Wednesday had been the best day. During the morning there had been two hours scheduled for physical training, and Johansson had exchanged his daily brisk walks, now always up and down the main street, for a visit to the swimming pool. The day before he had, among other things, bought a pair of swimming trunks in the academy’s gift shop, which like everything else were imprinted with the FBI emblem. In addition he had hesitated before a blue baseball cap with the same emblem, and finally he bought that too. Just in case, thought Johansson.
At the swimming pool was Special Agent Backstroem, who was the assigned host for the Scandinavian delegates on the strength of his ethnic heritage, but who in all other respects appeared to have been manufactured at headquarters in Washington.
“Sir,” said Backstroem, pulling in his stomach, sticking out his chest, and looking him right in the eyes. “You’re thinking about swimming, sir.”
No, thought Johansson, who despite the fact that it was only three full days since he had become aware of Agent Backstroem’s existence already hated him with a quiet Norrland fervor. I was thinking about listening to a Vikings concert and that’s why I’m at the FBI Academy’s swimming pool forty miles south of Washington dressed only in bathing trunks. But he didn’t say that. Instead he nodded like the country boy that he was.
“Yes,” said Johansson. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to swim since I’m here anyway.”
“Very good, sir,” said Backstroem, at the same time glancing at the lifesaving paraphernalia hanging on a hook on the wall.
“I would be very grateful if you could time me,” said Johansson.
“Yes, sir,” said Backstroem. “Very good sir. How many laps, sir?”
“Fifty,” said Johansson, nodding and gliding down into the water with the same controlled movements as a gray seal leaving its rock in the sea.
After forty laps Backstroem started acting crazy. He ran beside him along the edge of the pool, waving his arms. Held up the watch and displayed a varying number of fingers. When Johansson heaved himself up out of the pool and wiped the water from his hair, Backstroem was on the verge of collapse.
“Sir,” panted Backstroem. “You are an exceptional swimmer, sir.” He tapped the watch face with his index finger.
Johansson smiled amiably. Nodded.
“So-so,” he said. “It’s been a while since I was at it. Where’s the shower?”
Backstroem showed him the way with a forward-leaning upper body and inviting hand movements. Just so he doesn’t fall in love with me, thought Johansson.
The lecture after lunch had not been too bad either. Johansson was part of an exclusive group of invitees who were to be informed of the most recent findings of the most intellectual aspect of the ongoing fight against crime. They were to learn how to produce psychological profiles of unknown perpetrators of aggravated crimes of violence. The lecturer was an instructor at the FBI’s newly established unit for behavioral science, and aside from the fact that he was twenty years older than Special Agent Backstroem, it was quite obvious that he had been manufactured at the same place. Afterward an entire half hour had been set aside for a final discussion.
I see, thought Johansson. It wasn’t any more difficult than that, and as far as he could understand from the lecture, all serial murderers could be divided into six categories. Either they were asocial and didn’t give a tinker’s damn about what anyone around them thought or did, or they were antisocial and hated those around them, regardless of what they thought or did. And, within both categories, they could be disorganized or organized or both when push came to shove. Two times three equals six, thought Johansson, something he had already learned to do in first grade.
And what have we here? thought Johansson, observing the horrid images that the lecturer was clicking out from his slide projector with the tranquil, pathological delight that was clearly the profiling expert’s badge of honor.
I see, thought Johansson. Here we have a loony who knocked on his neighbor’s door because he’d just purchased a yellow canary. Hates anyone who has yellow canaries. Hates everyone. When the neighbor opened, he walloped him on the head with a pipe wrench. Dragged him into the hallway and thumped him a few more times for good measure. He got so excited by all this that he pooped on the neighbor’s hallway rug and when he finally pulled up his pants he had already forgotten what it was he really wanted to say. He had even forgotten to let the little bird out of its cage. After that he had clumped right through the pools of blood, out into the stairwell and into his own place. There he sat in front of the TV stuffing himself with a bag of glazed doughnuts.
“Now then,” said the lecturer in that stuck-up way characteristic of all ignoramuses who have been granted the good fortune to hold the answer sheet. “Gentlemen. What do you think about this? Any suggestions?”
Suspiciously like an antisocial, disorganized perpetrator, thought Johansson, but before he had time to raise his hand, his counterpart with the Danish Board of Police’s homicide commission had already answered. He was an exceptionally surly old geezer who, despite thirty years in the profession, still persisted in chasing his targets. He also spoke surprisingly good English.
“It was the neighbor who did it.”
The lecturer appeared shaken and, despite his frantic shadowboxing with single mothers, absent fathers, early attempts at treatment, bed-wetting, truancy, and repeated incidents of cruelty to animals starting in childhood, it all still only amounted to a few individual points for style.
“You had him there,” said Johansson when he and his Danish counterpart, after the end of the lecture and an unusually lively discussion, were walking away to the scheduled coffee break.
“Yeah,” the Dane said and grinned. “These damned academics. I hate them.”
“There are only three rules,” said Johansson and smiled.
“Yeah, what are they?”
“You should like the situation, don’t make things unnecessarily complicated, and finally, you should hate chance,” said Johansson.
“You’re a good fellow, Johansson,” said the old geezer with unexpected warmth in his voice, putting his arm around Johansson’s shoulders. “Now let’s have a beer.”
On Thursday he had called Jarnebring in Stockholm. For one thing, he wanted to hear if anything had happened. For another, he wanted Krassner’s address. Why he didn’t really know himself, but since he was here anyway he might as well take the opportunity to see how he lived. Maybe talk to a neighbor, thought Johansson vaguely. Snoop around a little. Set his ear to the rail. He already had the address of Krassner’s old flame. Not clear why he had written it in his notebook before he left.
“Brother,” said Jarnebring warmly. “How’s it going? Is it just beer and broads or is it back to school too?”
After the usual introductory remarks Johansson got to the point.
“How’s it going with that Krassner?” Johansson asked. Innocently and as though in passing.
“You never give up, Lars,” said Jarnebring. “I wrote that bastard off the day before yesterday. Suicide.”
“You don’t have his address,” said Johansson. “I mean here in the States.”
“And what would you do with that?” asked Jarnebring. “Thinking about delivering a wreath, or what?”