Lars Kepler - The Nightmare

Joona goes in but stays in the background to watch the forensic investigators work. He’s always enjoyed hanging around to see how systematically they photograph everything, collect evidence, rigorously note every aspect of what they find. It’s ironic how the investigation itself will destroy the crime scene, contaminating layer by layer, even as it progresses. No piece of evidence or a key to reconstructing what has happened must be lost.

Joona lets his gaze wander over Penelope Fernandez’s tidy apartment. Why had Bjorn Almskog come here? He had arrived the minute Penelope left. Joona could almost picture him hiding outside the entrance to the building waiting for her to leave.

Perhaps it was a coincidence, but maybe he did not want to run into her.

Bjorn had hurried in, met the child sitting on the stairs with no time to speak to her, explaining he just had to pick something up, and had only stayed a few minutes.

Perhaps Bjorn did pick up something, just as he told the little girl. Perhaps he’d forgotten the key to the boat or something else that fit in a pocket.

Perhaps he left something behind instead. Perhaps he only had to take a look at something or make sure of a piece of information or write down a telephone number.

Joona walks into the kitchen and looks around.

“Have you checked the fridge?” he asks.

A young man with a goatee looks up, surprised, at Joona.

“Are you hungry?” he asks in a strong Dalarna accent.

“It’s a good place to hide something,” Joona replies drily.

“We haven’t gotten to it yet,” the investigator says.

Joona returns to the living room. He notes that Saga is still off in a corner of the room talking on her cell. Tommy Kofoed is placing a strip of tape with picked-up fibers onto OH film. He looks up.

“Finding anything unexpected?” Joona asks.

“Besides a shoe print on the wall?”

“Nothing else?”

“The important stuff is at the lab in Linkoping.”

“Can we get their results in a week?”

“If we give them enough hell, sure,” Tommy says, shrugging. “Right now I’m going to look at the cut from the knife blade and make a mold of the edge.”

“Don’t bother,” Joona says.

“So you were able to see the blade? Was it carbon steel?”

“No, the blade was a lighter color. Perhaps sintered tungsten carbide. Some people prefer it. But, actually, nothing’s going to really help.”

“What won’t help?”

“This entire crime scene investigation,” Joona says. “We won’t find DNA or fingerprints. Nothing will lead to the suspect.”

“So what should we do?”

“I believe the killer came for something here. And I believe he was interrupted before he could find it.”

“So maybe it’s still here?”

“Entirely possible,” Joona replies.

“But you have no idea what it could be.”

“It fits inside a book.”

Joona’s granite eyes meet Kofoed’s brown ones. Goran Stone from Sapo is photographing the bathroom door, the edges of the door, the frame, and the hinges. Then he sits down on the floor to photograph the bathroom’s white ceiling. Joona reaches to open the living-room door, about to ask Goran to take a photo of the magazines in the living room, when the flash goes off. The brightness startles him. Things go black for a second. Four white points prick the darkness and then a light blue iridescent palm print emerges. Then they’re gone. Joona looks around, unable to determine where they’d been.

“Goran!” Joona calls loudly, his voice penetrating through the thick glass door. “Take another picture right there!”

Everyone freezes in the apartment. The man by the outer door shoots Joona a curious look. The tech guy with a Dalarna accent sticks his head into the hallway from the kitchen. Tommy Kofoed takes off his face mask and scratches his neck. Goran Stone is still sitting on the floor, now looking very interested.

“Like you did just now,” Joona says. “Take a photo of the ceiling.”

Goran shrugs and lifts his camera to take another photo of the bathroom ceiling. There’s a flash, and Joona’s pupils shrink in protest. Tears come to his eyes. He closes them and still sees a black triangle. He realizes that it is a glass pane in the door transformed into a negative image.

The middle of the square shows four white spots and next to them floats a light blue palm print.

He knew that’s what he’d seen.

Joona blinks and walks close to the door. The remains of four pieces of tape form a square, and right next to it is the palm print.

Tommy Kofoed steps up next to him.

“A handprint,” he says.

“Can you lift it?” Joona asks.

“Goran,” Kofoed says. “We need a picture of this.”

Goran gets up and is humming as he stands by the door, camera ready. He peers at the handprint.

“Yes, somebody was here and wasn’t too clean either,” he says contentedly as he takes four pictures.

Then Goran moves aside and waits as Tommy Kofoed treats the palm print with cyanoacrylate to bind the salt and moisture. Then he uses Basic Yellow 40.

Goran waits a moment and then takes two more pictures.

“Now we got you!” Kofoed whispers to the print as he carefully lifts it with a stiff sheet of plastic.

“Can you check it out right away?” Joona asks.

Tommy Kofoed carries the print to the kitchen. Joona remains behind to inspect the pieces of tape left on the glass pane. Caught under one is the torn corner of a piece of paper. Whoever left the palm print had no time to be careful but just ripped the paper free.

Joona takes a closer look at the ripped corner. It’s not normal paper, he realizes immediately. It’s shiny paper-the kind photographs are printed on.

A special photograph had been taped up here to be looked at over and over. Then someone was in such a hurry, they couldn’t take the time to be careful but just ran up to the door, leaned on the glass with one hand, and ripped the photo off with the other.

“Bjorn,” Joona says.

Bjorn came here to get this photograph. He wasn’t holding his stomach because he had a stomachache but because he was hiding a photograph underneath his jacket.

Joona turns his head to the side so he can study the palm print in the reflection. He can barely make out the thin lines of the palm.

The papillary lines of a human’s palm or fingers will never change or grow old and are totally individual. Compared to DNA, even the fingerprints of identical twins differ.

Quick steps come stamping up behind him.

“Stop whatever you’re doing right now, damn it!” Saga Bauer snarls. “This is my investigation! You’re not even fucking supposed to be here!”

“I only want to-”

“Shut the fuck up, Joona Linna!” she shouts. “I was on the phone with Petter Naslund! There’s nothing for you to do here and you don’t even have permission to be here!”

“I know. I’ll leave soon,” he says soothingly as he turns his gaze back to the glass pane.

“Damn it, Joona!” she says, but curiosity has taken over a bit and her voice is calmer. “You can’t just come in here and start messing with pieces of tape!”

“There was a photograph taped to the glass,” he answers, unperturbed. “Someone has pulled it off. Leaned over to steady himself with his hand while he pulled off this photograph.”

She still looks at him with irritation, and Joona notices a white scar that cuts straight through her left eyebrow.

“I am perfectly capable of running this investigation,” she reiterates with clenched teeth.

“Chances are the print came from Bjorn Almskog,” Joona replies as he starts toward the kitchen.

“Wrong direction, Joona.”

He ignores her and walks right in.