The killer's art

57

The story on the TV news startled him so badly that he nearly spilled his coffee. Of course he had expected it. The connection was bound to come out eventually; he knew that. But not so soon. He studied the reporter standing there with Muramaris in the background; he recognized the man from earlier reports. He was annoyed by the reporter’s manner of speaking. So self-confident, even though he didn’t have a clue as to what this was all about.

It was bad enough that he had the police on his heels; now he also had to worry about journalists. There was something about the reporter’s face that he found especially irritating. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Then his name appeared on the screen. Oh, that’s right, it was Johan Berg.

Tonight he wasn’t sitting in front of the TV alone, and he had to make a real effort not to reveal how upset he was. He had to maintain a neutral expression. That was almost worse than anything else. Pretending that nothing was going on, that everything was the same as usual. He would have liked to shout to the whole world about what he had done and why. Those two seconds had been burned into his soul, and the evil wouldn’t go away until he’d carried out everything he had planned. Only then would he be free. After he had washed away the shit. Done a thorough clean. Then they could start over again, and everything would be fine.

Today he’d done an extra-long workout at the gym. The more he worked out, the better control he felt he had over himself. It somehow provided a release for his frustration, nervousness and doubt. When he studied his body in the countless mirrors in the weight-training room, he felt strong. His reflection spoke loud and clear — he’d be able to carry it out. No one was going to catch him. Not the police, not some cocky reporter who thought he was hot stuff because he was on TV. Fucking idiot. Just let that guy try and stop him.