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.”
15
tuesday, december 8: morning
Hurrying along the hospital corridor after dropping Benjamin off at school, Erik thinks how stupid he had been to comment on Aida’s tattoo. He has just made himself look self-righteous and critical in their eyes.
Two uniformed police officers let him into the unit. Joona Linna is already waiting outside the room where Josef Ek is lying. When he sees Erik he gives a little wave, like a small child might, opening and closing his hand.
Erik looks in at Josef through the window in the door. A bag of blood, almost black, is
