The Princess of Burundi

Thirty-four

Karolina Wittåker’s handshake was limp and clammy.

“But appearances can be deceptive,” Haver later said to Berglund. “She took the lead immediately. I felt like a little boy. She lectured me about personality disorders and-”

“What was her verdict?” Berglund interrupted.

“We’re free to question him, but she would like to be present.”

“I see,” Berglund said curtly and walked off down the corridor.

Haver stared after him, then shrugged and went into Ottosson’s office. The latter sat hunched over a crossword puzzle from the Aftonbladet newspaper.

“I need to clear my brain,” he said apologetically and pushed the paper away.

“The psychologist wants to be present when we interrogate Hahn,” Haver said.

“That’s fine by me. Did he make a good impression?”

“It’s a she. She’s thirty-five, attractive, and extremely determined.”

“One of those,” Ottosson said, and smiled. “That’ll be good.”

“What’s up with Berglund?”

“Is something up with him? Are you thinking of what he said in the meeting?”

“He just seems so damned on edge,” Haver said.

“All of us are right now. And it’s almost Christmas, and for Berglund that’s a sacred time. He gathers his clan, eats rich food, lays puzzles, and God knows what. I’ve never met anyone so fond of family and traditions. He wants nothing more than to be at home, making Christmas candy and hanging up ornaments.”

Haver had to laugh. Ottosson looked at him kindly.

“I have every confidence in you and your expertise,” he said. “Just remember that Hahn is sick. He stabbed one of us but he’s a wounded person. Wounded and a human being.”

Ola Haver warmed to Ottosson’s support and belief in him, but he was also angered by his chief’s understanding attitude toward this murderer. Ottosson was like that, understanding and mild, and it was something that made him a good boss, but right now the station was engulfed by grief and anger. Yes, Hahn was a human being, but despicable and hateful.

“Janne had a wife and two kids,” Haver said.

“I know that,” Ottosson said calmly. “But we’re not here to judge.”

Where does he get off talking like a goddamn minister? Haver thought.

“I know what you’re thinking, but once upon a time Little John and Vincent Hahn were children. You know, little kids, like the ones you see in the street. I thought about that in the fall, when school started. I saw the little boys running down the streets with their backpacks and shorts and thought: There goes a thief, a wife beater, a drug addict, or a dealer. Do you see what I’m saying?”

“Not really,” Haver said.

“They were on their way to school, on their way out into life. What do we do with them?”

“You mean somehow it’s already been determined which ones become pimps and murderers?”

“Quite the opposite,” Ottosson said with unexpected sharpness.

“Everyone has a responsibility,” Haver said.

“Yes, we can’t escape that, but I just want you to keep it in mind as you question Hahn. Your task, our task, is to investigate and tell the DA as well as the public what has happened, but we also have to keep an eye out for all the little boys on their way to school.”

Ottosson stroked his beard, looked at Haver, and nodded. Haver nodded back and left the office.

“Can you describe the man you thought was from the military?”

Vincent Hahn sighed. Karolina Wittåker sat to one side, her legs spread as wide as the narrow skirt of her suit allowed. Haver couldn’t help glancing in her direction. She was looking at Hahn.

“He was angry,” Hahn said suddenly.

“He was shouting?”

“Yes, he shouted and carried on. It looked unpleasant.”

Beatrice and Lundin had been down to Vaksala square and talked to the Christmas-tree sellers. No one recalled seeing either John Jonsson or an older military man.

“Why did you call him ‘military’?”

“He looked that way.”

“Do you mean his clothing?”

Hahn didn’t answer right away. He turned to the psychologist and stared at her legs. She looked back at him calmly.

“Who are you?” he asked, although they had been introduced just a few minutes ago.

“Karolina,” she said, smiling. “I’m listening to you and trying to imagine how it felt for you on Vaksala square, when that man shouted and you became frightened.”

Hahn lowered his gaze. An expectant silence fell over the room.

“He looked like Hitler,” Hahn said.

The words came out as if he were spitting.

“Did he have a mustache?” Beatrice asked.

Hahn nodded. Haver felt a rising excitement.

“Tell us more,” he said and leaned over. He was trying to meet Hahn’s eyes.

“I ran over to them.”

“How old was the other one?” Haver asked.

“Sixty-three,” Hahn said quickly.

“Tell me about his clothing.”

Hahn didn’t answer. Thirty seconds went by, then one minute. Haver’s impatience grew. He exchanged a look with Beatrice.

“How did you feel when you were running up to them?” Wittåker asked. “Did you get short of breath?”

Hahn looked at her and shook his head.

“You knew you had to follow them?”

She received a nod in the affirmative.

“Do you think John was afraid?”

“He was never afraid. Not even when the truck ran into the wall and the teacher screamed. He just laughed.”

“Maybe he was scared even though he was laughing,” Wittåker said.

Haver realized that the session was going to take a long time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the psychologist’s interjections. He had assumed she would be play the role of passive listener, but now she was actively steering the conversation. But she was also getting Hahn to talk. He glanced at Beatrice and she nodded.

“It was a pepper truck. A lot of cans fell out. Cans with little red peppers. Everyone took the cans. I did too. Two cans. My father thought I had stolen them, but I said everyone took them. They were just lying in the street.”

“Did he get angry?”

“Yes.”

“Like the man in the square.”

Hahn nodded.

“What did your father do?”

“He was a Nazi.”

“What sort of work did he do?”

“He was nothing. He screamed into my ears.”

“You didn’t want to be a Nazi.”

“I’m a Taliban,” Hahn said.

Haver burst out laughing and Wittåker shot him an icy look. Suddenly Hahn stood up, and Haver shot out of his chair but sat back down when Hahn started to talk.

“He walked quickly. It wasn’t even a pretty tree. Why do people need those? It just costs money. Think about all the glitter, and those balls. That’s what I said to John. He just laughed. He laughed at everything. The other one laughed too, even though he was angry.”

“Was that in the school yard?” Beatrice asked.

“You shouldn’t keep trees inside.”

“Did the angry one talk to you?”

“He talked to me. I said trees don’t like to be cut down. Then they drove away and I screamed, even though you’re not allowed to scream.”

“What did you scream?”

“I screamed that the trees want to be left alone. Don’t you think they want to be left alone?”

“Yes, I do,” Haver said.

He hadn’t bought a Christmas tree yet. That usually happened the day before Christmas.

“We have to find the angry man,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure you understand that. He may have hurt someone. We have to talk to him.”

It felt silly to speak in such an infantile way but she realized that Hahn was still partially a child. The psychologist would no doubt talk at length about this, but she didn’t care about the medical explanations. Beatrice felt instinctively that it was best to address him in this childish way.

“How was he dressed?” she continued. “Did he have nice clothes?”

“No, no nice clothes. He was wearing ones like on the TV, with pockets.”

“A military uniform?”

“They shoot.”

“A hunter?”

Haver heard from Wittåker’s voice that she was as tense as he was.

“A hunter,” Hahn repeated. “They hunt.”

He sank down on the chair. His inner suffering was etched on his face. He shuddered and touched the wound on his head. Haver sensed that he was reliving yesterday’s events in Sävja. Hahn mumbled something inaudible. Haver leaned over the desk and Hahn raised his head to look at him. It was a remarkable moment, Haver thought, a few seconds as a sudden insight came to the killer: Why am I sitting here? Have I killed someone? Haver sensed that Hahn was searching for answers, support, and perhaps understanding in those few seconds. Then the expression disappeared from Hahn’s face and was replaced by the absent gaze that they had seen all morning.

The contact was broken and for the remainder of the session he answered their questions in nonsensical fragments. Wittåker made a few more attempts to break through to him but Hahn remained unreachable.