Hultin nodded calmly. “Back to basics, then. Why did the Kentucky Killer come to Sweden? He obviously knew Gallano in some way, but was Gallano the reason he emigrated? Once he’d done what he came to do-murder Gallano-wasn’t the rest just a matter of continued bloodthirstiness? That after nine claustrophobic days of increasing corpse stench, his desire became too strong, and it was time to kill again? Or was Gallano more of a means than an end? Was Eric Lindberger the real target? The strange murder location would suggest it-you don’t just go down to the deserted Frihamnen at night to search for victims. No, he knew Lindberger would be there. So Eric Lindberger must also be carefully investigated.”
“Of course, it’s not at all certain that Eric Lindberger was there,” said Kerstin Holm. “He could have been brought there. The killer could have randomly chosen him as a victim in the city, chloroformed him, and brought him to a deserted place with suitable buildings. Or perhaps they planned to meet for one reason or another, and Lindberger came along willingly. Both the victim and the location might very well be random.”
Hultin nodded; he was getting used to his scenarios being torn to shreds. Was he starting to lose his edge? Was it time to hand the controls over to his first officer? And Kerstin Holm (who many years later would actually become his successor) was very much a first officer at present.
“We need to find the site of the murder,” he said. “There must be hundreds of places just in the block near where we found John Doe.”
“Well, LinkCoop is closest,” said Nyberg, remembering his visit to Täby.
Hultin gathered his strength. “The problem is, we know too little about the Kentucky Killer,” he said. “You have the best idea of what’s up, Kerstin. Isn’t there a lot missing?”
“If we’re going to have a chance of finding the Swedish link,” she said, “we’ll probably have to go to the United States and consult the FBI and Ray Larner. That’s my assessment. It’s not at all certain that the Americans would recognize a Swedish link if it jumped up and bit them on the ass. They hardly know where Sweden is. Swiss watches and polar bears in the street…” Holm paused. “He’s slipped through our hands this time, thanks to your lost attorneys. We can investigate Gallano, the drug syndicate, Lindberger, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and LinkCoop all we want, but I think the only reasonable path is the American one. We have to know who he is and what he’s doing in Sweden. Once we understand these things, we can catch him. We can’t otherwise.”
“Now it’s been confirmed that he’s here,” said Hultin. “It wouldn’t have been possible for us to waste the taxpayers’ money on a visit to America before it was certain. Now it is. And now we have quite a bit to work with-and, for that matter, to offer the FBI. Tomorrow I’ll ask Mörner for permission to send a pair of you to the United States. One would be the person who knows the material best. That’s you, Kerstin. And the second would be a more, hmm”-he mumbled, giving Hjelm a sidelong glance-“a more action-oriented person.”
Hjelm gave a start. Against his will he was being yanked away just as things were starting to move. He had just discovered a horribly tortured and rotten corpse in a basement in the wilderness; tonight when he went home, he would have to find out whether his son was a junkie; and now he was being given notice of a trip to the United States. Along with Kerstin, of all people. It was too much.
“Lagnmyr is out to get you,” said Hultin expressionlessly. “It’s a good opportunity to beat it.”
“I’m going to the United States?” Hjelm said, confused. “And what the hell is Lagnmyr?”
“Svante Ernstsson bore as much of the brunt as he could,” Hultin continued, unperturbed, “but Lagnmyr saw right through him. I don’t think he even knew about the stakeout spot before you ruined it, but he doesn’t like you, that much is for certain. So go to the United States. Tell Larner about your KGB theory. I’m sure that’ll go over well.”
“But I can’t go to the United States,” Hjelm continued, still confused. “It’s all happening here.”
“We’ll see what happens with Mörner.” Hultin tried to smooth things out. “Pack a bag anyway. The provisional division of labor this evening is as follows: Paul and Kerstin go to the United States, Jorge takes on Gallano, Gunnar works on LinkCoop, Viggo takes John Doe, and Arto takes Lindberger and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Does that sound reasonable?”
No one spoke. It was getting late, after all.
“One more thing,” said Hultin quietly. “We can’t keep this from the media any longer. It’s begun-they’re going to whip up the mood and hunt for headlines. Swedes are going to install hundreds of thousands of extra locks on their doors; they’ll procure thousands of weapons, legally and illegally; and security firms will do great business. So far American serial killers have been an exotic but distant threat, but all at once we’re coming a great deal closer to the American social climate. The last breath of relative innocence is going to disappear in a tornado of general mistrust. Everyone will be looking over his shoulder.”
Hultin leaned forward across his desk.
“The devil is here, ladies and gentlemen, and even if we catch him, no exorcism will be able to drive out what he brought with him.”
19
His only protection against the rain a borrowed police umbrella, smartly stamped with abundant police logos, Paul Hjelm wandered through the Norsborg night. The rain seemed here to stay. The pitch-black sky foreboded of the biblical flood, as he thought more and more often.
What was happening to Sweden, that little country in the sticks, up by the Arctic Circle, whose populist movements had once conceived of the first democracy that truly extended down into the ranks of the people, but that had never brought it to fruition? The country had finagled its way out of the horrors of World War II, kept all its skeletons in the closet, and ended up with a fabulous competitive advantage compared with all other European countries. For that reason, it could play the self-righteous world conscience until other countries, or at least those unhampered by intrinsic sluggishness, caught up; and then Sweden would see the end of not only the world’s highest standard of living but also of its status as the world’s conscience. Swedes’ strange, naïve, deterministic conviction that everything would work out for the better meant that during the 1980s they, more than any other people, surrendered themselves to international capital, and they let it run more freely there than anywhere else.
The inevitable downfall brought a decisive collapse of all political control over the fickle whims of computerized capital. Everyone had to pay to clean up the mess-except business. As the country neared bankruptcy, its large-scale companies were maximizing their profits. The burden of payment was placed on households, on the health care system, on education, on culture-on anything that was fairly long term. The slightest suggestion that business ought also to pay for a tiny, tiny bit of the mess it had made was met by unanimous threats of leaving the country.
All at once the whole population was forced to think of money. The soul of the Swedish people was filled to bursting, from all directions, with financial thoughts, until only small, small holes were left unfilled-and there, of course, nothing long-term could find room. There was room only for lotteries, betting, and shitty entertainment on television; love was replaced by idealized soap operas and cable TV porn; the desire for some sort of spirituality was satisfied by prepackaged New Age solutions; all music that reached the public was tailor made for sales; the media stole the language and made themselves the norm; advertisements stole emotions and shifted them away from their proper objects; drug abuse increased considerably.