Stockholm Noir

Nineteen Pieces

BY CARL-MICHAEL EDENBORG

Slakthusområdet

Translated by Caroline Åberg

—No more now, miss. That’s enough.

My swollen face in the mirror stares back at me. My mouth speaks without intention. My pupils are pistol muzzles, my forehead beaded with sweat, jaws working. There are furrows in my brow that go so deep the ice-cold restroom lighting doesn’t reach the bottom of them.

My dry lips part again.

—Just a little more.

I shake my head, take the wallet from my purse; with trembling hands I manage to open the zipper, take out the stamp-sized paper envelope, stick my finger in it, lick off the bitter, putrid powder, rub the last of it into my gums.

—Keep it together, Bengtsson!

I clench my teeth. My lips pucker. A denture sends a sharp pain into my jaw. I clear my throat, put the wallet back in my purse, and leave the restroom. My half-finished beer is there on the counter. Branco looks at me with lazy eyes as I swallow the last of it, washing away the acrid with the bitter.

—What do I owe you?

It’s a running joke of ours. He snorts. A few free beers is a good price for a friend at the CID.

—News?

—Someone sent me a piece of flesh at work yesterday.

—Human?

—I hope not. Would make a nice Sunday roast. Three kilos.

—Three kilos. Big roast. Bring it here and I’ll give it to the chef.

I button my coat and use my cop voice, joking in yet another familiar way

—What’s going on here?

—Nothing much, Branco laughs, his fat head rolling on top of his shoulders.

I leave Tucken and step out onto Götgatan, get in my Ford, and head off, through the rain, to work. My jaws are tense. I pop a couple pieces of chewing gum in my mouth. The alcohol warms me up from the inside; the speed cools me down from the outside.

A thick, low blanket of clouds has been pushing down on the city for weeks. The light never makes it through. I pull out a cigarette and open the window, but change my mind as the raw air slaps me in the face; I roll it up and keep going through the fog.

Holmén meets me in the hallway outside my office, his face even more red than usual, one of the many drunks on force.

—You’re late, he says.

—I’ve been on a stakeout.

—There’s another package.

—For me?

—Pretty disgusting.

—Define disgusting.

—Intestines, a liver, kidneys. It’s all been sent down to Linköping.

I close my eyes and shake my head slightly.

—What kind of sick bastard is this?

—Maybe you should find out.

—Of course.

I open my eyes and stare at the tall, thin man.

—I’ll do it for the meat. I want to know where he gets meat so cheap he gives it away.

Lame joke.

Lame laughter from Holmén.

The news reaches me around three in the afternoon the next day. I’m close to solving the crossword puzzle in Expressen when I hear shouting in the hallway. I finish my bathroom business and go out to see what it’s all about.

Holmén, redder than usual, babbles.

—Linköping says human, no doubt about it.

Two older men yawn, a younger talent opens his eyes wide:

—Dismemberment!

Holmén continues:

—And the murderer sends it all to Inspector Bengtsson! The third package contains parts of the back muscles and the left arm.

I march over to them. My boot heels click on the dull linoleum floor. Holmén cackles:

—Who do you think’s been murdered, Bengtsson? And who’s the murderer?

—Your mom. Both of them.

The two pale ones giggle with a hissing sound. Holmén turns even redder, lowers his voice:

—The boss wants to talk to you.

—I’ve heard that one before.

* * *

When I enter Superintendent Gunnarsson’s office he’s looking fresh in a black suit and tie, with his bare feet up on the desk and a pained look on his blurred face. I close the door behind me.

—Your feet hurt, darling?

—You can’t imagine, Aggan. Sit down.

He lowers his feet, straightens up in his chair, turns his computer so I can see the screen. On it there are photos of the three packages, my name clearly visible in print, and as a colorful detail: their insides—red, white, and grayish.

—Why you?

—I guess I have a secret admirer.

—My feet hurt like hell.

—You question some poor runt again?

—Those where the days.

—Always the feet.

He stands up and paces around the room a couple of times. It looks like he’s trying to rub the soles of his feet against the carpet.

—Some bastard killed another bastard and sends the leftovers to you. At any moment now Expressen will be calling. Can we try and solve this shit right away?

I shrug.

—Want a nip?

I say nothing.

He pulls out the bottom drawer of his desk and removes a bottle and two glasses. We clink our glasses and empty them.

—That felt good.

—Roof?

—If you have some.

He puts the bottle and glasses back, stuffs his feet in a pair of rubber boots that are too big, then we take the fire escape to the roof. I give him a cigarette from my pack of red Prince, he coughs after his first drag, spits something inhuman onto the tar paper between his feet, and puffs on:

—They’re complaining about me drinking at work.

—People have always been drinking at work. How else would you stand it?

—I can count on you, Aggan.

—You can count on me, Gunnarsson.

We look out over Kungsholmen—it’s hazy and raw and cold, the city hall tower is lost in the fog; I’m not wearing a coat over my sweater, and I’m shivering.

—Who the hell would want to send you pieces of human flesh?

—Who wouldn’t?

The superintendent pats me on the ass and laughs. I laugh too. We finish our cigarettes in silence. When we are on our way down again he mutters:

—Try and fix this, will you?

My cell phone rings. The display shows The ex. I hesitate but answer. The old man snorts on the other end. I hiss at him to calm down.

—It’s Peter.

—Yes, I figured that out.

—He ran off again.

—That’s what you usually say. But he’s not a minor anymore.

—He hasn’t been doing well lately.

—What do you want me to do about it?

—Look around? Maybe he’s back with the druggies. He’s your son too.

—I’ll see what I can do.

—He’s your son too.

—I heard you the first time. But honestly, I don’t give a shit about him, the same way he doesn’t give a shit about me.

—The two of you should talk.

I’m about to say something nasty, but realize it could be the speed that’s making me irritable and so I clench my jaws. After a while I hear a sigh.

—Why are you so curt, Aggan? Why don’t you come over for a coffee or dinner? I have wine.

—I’ll get back to you.

I kill the image of his sheepish face on the display with the push of a button. I finish my beer. Branco offers to fill it again; I place my hand on top of the glass.

—Never more than two glasses when I’m driving.

—How’s your family?

I shake my head and take out a cigarette. The bar owner continues:

—And the flesh packages? All over the news this morning.

—There’s probably one waiting for me right now.

—How come you’re so popular?

—No idea. But you have some friends from back when. Maybe you can check and see if they know anything?

—Not many left. Most of them have moved back home.

—But you know people. You can ask.

—I’ll ask.

—Times like these make you miss the old post office. We’ve tracked the four packages; they were all mailed from various tobacco and grocery stores in Stockholm suburbs, no obvious patterns, and no one who was caught on camera, except possibly this anonymous person you can see here on this beautiful Hollywood-style footage.

Superintendent Gunnarsson fiddles with his computer; the projector comes to life and shows a grainy black-and-white surveillance video from a small corner shop, to judge by the looks of it. A person draped in a large coat, with a baggy, knitted hood pulled up over the head, and large sunglasses leaves a package, pays cash, and exits. The whole time the person’s head is carefully turned away from the camera.

—What does the salesperson say?

—She doesn’t remember anything. Package not so heavy is what can remember, is about all the inspectors got out of her.

Gunnarsson pronounces the testimony with a heavy immigrant accent, which makes some of our colleagues in the room laugh and other sigh irritably. No one has anything to say until Holmén raises his hand.

—Sex? Age?

—Nothing.

—Maybe it’s a queer, Holmén says jokingly, so nervous his voice almost cracks.

I’m the only one who laughs. I don’t understand why the embarrassing fuck doesn’t give up. Same thing every time: I’m the only one who laughs.

When the sixth package arrives the whole headquarters takes on a half-heated, half-exhilarated atmosphere. And I’m at the center of it. I don’t like it. Wherever I go to get some peace and quiet, I am assaulted, everyone from Kling and Klang to little gay investigators from the sex division who want the dirt on the investigation. I almost avoid powdering my nose or having a beer altogether since all eyes seem to be on me.

I can’t get away either. Gunnarsson calls me into his office from time to time to ask me this or that, urges me to solve the case, looking for company over his gloomy bottle, wanting to share a cigarette on the roof. Holmén bustles about, trying to get the investigation’s sluggish, unruly team to cooperate.

No one has a clue what they’re doing.

There is surveillance on all post offices in the county. It’s expensive as hell. But the sixth package, which contains a big fat piece of a right leg, from the toes all the way up to a few centimeters over the knee, is delivered by hand. The interrogations with the delivery guy don’t amount to anything either.

They establish that each package weighs exactly 3.2 kilos. The murderer, if it is a murderer, is careful about the weight. I was the one who opened the first brown box in my office. It was wrapped in ordinary brown paper, with a hemp string tied around it. Inside the package there was a plastic grocery bag from Lidl, sealed with silver tape. Within that bag there was another clear plastic bag, containing the meat. There was hardly any blood; the body must have been thoroughly drained before it was dismembered.

The rest have looked the same. The ladies down at the post office are scared out of their minds. The most recent packages haven’t been opened here, they’ve been sent directly to Linköping.

This case could be an opportunity for me to show my colleagues that I’m not as useless as they often imply. It could give me a little shine before my retirement; not many years left. I can see the headlines: She Solved the Case of the Three-Kilo Murderer: Aftonbladet Has Het With Inspector Agneta Bengtsson.

I adjust my stockings, fiddle with the butt of my pistol in its holster, and leave my office, headed back to Tucken to see if Branco has found anything.

—Let’s see what we’ve got.

The man from internal investigations is small and thin and clean-shaven. He is dressed in a tight navy suit and a light blue shirt without a tie. His colleague is a younger woman, blond with a ponytail, navy wool sweater, pearl earrings.

I despise her instantly. As if the hatred I feel for all of her partners isn’t enough: those petty, sly police officers that go after their own, leave the rough stuff on the streets, and think of themselves so goddamn highly, shining knights of morale and equality.

Besides, the bitch just glows Upper Östermalm snobbism. I give her the evil eye; her neatly plastered face doesn’t flinch.

—As Inspector Bengtsson is the addressee for all seven packages, we have started an internal investigation.

—What am I under suspicion of, officer?

They look at each other briefly. He clears his throat and continues:

—All day yesterday and most of today we have been going through your files—all documentation, your jobs, and so on. And, well . . .

He turns his head and looks at his colleague. She can’t help smiling, the spoiled bitch. He remains serious and keeps going:

—We haven’t found any serious incidents or complaints from the people you’ve investigated and interrogated. On that point you seem to be doing a good job. A very fine job, even. You haven’t been accused of violence or other violations more than a time or two, which is uncommon. Most other colleagues on the force tend to have some clients who find themselves treated badly during their early years. But you’ve made it through without incident.

—Is that bad?

—We’re looking for people from your past who might be holding a grudge, who might want revenge. But no matter where we look, we can’t find any obvious enemies. In fact . . .

He turns to his colleague again. She puts her hand over her mouth to cover up her smile. But her eyes are pearly with laughter. Those two have something going on. The hatred shoots up through my body. The man looks at me again.

—Like I said, the fact is, we haven’t found much at all. We can’t seem to find that you’ve achieved much of anything worth mentioning during your twenty-eight years on the force.

I clench my fist so tightly my nails dig deep into my palm.

—You’ve been part of a great deal of investigations, but we haven’t found anything that indicates you were instrumentally involved in any of them. You’ve solved a few cases, but they’ve been remarkably simple. It’s beyond both of us how you ever became an inspector, how you advanced from patrol lieutenant at all.

I clench my jaws so tight I can feel a tooth chip in the lower right side of my mouth. It feels like it cracks straight through to my jawbone. The pain shoots out from my forehead all the way down to my cunt and it’s so sharp I want to scream, but I don’t let out a sound. The man doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.

—So obviously we’re wondering if you yourself might have any clues that you could help us out with.

I manage to utter:

—I’ll think about it.

I get up so quickly my chair falls onto the floor with a loud bang. The two civilians jump up; the man makes a quick note. I march out into the hall, straight to the restroom, lock the door, and take out my wallet. My heart is racing, I’m so furious I almost don’t manage to get the zipper and the little bag open. But once I can taste the bitter powder that smells like detergent on my tongue, I say to myself: You’ve got to get through this, Bengtsson, you’ve got to get through this. But first: the dentist. Fucking lousy teeth.

New day, new flesh. Eight packages now. Many pounds of flesh for the Jew.

I’m called to the superintendent’s office again. He’s barefoot this time as well, rubbing his soles against the carpet like a cat with dirty paws. We share a drink, he pats me on the butt; I have no idea why he does this.

—Tell me again what we know, Aggan.

—Man. Dead a week or so. Dismembered and packaged in pieces of 3.2 kilos each. So far there are eight packages, all addressed to me for some goddamn reason. No tattoos, distinctive birth marks, or scars. Dismembered with a sabre saw, according to Linköping. Hardly a professional tool: laciniated edges, torn-up veins and nerves, unraveled muscle fibers, splintery bones. No doctor or hunter, I’d say.

—No. So not a real pro, that is. Or maybe it’s a real pro who wants to hide it. I just wish we could smoke in here.

—Roof?

It’s raining. Those brownish-gray clouds are heavier than ever; the November air is hardly breathable, it’s too heavy and packed with darkness.

—They’re complaining, you know.

—The internals?

—A lot of talk. You’re a good lady, Aggan. Never disappointed me.

—What do they want?

—Yeah, well. I’ve asked myself that question many times. What do the internal investigators want?

—They have nothing on me.

—That’s the thing.

—You know I’ve worked hard all these years.

—Of course, Aggan.

—I can do this.

Superintendent Gunnarsson’s eyes usually look like two oysters rotting in their shells. But now they tremble and reveal something that could resemble life.

—You can do this?

—Trust me.

He takes a deep drag and waves his cigarette in front of my face. The bastard even smiles.

—I knew it!

A heavy drop of rain lands right on the ember and puts out the half-smoked cigarette with a quick fizz. Gunnarsson curses and laboriously lights it again.

—How did the dentist appointment go?

—He yanked it out. All junk. Glad to be rid of it.

—Hasn’t that happened before?

—Third tooth. He says it seems like I’m chewing.

—Chewing what?

—Chewing myself.

Gunnarsson shakes his head with a worried look.

—It’s a tough job, sweetheart.

—I guess so.

—You need to take care of yourself.

—Sure do.

Gunnarsson has one last drag.

—You have to take it easy.

—I will.

The ninth package arrives by taxi. The driver walks into the police station with it tucked under his arm. Within ten seconds he’s surrounded by police officers and searched.

There’s not much to say about the one who handed the package to the driver. The person was dressed in heavy clothing, the head wrapped in a large knitted scarf, big dark glasses. A couple of officers drag the taxi driver into an interrogation room, scold him, scare him to death, and let him go.

In the package there is a thigh.

I’m on a stakeout. Sitting in my Ford, smoking and sipping on a Pripps beer while watching the house across the street. Svante Witha P lives on the top floor; an old-time gangster in a dirty little pad used by anyone and everyone for crashing, drug use, and mail fraud. There are ten names on the door.

No one opened when I knocked half an hour ago. I’m about to give it another try. I have my expandable baton with me when I go panting up the stairs. I pound on the door and hear steps.

—Hell is it? someone mutters on the other side.

When the door opens I grab the knob and yank it toward me in one violent move. Svante Witha P falls out into the stairwell and tumbles against the wall on the other side. I grab his neck and yank him back into the apartment and slam the door shut. He seems to be home alone.

Svante Witha P is not in good shape. He’s a withered skeleton with skin hardened by alcohol. Nothing else. Everything about him trembles and quivers and chatters. He only has three teeth left, all of them in his bottom jaw. I’m guessing Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and the rest of those old farts all pounced him at once.

—Remember me?

—Shit, leave me alone.

—Inspector Bengtsson. Remember me? You don’t look too good, Svante.

—Leave me alone.

I’ve pushed his skinny body onto a brownish-orange couch covered with the black traces of cigarette butts.

—How come they call you Svante Witha P?

—Leave me alone.

—Is your real name Pante?

—Stop it.

—You hang out in all the right crowds, Svante.

—Leave me alone.

—And you hear things. Maybe you’ve heard something about the cut-up body.

The old man’s face is completely motionless with its countless wrinkles, but the trembling and the scratchy record that seems to be spinning inside his chest let me know he is still alive.

—Leave me alone.

—Someone has been cut up with a sabre saw and the pieces are sent to the cops, three kilos at a time. Whaddya say, Svante! You have a lot of good friends: I’m sure someone knows something.

—Leave me alone.

I write Dismemberment, Bengtsson, and my phone number on a piece of paper and throw it onto the coffee table. The old man watches me as I leave the apartment.

In the car I fold down the shade and look at myself in the mirror. Jesus Christ, what a joke. You’re so incredibly fucking useless. Now take some more, get your head going, come on!

The bitterness in my gums starts a shiver that makes the hairs on my arms and legs stand straight up. I swig some more Pripps and get going.

—I might have something for you, Inspector,” Branco says, and pouts his lips while scratching his bare head.

—You have something for me? Are you coming on to me, you goddamn thug?

I teasingly lift my glass and throw back some beer. The ice-cold liquid cools my whistle, in a moment my tremor will calm down, I wish I had benzos, more speed, anything. The bartender mutters and shakes his head.

—Something about the meat.

—What?

—I got a postcard.

—What are you jabbering about?

He crouches down and gets something from under the bar and hands it over to me. I turn it over. The postcard has a picture of Globen and the new arena on it. It’s addressed to Branco at Brother Tuck. The only message is written in block letters: 19 PIECES. SLAUGHTERHOUSE AREA.

—What the fuck does this mean?

—You’ll have to answer that yourself.

—Someone must have heard you asking around.

—That’s possible.

I stick the postcard in my purse and take a few more sips. Branco turns around and counts the cash in the register. The coins trickle out from between his fat fingers while he counts out loud in Serbian. Those fingers have carried many beer kegs, frying pans, pieces of meat, and, considering the shape of the knuckles, they have done some fighting. Maybe killing?

—Maybe not a great lead, he says after counting the coins.

I smile.

—Better than nothing. Let me know if you hear anything else.

—Are you going to show your colleagues?

—No way. I’m solving this alone.

He shrugs. I grab a cigarette from my purse, go back to the Ford, make a U-turn on Götgatan, and head toward Slakthusområdet, the Slaughterhouse area.

The twelfth package is sent with a drunk. He slipped a few times in the rain on the way to the precinct, so the wrapping paper is soaked in gray water. The receptionists sounded the alarm as soon as they see him walk through the door with the package in his arms.

After he was forced to the floor with two officers on top of him, one knee pressed up against his neck, they found a relatively new bottle of Kron in his coat pocket. They sent it to be analyzed. The old man got so scared he pissed his pants.

Once I get there the whole scene is played out. The corridor is empty again other than a janitor mopping the floor. I get the whole story from the receptionists while offering them a cigarette out on the front steps.

—The old man got the whole floor wet. With the officers on top of him.

I start laughing. The girls stare at me.

—It’s gross!

I shrug.

—Yeah, you can’t help wondering why you do this job sometimes.

—Only druggies and psychos and idiots.

Like the people who work here, I think to myself, and put the cigarette out.

—Linköping analyzed the vodka bottle. No prints, no hairs, no skin samples have been found. But when the content was analyzed there was organic waste with DNA that didn’t match the courier’s. It seems our murderer couldn’t actually keep from taking a sip. And when he or she did, there was apparently a little saliva or piece of skin from the lip that ended up inside the bottle. Not a huge amount, but the lab is still analyzing the DNA.

—I wouldn’t mind a small one myself, I whisper to Gunnarsson who giggles.

—Must have been a hell of a thirsty murderer. That was the first mistake, the superintendent whispers back, and rolls his eyes at me.

—Who can blame the asshole? Thirst is thirst.

He lets out a muffled laugh; the sound reminds me of a cat getting ready to fight. But this cat stopped fighting a long time ago.

Holmén continues up on the platform:

—And as many of you have heard, the thirteenth package arrived today by taxi. Despite all our measures the deliveries make it through every time. This time the bag contained a couple of . . . hrm . . . buttocks. A couple of hairy, I mean heavily hairy buttocks, if that can be of any help.

Everyone in the room howls with laughter. Unfortunately, Holmén wasn’t trying to be funny this time.

I squirm in my seat. I can’t wait to get to the restroom.

I go back out to the Slaughterhouse area. Last time I didn’t see anything of interest. Why would the murderer be here? Because he’s cutting up meat? Far-fetched. But I don’t have any better clues than the postcard.

I park my Ford outside a lunch restaurant for slaughterhouse workers. Their white coats are stained in a range of colors, from bright red to brownish black.

I go in and order a hamburger with fries and a local beer. I sit down next to three slaughterers of various ages eating away. I nod at them, they nod back.

—A real beer would’ve been nice, I mutter mostly to myself.

—That’d be a hell of a treat, the oldest of the slaughterers adds, and smiles like crazy.

When I reach over the table to grab the ketchup I catch the same slaughterer staring at my breasts. The adrenaline hits my bloodstream like a firecracker; the speed has shaved off my impulse control.

—What the hell you looking at? I hiss. Don’t you have a wife at home?

—W-wife? he stutters, confused.

—Get your eyes the hell away from my boobs, you goddamn buffoon.

—I wasn’t . . .

The two other slaughterers don’t know what to say. They stare at their plates with embarrassed looks on their faces and keep eating. I’m sweating nearly as much as when I was going through menopause; I’m completely soaked. Sweat, paranoia, it’s all because of the speed.

—I wasn’t looking at your breasts, the guy manages to say.

Suddenly I get it. I laugh.

—Sorry. Police. Don’t worry.

—Oh, Jesus fuck.

He’s so relieved he almost screams.

—I thought you were a thief.

Everyone at the table laughs; I show my holster and the badge. The youngest of the slaughterers, he can hardly be more than twenty, straight out of some agricultural high school, looks at me with a pensive glance.

—I think I know you, but I don’t know from where.

—I’ve been on TV a few times lately.

—Yeah, maybe. I’ve seen you somewhere. I’m pretty sure.

The oldest one:

—How come you been on TV?

—The dismemberment case.

Everyone around the table starts babbling at once. I interrupt them:

—I got a tip that has to do with the Slaughterhouse area. If you hear of anything, call.

They promise to do so. When I’m about to get up the youngest one asks:

—Can’t be much left now?

—Left of what?

—Of the body.

—Maybe not.

—He’ll save the head for last, right?

—Who the hell knows? And why would you think it’s a he? Why not a she? Or a whole gang of them?

I speak with authority. The youngest one shrinks, impressed, but still asks:

—What do you think will happen when all the pieces are sent?

I shrug.

—Hopefully nothing.

—Are you sure we haven’t met somewhere? You look so familiar.

—Are you hitting on me, punk?

—They said they would fire you if they could, that you’ve been wasting resources for years that should have been used for preventing crime.

The memory of the blonde with the ponytail and pearl necklace causes me to jerk. I’m afraid I’ll bite through another crown, so I relax my jaw and take a deep breath.

—I don’t give a shit. What’s your take?

—You’re a good girl, Aggan. I like it when your lips are slightly parted like that. It’s sexy.

—You’re twenty years late, asshole.

Gunnarsson cackles and rubs the soles of his feet against the carpet. He circles the room before he sits back down. He’s just about to bend down to open the bottom drawer when the door is flung open and he sits back up. One of the secretaries is standing there looking at me.

—There’s an important message for you.

—Again?

—It’s your ex-husband. He’s trying to reach you.

—No news there.

—He wanted me to let you know that your son still hasn’t come home.

—That’s very nice of you, sweetheart.

I glance at Gunnarsson; he rolls his eyes. The secretary leaves, the bottle is brought out.

—What was today’s Christmas present?

—Most of the left arm. No tattoos or visible scars. I can’t see why it’s so hard to find out who the victim is.

—I suppose he’s not that greatly missed. Any news concerning the DNA from the bottle?

Gunnarsson nods while pouring the glasses.

—Sure, it’s almost complete. But no hits.

* * *

I slip my flannel nightgown over my head, swallow three Imovane with some cheap scotch blend, and get into bed. Suddenly my cell phone buzzes with an unknown caller.

—Bengtsson. Who the hell is calling this late?

—It’s Svante.

—Svante who?

—Svante Witha P.

—The hell do you want?

—I got a postcard. I think it’s for you.

I sit up with a start. I’m dizzy.

—There’s a picture of Globen on it.

—I don’t care what the fucking picture is. What does it say?

—It says, Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement.

—Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement?

—That’s what it says. And it’s addressed to you.

—I’ll pick it up tomorrow.

I end the call and put the phone down. Finally a concrete tip. I check the address: the Slaughterhouse area. It’ll be next day’s outing.

The pills shut my head down; I drift off to sleep. If you can call it sleep. I wake up a hundred times during the night and toss and turn, uneasy images and dreams.

In the morning my nightgown is bunched in my armpits, and I find my sheet on the floor, twined like a rope, soaked in sweat.

There’s something unhealthy about the atmosphere when I force open the basement door at Kylhusgatan 19. I have strengthened my nerves with some nose candy and a few mouthfuls of whiskey, but my bowels keep rumbling and my heart beats a never-ending drumroll. The Slaughterhouse area is submerged in a brownish fog; each breath I take is like a little trickle of rain in my pipe.

The few slaughterhouse workers I see are hurrying past to get inside. But around this house, which appears to be an abandoned old redbrick slaughterhouse with a broken sign on the façade spelling, MEAT SAUSAGE PATÉ, there’s no one.

The lock is rusty, but finally I manage to get it open. Behind the green door there’s a concrete corridor; I turn the switch and one of the four fluorescent lamps in the ceiling flickers and starts glowing unevenly. I pull out my gun. I realize I’ve never pulled it out before while on duty, except a few times on the shooting range in the beginning of my career, but that doesn’t really count. At home I’ve done it a number of times, drunk, in front of the mirror, or while I’ve been watching a suspenseful action movie, pointing it at the bad guys on the screen.

Now I can feel its weight in my hand. I cock and load it. I avoid putting my finger on the trigger; don’t want to shoot myself in the leg. I’m trembling like a motherfucker.

It smells of old blood and rotten organic waste. At the far end of the dirty corridor there’s a steel door, it looks like an entrance to one of the old shelters from the Cold War. I unbolt the door and push the heavy thing open. It squeaks its way into the darkness.

I avoid turning on the light, I don’t want anyone to see that there’s someone behind the dusty old cellar windows. I take out my penlight and turn it on. The beam slides over the interior of the room. In the middle there is a slaughtering block with legs of steel and a thick oak top. In the ceiling there are hooks. The once white tile floor is covered in black gore. It stinks. I gag a couple of times before I walk on in.

I reach the table. There is a big scale on top of it. Alongside the longer wall there are a few refrigerators and freezers. I start walking toward them.

Suddenly there’s a sound, a scraping as if someone is sneaking around. Between the rows of refrigerators and freezers there’s a doorway. I squint and glimpse someone coming toward me. I can’t make out any details, but it is a person without a doubt, and I’m sure it’s carrying a large butcher knife. I raise my gun and point it at the person’s legs. I’m trembling. The figure keeps bobbing and swaying before my eyes.

—Stop. I’ll shoot. Lower your weapon.

The person keeps walking toward me. It raises the hand carrying the knife. I am sweating so heavily I can hardly see, the stinging salty drops gather in my eyes. I put my finger on the trigger.

—One more step and I’ll shoot.

The person keeps walking and I fire. It bangs like hell. My ears are ringing. It’s the first time ever I’ve fired my gun on duty and it feels good, real good. I want to do it again.

I take a few more steps toward the doorway but so does the other one. I shoot again, this time I’m aiming for the stomach. The figure keeps heading my way. I fire three more shots before I lower my gun. I wait; I can smell the gunpowder, mixed with blood. It’s completely silent except the ringing in my ears.

I shine my flashlight but the beam finds no body on the floor. I take a few steps toward the doorway and realize there is no doorway.

It’s the chromate freezer. There are five black holes in the steel. My face is there too; my eyes don’t look so well. I yank the door open.

Peter stares back at me. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my son. Now I’ve found him all right. One of the bullets has gone through and entered his forehead. But there is no blood. His detached head had been emptied of blood long ago.

—I had to, I tell him.

He laughs. I laugh too.

—That’s what happens to snitches—you know it and I know it, dear son. You said I was a bad mother and you were going to set me up. Even though I said I was sorry.

I smile and shove my gun back into the holster before I walk over to the other side of the room. I take my coat off and put on the big plastic apron. I plug in the sabre saw and test-drive it for a while. The ten-centimeter blade glides speedily back and forth.

I’m just about to put it on the slaughtering block and get the last few pieces of my son when the door is bashed in, a sharp light fills the room, and someone shouts, I’m sure I recognize the voice, it’s the bitch with the ponytail:

—Agneta, you’re surrounded. Drop your weapon. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine. Just drop your weapon!

I turn toward the cops. Their lights are so bright I can’t see them, but I’m guessing there are a bunch of them making their way into the room, my sanctuary.

—Agneta, listen, take it easy now. Put your weapon down and we can talk about it.

—This isn’t a weapon.

—I can see that you’re carrying a weapon, Agneta. Now put it on the table slowly and we can talk later.

—This isn’t a weapon. This is my Savior.

I push the button again and start the saw. I lift my arm in a smooth arc and push the saw into my own throat. Dying doesn’t hurt. I get down on my knees, as if I’m praying, with blood whirling over my head like a halo.