Читать книгу The Hypnotist - Ларс Кеплер - Страница 22

The Department of Forensic Medicine is located in a redbrick building in the middle of the huge campus of the Karolinska Institute. And inside the department is the glossy white and pale matt grey office of Nils Åhlén, Chief Medical Officer, aka The Needle.

After giving his name to a girl at reception, Joona Linna is allowed in.

The office is modern and expensive and comes with a designer label. The few chairs are made of brushed steel, with austere white leather seats, and the light comes from a large sheet of glass suspended above the desk.

The Needle shakes Joona’s hand without getting up. He is wearing white aviator-framed glasses and a white turtleneck under his white lab coat. His face is clean-shaven and narrow, the grey hair is cropped, his lips are pale, his nose long and uneven.

“Good morning,” he says, in a hoarse voice.

On the wall hangs a faded colour photograph of The Needle and his colleagues: forensic pathologists, forensic chemists, forensic geneticists, and forensic dentists. They are all wearing white coats, and they all look happy. They are standing around a few dark fragments of bone on a bench; the caption beneath the picture states that this is a find from an excavation of ninth-century graves outside the trading settlement of Birka on the island of Björkö.

“New picture,” says Joona.

“I have to stick photos up with tape,” says The Needle discontentedly. “In the old pathology department they had a picture sixty feet square.”

“Wow,” replies Joona.

“Painted by Peter Weiss.”

“The writer?”

The Needle nods; the light from the desk lamp reflects off his aviators. “Yes. He painted portraits of all the staff in the forties. Six months’ work, and he was paid six hundred kronor, or so I’ve heard. My father is in the picture among the pathologists; he’s down at the end.” The Needle tilts his head to one side and returns to his computer. “I’m just working on the postmortem report from the Tumba murders,” he says.

“Yes?”

The Needle peers at Joona. “Carlos rang up to hassle me this morning.”

Joona smiles sweetly. “I know.”

The Needle pushes his glasses back. “I gather it’s important to establish the time of death of the different victims.”

“Yes, we need to know the order.”

The Needle searches on the computer, his lips pursed. “It’s only a preliminary assessment, but—”

“The man died first?”

“Exactly. I based that purely on the body temperature,” he says, pointing at the screen. “Erixon says both locations, the locker room and the house, were roughly the same temperature, so my estimate was that the man died just over an hour before the other two.”

“And have you changed your mind now?”

The Needle shakes his head and gets up with a groan. “Slipped disc,” he mutters, as he sets off down the hall.

Joona follows him as he limps slowly toward the postmortem unit. They pass a room containing a freestanding dissection table made of stainless steel; it looks like a draining board but with rectangular sections and a raised edge all round it. They enter a cool room where bodies being examined by the forensic unit are preserved in drawers at a temperature of forty degrees Fahrenheit. The Needle stops and checks the number, pulls out a large drawer, and sees that it’s empty.

“Gone,” he says, and they return to the corridor. As they walk, Joona notices that the floor is marked with thousands of scuffs from the wheels of trolleys. They reach another room and The Needle holds the door open for Joona.

They are in a well-lit white-tiled room with a large hand basin on the wall. Water is trickling into a drain in the floor from a bright yellow hose. On the long dissection table, which is covered in plastic, lies a naked, colourless body marked with hundreds of black wounds.

“Katja Ek,” states Joona.

The dead woman’s face is remarkably calm; her mouth is half open and her eyes have a serene look about them. She looks as if she is listening to beautiful music, but her peaceful expression is at odds with the long, vicious slashes across her forehead and cheeks. Joona allows his gaze to roam over Katja Ek’s body, where a marbled veining has already begun to appear around her neck.

“We’re hoping to get the internal examination done this afternoon.”

Joona sighs. “God, what a mess.”

The other door opens and a young man with an uncertain smile comes in. He has several rings in his eyebrows, and his dyed black hair hangs down the back of his white coat in a ponytail. With a little smile, The Needle raises one fist in a hard rock greeting, pinkie and index finger aloft like devil’s horns, which the young man immediately reciprocates.

“This is Joona Linna from National CID,” The Needle explains. “He comes to visit us now and again.”

“Frippe,” says the young man, shaking hands with Joona.

“He’s specialising in forensic medicine,” says The Needle.

Frippe pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and Joona goes over to the table with him; the air surrounding the woman is cold and smells unpleasant.

“She’s the one who was subjected to the least amount of violence,” The Needle points out. “Despite multiple cuts and stab wounds.”

They contemplate the dead woman. Her body is covered in large and small punctures.

“In addition, unlike the other two, she has not been mutilated or hacked to pieces,” he goes on. “The actual cause of death is not the wound in her neck but this one, which goes straight into the heart, according to the computer tomography.” He indicates a relatively unimpressive-looking wound on her sternum.

“But it is a little difficult to see the bleeds on the images,” says Frippe.

“Naturally, we’ll check it out when we open her up,” The Needle says to Joona.

“She fought back,” says Joona.

“In my opinion she actively defended herself at first,” replies The Needle, “based on the wounds on the palms of her hands, but then she tried to escape and simply tried to protect herself.”

The young doctor studies The Needle intently.

“Look at the injuries on the outer arms,” says The Needle.

“Defensive wounds,” mutters Joona.

“Exactly.”

Joona leans over and looks at the brownish-yellow patches that are visible in the woman’s open eyes.

“Are you looking at the suns?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t see them until a few hours after death; sometimes it can take several days,” The Needle says to the young doctor. “They’ll turn completely black in the end. It’s because the pressure in the eye is dropping.”

He picks up a reflex hammer and asks Frippe to see if any idiomuscular contractions remain. The young doctor taps the middle of the woman’s biceps and feels the muscle with his fingers, checking for contractions.

“Minimal,” he says to The Needle.

“They usually stop after thirteen hours,” The Needle explains.

“The dead are not completely dead,” says Joona, shuddering as he detects a ghostly movement in Katja Ek’s limp arm.

“Mortui vivis docent—the dead teach the living,” replies The Needle, smiling to himself as he and Frippe ease her onto her stomach.

He points out the blotchy reddish-brown patches on her buttocks and the small of her back and across her shoulder blades and arms.

“The hypostasis is faint when the victim has lost a lot of blood.”

“Obviously,” says Joona.

“Blood is heavy, and when you die there is no longer any internal pressure system,” The Needle explains to Frippe. “It might be obvious, but the blood runs downward and simply collects at the lowest points; it’s most often seen on surfaces that have been in contact with whatever the body was lying on.”

He presses a patch on her right calf with his thumb until it almost disappears.

“There, you see … you can press them and make them disappear up to twenty-four hours after death.”

“But I thought I saw patches on her hips and chest,” says Joona hesitantly.

“Bravo,” says The Needle, regarding him with a faintly surprised smile. “I didn’t think you’d notice those.”

“So she was lying on her stomach when she was dead, before she was turned over,” says Joona.

“For two hours, I’d guess.”

“So the perpetrator stayed for two hours. Or he came back to the scene. Or somebody else turned her over.”

The Needle shrugs his shoulders. “I’m a long way from finishing my assessment at this stage.”

“Can I ask something? I noticed that one of the wounds on the stomach looks like a C-section.”

“A C-section,” says The Needle, smiling. “Why not? Shall we have a look at it?” The two doctors turn the body once again. “This one, you mean?” The Needle is pointing to a large cut extending about six inches downward from the navel.

“Yes,” replies Joona.

“I haven’t had time to examine every injury yet.”

“Vulnera incisa,” says Frippe.

“Yes, it does look like an incision,” says The Needle.

“Not a stab wound,” says Joona.

Frippe leans over so that he can see.

“In view of the fact that it’s a straight line and the surface of the surrounding skin is intact.” The Needle pokes inside the wound with his fingers. “The walls,” he goes on. “They’re not particularly blood-soaked, but—”

“What is it?” asks Joona.

The Needle is looking at him very strangely. “This cut was made after her death,” he says. He pulls off his gloves. “I need to look at the computer tomography,” he says worriedly; he walks over, opens up the computer on the table by the door, clicks through the three-dimensional images, stops, moves on, and alters the angle. “The wound appears to go into the womb,” he whispers. “It looks as if it follows old scars.”

“Old scars? What do you mean?” asks Joona.

“You’re the one who called it.” The Needle smiles faintly. “An emergency C-section scar.”

He points at the vertical wound. As Joona looks more closely, he can see that all along one side there is a thin thread of old, pale-pink scar tissue, from a C-section that healed long ago.

“But she wasn’t pregnant?” asks Joona.

“No.” The Needle laughs, pushing his aviators back.

“Are we dealing with a murderer who has surgical skills?” asks Joona.

The Needle shakes his head; Joona thinks about the fact that someone killed Katja Ek in a frenzy, with considerable violence, and came back two hours later, turned her over, and carefully cut open her old C-section scar.

“See if there’s anything similar on the other bodies.”

“Do you want us to make that a priority?” asks The Needle.

“Yes, I think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“So you want us to prioritise everything.”

“More or less.” Joona is smiling as he leaves the room.

But as Joona gets into his car, he starts to shiver. He starts the engine, pulls out into Retzius Väg, turns up the heater, and keys in the number for Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm.

“Svanehjälm.”

“Joona Linna.”

“Ah. Good morning. I’ve just been talking to Carlos. He said you’d be in touch.”

“It’s a little difficult to say what we’re dealing with here,” says Joona. “I’ve just left the forensic unit, and I’m thinking of heading to the hospital; I really need to question the surviving witness.”

“Carlos explained the situation to me,” says Jens. “Have you got the profiling group started?”

“A profile won’t be enough,” replies Joona.

“No, I know; I agree. If we’re to have any chance of protecting the older sister, we absolutely have to speak to the boy.”

Joona suddenly sees a firework explode in complete silence: a pale blue star, far away above the roofs of Stockholm. He clears his throat. “I’m in touch with Susanne Granat at Social Services, and I was thinking of having Erik Maria Bark, the psychiatrist, with me during questioning. He’s an expert in the treatment of shock and trauma.”

“That’s perfectly in order,” says Jens reassuringly.

“In that case I’ll go straight to the neurosurgical unit.”

“Good idea.”