Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

It was warm in the security office that was part of the entrance to Aspsås prison and was called central security, just as it is in every prison in Sweden. The warden in a creased blue uniform, who was called Bergh, was sweating despite the fan on the table right behind him that made any loose paper and his thin fringe flutter. So he turned around and looked for the towel that hung in the space between the red and green buttons on the control panel and the sixteen TV monitors.

Naked bodies.

The resolution of the black-and-white image wasn't great, and it flickered a bit, but he was sure.

The picture on the screen closest to the towel showed two naked bodies on a floor and a man wearing prison-issue clothes holding something to their heads.

He looked up at the beautiful blue sky. A few wispy clouds, a pleasant sun and a warm breeze. It was a lovely summer day. Apart from the sound of the sirens from the first police car, two uniformed officers in front, both from Aspsås police district.

"Oscarsson…?"

The governor of Aspsås prison was standing by the main gate in the asphalt garage, the concrete wall like an unpainted gray set behind him. "What the hell-"

"He's already shot someone."

"Oscarsson?"

"And threatened to do it again."

They were in the front with the windows rolled down: a young policewoman whom Lennart Oscarsson had never seen before sitting beside a sergeant of about his own age, Rydén-they didn't know each other, but knew of each other, one of the few policemen who had served in Aspsås for as long as Oscarsson had worked at the prison.

They turned off the blue light and got out.

"Who?"

I've just come from the hospital unit. You can't see him.

"Piet Hoffmann. Thirty-six years old. Ten years for drugs offenses.

According to our records, extremely dangerous, classified psychopath, violent." A sergeant from the Aspsås district who had been to the large prison enough times to know his way round.

"I don't understand. Block B. Solitary confinement. And armed?" He's going back. To G2. By tomorrow morning at the latest.

"We don't understand it either."

"But the gun? For Christ's sake, Oscarsson… how? Where from-?" "I don't know. I don't know."

Rydén looked at the concrete wall, over it and at what he knew was the second floor and roof of Block B.

"I need to know more. What kind of gun?"

Lennart Oscarsson sighed.

"According to the warden who was threatened-he was confused, in shock, but he described some kind of… miniature pistol."

"Pistol? Or revolver?"

"What's the difference?"

"With a magazine? Or a rotating cylinder?"

"I don't know."

Rydén's gaze lingered on the roof of Block B.

"A hostage taking. A violent, dangerous convict."

He shook his head.

"We need a completely different kind of weapon. Different knowledge. We need policemen who are specially trained for this."

He went over to the car, a hand in through the open window. He could just reach the radio microphone.

"I'll contact the inspector on duty at the CCC. I'll ask them to send the national task force."

The dirty floor was hard and cold against his bare lower leg.

Martin Jacobson moved carefully, tried to rock his body back, pain pressing on his joints. Crumpled, bent forward, hands behind their backs, they had been kneeling beside each other since they came into the main workshop. He shot a look at the prisoner who was so close he could feel his breath. He couldn't remember his name, it was seldom that those who were locked up in solitary confinement became individuals. Central European, he was sure of that, big, and his hate was tangible, there was bad blood between them, something old-when their eyes locked, he spat, sneered, and Hoffmann had gotten tired of him screaming in a language that Jacobson didn't understand, had kicked him in the cheek and wound the sharp plastic tape around his legs as well.

Martin Jacobson had gradually started to feel what he hadn't had the energy to feel when everything was chaos and he had to concentrate on trying to get the hostage taker to communicate.

A creeping, terrible, engulfing fear.

This was serious. Hoffmann was under pressure and resolute and another person who would never think, talk, or laugh again was already lying on another floor.

Jacobson rocked gently again, took a deep breath-it was more than fear, perhaps. He had never felt like this before, absolute terror.

"Keep still."

Piet Hoffmann kicked him in the shoulders, not hard but enough for his bare skin to shine red. He then started to walk through the workshop, along the rectangular workbenches, and reached up and turned the first camera to the wall, and then the second and the third, but he held the fourth in both hands for a while, his face right up to the lens, he stared into it, moved even closer until his face filled the entire screen, then he screamed; he screamed and then turned that one to the wall as well.

Bergh was still sweating. But he wasn't aware of it. He had moved the chair in the glass box that was central security and was now leaning forward in front of the monitors, four of them with pictures from the Block B workshop. A couple of minutes ago, someone had joined him. The chief warden was standing right behind him and they were watching the same black-and-white sequences with shared concentration, almost silence. Suddenly something changed. One of the monitors that was connected to the camera nearest the window went black. But not an electronic black, it was still working-it was more like it was obstructed by something or someone. Then the next one. The cameras had been turned quickly, maybe to the wall-the darkness could be a film of gray concrete only centimeters away. The third one, they were prepared. They spotted the hand just before it was turned, a person who forced the camera around on its fixture.

One left. They stared at the monitor, waiting, then both jumped. A face.

Close up, as close as you could get, a nose and a mouth, that was all. A mouth that screamed something before it disappeared.

Hoffmann.

He had said something.

He was cold.

It wasn't a chill from the cold floor, it came from fear, from losing the will to fight thoughts of his own death.

The prisoner beside him had made a threat again-more hate, more scorn-until Hoffmann got a rag from one of the workbenches and stuffed it in his mouth and his words were swallowed.

They both lay still, even when he left them every now and then, purposeful steps over to the far glass wall, a window into the office. When he turned his head, Martin Jacobson could see him go into the small room, bend down over the desk and lift something that from a distance looked like a telephone receiver.

The mouth moved slowly. Narrow, tight lips that looked chapped, almost split.

He is.

They looked at each other, nodded.

They had both recognized the movements of the mouth that formed the words.

"Next."

Oscarsson was sitting beside Bergh in the cramped security office and eager fingers pressed the play button, one frame at a time. The mouth filled the whole screen, the next word, the lips wide and stretched.

"Did you see?"

"Yes."

"One more time."

It was so clear.

The words, the message from the lips, said with such aggression that they were an attack.

He is a dead man.

His hand was shaking-it happened so suddenly he had been forced to let go of the telephone receiver.

What if he got an answer?

What if he didn't get an answer?

A quick look out through the internal window into the workshop and the naked men; they were still lying there, without moving. A porcelain cup in the middle of the desk, half full of day-old coffee, which he downed, cold and bitter but the caffeine would stay in his body for a while.