The Hypnotist

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.”

7

monday, december 7: evening

Joona Linna’s colleagues at the National Criminal Investigation Department will tell you they admire him, and they do, but they also envy him. And they will tell you they like him, and they do, but they also find him aloof.

As a homicide investigator, his track record is unparalleled in Sweden. His success is due in part to the fact that he completely lacks the capacity to quit. He cannot surrender. It is this trait that is the primary cause of his colleagues’ envy. But what most don’t know is that his unique stubbornness is the result of unbearable personal guilt. Guilt that drives him, and renders him incapable of leaving a case unsolved.

He never speaks about what transpired. And he never forgets what happened.

Joona wasn’t driving particularly fast that day, but it had been raining, and the rays of the emerging sun bounced off puddles as if they were emanating from an underground source. He was on his way; thought he could escape …

Ever since that day, he’s been plagued not only by memories but also by an unusual form of migraine. The only thing that’s proven helpful has been a preventive medicine used for epilepsy, topiramate. Joona’s supposed to take the medicine regularly, but it makes him drowsy, and when he’s on the job and needs to think clearly, he refuses to take it. He’d rather submit to the pain. In truth, he probably considers his punishment just: both the inability to relinquish an unresolved case, and the migraine.

The ambulance, lights blinking, rocketed past him in the opposite direction as he approached the house. Leaving a ghost-like silence, the emergency vehicle disappeared through the sleeping suburb.

Waiting for Joona, Lillemor Blom stood smoking under a streetlamp. In its glow, she looked beautiful in a rugged way. These days, her face was creased with fatigue, and her makeup was invariably sloppy. But Joona had always found her to be wonderful-looking, with her high cheekbones, straight nose, and slanted eyes.

“Joona Linna,” she said, almost cooing his name.

“Will the boy make it?”

“Hard to say. It’s absolutely terrible. I’ve never seen anything like it—and I never want to again.” She let her eyes linger awhile on the glow of her cigarette.

“Have you written up your report?” he asked.

She shook her head and exhaled a stream of smoke.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Then I’ll go home and go to bed.”

“That sounds nice,” he said with a smile.

“Join me,” she joked.

Joona shook his head. “I want to go in and look around. Then I have to determine whether the boy can be interrogated.”

Lillemor tossed the cigarette to the ground. “What exactly are you doing here?” she asked.

“You can request backup from National Murder Squad, but I don’t think they will have time, and I don’t think they’ll find answers to what happened here anyway.”

“But you will?”

“We’ll see,” Joona said.

He crossed the small garden. A pink bicycle with training wheels was propped against a sandpit. Joona headed up the front steps, turned on his torch, opened the door, and walked into the hallway. The dark rooms were filled with silent fear. Just a few steps in and the adrenaline was pumping through him so hard, it felt like his chest would explode.

Purposefully, Joona registered it all, absorbing every horrific detail until he couldn’t take any more. He stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes, felt back to guilt deep inside him … and continued to search the house.

In the bleak light of the hallway, Joona saw how bloody bodies had been dragged along the floor. Blood spattered the exposed-brick chimney, the television, the kitchen cabinets, the oven. Joona took in the chaos: the tipped-over furniture, the scattered silverware, the desperate footprints and handprints. When he stopped in front of the small girl’s amputated body, tears began to flow down his face. Still, he forced himself to try to imagine precisely what must have happened; the violence and the screams.

The driving force behind these murders couldn’t have been connected to a gambling debt, Joona thought. The father had already been killed. First the father, then the family; Joona was convinced of it. He breathed hard between gritted teeth. Somebody had wanted to annihilate the whole family. And he probably believed he had succeeded.

8

monday, december 7: night

Joona Linna stepped out into the cold wind, over the shivering black-and-yellow crime tape, and into his car. The boy is alive, he thought. I have to meet the surviving witness.

From his car, Joona traced Josef Ek to the neurosurgical unit at Karolinska University Hospital in Solna. The forensic technicians from Linköping had supervised the securing of biological evidence taken from the boy’s person. His condition had since deteriorated.

It was after one in the morning when Joona headed back to Stockholm, arriving at the intensive care section of Karolinska Hospital just past two. After a fifteen-minute wait, the doctor in charge, Daniella Richards, appeared.

“You must be Detective Linna. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Daniella Richards.”

“How is the boy, doctor?”

“He’s in circulatory shock,” she said.

“Meaning?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood. His heart is attempting to compensate for this and has started to race—”

“Have you managed to stop the bleeding?”

“I think so, I hope so, and we’re giving him blood all the time, but the lack of oxygen could taint the blood and damage the heart, lungs, liver, kidneys.”