Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Thing was, it really wasn’t true. He wasn’t like that. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” Thomas responded coolly.

Hägerström ignored the comment. Just went on, “But you’re a smooth player, too. I might call you street-smart. I know your kind, guys like you don’t subject themselves to unnecessary risks. And that’s why I can’t drop the thought that maybe, this time, you’re being honest. Your reaction when you were up in my office in Kronoberg seemed unprompted. Your call the other night was unwarranted, unless you really wanted to tell me something. And that’s why we’re here now, going to the morgue together. I’m not going to rule out that you actually saw something that didn’t make it into the report.”

Thomas was more impressed than he cared to admit. Hägerström was stretching it, sure—he didn’t do everything . But still, the guy was right on: he didn’t like risks.

“The investigation is ninety-five percent desk work and five percent field research,” Hägerström said. “But if something goes wrong with that five percent, like the medical report, for instance, then the whole investigation goes kaput. It’s worth double-checking every fact.”

Thomas nodded.

“This isn’t just any old homicide. Homicides with no known suspects are always tricky. But in this case we don’t even know who the deceased is. That’s unusual. The face was beaten beyond recognition, so routine methods of identification are out. The fingertips were cut, so that kind of database search is impossible. Which also points to the fact that whoever committed the crime knew that our old print system doesn’t read handprints, which they do in a lot of other European countries. We’re so damn behind in Sweden.”

“Big surprise.”

“Lose the sarcasm. It’s actually a real problem.”

“Yeah, I understand that. And I assume the teeth are busted.”

“Unfortunately. The guy hardly had any teeth left in his mouth, so we can’t run anything through the dental database either. He probably had dentures, and the murderer pocketed them. We’ve checked his blood type, but the guy’s A positive, the most common type in Sweden. That won’t get us anywhere.”

Thomas thought about the dead guy’s toothless mouth. It sounded totally hopeless; there had to be something to go on. “Can’t you run his DNA?” he asked. “We take spit samples on every fucker we pick up these days.”

“Yeah, sure. We can check it, but for that to work he needs to be in the database already. Then we can check his liver, scars, birthmarks, whatever. But to search for cirrhosis and scars is difficult. Too general. We need something else. If this dead guy’s in the DNA database, great. But the database is pretty new, from 2003. And, like you said, nowadays we swab everyone. But we only started doing that a couple of years ago.”

“Right. I’m guessing it’s got something to do with a terrorist law.”

“That’s probably correct. But for him to be in the database from 2003 he must’ve done some heavy stuff. To be completely honest—and my gut feeling is pretty strong about this—I don’t think we’re going to find him in the DNA database.”

“But since someone went to all the effort to get rid of the dead guy’s prints, he should be in the fingerprint database. Right?”

“My thoughts exactly. That seems unnecessary otherwise. And what does that suggest?”

“Lots of stuff, but nothing certain. The person or persons who ended the old guy knew he was in the fingerprint database. But the killer also knew Mr. Dead hadn’t been arrested for any serious crimes in recent years, because then he’d be in the DNA database.”

“Pretty much, but of course it’s not certain that the perps knew him personally. They could’ve been hired assassins. That doesn’t make it any easier.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Well, the usual stuff. To start, the technicians’ve swabbed the whole basement level of the building and half the stairwell. But that kind of thing often doesn’t yield as much as you’d think.”

“Why not?”

“There are always plenty of clumsy fools messing things up. Someone opens a window, so any potential fiber traces blow off with the wind, people clomp around inside the cordoned-off area so the DNA material gets all mixed up. But we do other stuff, too. Knock on doors in the area, look into missing-persons databases to try to figure out if there’s a match. Wait for further answers from SKL—you know, the forensic lab. We’ve questioned the people who were first on the scene, the neighbor who called in the murder, you, the other officers on patrol. The usual, you know. You have to ask the right questions. Open-ended questions, don’t expect specific answers, get people to really remember and not make things up. That’s the key.”

Thomas’d heard detective talk before. Martin Hägerström sounded like them—tried to make it seem like he was on top of things.

“Right now, the hottest lead we’ve got is an incomplete phone number. There was a folded piece of paper with a cell-phone number in the victim’s back pocket. Unfortunately, it’s a bit smeared. The slip must’ve been sweating in there for quite a while. One digit is illegible. That gives us ten possible numbers that we’re checking up on now. Hopefully the person with the number knows who the man is.”

Hägerström stopped talking. In front of them: a long, rectangular brick building. White tin roof. Small, square windows and a wide entrance. Above the entrance were big black letters against a gray background: DANDERYD MORGUE—COLD CHAMBERS.

They went in.

A small waiting room. An unmanned reception desk. Hägerström fished out his cell phone. Called someone.

They had to wait. Thomas and Hägerström were standing with their arms crossed. Silent. After ten minutes, a man in a blue county uniform came into the waiting room. He extended his hand.

“Hi, Christian Nilsson, autopsy technician. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. We’re a little understaffed today. You wanted to look at the guy who came in from the Southern District police, right?”

It was cool in the autopsy room. Nilsson explained: it was really cold in the room where they kept the actual cold chambers—freezing. Thomas thought, Is that why the guy looks like he walked through a snowstorm? There was a thick layer of dandruff on his shoulders.

This was Thomas’s first time at a morgue. Patent feeling of unease in his gut—something was on the move in there. He looked around. White tiled walls. Two stainless-steel autopsy tables in the middle of the room. Above each: a strong lamp—dentist-style, but bigger. Gigantic floor drains. Thomas thought about what they probably flushed down those drains after a completed autopsy. On the shelves: bowls, instruments, tools, scales. Everything was made out of stainless steel.

Right when they were about to step inside, Nilsson’s phone rang. He picked it up. Walked off a few feet. Spoke in a low voice for a minute or so. Thomas and Hägerström remained standing in silence.

Nilsson led them on toward the cold chambers. There was a sticker on the metal door: At this workplace the atmosphere is good, friendly, and relaxed—but a little stiff. Thomas thought: Clever—like cop humor.

The room where the bodies were stored was freezing cold. Same white tiles on the walls. They entered through the short end of the room—the two long ends were completely made up of compartments that could be pulled out like drawers: the cold chambers. There were air fresheners strung up. Didn’t help. The corpse smell wasn’t thick, but it filled the room nonetheless, like a tickling sensation in the nose—Thomas breathed through his mouth.

Nilsson pulled a drawer out. Stainless steel. The corpse was wrapped in a white cloth with the county emblem on it. Two feet stuck out. An identity tag was tied around the big toe in the classic manner. Nilsson looked at it, showed Thomas and Hägerström: Nr. E 07-073. Identity unknown. Admitted at above given date. Southern Police District, dossier number K 58599-07. Danderyd Morgue’s notes: Autopsy completed. Resp. autopsy technician: CNI.