said.

“I’ve spoken with Inspector Glen Thompson of the London Metropolitan Police. He’s our contact person and is keeping an eye on her. She’s not doing well; after the news was broken to her, she broke down completely. She might be allowed to come home from the hospital tomorrow. Yesterday she told him she had no idea as to any motive for the murders.”

“Have you found any other relatives?”

“Sten Schyttelius had a sister fourteen years older than he.

She’s in a group home for patients with senile dementia in Mariestad. Never married. No children. The middle sister died two years ago of breast cancer. She was ten years older than her brother. The dead sister had two sons. One lives in Stockholm and one lives here, in the city. The one from Stockholm will drive down tomorrow, and then both nephews will come here. I’ve scheduled a meeting with them at two o’clock.”

“And Elsa?”

“She was an only child. There are a few cousins, but I haven’t been able to reach any of them. They all appear to be much older than she was.”

“Okay. Tommy or Irene will have to go to London to interview Rebecka Schyttelius,” the superintendent said.

Tommy looked uncertain. “Could it wait until next week?” he asked.

“Yes. It may be best to let her recover a bit more. Hopefully, we will have more information by then, too. One of you should locate Jacob Schyttelius’s ex-wife first and see what she has to say.”

Tommy leaned toward Hannu and half-whispered, “Have you found out anything about her?”

Hannu smiled faintly. Some questions were so stupid, they didn’t require an answer.

“I’VE NEVER been to London. Have you?”

“Yes. On a language study trip in ’74. The only thing I learned was to drink a lot of beer. And then there was a red-haired girl named Patricia, and she taught me. . ”

Tommy left the sentence unfinished, raised his eyebrows meaningfully, and formed his mouth into a quiet whistle.

Irene’s parents had never had the money to send her on any language study trips; she’d had to work during the summers. If she remembered correctly, she had sold ice cream at Drottning-torget in the summer of ’74-off the books, since she had been under fifteen years of age.

Tommy stopped and pointed at the side corridor. “I’m going to pass by Hannu’s office. He has the info on Jacob’s ex-wife,” he said.

Irene continued on to their office to get her coat. It had been a long, tiring day, but they had made some progress. If they could only find a motive for the killings. Could there be several motives? Hardly possible. Everything pointed to Jacob’s rifle having been used for all three killings; the hard drives had been erased at both crime scenes; and a pentagram had been drawn with human blood on the victims’ computer screens. In addition, a crucifix in Mr. and Mrs. Schyttelius’s bedroom had been turned upside-down and the technicians had found a book about Satanic cults at Jacob’s.

Irene stopped herself with one arm in the sleeve of her coat. The book was not about Satanic churches, but had been written by a founder of one. If Jacob had wanted to know more about Satanists and their thoughts and reactions, he should have obtained a book that described them objectively. A book written by a leader of a cult was hardly going to be objective.

Tommy came in waving a paper in the air. “Good news. She moved from Norrland and now lives in Karlstad. Moved before Christmas and resumed using her maiden name.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kristina Olsson. She was born. . then she would be. . let’s see. . thirty-eight years old.”

“But that means she’s older than Jacob,” she pointed out.

“By seven years. That’s not so much.”

“No. But it’s not common either.”

“Maybe not. By the way, do you think you can interview her tomorrow? I’ve got a tip in the Speedy murder case that I need to check out.”

“Sure, that’s okay. Give me the note.”

“HELLO, SWEETHEART,” Krister spoke from the living room. The introductory notes of “The Evening News” could be heard in the background, and then a deep male voice reported dramatically on the latest bomb explosion in Spain.

Irene’s pet, Sammie, enthusiastically greeted her, trying to convince her that no one in the world had paid any attention to him all day. But his coat was shiny from being newly brushed, his paws were still damp after his recent walk, and his food dish was sitting in its usual place: Some remains of the dry food were lying at the bottom, but the leftovers they usually added were nowhere to be seen. Irene gave him a kiss on the nose. He snorted but realized that he had been found out. Still relatively content with his existence, he went into the living room to his master and lay down on the rug under the glass table.

Irene warmed the vegetable soup that was standing on the stove and made some generous liver paté sandwiches with piles of pickles. She knew that there must be a can of light beer in the refrigerator somewhere; after a few minutes of rummaging around in the far reaches, she found one. She put her dinner on a tray and carried it into the living room. She hadn’t liked the idea of having two TV’s in the house but if she and Krister wanted to watch anything other than ZTV or MTV, they were forced to use another set. Choosing television programs was the only thing the girls agreed about and their tastes didn’t coincide with their parents’.

Krister gave her an absentminded kiss, with one eye trained on the TV screen. Irene was too hungry to care about the lack of passion in his greeting. With a raging appetite, she practically inhaled the soup and all the sandwiches.

Sammie made an attempt at looking undernourished and pitiful, but Irene cold-heartedly refused to give up any of her sandwiches. She brusquely told him to stay put. Grunting, he went back to his place. He lay there staring at her through the glass tabletop with imploring eyes. For what must have been the thousandth time, Irene was sorry they hadn’t chosen the rustic coffee table made of thick pine when they bought the couches.

“Nice to see you eating, sweetie.”

Krister had lost interest in the news when the business report started.

“I ate pizza pretty late this afternoon and I haven’t had anything since, just a few cups of coffee,” she responded.

“Lucky for your colleagues that you’ve had a steady supply of caffeine. Otherwise they would have had to bring in the safety controller and close the station. Warning! Duck, guys and gals! She’s reloading!”

Krister spoke in his broadest dialect. Since he had grown up in Säffle and his family was still there, his Värmland dialect sounded genuine.

“Nice!”

Irene had actually tried to cut back on her coffee consumption, but it hadn’t gone very well. She had become tired and irritable. As the sum of your vices is said to be constant, and as she didn’t smoke and didn’t drink much, she had decided that coffee would be her vice.

Krister chuckled at his own joke but then became serious. “You should know that Katarina barely ate any soup. She ate about ten peas and that many carrot cubes, and that was it,” he said.

“Why? Doesn’t she usually eat? Her training takes a lot of energy.”

“She’s got the idea in her head of competing for Miss West Coast.”

“Miss. .! It sounds like a beauty contest!”

“It is. Apparently she sent in an application, and now she’s been chosen for some regional here in the western part of the city. If she wins, she’ll go on to the big final.”

Irene sat dumbstruck and tried to make sense of what her husband had just told her. The thought of participating in a beauty contest had never occurred to her, and the idea that one of their daughters would do it felt just as odd. She had to admit to herself that Katarina was prettier than she had been at that age. But to enter a beauty contest! Even though she suspected the answer, she asked anyway: “Why can’t she eat because she’s participating in Miss West Coast?”

“She says that she’s too fat.”

Too fat! Katarina was just like her mother, one hundred and eighty centimeters tall, but she probably weighed ten kilos* less. And Irene herself was slender; Katarina was already on the verge of skinny, in Irene’s opinion.

“Where is she now?”

“Ju-jitsu training. She’ll be home any minute.”

Irene tried to digest both the food and the news about her daughter’s new career as a beauty queen. Suddenly, she remembered something.

“I probably need to go to Karlstad tomorrow. But I’ll be home in the evening.”

“Hmmm,” said her husband, deeply engrossed now in the local news.