The Nightmare

13

At seven that evening, five sour-faced men meet in Hall 13 at the department of forensic medicine at the Karolinska Institute. Detective Inspector Joona Linna intends to open a criminal investigation into the death of the woman found in a drifting pleasure craft in Stockholm’s archipelago. Although it’s a Saturday, he’s called his immediate superior Petter Näslund and Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm for a reconstruction. He plans to convince them that this is truly a murder investigation.

One of the lighting fixtures in the ceiling is blinking on and off and the cold light bounces off the walls of shining white tiles.

“I have to change the starter,” The Needle says softly.

“You sure do,” Frippe says.

Petter Näslund mutters something inaudible from where he’s standing, pressed against the wall. The strong angles of his wide face seem to move with the flickering light. Next to him, Jens Svanehjälm is waiting. His boyish face reveals his irritation. He appears to be weighing the risk of placing his leather briefcase on the floor or leaning against the wall in his well-tailored suit.

The strong stench of disinfectant permeates the room. Strong lamps with directable beams are mounted to the ceiling above a bench made from stainless steel, which has two faucets and a deep sink. The floor is covered with a light gray plastic mat. A zinc tub just like the one on the boat sits in the middle of the bench and is already half filled with water, but again and again, Joona Linna carries more water to it from the faucet on the wall.

“It’s not a criminal offense to be found drowned on a boat,” Svanehjälm says sarcastically.

“Exactly,” says Petter.

“This could just be an unreported drowning incident,” Svanehjälm continues.

“The seawater in her lungs is the same the boat was in,” says The Needle. “But there’s no water on her clothes or on the rest of her body.”

“That is odd,” Svanehjälm agrees.

“There must be a rational explanation,” Petter says with a wry smile.

Joona empties a last bucket of water into the tub, sets the bucket down, looks up at the other four men, and thanks them for taking the time to come.

“I know it’s the weekend and everyone wants to be home,” he begins. “Yet, I believe I’ve noticed something important.”

“Of course, we always come when you tell us that,” Svanehjälm says as he finally decides to put his leather briefcase on the floor between his feet.

“The suspect gets on the boat,” Joona begins. “He goes down the stairs to the forecabin and sees Penelope sleeping. He returns to the afterdeck and begins to fill the tub using a bucket with a long rope attached.”

“Five or six buckets at least,” says Petter.

“And only when the tub is filled does he wake Penelope. He leads her up the stairs and across the deck and then he drowns her in the tub.”

“Why? And who would do something like that?” asks Svanehjälm.

“I don’t know yet. Perhaps it was to torture her with fake drowning, waterboarding-”

“Revenge? Jealousy?”

Joona cocks his head and says thoughtfully, “This person doesn’t feel like your average killer. Perhaps the suspect wanted information from her or to force her to tell or confess to something until he finally held her under enough that she could no longer resist the urge to draw a breath.”

“What does the chief pathologist say?” asks Svanehjälm.

The Needle shakes his head.

“If she’d been drowned,” he says, “I would have found signs of force on her body, bruises and the like-”

“Can we all wait with the objections for a moment?” Joona says. “First I would like to show you how it happened. As I see it. How the events play out in my head. And then, once I’m finished, I would like us all to go and look at the body to prove my theory.”

“Why can’t you do things like everyone else? Just tell us,” demands Petter.

The chief prosecutor warns, “I have to be home soon.”

Joona looks at him with an ice-cold glint in his eyes-and a trace of a smile.

“Penelope Fernandez,” he begins. “At first she was sitting on deck and smoking some pot. It was a warm day and she became tired and decided to take a nap. She goes to bed and falls asleep still wearing her denim jacket.”

He gestures to Frippe, The Needle’s young assistant who is waiting in the open door.

“Frippe here will help.”

Frippe steps into the room with a big smile. His dyed black hair hangs in locks down his back. His worn leather pants are full of rivets, and he is carefully buttoning his jacket over his black T-shirt with its picture of the hard-rock group Europe.

“Watch me,” Joona says softly. Behind Frippe’s back he quickly grips both sleeves of Frippe’s jacket in one hand while with the other he grabs his long hair.

“Now I have complete control,” Joona says grimly. “And I guarantee there won’t be a single bruise on him.”

Joona levers the young man’s arms higher behind his back. Frippe moans and leans forward.

“Take it easy!” he laughs.

“You’re much larger than the girl, of course,” says Joona. “Still, I believe I can dunk your head into the tub.”

“Don’t hurt him,” says The Needle.

“I’ll only ruin his hairstyle,” says Joona.

“Not a chance,” grunts Frippe.

It’s a silent struggle. The Needle looks nervous and Svanehjälm appears troubled. Without too much effort, Joona forces Frippe’s head underwater and holds him there for a slight moment, then lets him go and steps back. Frippe gets up, staggering, and The Needle hurries to him with a towel.

“You could have just told us how it went,” The Needle says with irritation.

As Frippe towels off his hair, they troop together into the next room, into the strong smell of decay. One of the walls is covered with three rows of stainless-steel refrigerated boxes. The Needle opens box 16 and pulls out a drawer. The body of the young woman is lying on the narrow gurney. She’s naked and has no color. A brown network of arteries can be seen on the pale skin of her neck. Joona points at the thin, curved line over her breastbone.

“Take off your shirt,” Joona says to Frippe.

Frippe unbuttons his jacket and pulls off his T-shirt. On his chest they can see a light rose mark from the edge of the tub. It’s curved like a smiling face.

“I’ll be damned,” Petter says.

The Needle steps nearer to peer closely at the roots of the woman’s hair. He takes out a small pocket flashlight and aims it directly at the pale skin of her scalp.

“I don’t need a microscope to see how someone has held her head tight by using her hair.”

He turns off the flashlight and drops it back into his pocket.

“In other words…” Joona waits.

“In other words, you’re right, of course,” says The Needle, and claps his hands.

“Murder,” Svanehjälm pronounces, sighing.

“Impressive,” remarks Frippe as he catches some black hair dye that has run down his cheek.

“Thanks,” says Joona, but he sounds distracted.

The Needle looks at him.

“What now, Joona?” he asks. “What do you see?”

“It’s not her,” Joona says.

“What?”

Joona looks up at The Needle and then points to the body before them.

“This woman is not Penelope Fernandez. This is someone else.”

Joona meets the chief prosecutor’s eyes. “This dead woman is not Penelope. I’ve seen Penelope’s driver’s license and it doesn’t match. I’m absolutely sure.”

“But what-”

“Perhaps Penelope Fernandez is also dead,” Joona says. “We just haven’t found her yet.”