Michael Connelly - The Locked Room

But that wasn't all. There was a sequel to the story of this premature pensioner, Karl Edvin Svärd.

Martin Beck had been in his profession long enough to know that if something in a report appears incomprehensible it's because in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred someone has been careless, made a mistake, is guilty of a slip of the pen, has overlooked the crux of the matter, or lacked the ability to make himself understood.

The second part of the tale of the man who had died in the flat on Bergsgatan seemed shadowy, to say the least. At first, matters had followed their usual course. On Sunday evening the body had been taken away and put in the morgue. The next day the flat had been disinfected, something that was certainly needed, and Kristiansson and Kvastmo had presented their report on the case.

The autopsy on the corpse had taken place on Tuesday, and the police department responsible had received the verdict the following day. Post-mortems on old corpses are no fun, least of all when the person in question is known in advance to have taken his own life or died of natural causes. If, furthermore, the person in question enjoyed no very eminent status in society –if for instance he had been a prematurely pensioned warehouseman – then the whole thing loses its last vestiges of any interest whatever.

The post-mortem report was signed by a person Martin Beck had never heard of, presumably a temp. The text was exceedingly scientific and abstruse. This, perhaps, was why the matter had been treated rather dozily. As far as he could see, the documents had not even reached Einar Rönn at the Murder Squad until a week later. Only there had it aroused the attention to which it was entitled.

Martin Beck pulled the telephone towards him to make his first duty call in a long time. He picked up the receiver, laid his right hand on the dial, and then just went on sitting. He'd forgotten the number of the State Institute for Forensic Medicine and had to look it up.

The pathologist seemed surprised. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course I remember. That report was sent in two weeks ago.’

‘I know.’

‘Is something unclear?’

He thought she sounded slightly hurt.

‘Just a few things I don't understand. According to your report, the person in question committed suicide.’

‘Of course.’

‘How?’

‘Have I really expressed myself so badly?’

‘Oh no, not at all.’

‘What is it you don't understand, then?’

‘Quite a bit, to be honest; but that, of course, is due to my own ignorance.’

‘You mean of terminology?’

‘Among other things.’

‘If one lacks medical knowledge,’ she said consolingly, ‘one always has to expect certain difficulties of that type.’ Her voice was light and clear. On the young side, certainly.

For a while Martin Beck sat silent. At this point he ought to have said: ‘My dear young lady, this report isn't meant for pathologists but for quite another kind of person. Since it's been requested by the Metropolitan Police it ought to be written in terms that even a police sergeant, for example, could understand.’ But he didn't. Why?

His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor, who said: ‘Hello, are you there?’

‘Yes, I'm here.’

‘Is there something particular you want to ask about?’

‘Yes. Firstly I'd like to know your grounds for assuming suicide.’

When she answered her voice had changed, had acquired an undertone of surprise. ‘My dear Commissioner, we got this corpse from the police. Before carrying out a post-mortem I was personally in telephone contact with the police officer I assumed was responsible for the investigation. He said it was a routine job. There was only one question he wanted answered.’

‘What was that?’

‘Whether the person concerned had committed suicide.’

Irritated, Martin Beck rubbed his knuckles against his chest. The spot where the bullet had gone through him still hurt at times. He'd been told it was psychosomatic, that it would pass as soon as his unconscious had relinquished its grip on the past. Just now, it was the present that, in high degree, was irritating him. And that was something in which his unconscious could hardly have any interest.

An elementary mistake had been made. Naturally, the postmortem ought to have been done without any hints from the police. To present the forensic experts with the suspected cause of death was little short of breach of duty, especially if, as in this case, the pathologist was young and inexperienced.

‘Do you know the officer's name?’

‘Detective Sergeant Aldor Gustavsson. I got the impression he was in charge of the case. He seemed to be experienced and to know what he was about.’

Martin Beck knew nothing about Detective Sergeant Aldor Gustavsson or his possible qualifications. He said: ‘So the police gave you certain instructions?’

‘One could put it like that, yes! In any case the police made it quite clear that it was a question of suspected suicide.’

‘I see.’

‘Suicide means, as you perhaps know, that someone has killed himself.’

Beck did not reply to this. Instead he said: ‘Was the autopsy difficult?’

‘Not really. Apart from the extensive organic changes. That always puts a somewhat different complexion on our work.’

He wondered how many autopsies she had carried out, but he refrained from comment. ‘Did it take long?’

‘Not at all. Since it was a question of suicide or acute illness I began by opening up the thorax.’

‘Why?’

‘The deceased was an elderly man.’

‘Why did you assume death to have been sudden?’

‘This police officer gave me to understand it was.’

‘In what way?’

‘By going straight to the point, I seem to remember.’

‘What did he say?’

‘“Either the old boy's taken his own life or else had a heart attack.” Something along those lines.’

Another false conclusion crying aloud to heaven! There was nothing to suggest that Svärd, before dying, might not have lain there paralysed or helpless for several days.

‘So you opened his chest.’

‘Yes, and the question was answered almost immediately. No doubt which alternative was correct.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Of course.’

‘By?’

‘He had shot himself through the heart. The bullet was still lodged in the thorax.’

‘Had the bullet hit the heart?’

‘Come very close, anyway. The main injury was to the aorta.’ She paused briefly, then added a trifle acidly: ‘Do I express myself comprehensibly?’

‘Sure.’ Martin Beck formulated his next question carefully. ‘Have you an extensive experience of bullet wounds?’

‘Enough, I reckon. Anyway this case presents hardly any complications.’ How many autopsies might she have carried out on victims of bullet wounds in her life? Three? Two? Or maybe only one?

The doctor, intuiting perhaps his unvoiced doubts, explained: ‘I worked in Jordan during the civil war, two years ago. No shortage of bullet wounds there.’

‘But presumably not so many suicides.’

‘No, not quite.’

‘Well, it just so happens,’ Martin Beck said, ‘that few suicide cases aim at their hearts. Most shoot themselves through the mouth, some through the temple.’

‘That may be. But this guy was far from being my first. When I was doing psychology I was taught that suicides – especially the romantics among them – have a deep-rooted instinct to aim at their hearts. Apparently it's a widespread tendency.’

‘How long do you think Svärd could have survived with this bullet wound?’

‘Not long. One minute, maybe two or three. The internal haemorrhage was extensive. At a guess, I'd say a minute. But the margins are still very small. Does it matter?’