“Why?”
“It has to do with power. The power to efface the sex. Complete power to annihilate the victim’s humanness.”
“Damn!” Andersson said.
Irene asked, “What is known about the victims? Is a particular type of person selected?”
“Women are often the victims, but there are exceptions. Yesterday, I told you about the brothers in the USA who had murdered and dismembered more than thirty young men and buried them on their ranch. When the men were identified, it turned out that most of them were homosexual prostitutes. Even among females the victims tend to be prostitutes. This isn’t because the necrosadistic murderer is drawn to prostitutes. The killer isn’t attracted to any one type. He wants a dead body. The easiest thing is to pay a prostitute and take her, or him, to a secluded place. There the murderer can carry out his real intentions: kill and dismember.”
Fredrik Stridh raised his hand. “How common is this type of murderer?”
“Very rare. We’ve only had a handful of cases in Sweden during the twentieth century. Murder-mutilation as a phenomenon is more common. During the last thirty years we have had about ten. But these were dismemberments where the body needed to be disposed of. They weren’t defiled in the same brutal way. For reasons of practicality, the extremities and the head were cut off so that the pieces could be stowed in sacks or suitcases, quite simply as a means of getting rid of the body and hindering identification.”
“So practical. . I feel ill,” Birgitta mumbled to Irene.
Irene nodded in agreement.
Andersson looked meditative, but Stridner was the one who broke the silence. “Tomorrow I’m going to London for a large medical examiners’ conference. I could ask around about similar cases among my colleagues.”
“That. . that would be great,” Andersson stammered.
Stridner opened her elegant briefcase and took out a large envelope. “The picture of the tattoo.”
She held it out to Andersson.
“Thank you very much,” he remembered to say after a while.
But it was too late. The clicking of Stridner’s heels could already be heard disappearing down the corridor.
THE DRAGON’Sred mouth was wide open and long razor-sharp teeth coiled around the end of its own tail. The eyes glowed like sparkling emeralds. The claws were wide open and ready to drag the intestines out of anyone who came too close. The entirety of the powerful and agile body was covered by red, blue, and green armored scales. The dragon curled itself in a protective circle around the mysterious character.
An upside-down y, Stridner had said. Or maybe it was more like an upside-down fork with two cross strokes over the stem, one exactly at the split in the fork and the other at the middle. The investigation team was in agreement that it was probably a Chinese character. Just to be sure, Hannu had been directed to contact Göteborg University in order to try and find someone who was skilled in Chinese characters or to consult the Chinese embassy.
“Make copies on a color copier. Then you can start visiting the tattoo artists in town. But don’t come back with a ring in your nostril! Ha ha!” Andersson joked.
None of the others thought that it was particularly funny, but they smiled politely and assured him that they wouldn’t be tempted.
Birgitta and Fredrik were still working on the investigation of the murder of Laban. Robert Larsson had come up with an alibi. Two of his girls working at Wonder Bar had assured them they had been in the Jacuzzi with their employer at exactly the time of Laban’s demise. Since no witness had turned up to contradict them, it would be difficult to hold Larsson.
Jonny, Irene, and Hannu divided up the seven tattoo artists in Göteborg among themselves. Irene drew Tattoo Tim on Nordenskiöldsgatan and MC-tattoo on Sprängkullsgatan.
Since MC-tattoo was the closest, Irene decided to start there. She found a parking spot by Hvitfeldtsplatsen. Without hurrying, Irene strolled across the bridge over Rosenlundskanalen. The big blossoms on the large chestnut trees stood straight up on the branches like unlit Christmas tree candles. A cascade of colorful bulbs were spread out underneath the tree. It struck her that she was only a stone’s throw away from Flora’s Hill. Laban had died when the area around the canal was at its most beautiful. But Irene doubted that was any comfort to him.
Personally, she felt in great need of comfort as she closed in on MC-TATTOO. Two heavy motorcycles were parked outside. In the last few years she had developed a phobia. Not without good reason since she had had a very unpleasant run-in with the Hell’s Angels. It had put her in the hospital and left deep psychological wounds. She thought that she had gotten over her fear, but when she saw the shiny machines outside the tattoo parlor, she wanted to turn and run. It took great self-control to open the door and step inside.
A fiery humming buzzed in the air. A thin man with a shaved head was sitting, concentrating, as he marked the shoulder of another man, whose upper body was bare, with a small color drill. The humming stopped in the same instant that the door slammed shut behind Irene.
“Hey, there. Will it be a little rose on your ass or a butterfly on your tit?” said the skinny one.
The subject laughed and his friend in the visitor’s chair joined in. Since the tattoo artist’s work area was illuminated by a strong lamp and the room was for the most part dark, Irene hadn’t seen the man in the corner when she came in. But when she heard his laugh she peered into the darkness, then let her gaze roam back to his friend. Her mouth became parched.
Each of them could have kept a seasoned investigator awake all night just based on looks. They were heavy, bordering on fat. But under the fat, one could sense many hours of work with bars and weights. The one who was being furnished with a new tattoo had put his long hair into a ponytail, probably so that it wouldn’t be in the way of the tattoo artist. His shoulder must have been the last spot on his body that wasn’t yet tattooed, Irene thought. From his fingers, up his arms, and over his entire upper body, he was covered with tattoos, a variegated map of everything from graffiti to sophisticated pictures in different colors.
The nicer tattoos interested Irene. She straightened and tried to sound official. “No, thanks. I’m not here to get tattooed.”
She pulled out her police identification and waved it in front of the tattoo artist’s nose. “Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”
The big man on the visitor’s chair said, “That name sounds familiar …but I’ll be damned if I know from where.”
“I don’t think so. We haven’t met,” she said shortly.
Inside, her pulse was racing so fast her ears were buzzing. Quickly, she said, “I’m here to ask a favor. It’s about the murder-mutilation in Killevik. We don’t know who the victim is but he has this tattoo on his right shoulder. Do you know who might have made it? Or maybe who the man is?”
Now all three of them were paying attention to her. She held out the picture of the dragon tattoo to the tattoo artist. He carefully took it by one corner. It wasn’t until then that Irene saw he was wearing plastic gloves. He studied the color copy for a long time without saying anything. Irene nervously let her gaze roam over the walls, which were wallpapered with different tattoo themes. Most of them seemed to feature eagles, skulls, and American flags.
“A real master has done this one,” the tattoo artist finally said. “A damn good work of art!” he added. His voice revealed sincere admiration.
“Who could have made it?” Irene asked.
“No idea. I don’t think that it was done in Sweden.”