Lars Kepler - The Hypnotist

“Oh my God!” he cried out. “They’ve been slaughtered… Children have been slaughtered… I don’t know what to do. I’m all alone, and they’re all dead.”

Joona Linna was in his car on Drottningholmsvägen when he heard the call at 22:10. A police officer was screaming that children had been slaughtered, he was alone in the house, the mother was dead, they were all dead. A little while later he was radioing from outside the house and, calmer now, he explained that Superintendent Lillemor Blom had sent him to the house on Gärdesvägen alone. Björkander suddenly mumbled that this was the wrong channel and stopped speaking.

In the sudden quiet, Joona Linna listened to the rhythmic thumping of the windscreen wipers as they scraped drops of water from the glass. He thought about his father, who had had no backup. No police officer should have to do something like this on his own. Irritated at the lack of leadership out in Tumba, he pulled over to the side of the road; after a moment, he sighed, got out his mobile, and asked to be put through to Lillemor Blom.

Lillemor Blom and Joona had been classmates at the police training academy. After completing her placements, she had married a colleague in the Reconnaissance Division and two years later they had a son. Although it was his legal right, the father never took his paid paternity leave; his choice meant a financial loss for the family as it held up Lillemor’s career progression, and eventually he left her for a younger officer who had just finished her training.

Joona identified himself when Lillemor answered. He hurried through the usual civilities and then explained what he had heard on the radio.

“We’re short-staffed, Joona,” she explained. “And in my judgment- ”

“That’s irrelevant. And your judgment was way off the mark.”

“You’re not listening,” she said.

“I am, but- ”

“Well, then, listen to me!”

“You’re not even allowed to send your ex-husband to a crime scene alone,” Joona went on.

“Are you finished?”

After a short silence, Lillemor explained that Erland Björkander had only been dispatched to inform the family; he had decided on his own to enter the house without calling for backup.

Joona apologized. Several times. Then, mainly to be polite, asked what had happened out in Tumba.

Lillemor described the scene Erland Björkander had reported: pools and trails of blood, bloody hand- and footprints, bodies and body parts, knives and cutlery thrown on the kitchen floor. She told him that Anders Ek, whom she assumed had been killed following the attack on his family, was known to Social Services for his gambling addiction. While his official debts had been written off, he still owed money to some serious local criminal types. And now a loan enforcer had murdered him and his family. Lillemor described the condition of Anders Ek. The murderer had started to hack his body to pieces; a hunting knife and a severed arm had been found in the locker room showers. She repeated several times that they were short of staff and the examination of the crime scenes would have to wait.

“I’m coming over there,” said Joona.

“But why?” she said in surprise.

“I want to have a look.”

“Now?”

“If you don’t mind,” he replied.

“Great,” she said, in a way that made him think she meant it.

Fourteen minutes later, Joona Linna pulled up at the Rödstuhage sports centre, parking a few yards from a Volkswagen bus with the logo johansson’s care home emblazoned on the side. It was dark out, and snow-flakes whirled around in the biting wind. The police had already cordoned off the area.

Joona gazed across the deserted soccer field. All of a sudden, an eerie noise- vibrating, humming- kicked on. Off to his left, Joona could hear shuffling sounds and quick footsteps. Turning around, he could make out two black silhouettes walking in the high grass along the fence. The humming escalated- and then abruptly stopped. Spotlights encircling the soccer field exploded with light, flooding the centre, while casting the surrounding area in even more impenetrable winter darkness.

The two figures in the distance were uniformed policemen. One walked quickly, then stopped and vomited. He steadied himself against the fence. His colleague caught up with him and placed a comforting hand on his back, speaking soothingly.

Joona continued on towards the locker rooms. Flashes of light from cameras burst through the propped-open door, and the forensic technicians had laid out stepping blocks around the entrance so as not to contaminate any prints during their initial crime scene investigation. An older colleague stood guard out front. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and his voice was subdued. “Don’t go in if you’re afraid of having nightmares.”

“I’m done with dreaming,” Joona replied.

A strong scent of stale sweat, urine, and fresh blood permeated the air. The forensic technicians were taking pictures in the shower, their white flashes bouncing off the tiles, giving the entire locker room a strange pulsating feel.

Blood dripped from above.

Joona clenched his jaw as he studied the badly mauled body on the floor between the wooden benches and the dented lockers. A thin-haired, middle-aged man with greying stubble.

Blood was everywhere- on the floor, the doors, the benches, the ceiling. Joona continued into the shower room and greeted the forensic technicians in a low voice. The glare of the camera flash reflected on the white tiles and caught the blade of a hunting knife on the floor.

A squeegee with a wooden handle stood against the wall. The rubber blade was surrounded by a large pool of blood, water, and dirt, with wisps of hair, plasters, and a bottle of shower gel.

A severed arm lay by the floor drain. The bone socket was exposed, lined with ligaments and torn muscle tissue.

Joona remained standing, observing every detail. He registered the blood’s spatter pattern, the angles and shapes of the blood drops.

The severed arm had been thrown against the tiled wall several times before being discarded.

“Detective,” the policeman posted outside the locker room called out. Joona noted his colleague’s anxious expression as he was handed the radio.

“This is Lillemor Blom speaking. How soon can you come to the house?”

“What is it?” Joona asked.

“One of the children. We thought he was dead, but he’s alive.”

Joona Linna’s colleagues at the National Criminal Investigation Department will tell you they admire him, and they do, but they also envy him. And they will tell you they like him, and they do, but they also find him aloof.

As a homicide investigator, his track record is unparalleled in Sweden. His success is due in part to the fact that he completely lacks the capacity to quit. He cannot surrender. It is this trait that is the primary cause of his colleagues’ envy. But what most don’t know is that his unique stubbornness is the result of unbearable personal guilt. Guilt that drives him, and renders him incapable of leaving a case unsolved.

He never speaks about what transpired. And he never forgets what happened.

Joona wasn’t driving particularly fast that day, but it had been raining, and the rays of the emerging sun bounced off puddles as if they were emanating from an underground source. He was on his way; thought he could escape…

Ever since that day, he’s been plagued not only by memories but also by an unusual form of migraine. The only thing that’s proven helpful has been a preventive medicine used for epilepsy, topiramate. Joona’s supposed to take the medicine regularly, but it makes him drowsy, and when he’s on the job and needs to think clearly, he refuses to take it. He’d rather submit to the pain. In truth, he probably considers his punishment just: both the inability to relinquish an unresolved case, and the migraine.