Hassel did have one. The computer blinked out a scornful ENTER PASSWORD.
“I guess we’ll try the same one.” Chavez typed in the letters L-A-B-A-N.
The scornful blinking of the computer halted. They were in.
“Strange for a father and son to live so close to each other,” Chavez said as the computer coughed to life.
Hjelm peeked out through the window toward the beautiful old county council building, which seemed to shiver in the shadow of the clouds. If the window were placed at a slightly different angle, he could have looked straight up at Kungsklippan.
Autumn seemed to arrive in just an hour. Heavy clouds rolled up over a fast-descending sky. Wind whined through the elegant gardens of the council building, tearing both green and gold leaves from the trees. A few raindrops spattered the windowpane.
While Chavez pecked at the keyboard, Hjelm explored Lars-Erik Hassel’s apartment thoroughly. Not only was it a bourgeois turn-of-the-century flat, Hassel seemed to have wanted to return it to its original condition. In the living room, each detail seemed modeled on a Biedermeier aesthetic. He had a hard time associating this almost ironically exaggerated bourgeois taste with the critic who despised literature.
“Well, look at that,” Chavez said after a while. “I don’t even need to go into his trash. He has a folder called ‘hate.’ ”
“I thought he might.” Hjelm came up to the computer. “Are the e-mails there?”
A gigantic list unfurled across the screen. At the bottom left corner it said “126 items,” and the 126 files were numbered.
“Year, date, time,” said Chavez. “Complete records.”
“Look at the first one.”
The message was short but to the point.
You evil bastard. Your body will be found in eight different places, all over Sweden, and no one will know that this head belongs with that leg; this arm with that cock. And they don’t, either. See you. Don’t look over your shoulder.
“Dated the end of January,” said Chavez. “The most recent ones are from August twenty-fifth.”
Hjelm nodded. “The same day Hassel went to the United States.”
“He didn’t save any after that, of course. If more e-mails showed up when Hassel was in the States-and it’s probably pretty important to know whether this bully kept threatening him while he was gone-they disappeared when Elisabeth deleted them. If the author of the e-mails is the murderer, or hired the murderer, then he ought to have realized that this was the final threat.”
“Let’s look at it.”
The writer’s writing had, without a doubt, evolved during the past months. The very last saved e-mail read
You tried to change your e-mail address again. There’s no point. I can see you; I can always see you; I will always be able to see you. I know you’re going to New York, you evil bastard. Do you think you’re safe there? Do you think I can’t reach you there? Death is on your heels. You will be found in every state, with your cock in deep-freeze in Alaska and your bowels rotten with shit in the swamps of Florida. I will tear out your tongue and split open your vocal cords. No one will be able to hear you scream. What you have done can never be undone. I am watching over you. Enjoy the Metropolitan. I will be there, on the bench behind you. Don’t look over your shoulder.
Hjelm and Chavez looked at each other and saw their own thoughts reflected back. New York, the Metropolitan: a striking knowledge of details. Still, such information was relatively easy to come by.
But splitting the vocal cords and “No one will be able to hear you scream”-things were heating up.
How had the writer known a week before it happened that Lars-Erik Hassel’s vocal cords would be taken out of commission and that no one would be able to hear him scream?
“Didn’t someone suspect that this had nothing to do with the Kentucky Killer?” Chavez said self-righteously.
“Go back a bit,” Hjelm said. His focus had narrowed considerably.
A random selection of the 126-file-strong “hate” folder flew by:
You evil bastard. You are the most bourgeois of the bourgeois. Your repulsive remains will rot in small silver jars and then be distributed to your cast-off mistresses one by one, and they will be forced to masturbate with your deceased organ.
You tried to change your e-mail address. Don’t do that. There’s no point. One day the source of all the excrement you produce will be exposed. Everyone will be able to see the defective digestive system of your rotten soul. Your intestines will be wound around the glass cock on Sergels Torg. All will be revealed. Those intestines held the only intellect you ever had. Never look over your shoulder.
I am going to slit the throat of your little son. His name is Conny, and he’ll be six years old soon. I know where he lives. I have the code to their door. I know what school he goes to. I’m going to fuck his cut-open throat, and you will be called to identify your son, but because you’ve never seen your son, you won’t recognize him. You will deny both head and body. It has happened before. Your whole cultural veneer will be exposed.
There are cracks in your rotten wall. At the moment of death you will see them. They will overwhelm you when I torture you to death.
They had read enough.
“Are there any diskettes here?” asked Hjelm.
Chavez nodded and saved the whole “hate” folder onto one of them.
“What do you say?” Hjelm asked.
“The choice of words seems familiar.” Chavez put the diskette into his pocket. “What would the scenario look like? Was he so personally familiar with the Kentucky Killer’s habits that he could copy them perfectly? In that case, where did he get the information?”
“Wouldn’t your Fans of American Serial Killers have it? And he seems to be familiar with computers.”
“So he found out exactly when Hassel’s trip back to Sweden was booked and waited for him at the Newark airport? The rest was a coincidence?”
“Or the opposite: he planned it in great detail. Strictly speaking, Edwin Reynolds could have been Laban Jeremias Hassel.”
Chavez was quiet for a moment, sorting through his impressions. Hjelm thought he could see his focus narrowing. Then Chavez summed it up: “He arrives at Newark from Sweden on an earlier flight, waits an hour or so at the airport, strikes, and comes back with a false passport. It’s entirely possible. Although he might just as easily have hired a professional.”
They considered this scenario.
“Shall we go?” Hjelm asked at last.
Chavez nodded.
They passed through the deserted neighborhood via Hantverkargatan and cut diagonally across Kungsholmstorg and up Pipersgatan; it was like coming full circle. Or tying up a sack. The rain whipped at them sideways.
They reached the stairs, climbed up to Kungsklippan, and went into the building. Outside the apartment door, Chavez took out his pistol and said, “She may have warned him.”
Hjelm drew his service weapon too and rang the bell.
Laban Hassel opened the door right away. He stared expressionlessly into the barrels of the pistols and said quietly, “Don’t make fools of yourselves.”
Their scenario collapsed like a house of cards. Laban Hassel was either extremely cunning or completely harmless.
They followed him into the darkness; the shades were down again, and the computer screen emitted its listless light. Chavez raised the blinds again; this time there was no sun to stun them. Laban hardly blinked as the pale light filtered into his eyes-it was as though he were beyond all earthly reactions.
He took a seat at the rotten table. Everything was familiar, yet everything had changed. The two policemen remained standing and kept their service weapons up. Laban let himself be frisked without protest.
“Elisabeth Berntsson from the newspaper called,” he said calmly. “She thought I should run away.”
“ ‘Don’t look over your shoulder,’ ” Hjelm quoted as he took a seat and put his pistol into his holster.