The Torso: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 2 (45 page)

“Why do necrophiles do this sort of thing?” Irene asked.

Stridner’s forehead wrinkled. “The question is not phrased correctly. Necrophiles don’t do this sort of thing. Necrophiles literally love dead people, but they don’t kill them. Necrophiles who devote themselves to necrosadism are, thankfully, an exceedingly small fraction. As I’ve already told you, the type of murderer we’re chasing right now is very rare. But sometimes they pop up and we become overwhelmed in the presence of what we regard as an inhumane atrocity. But actually a necrosadist isn’t any more gruesome than any other kind of murderer. The result is the same: a murdered person, a life that has been snuffed out forever. What terrifies us is the abuse of the dead body after the murder. We see it as something sick.”

While she was delivering her little lecture, Stridner clip-clopped around the room on her high-heeled pumps. She stopped in front of
Manpower
. Even after she had finished speaking, she remained, examining the picture.

“For a split second I had the feeling that I recognized this man. But I don’t know. No one I know poses for porn pictures,” she said finally.

Irene walked over to Stridner. “Interesting. Both Hannu Rauhala and I also think we recognize the man. None of the others are sure.”

The professor leaned forward so that she could study the photo more closely. Suddenly, she straightened up and exclaimed, “Now I know! He works with us.”

Irene realized that she had been holding her breath. She exhaled and asked, “Does he work in Pathology?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t have a permanent position because he’s a student.”

A medical student? It was quite common for medical students to find extra work as autopsy technicians.

Her voice shook when Irene asked, “What’s his name and what does he study?”

Stridner continued her examination of
Manpower
.

“I don’t remember his name. But he’s an art student. He was the one who made the copy of Marcus Tosscander’s tattoo.”

Basta had spent several hours sitting next to the mutilated upper body of his victim, making an exact copy of the dragon tattoo. The thought was nauseating.

“Erik Bolin took the picture. The man in the picture is called Basta, and he’s probably Bolin and Marcus Tosscander’s murderer. In addition, he’s been linked to three murders in Copenhagen,” said Irene.

Stridner did not move. “I have a hard time believing that anyone at Pathology would be capable of this. But we’ll go up right away and try and find out his name. If for no other reason than so he can be exonerated and dismissed from the investigation,” she said finally.

 

YVONNESTRIDNER rushed into the employee lounge with Irene in tow, like a skiff in her wake. There were only two people sitting there. The man had very dark skin and hair. Irene guessed that he was Indian. She recognized the woman as Britt Nilsson, a young, newly hired pathologist. It wasn’t her name that had struck a cord when Svante Malm spoke about her, but the fact that he had referred to her as
Stridner’s assistant.
The link to Stridner and Pathology had made Irene react.

Another person worked with Stridner, but not as her assistant; rather, just as an attendant. He was called Basta, and Irene had seen him in Pathology. Now she remembered the last time she had seen Basta. It was when she had asked for Stridner and he had pointed at the autopsy room, where the professor was in the process of performing a postmortem examination on pieces of Marcus. When he stretched out his arm and pointed at the autopsy room she recalled his well-trained arm muscles playing under his gleaming brown skin.

Basta had been helpful. He’d made a very skillful copy of Marcus’s tattoo. Had he thought they would never be able to trace the origin of the tattoo? Or had he seen no way to say no when Stridner gave him the assignment? These were just some of the questions Irene wanted to ask when they caught him.

Stridner described Basta to the two employees in the lounge. Before she was finished, the dark man nodded. “I know his name . . .
hmmm
. . . could be Sebastian. But he’s also called Basta,
hmmm
. . . called Basta. Not his last name.”

He threw up his light-colored palms with an apologetic smile.

Britt Nilsson looked uncertain. “An attendant works here sometimes who matches the description. But I don’t know his name,” she said.

Stridner turned on her heel and said, “I have the employee records in my office. We have his first name to work with.”

Irene could feel a draft when the professor swished past.

 

YVONNE STRIDNER pounced on her yellow-spined cloth binders. She studied “Employees 1998-1999.” Her index finger wandered down the list. She stopped at a name and cried out, “Here! Sebastian Martinsson. Born March 7, 1970. Lives on Gamla Björlandavägen. His telephone number is also here.”

Yvonne Stridner handed the binder to Irene so that she would also be able to read the entry. Irene wrote down the information on her notepad and thanked Stridner for her help.

She waved it off. “Don’t mention it. Just make sure you catch him as quickly as possible. He isn’t going to stop killing. Sooner or later he’ll do it again. He’s simply biding his time,” she said.

She looked at her elegant watch. Something told Irene that the Rolex hadn’t been purchased on some shady backstreet in Bangkok. Because it was sitting on Yvonne’s wrist, it was one hundred percent certain that the glittering diamonds around the face were real.

“Now I have to get going! The plane to New York won’t wait, even for me!”

 

IRENE CONTACTED Hannu and Birgitta on their cell phones. Jonny didn’t answer his. A mechanical voice asked her to leave a message since the subscriber wasn’t available, which meant that he had turned off his phone. Typical, but maybe it was just as well. Hannu, Birgitta, and she would be able to undertake the search and any possible arrest. She and Hannu had been in agreement that the prosecutor should be brought in immediately. Since Hannu was in Säve, looking for the location of the dismemberment, it would be fastest if Birgitta, who was in the station, spoke with the prosecutor.

They agreed to meet in Superintendent Andersson’s office at three o’clock. He needed to have all the information before they proceeded.

Irene decided to check whether Basta happened to be in the Department of Pathology right that moment. His time sheet hadn’t been filled out after June 4. Was he going to be off work for the rest of the summer? Irene checked the list. Basta had worked from March 4 to 12. He had been in Göteborg right after they believed Marcus had been dismembered. He had also been at work on May 31 through June 4. He had been in Göteborg when Erik Bolin was killed, as well. There were relatively large gaps in Basta’s work schedule, anywhere from two to three weeks. Had he been in Copenhagen? She checked the dates of the murders of Isabell Lind and Emil Bentsen. An empty hole gaped then, as well as during the time Tom Tanaka was attacked.

Irene went into the empty corridor. She didn’t see a living soul to ask about Basta. She walked down the stairs with heavy steps. Hesitantly, she stopped outside the door to the autopsy room. Sharp howling from a bone saw could be heard from within. She straightened up and opened the door.

Two autopsies were in progress. Britt Nilsson was at one of the tables, in the middle of picking out the organs from the chest. A belching sound from gases being pressed out of the windpipe could be heard as she picked up the heart and lung package.

Autopsies could seem disgusting, but no one was more aware than Irene of how important they could be. Only a dead body could tell the truth about what had really happened. The mute testimony of the corpse had to be taken down by keen and skilled medical examiners. They had to interpret what the body was really saying in order to be able to make reparations and do justice to the dead.

A young autopsy technician was in the process of sawing open the skull bone of a dead man at the other table. Irene concentrated intently on the technician. He looked up when he became aware of her presence, turned off the saw, and stared at her.

“Who are you?” he asked in a rude tone.

“Inspector Irene Huss. I’m looking for Sebastian Martinsson.”

“Now I recognize you. Sebastian is on vacation all summer. He’s studying abroad. What do you want with him?”

He sounded friendlier after having recognized her and made no attempt to conceal his curiosity. Irene pretended not to notice.

“Thanks a lot. I’ll call him at home and see if he’s still in town.”

She gave him a friendly smile and left the room at an even pace. Even if she was in a hurry she didn’t want it to be too noticeable.

 

“
I
RAN into Superintendent Andersson in the corridor and we went together to the prosecutor. Inez Collin is handling this case,” Birgitta began.

Andersson snorted but Irene was pleased. Inez Collin was sharp and always knew what she was doing.

“That’s why Superintendent Andersson is already informed. We’ve saved a lot of time,” Birgitta continued.

Hannu, Birgitta, Superintendent Andersson, and Irene were seated in Andersson’s office. Steaming coffee mugs were placed in front of them as well as a bag of mazarin buns.

“Collin is working on a search warrant,” Andersson added.

“Good. Then it’s just a matter of driving out to Björlanda and picking him up,” said Birgitta.

“If he’s still in town. The guy in Pathology said something about Basta being off all summer to study abroad,” Irene said.

“Abroad? He’s sure as hell not supposed to leave Sweden when we’re finally close to bringing him in!” the superintendent exclaimed, displeased.

“Hopefully not. But the risk is there. I suggest that we take a locksmith with us to save some time.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Hannu.

“I’m going with you,” Andersson muttered.

Irene sensed that his nerves wouldn’t allow him to remain at the station to await their return, with or without Basta.

THE GRAY three-story concrete house dated from the earliest “million houses project,” a program to provide affordable shelter for the poor. In an attempt at softening its gloomy facade, all the balconies had been painted a bright red during the eighties. Over the years, exhaust fumes from the heavily trafficked Björlandavägen had toned down the color to a brownish red. Colorful graffiti on the walls did a better job of livening up the environment, but since it was of varying artistic quality, the impression was mixed.

The lock on the door to the building was broken so it was just a matter of stepping inside the dirty stairwell. The walls inside were also covered in graffiti, even though it was mostly edifying invectives in the form of different sexual slurs and only a few pictures.

The name plate on the second floor read S. MARTINSSON. The four police officers positioned themselves outside the door and Irene rang the bell. She felt her heart rate increase. She was finally about to see Basta, eye to eye.

After five rings, she realized that he wasn’t home. Or, if he was, he wasn’t planning on answering the doorbell. Irene opened the lid of the mail slot and peered in. She could see an advertisement on the floor and the corner of a yellow rag rug. The apartment seemed quiet and empty. Irene could hear Hannu’s voice behind her saying, “OK. You can come now.”

When she turned around, she saw him turn off his cell phone and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. In five minutes the locksmith arrived. He was a big cheerful Finn who spoke a singsong Finnish-Swedish as he opened the door. If he noticed the superintendent stomping with impatience, he didn’t comment.

When the lock clicked, he opened the door wide and threw out his hand in an inviting gesture. “There you go!”

Andersson stepped over the threshold first. Before they took a closer look at the apartment, they split up in order to check and make sure that Basta hadn’t hidden himself somewhere. The little studio apartment was quickly searched. The hallway was small and cramped. There were two closets. One of them contained wire storage bins and the other held cleaning implements. The bins were as good as empty aside from a pair of ski gloves, two thick shirts, and a long light blue scarf knitted with thick yarn. A pair of well-polished light brown boots in size eleven stood on the floor.

There was an old vacuum cleaner, a green plastic carpet beater, and an ironing board in the cleaning closet.

The door on the opposite wall led into a small bathroom. It was so small that the toilet was placed as close as possible to the bathtub. The washbasin was squeezed under the window on the short wall. The walls were painted a shade of pale green like linden tree blossoms. The floor was covered in gray tiles, several of which were cracked. Irene opened the medicine chest and determined that it was empty except for a hairbrush and a squeezed-out tube of toothpaste. The entire space was meticulously clean and fresh.

On the hall floor there was a small sun-yellow rag rug. The hall lamp was broken but light flooded in from the open door as well as through a high picture window. Irene normally wasn’t very sensitive to how people cleaned their homes, but even she had to admit that she had rarely seen such well-polished windows. White curtains woven in a pattern of flying seagulls hung on either side of the window. When Irene looked closer, she discovered that the curtains had been carefully starched.

Just to the left of the main door was a kitchen alcove a few square meters in size. A minimal stove, a fridge and freezer, and a few beige-colored kitchen cabinets shared the limited space. The small sink shone like a commercial for some miraculous cleanser.

The bedroom appeared to be sizable because it held almost no furniture. The walls were sponge-painted in a pale apricot color. In the middle of the floor was an old but faultlessly clean hooked rug in green and yellow. A bed with a simple green-and-white striped cotton bedspread stood along one of the shorter walls. By the window, there was a small pine kitchen table and two odd kitchen chairs. A cheap shelf unit from IKEA covered the entirety of the opposite wall. A small TV with a VCR stood on the middle shelf. There were no books but there were lots of videos and sketch pads in different sizes, organized in neat rows. On the bottom shelf were some stretchers for canvases.