Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 (8 page)

She looked up from her notepad and turned to Charlotte. “Did you hear from your father-in-law again on Monday?”

“No.”

“Did you meet him or speak with him on Tuesday?”

“No.”

“Do you know the cleaning woman’s name, Charlotte? The one who was at the apartment when you arrived?”

Both of them shook their heads. That was one thing they agreed on, at least.

“Thank you both for being kind enough to come down here. We’ll be talking to you again during the course of the investigation. If you think of anything, just call me or any of the other inspectors. Or Superintendent Andersson, of course. There are eight of us working on this case. There will always be someone here to talk to you,” Irene concluded in a friendly tone of voice.

She stood up and held out her hand to Henrik. His was ice cold. He only gave Irene’s fingers a light squeeze before he quickly released his grip. Charlotte gracefully offered her well-manicured fingers, but her handshake felt like a moist towelette.

 

ALONE IN the room again, Irene called the psychiatric ward and got permission to talk to Sylvia von Knecht on her room telephone. Her voice sounded slurred and dull when she answered. There was a slight, barely noticeable trace of a Finnish accent.

“Well, it’s probably best to get it over and done with. But if you ask me why he jumped, I have no answer for you. He seemed completely normal lately. And he was so lively at the party last Saturday . . . oh!” she broke off in the midst of a sob.

It wasn’t ideal to tell Fru von Knecht by telephone that the police suspected murder. But the press conference at which it would be announced was going to be held in an hour. There was a chance that Sylvia might hear it on the radio news before three o’clock. It was probably best to beat the media. Knowing how they usually behaved, Irene wanted Sylvia to be aware of the risk of a bombardment with questions by scandal-mongering reporters. They would be after her the minute she closed the door to the psych ward behind her. A homicide in that milieu had a hundred times more news value than a simple suicide.

Irene cleared her throat and said, “Fru von Knecht. What I’m going to say will no doubt come as a shock to you. We have certain leads indicating that your husband was the victim of a homicide.”

Silence on the line. Finally, an unexpectedly sharp reaction. “You mean murdered? He was murdered?”

“Yes, there are strong indications that—”

“Thank the good Lord! What a relief!”

Whatever Irene had expected, it certainly wasn’t this remark. She tried not to show her surprise, but continued in a neutral tone, “There will be a press conference at one o’clock at police headquarters. Superintendent Sven Andersson will have to notify the press that we are working on a homicide, not a suicide. You need to be prepared because the reporters might get pushy.”

“They always are anyway. Imagine what a bunch of crap they would have written if Richard had committed suicide. And his insurance . . . Well, there won’t be any problem with that now. A murder is horrible, of course, but at least it can’t be blamed on the family. No one can protect themselves from madmen. Was it three o’clock you were going to be here?”

Bewildered, Irene confirmed the time. Not until she hung up did it occur to her that Sylvia von Knecht hadn’t asked why the police were so sure it was murder. Part of her odd behavior could be due to various medicines she may have received in the psych ward. But her reaction was still extraordinary.

 

EVA KARLSSON, the dachshund lady, sounded considerably more spirited than she had the first time Irene called her that morning.

“Yes, of course, it’s so nice you want to drop by. Two o’clock will be fine, and I’ll have coffee ready,” she chirped happily.

Irene’s protests were kindly but firmly overridden. With a sigh she hung up. It might be tight trying to make it up to Sahlgren by three; she would have to be stern. Elderly ladies who lived alone had an unfortunate tendency to regard the police as their best friends.

Unfortunately, the police were also often their only friends.

It was ten minutes to one, and high time to get hold of the superintendent. Andersson wasn’t in his office. His secretary said that Sven had driven up to Pathology to meet a professor. He had promised to be back by quarter to one but hadn’t shown up yet.

At two minutes past one he came charging through the doors.

SUPERINTENDENT SVEN ANDERSSON WAS pleased with himself for putting that pompous colleague from General Investigations up against the wall. That should plug the next leak “from a well-informed police source”! Superintendent Birger Nilsson wasn’t the only one making a little money on the side. There were several colleagues who lined their pockets in this manner, but it felt good to have leaned on at least one of them. Should he report it? Hardly enough evidence, all circumstantial, just a lucky shot. Internal Affairs would want proof.

He happily whistled “Lili Marlene” off-key to himself as he backed out of his parking spot at headquarters. The sky was still a solid gray, but at the moment it wasn’t raining. The temperature was just above freezing, so this evening they could probably expect black ice on the roads. The Traffic Division would be busy with all the cars sliding off the road. “Snow tires? But officer, I keep regular tires on all year long and never have a problem.”

The garlands of lights over the pedestrian malls were already in place, and most shop windows had their Christmas displays up. The holiday shopping season was jumping the gun a bit this year, since retailers had to suck as much as possible out of people now that income tax refunds weren’t paid out at Christmas anymore.

Ah, Christmas. This year he was looking forward to it. His sister and brother-in-law had invited him out to Åstol for the holidays. His niece and her two little boys were coming too. Just so this investigation didn’t drag on for too long. Andersson stopped whistling and sighed loudly. Irene had said something about a “clash of cultures,” and he could see that there might be plenty of opportunities for that sort of thing in this case.

The social classes he usually worked within had absolutely nothing in common with the exclusive apartment he had visited last night. Murder scenes were normally shitty, stinking crack houses. The victim had usually been stabbed after some dope deal gone wrong. Another common scenario was encountering a man stinking of alcohol at the crime scene, blubbering with remorse because he “happened to” kill his wife. Glamorous TV murders like the von Knecht case almost never occurred. But when they did, the police were completely at a loss. Suddenly there were all kinds of tender toes they had to avoid stepping on. They couldn’t proceed in their usual way with the investigation. Police Commissioner Bengt Bergström had made a point of emphasizing this during the “little information meeting” they’d had just before Sven Andersson headed off to Pathology. In a low, confidential tone of voice Bergström had said, “Keep in mind that this involves an old established Göteborg family. We have to be extremely careful with anything that might come out during the investigation. You’re an old fox and known for employing your own tactics—and very successfully, I might add—but I would really appreciate receiving regular updates from you during the course of the investigation, blah blah blah . . .”

With growing distaste Andersson realized that Bergström knew full well that he wasn’t going by the book, but he was trying to hide it behind flattery and feigned familiarity. In Sweden it wasn’t normal to give police commissioners information while an investigation was in progress. Usually they received one partial report during the course of the investigation, and then a final report.

Andersson slapped his palm against the steering wheel and sputtered, “Murder is murder, and a killer is a killer! Even if he pisses in a gold chamberpot, he’s still a killer.”

The woman standing by the crosswalk, where Andersson had stopped for a red light, gave him a quizzical look. Embarrassed, he realized that he had been talking out loud, but thank God the windows were rolled up.

Why was he sitting here getting all worked up? Was it because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to solve the case? Maybe, but he knew that the upcoming meeting with Professor Stridner was also making him uneasy. She was organized and accomplished. But she showed no respect for him. Or anyone else, for that matter.

I’d have to wait for that until I’m lying there like a—if not neat then interesting—corpse on the stainless-steel autopsy table,
he thought.

 

THE AUTOPSY assistant was a huge bodybuilder who had worked in Pathology for many years. He gave Sven Andersson a nod of recognition and pointed up the stairs when the superintendent asked for Yvonne Stridner.

She was sitting in her office, dictating into a little tape recorder the size of a cigarette pack.

“. . . the liver is somewhat hypertrophied, although there is no visible sign of steatosis. In view of the size of the liver, this is probably a beginning stage. Sent to Pathological Anatomical Diagnosis.”

She clicked off the tape recorder and gave Andersson a sharp look. And she recognized him at once.

“So you’ve decided to come over yourself, Andersson? I just finished the autopsy and was thinking of calling you up. Now I won’t have to,” she said with satisfaction.

The superintendent said hello and then asked her the important question at once. “Has the cause of death been determined?”

“Yes, beyond all doubt. He died from the impact of his fall.”

“Does that mean there’s still a possibility it was a damned suicide?”

“Not at all. There is a severe contusion on the back of his head. On the os occipitale there is a small fracture from a powerful blow, sufficient to cause unconsciousness but not death. The interesting thing is the location of the blow. Right above the hollow at the back of the neck, at the rear wall and base of the cranium. It’s located a little obliquely to the left. This opens up two possibilities. One: Von Knecht knelt down in front of his executioner with his head bowed. The killer was unmoved and swung the cleaver from directly above in a wide arc, so that the blow landed somewhat below the base of the skull. But if so, Richard must have been bowing deeply. Hardly credible. Possibility number two: The murderer has a good backhand, and is right-handed.”

“Backhand?”

“Tennis stroke, in this case. The power in the blow came from below, obliquely to the killer’s body and directed upward. It’s difficult to put sufficient power into such a blow, but a good tennis player should be able to put enough force into it to knock someone out.”

“From what I understood from Svante Malm, the incision across the back of the victim’s hand was made with the blade of the meat cleaver that was found on the balcony. How does the wound at the back of his head look?”

“It matches the cleaver’s dull edge exactly. I’ve checked it.”

“But weren’t the techs here by seven this morning? And they took the cleaver back to the lab.”

She gave him a withering look. “Who wasn’t here by seven o’clock?” she snapped.

She took a deep breath and let her gaze wander out through the filthy window. “For me, this is science: I have to know the cause of death. What can the body tell us about the living person? Can it tell me anything about the killer? It’s your job to figure out who murdered him and why.”

The superintendent decided to stay on Professor Stridner’s good side. It was important for him to obtain as many facts as possible right now. An autopsy report wouldn’t be ready for a few days. Without showing how much self-control it took, he said in a neutral tone, “I’m very grateful that you attended to the body so quickly. I’ll do my best to provide an answer as to ‘who’ and ‘why,’ but without your help that will be impossible.”

The professor pursed her lips, but she shifted her gaze from the dirty window and deigned to look graciously at Andersson again. Satisfied, she said, “You’re probably right about that. By the way, did it ever occur to you that it might not be von Knecht who was lying on the sidewalk?”

Andersson sat dumbfounded, wearing a slightly sheepish expression.

Stridner challenged him, “Did you get a good look at the body yesterday?”

“He was lying on his stomach. It was dark,” Andersson replied evasively.

“Precisely. He landed flat on his belly. His skull was shattered and in a terrible mess. I’ve reconstructed the lower jaw and parts of the upper jaw. The forensic odontologists are coming after lunch. And then . . .
voilà!
My little surprise for you!”

She reached across the desk and picked up a manila envelope, which she waved triumphantly in the air.

The superintendent had a hard time hiding his conviction that things had now gone too far. He had always had trouble talking with this woman, but what he intuitively sensed now was that she was totally insane.

Stridner saw what he was thinking. Laughing, she opened the flap of the envelope and pulled out a green piece of cardboard. It was folded in thirds, and each part had small rectangular windows in it, filled with shiny dark celluloid. They were dental X rays. In the corner was a small cardboard label with the text: RICHARD VON KNECHT, 350803.

Andersson was embarrassed and managed only to mutter, “I see . . . all right . . .”

Stridner frowned and jokingly waved the X rays at him. “I don’t hear you saying, ‘Amazingly fast work, Yvonne!’ or ‘But how in the world did you manage to get his X rays already?’ or the most obvious, ‘How did you get hold of his dentist so quickly?’”

This was her point, and she was savoring the moment. Andersson sighed and raised both palms in a gesture of resignation.

“Okay, okay. Amazingly fast work . . . Yvonne, and all that other stuff. I bow to you. But I’d appreciate an answer to my questions, plus facts about von Knecht’s general condition.”