James Patterson - Postcard killers

But not yet. Not until he found her murderers.

Monday, June 14

The Paper Aftonposten was stuck in a downward sales and readership spiral that was probably hopeless. In an attempt to break it, the management was making increasing use of unusual and risky innovations.

Usual y they failed.

On other occasions everyone busted their butt to get things moving.

This was one of those days.

Dessie had parked herself at her desk with the first edition that day.

Aftonposten had fil ed practical y the whole paper with the Dalaro murders.

The front-page headline was "Butchered by the Postcard Kil ers." The photo that dominated the paper was a beautiful picture of the two young Germans. Claudia Schmidt and Rolf Hetger were in each other's arms, laughing happily toward the camera.

Dessie leafed through to the paper's heavyweight news spread, pages 6 and 7. "Death in the Archipelago" was the dramatic headline.

And the picture editors had chosen one of her shots of the yel ow wooden house.

It came out quite wel, actual y, with the contradiction between the idyl ic veranda and the heavily clouded sky.

She ran her eyes over the text. It was written by Susanna Groning, one of the paper's star female reporters.

Page 8 had an updated run-through of the kil ings around Europe, with 45 maps and graphics.

Page 9 was written by Alexander Andersson under the heading "Postcard Kil ers – Vicious Murderers Kil ing for Kicks."

Andersson referred to "anonymous sources close to the investigation" who claimed to have "a clear picture of the kil ers."

The Postcard Kil ers were at least two men, seriously deranged, probably with PTSD, according to the sources. They kil ed purely for pleasure, and they enjoyed seeing people suffer. The extent of the violence indicated that at least one of the men was very wel built and extremely strong. Seeing as the victims were usual y wel -off tourists, the motive was similar to that of terrorism: the kil ings were an attack on Western lifestyles.

Dessie read the text twice with growing astonishment, and final y, anger and disgust.

Then she got up and went over to the news desk. The group around Forsberg were laughing loudly at something as she approached.

"Alexander," she said, holding up page 9. "Where did you get this from?"

The reporter raised an eyebrow and smiled her way.

"Are you after my sources?"

"No need," Dessie said. "They're completely worthless."

Alexander Andersson's smile died and he stood up. Dessie felt al the men looking at her. They expected her to get her ass kicked now, didn't they?

"This doesn't make any sense," she said. "There's nothing in the investigation to suggest terrorism or kil ing for kicks. Quite the opposite."

"And you know that, do you, just because they sent you a postcard?"

Several of the men laughed and waited for more from Andersson. Dessie felt the blood rush to her face.

"This article is completely wrong, I know that much. If you real y have got a source, they must be several miles from the center of the investigation."

Forsberg stood up and took hold of Dessie's arm. "Come."

"Come on," Forsberg said. "Let's go through what you're doing today. In the other room."

Alexander Andersson took a step toward her.

"If you know so bloody much, why aren't you writing anything?"

She pul ed loose from Forsberg and stared daggers at the reporter.

"I know you might have trouble understanding this," she said, "but my goal in life real y isn't to get a big-picture byline. I could care less."

She went back to her desk then, fol owed by Forsberg. 46 "You've got to be careful with Alexander," she said to the editor. "He's faking it."

"Dessie," Forsberg said, "listen to me. I've got a job for you. Have you read Hugo Bergman's article on public prosecutor workloads?"

Dessie looked at the news editor and blinked.

The one we published on Friday?"

"It's caused a real stink," Forsberg said, handing her a bundle of printouts.

"Cal Bergman and get an interview, and check with the different regional prosecutors to see how many cases they've actual y got at the moment. Can you do that?"

Dessie made no move to take the printouts. She could see Hugo Bergman in her mind's eye, swaying like a tree outside the Opera Cel ar, where she'd left him the night before.

"You're trying to get me off the murders," she said. "That's what this is, right?"

The news chief sat on her desk and lowered his voice.

"Dessie," he said, "there are people asking why you were sent that postcard. They're wondering what sort of contacts you've got with the underworld."

She swal owed, couldn't believe her ears.

"I'm here today only because the police told me to be here," she said.

"I'm supposed to be off Monday and Tuesday. I'm not claiming any kind of copyright on these murders, but if -"

She was interrupted by a shout and then a loud commotion in the lobby. It sounded like something breaking, something large and solid.

Forsberg stood up.

"What the hel is that?"

A furious male voice could be heard through the office wal s. The words weren't clear, but they didn't need to be.

"Wait here," Dessie said and ran toward the door as fast as she could.

Jacob Kanon was standing and yel ing inarticulately at the enclosed glass cubicle where Albert, the security guard, had taken cover.

Dessie fumbled with the door and rushed out into the lobby.

"You're cal ing her right now!" the American detective was screaming.

"You're going to pick up the phone now and tel her I'm here, you fucking -"

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly, grabbing him by the shoulder.

Jacob Kanon spun around and stared at her. He fel silent in the middle of a word that sounded suspiciously like motherfucker, then breathed out.

"Have you heard from the police today?" he asked "What are they saying?

Tell me."

Dessie looked over her shoulder into the newsroom, then took a firm grip of the man's arm and pul ed him toward the outside door.

"Your credibility is already pretty low," she said, pushing him into the revolving door. "You won't make it any better by standing here shouting at poor Albert. And whatever did you break?"

They emerged into the sunshine.

"A wooden bench," the American said sul enly. "It hit one of the radiators."

She gave him a skeptical look, then burst out laughing.

"You're crazy," she said.

She felt him looking strangely at her as they walked off in the direction of Fridhemsplan.

They went into an empty taxi drivers' cafe a few hundred meters from the newspaper office.

"I'm serious," the policeman said as they sat down in a corner with their coffee. "The Swedish police are way too rigid in their thinking. They'l never catch the kil ers if they carry on like this. They're acting like amateurs. Trust me on this."

Dessie stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking noisily against the china.

If anyone was being rigid, it was she. Her behavior in the newsroom just now wasn't exactly smart. She had to stop being so blunt, and final y, dumb.

"I can't help you," she said. "I'm not even working on the kil ings for the paper. There are other people assigned to the story."

Jacob Kanon leaned across the table, his eyes sparkling bril iantly again.

"Can't you try to get back on the story?"

Dessie looked at the American. His interest in the case was beyond dispute. Unlike her he was dedicated, he had a burning passion, he had a purpose to what he was doing.

What did she have to lose by writing a few commonplace articles about murder? Doing some normal interviews like any good reporter.