Fourteen minutes later, Joona Linna pulled up at the Rödstuhage sports centre, parking a few yards from a Volkswagen bus with the logo JOHANSSON’S CARE HOME emblazoned on the side. It was dark out, and snowflakes whirled around in the biting wind. The police had already cordoned off the area.
Joona gazed across the deserted football pitch. All of a sudden, an eerie noise—vibrating, humming—started up. Off to his left, Joona could hear shuffling sounds and quick footsteps. Turning around, he could make out two black silhouettes walking in the high grass beside the fence. The humming escalated—and then abruptly stopped. Spotlights encircling the football pitch exploded with light, flooding the centre, while casting the surrounding area in even more impenetrable winter darkness.
The two figures in the distance were uniformed policemen. One walked quickly, then stopped and vomited. He steadied himself against the fence. His colleague caught up with him and placed a comforting hand on his back, speaking soothingly.
Joona continued on towards the locker room. Flashes of light from cameras burst through the propped-open door, and the forensic technicians had laid out stepping blocks around the entrance so as not to contaminate any prints during their initial crime scene investigation. An older colleague stood guard out front. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and his voice was subdued. “Don’t go in if you’re afraid of having nightmares.”
“I’m done with dreaming,” Joona replied.
A strong scent of stale sweat, urine, and fresh blood permeated the air. The forensic technicians were taking pictures in the shower, their white flashes bouncing off the tiles, giving the entire locker room a strange pulsating feel.
Blood dripped from above.
Joona clenched his jaw as he studied the badly mauled body on the floor between the wooden benches and the dented lockers. A thin-haired, middle-aged man with greying stubble.
Blood was everywhere—on the floor, the doors, the benches, the ceiling. Joona continued into the shower room and greeted the forensic technicians in a low voice. The glare of the camera flash reflected on the white tiles and caught the blade of a hunting knife on the floor.
A mop with a wooden handle stood against the wall. The rubber blade was surrounded by a large pool of blood, water, and dirt, with wisps of hair, plasters, and a bottle of shower gel.
A severed arm lay by the drain. The bone socket was exposed, lined with ligaments and torn muscle tissue.
Joona remained standing, observing every detail. He registered the blood’s spatter pattern, the angles and shapes of the blood drops.
The severed arm had been thrown against the tiled wall several times before being discarded.
“Detective,” the policeman posted outside the locker room called out. Joona noted his colleague’s anxious expression as he was handed the radio.
“This is Lillemor Blom speaking. How soon can you come to the house?”
“What is it?” Joona asked.
“One of the children. We thought he was dead, but he’s alive.”