He drove through the pitch-black city, up St. Eriksgatan, then Fleminggatan and Polhemsgatan, but at this moment he was an unfit driver. Mixing facts with intuitions as he was, he was a grave danger in traffic; fortunately, though, the nighttime traffic was nonexistent. Why Benny Lundberg? What had the security guard seen or done that night? After all, Hultin had been there and talked to him that same night, and everything had seemed normal. And yet there must have been something strange about that break-in. Immediately afterward Lundberg had taken vacation time and was later discovered half-murdered by the Kentucky Killer, who had spoken Swedish, flattened two solid, professional policemen, and refrained from killing Norlander even though he’d had him in his sights. If they hadn’t had the background information on the killer, Hultin would have immediately thought: inside job, a criminal cop.
He went into the dark police building. Everything was still. The rain’s uninterrupted rumble had been absorbed into the normal background noise; when the rain stopped sometime in the future, something would feel wrong, like a disturbance in the normal state of things.
He arrived in the A-Unit’s corridor. A little light was shining-he realized where from. Chavez hopped out from his office and rushed up to his boss.
“Come take a look at this shit,” he said, as hyper as a seven-year-old.
Jan-Olov Hultin wanted to think, not look at shit. He had been doing quite enough of that during the past few weeks. He felt like a grumpy old man-which, it struck him, he was. He followed Chavez without protest.
In Hjelm’s place at the desk sat a small older man with Mediterranean looks. His face was illuminated by the large computer monitor in front of him.
“This is Christo Kavafis,” said Chavez, “the locksmith. I took the liberty of bringing him in. Christo, this is Jan-Olov Hultin, my boss.”
“My pleasure,” said Christo Kavafis.
Hultin nodded and looked with surprise at Chavez, who hurried over to the Greek man.
“I was struck by a flash of genius when I heard that John Doe’s key allowed admittance to the site of the murder,” Chavez said eagerly. “Everything seems to indicate that the American who got into Sweden under the name Edwin Reynolds looks-like this.” He turned the computer monitor a quarter of the way around.
Hultin stared into the face of the Kentucky Killer. It was John Doe, their unidentified body.
He was silent for a minute. The pieces were starting to fall into place. “So there are two Kentucky Killers,” he said.
“Now there’s just one,” said Chavez.
Hultin picked up his cell phone and dialed Hjelm’s number in the United States. It was busy. Very strange-the number was to be used solely for this purpose.
Kerstin and Paul approached the computer monitor above Wilma Stewart’s small, nodding head.
“That’s just what he looked like,” said the old woman. “Just like that. Lamar Jennings.”
Kerstin and Paul stared into the face of the Kentucky Killer.
It was John Doe, their unidentified body.
Hjelm took out his cell phone and dialed Hultin’s number in Sweden. It was busy. Very strange-the number was to be used solely for this purpose.
Hultin didn’t give up. He called again. This time he got through.
“Hjelm,” Hjelm answered on the other side of the Atlantic.
“John Doe is the Kentucky Killer,” Hultin said abruptly.
“One of them,” said Hjelm.
“I’m looking at composite of him right now.”
“Me too.”
Hultin gave a start. “I just tried to call.”
“Me too.”
Hjelm had difficulty getting everything straightened out. Hultin kept talking instead of explaining.
“Norlander and Nyberg almost got him. The second one. He speaks Swedish.”
“He’s lived in Sweden since 1983. How close did they get?”
“Close enough to take a licking, both of them. In LinkCoop’s warehouse. He had Viggo in his sights but didn’t kill him. Is he a police officer?”
“Sort of. We’ll talk about that later. So he’s free?”
“Yes, but just by a hair. We have the pincers. And a half-dead guard.”
“Benny Lundberg?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, he’s probably going to be a vegetable. Can you explain all this?”
“There are two killers, Jennings father and son. The son went to Sweden to kill the father. Their roles were reversed.”
“So it was Wayne Jennings… that means he’s alive?”
“He’s been living in Sweden for fifteen years. It’s his son Lamar who’s dead; we know that now. That explains why he shot John Doe without torturing him. Presumably Lamar was waiting in ambush and saw his father Wayne torturing Eric Lindberger. It turned into a horrific déjà vu. The son discovered the father and got shot. It’s likely that Wayne Jennings doesn’t even know it was his son he shot.”
“So Wayne was the one who was surprised by the bandy-playing lawyers.”
“Yes. There are two different perpetrators for the Swedish victims. Hassel and Gallano were chosen at random, one for his plane ticket and the other for the cabin. John Doe was their murderer-Lamar Jennings. Lamar was murdered in turn by Wayne, also randomly. What we have left is Lindberger. His death is not random; Wayne doesn’t kill at random-he’s a professional.”
“Professional killer and ‘sort of’ a police officer? Your insinuations reek of…”
“Don’t say it. But it’s right.”
“Okay. I need everyone at full capacity now. It sounds like you’re starting to wrap it up. Can you two come home?”
“Now?”
“If possible.”
“Okay.”
“Say hi to Larner, and thank him.”
“Absolutely. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Hjelm hung up and stared at the telephone. The unit had been close to getting Wayne Jennings. Norlander and Nyberg, of all people.
“Did you hear?” he said to Holm who was leaning over him.
“Yes,” she said. “He goes to Sweden to avenge a ‘life under zero,’ as he wrote, once and for all. He prepares extremely carefully, locates his father, follows him, and waits for the right moment to strike. Then he wavers somehow-and he’s killed immediately. A second time. By his father. Who doesn’t even know it. There’s some horrible irony here.”
“Don’t think about it too much. We’re going home. Now. To get him.”
She nodded.
They went to see Larner and explained the situation.
“So he threatened him?” His tone was measured. “He had your colleague in his sights but refrained from shooting him. A professional through and through, you have to admit.”
“Yes,” said Hjelm. “But we’re going to get him.”
“I’m actually starting to believe you will. You came sweeping in here like cousins from the boonies and solved the case in a few days. I’m feeling really old and rusty. But you lifted a burden from my shoulders.”
“It was pure chance,” said Hjelm. “And you were the one who solved the case-don’t think otherwise. Your stubbornness got him to leave; you were the one who drove him to flee the country. That he then forgot an old truth is another matter.”
“And what old truth is that?”
“Bad blood always comes back around.”
27
The next morning, strangely enough, everyone in the A-Unit was in their place. Only two should have been present, besides Hultin: Chavez and Söderstedt. But the old, experienced comedy duo Yalm & Halm arrived straight from the airport with red eyes, and in the back sat a fresh duo: everyone’s favorite bandage-skulls, NN; it would have taken a lot to keep Norlander and Nyberg on the bench now.
Hultin didn’t look like he’d been celebrating any triumphs of sleep, either, but his glasses were where they should be, and so was his sharp look.