Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Hägerström nodded and set his shoulder bag down on the floor.

He lifted the cloth away from the face.

Thomas was cold. Breath rose like steam from everyone’s mouth but the corpse’s. Just like outdoors on a cold winter’s day.

There wasn’t much to see. The whole mug: like ground beef. Thomas’d seen a lot of dead people. Examined dead people. Touched and squeezed dead people. Tried to perform mouth to mouth on dead people. He’d seen even more pictures of dead people. Beaten to bits, abused, raped, injured. Flesh wounds, bullet holes, stab wounds. He considered himself a veteran at this. Still—the feel of the morgue disgusted him. The nausea came as a surprise. He turned his face away. Heaved.

His radio crackled. He didn’t realize that it was his at first, since he’d set it to only receive calls from his own squad car. “It’s yours,” Hägerström said.

Thomas responded, “This is Andrén. Over.”

“Hey, it’s Ljunggren. You gotta come out now. And book it. There’s a shoplifter in Mörby Centrum. We’re the closest car.”

“I’ll be there in five. Just gotta wrap up here.”

“No, come now. Code red.”

“This won’t take long. It’s just a shoplifter, anyway.”

“Get with it. Where are you?”

“I’m still with Martin Hägerström. We’re taking a look at the body.”

Moment of silence.

“Forget Hägerström. Let him look on his own. I’m not waiting. Come out, now.”

Hägerström looked at Thomas.

“Ljunggren, we’ll talk later. Over and out.” Thomas switched the radio off.

Hägerström didn’t say anything. The autopsy technician continued to pull away the wrapping, slowly. It was held together with little clips. Took time. Thomas wondered if they’d really be understaffed at this place if this guy just learned to pick up the pace.

Thomas felt the suspense growing in his stomach, pushing the nausea away.

They could now see the entire white body inside the chamber. The wounds were only visible if you looked closely. The autopsy technicians’d done a good job.

“On which arm did you see the track marks?” Hägerström asked.

Thomas walked over to the right arm. Pointed.

Hägerström picked up the arm. No marks. He ran his hand over the dead man’s arm. Thomas wondered what it felt like. Then, in the spot where Hägerström’d run his hand, he saw them: the needle marks.

“Sometimes you have to pull the skin apart a little to see,” Hägerström said. “It gets all saggy.”

Thomas felt like a badass CSI agent.

Hägerström picked up his bag from the floor. Rummaged around in it. Fished out a digital camera.

“Time to document what the forensic pathologist obviously didn’t see.”

At that moment, they heard a sound from the autopsy room. The door flew open. A suit-clad man entered. It was Stig Adamsson, unit chief, head of the Patrol Unit in the Southern District. Thomas’s boss.

“Hägerström, you have no authority to be here,” Adamsson said with a powerful voice. “The same goes for you, Andrén. Put that frozen dead guy back.”

Hägerström remained calm. Slowly put the camera back in its case.

“What’s going on, Adamsson? I’m in charge of this investigation. I investigate when I want and where I want.”

“No, you need a permit from the prosecutor to do this kind of thing. Damn it, Hägerström, you could get charged with official misconduct for this. The dead man’s already been autopsied and the forensic pathologist’s done his job. You can’t just clomp in here and pull out corpses like this.”

“I’m sorry, but I disagree.”

“In what way, may I ask?”

For the first time, Hägerström raised his voice a notch.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing. But I’m the lead investigator on this case. That means I own this investigation. Even if I don’t have permission to be here, it’s not your place to meddle. Understood?”

Adamsson looked up. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this.

The morgue was quieter than death.

Nilsson pushed the corpse back into the chamber. It echoed in the cold room.

Steam rose from Adamsson’s nostrils.

“I am your superior, Hägerström. Don’t forget that.”

Then he walked out. Long, deliberate, angry steps.

They remained silent until they were back out on the gravel path. Thomas assumed that Ljunggren’d left with the car, so he’d have to catch a ride with Hägerström instead.

“Were we just in a movie, or what?” Hägerström asked. Grinned.

Thomas couldn’t help himself; he grinned back.

“I don’t fucking know.”

“If they made a movie about your life, who’d play you?”

“Why would anyone make a movie about me?”

“’Cause of what just happened, for instance. It’s like a damn thriller.”

Thomas almost laughed out loud. But he held back. To keep his distance.

“He’s a real old ballbuster, Adamsson. But I don’t get what he was doing here.”

“Exactly. Something is way off.”

“But what?”

“I have no idea,” Hägerström said. “Yet.”

The gym: beef-marinated, gorilla-infiltrated, muscle-fixated. Fitness Center: the place where Stockholm’s meatiest men hung out around the clock. The place where you didn’t show unless your biceps were at least sixteen inches in diameter—unpumped. But also—the place where the camaraderie wasn’t just based on a shared interest in bodybuilding and Dbols. The gym was open twenty-four/seven, year-round. Maybe that’s why it was a watering hole for so many of Radovan’s boys. Minions with the right attitude: protein shakes scored high, fat biceps scored higher, the Yugo boss came in first place.

Always techno blaring from the speakers. Tedious, monotonous, and taxing, according to some. According to Mahmud: the only beat that kicked in his will to pump iron. Plastic plants in white pots on the floor. Faded posters of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Christel Hansson on the walls. Old machines with peeling paint. Sweat-soaked handles, fixed up with black electrical tape. Whatever—all serious guys use gloves. Anyway: machines are for pussies. Hard-core players rock free weights.

Mahmud’d started working out there a few years before he got locked up. Now he was back. Loved the place. Loved that it’d given him the chance to work for the Yugos. It was a networking hub. People told stories about R.’s legendary life. The boss who’d started from scratch, who’d arrived with two empty hands at the Scania factory in Södertälje sometime before Mahmud was even born. Two years later, he’d made his first million. The guy was a legend, like a god. But Mahmud knew more: there’d been people at the gym who didn’t jibe with Rado. A couple old buddies of his. They weren’t exactly living in style these days. If they were even living.

Today: Mahmud did his pecs. Two hundred twenty pounds on the bench press. Slow, controlled lifts. Muscle training was a purely technical sport. Easy to separate the newbies from the vets—the twigs lifted too fast, allowed the arm’s angle to change in the wrong way.

He tried to think about the juice he was gonna go on soon; a few shortcuts never hurt anybody.

Impossible to concentrate. Two days left till Gürhan’s deadline and Mahmud hadn’t scored a single peseta more. His dad couldn’t lend him any. Plus, Mahmud didn’t want to drag Abu into this. His sis’d already lent him five grand. Maybe her shabab could get more, but he wasn’t home. He’d tried to buzz with Babak and Robert during their night out the other day. His homies, boys he could trust—but they didn’t have any tall stacks to shave off. Babak’d promised to scrounge up thirty grand by Thursday. Robert could loan him ten, but Mahmud couldn’t get it till later today. He had other buds too: Javier, Tom Lehtimäki, guys from before that he really dug. But to borrow money? No, a man with honor didn’t do that from just anybody.