Marked For Life. Emelie Schepp

we’ll have to put that task in the hands of somebody with patience,” Jana answered, and again felt a short vibration in her pocket. The caller must have left a message.

      “Any sign that the victim tried to defend himself?” Mia asked from across the room.

      “No. No signs of violence. No scratch marks, no bruises or marks from a stranglehold. He was shot. Plain and simple.”

      Björn looked up at Henrik and Jana.

      “The flow of blood shows that he died on the spot and his body was not moved, but—”

      “Yes, Gunnar told us.” Mia interrupted him from across the room.

      “Yes, I talked with him this morning. But there are...”

      “No fingerprints?” she said.

      “No. But...”

      “Narcotics then?”

      “No, no drugs. No alcohol. But...”

      “Broken bones?”

      “No. But will you let me finish now?”

      Mia became silent.

      “Thank you. What does seem interesting is the path of the bullets through the body. One of the entry holes—” Björn pointed at the upper of the two “—is not out of the ordinary. The bullet went horizontally through the body. But the other bullet went diagonally, at an angle. And judging by the angle, the perpetrator must have been kneeling, lying down or sitting up when he or she fired the first shot. Then, as I said earlier, when the man fell down, the shooter went up to him and fired a final shot right through his heart.”

      “Execution style, then,” said Mia.

      “That’s up to you to judge, but yes, it would seem so.”

      “So he was standing up when bullet number one hit him,” said Henrik.

      “Yes, and he was shot at an upward angle from the front.”

      “So somebody knelt or lay down and then shot up at him from the front? It hardly makes sense,” said Mia. “I mean, it’s really weird that somebody would be sitting on the floor in front of him and then kill him. Wouldn’t he have had time to react?”

      “Perhaps he did. Or else he knew the murderer,” said Henrik.

      “Or it was a bloody dwarf or something,” said Mia and laughed out loud.

      Henrik sighed at her.

      “You can discuss that among yourselves. According to my calculations, that, at any rate, is how Hans Juhlén died. My findings are summarized here.” Björn held out copies of the autopsy report. Henrik and Jana each took one.

      “He died sometime between 18:00 and 19:00 on Sunday. It’s in the notes.”

      Jana thumbed through the report which at first sight seemed to be as comprehensive and detailed as Ahlmann was known to be.

      “Thanks for the summary,” she said to Björn as she fished up her phone from her pocket to listen to the voice message.

      It was Gunnar Öhrn who had left a single short sentence in a resolute tone. “Interview with Kerstin Juhlén, 15:30,” he’d said, and nothing more. Not even his name.

      Jana put the phone back into her pocket.

      “Interview at half past three,” she said quietly to Henrik.

      “What?” said Mia.

      “Interview half past three,” said Henrik loud and clear to Mia who was about to say something when Jana interrupted.

      “Well, then,” she said.

      The medical examiner adjusted his glasses. “Are you satisfied?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      He slowly pulled the sheet back over the naked body. Mia opened the door and backed out to avoid brushing against Jana as she approached the doorway.

      “We’ll get back to you with any questions,” said Henrik to Ahlmann as they left the autopsy room.

      He strode in the lead toward the elevator.

      “Do that,” answered Björn behind them. “You know where I am,” he added, but his voice was drowned out by the drumming noise from the ventilation pipes in the ceiling.

      * * *

      The Public Prosecution Office in Norrköping consisted of twelve full-time employees with Chief Public Prosecutor Torsten Granath in charge. Fifteen years earlier, when Torsten Granath took over as head of the office, the office went through a radical change. Under his leadership, a policy was instituted of replacing staff members who were no longer pulling their weight with a few new hires who had highly productive track records. He had thanked several longtime employees for their service while at the same time encouraging them to retire, fired lazy administrators and helped underutilized specialists to find new challenges in other areas of their profession.

      When Jana Berzelius was hired, Torsten Granath had already trimmed down the organization considerably; only four members were left on staff. That same year, the office was charged with a larger geographical area, and they also had to deal with crimes in the adjacent municipalities of Finspång, Söderköping and Valdemarsvik. The recently increasing trade in narcotics also called for more employees. For those reasons, Torsten Granath had recruited new staff and now they were twelve in all.

      As a result of Torsten’s policy, the office could now proudly display its competence. Torsten Granath at sixty-two ironically had slowed down a little himself and now occasionally found his thoughts wandering off to the well-kept greens on the golf courses. But his heart still belonged to his profession. Leading the work here was his mission in life and he would keep on with it until he reached pensionable age.

      His office was of the homely type, with curtains draped in the window, gilded frames with photos of grandchildren on his desk and a green woolly rug on the floor. He always paced back and forth on that rug when he talked on the telephone. That was what he was doing when Jana Berzelius entered the department. She said a quick hello to the administrator, Yvonne Jansson.

      Yvonne stopped Jana as she walked by.

      “Hang on a sec!”

      She handed over a yellow Post-it note with a familiar name written on it.

      “Mats Nylinder at Norrköpings Tidningar wants a comment on the murder of Hans Juhlén. They’ve evidently found out that you’re in charge of the preliminary investigation. Mats said that you owed him a few words since you sneaked out of court this morning. He had wanted a statement about the judgment and waited more than an hour for you.”

      Jana didn’t answer, so Yvonne went on.

      “Unfortunately he isn’t the only one who’s rung. This murder has every paper in Sweden interested. They all want something to put in their headlines tomorrow.”

      “And I’m not going to give them anything. You’ll have to refer them to the police press officer. There will be no comment from me.”

      “Okay, no comment it is.”

      “And you can tell Mats Nylinder that too,” said Jana and headed toward her office.The sound of her heels echoed as she entered the room with its parquet floor.

      The furnishings were Spartan, but had a touch of elegance. The desk was of teak and so were the functional bookshelves that were filled with bound case files. On the right side of the desk was a silver letter tray with three levels. On the left side there was a laptop, a 17-inch HP. On the windowsill stood two white orchids in high pots.

      Jana closed the door behind her and hung her jacket over the back of her leather-upholstered chair. While her computer started up, she studied the flowers in the window. She liked her office. It was spacious and airy. She had chosen to position the desk so that she sat with her back to the window; through