Postcard killers

Chapter 22

To their right was a half-open door that seemed to lead to a smal kitchen. Ahead and to the left they could see people moving, the floor tiles creaking as they walked about.

"Hel o," Jacob cal ed out. "My name's Jacob Kanon and I'm an American homicide officer with information about this case. I only speak English. I'm now entering the crime scene."

Dessie fumbled her way out of her shoes, stil covering her nose and mouth, desperately trying not to retch. She saw Jacob pul on a pair of thin gloves that he took out of his jacket pocket and then open the door in front of them.

From her position behind his back she saw Mats Duval, the superintendent who had questioned her on Friday, turn around and stare at them. He was wearing a light gray suit with a mauve shirt and bright red tie, and he had blue coverings on his shoes. He was holding his electronic notepad in his hand.

Gabriel a was standing by the window, writing something on her own pad.

Outside in the sound a yacht glided by.

"What the hel?" Gabriel a said, taking a couple of quick steps toward them.

Jacob held up his badge.

"I'm not here to sabotage things," he said quickly. "I've got important information that wil help your investigation. I know more about these kil ers than anyone else does."

He stepped to one side to let Dessie into the living room. She stopped beside him and caught sight of the sofa. My god, dear god.

The bloody bodies were stil sitting and looked frozen in their peculiar pose.

The blood covering their bodies was dark, almost black. It had run onto the floor, down into the cracks in the wood, to be sucked up by a colorful rug.

The woman's light blond hair hanging down across her breasts was stiff with blood.

The man was lying in her lap, half on the floor, just like in the photograph.

The opening in his throat was like a gaping gil, Dessie thought. The wound to his windpipe had been so violent that his head had almost come away from his body.

Dessie felt her blood pressure sink into her toes and grabbed at Jacob to stop herself from fal ing.

"So you're Jacob Kanon," Mats Duval said, looking the American up and 33 down. "I've heard about you."

He didn't sound aggressive, just curious.

"You'l find at least one empty champagne bottle somewhere in here,"

Jacob said, "probably Moet and Chandon. Four glasses, and in two of them you'l find traces of the drug cyclopentolate. It a muscle relaxant used in eye examinations to dilate the pupil."

Gabriel a took a couple of long strides across the room and stopped right next to Jacob Kanon.

"You're trespassing on a crime scene," she said and pointed back at the door. "Get out of here!"

"Eyedrops?" Mats Duval asked.

Jacob looked at the Swedish detectives, ready to fight his side of the ring.

"In the States it's sold under several different names," he said. "AkPentolate, Cyclogyl, Cylate, and a couple more. In Canada it's also known as Minims Cyclopentolate. You can get it here in Europe, too."

Dessie could feel the room starting to spin. There was a very good chance that she'd throw up. That was pretty much all she was thinking about now.

"So the kil ers drug their victims?" Mats Duval said, stepping over and putting his hand on Gabriel a's shoulder. "With eyedrops in the champagne?"

Gabriel a cast a furious glance at Dessie and moved even closer to Jacob Kanon.

"And cut their throats once they're unconscious," he said. "The kil er is right-handed and uses a smal, sharp implement. He does it from behind, sticking the knife right into the left jugular vein, then cutting deeply through the sinews and windpipe."

He mimed the act with his arms as he spoke. He'd obviously done it before.

Dessie realized that al the colors and sounds were starting to fade away.

"Pulse and breathing probably stop after a minute or so," Jacob said.

"Sorry," Dessie said, "but I have to get out."

She went out onto the gravel drive, raised her face to the sky, and took several long, deep breaths. Her first big case, she thought, and probably her last.

Chapter 23

"They're charming, pleasant people, these killers," Jacob said 34 to Dessie, stretching his back in the thin sunlight. "They find it easy to make new friends. Are you sure you don't want a ci

Dessie shook her head, letting the American eat the last one.

They were sitting on the terrace of the Hotel Bel evue on Dalaro, with a coffeepot, cups, and an empty plate in front of them. There was a sharp wind from the sea.

It was real y too cold to be sitting outside, but Dessie couldn't bear Jacob Kanon's body odor after feeling sick at the murder scene.

"So, you think there's two of them? A couple – a man and a woman?

Why?"

Jacob nodded, chewing hungrily on the bun. He seemed completely unaffected by the grisly scene they had just witnessed.

"A couple is less of a threat. They're probably young, attractive, a pair of carefree travelers meeting others doing the same thing. People who drink champagne, smoke dope, live it up a bit…"

He drank some coffee.

"And they probably speak English," he said.

Dessie raised her eyebrows quizzical y.

"The postcards. They're written with perfect grammar, and most of the victims have been native English speakers. I'm guessing the rest have been fluent."

Dessie pul ed her long hair up into a bun on her neck and pushed her pen through it to keep it up. Her notepad was already ful of information about the victims, the murders, and the kil ers.

"These postcards," she said. "Why do they send them?"

Jacob Kanon looked out over the water. The wind pul ed at his messed-up hair.

"It's not unusual for pattern kil ers to communicate with the world around them to get attention," he said. "There are lots of examples of that."

"They kil to get in the paper?"

Jacob Kanon poured himself some more coffee.

"We had our first Postcard Kil er in the U.S. over a hundred years ago, a man named John Frank Hickey. He spent more than thirty years kil ing young boys along the East Coast before he was caught. He sent postcards to his victims' families, and that was what gave him away in the end."

He drained his cup again and seemed strangely content.

Dessie was freezing her ass off in the bitter wind.

"But why me? " she asked.

Chapter 24

Jacob Kanon did up his suede jacket, the first sign that he felt anything.

"You're talented, ambitious, and your career comes first above almost everything else in your life. You're wel educated – real y too wel for the 35 type of journalism you're involved in, but that doesn't seem to bother you."

Dessie made an effort to look cool and neutral as she sipped her coffee.

"Why do you think that?"

"Am I right?"

She cleared her throat quietly.

"Wel," she said. "Maybe a bit. Some of that is true. Continue, please."

He gave her an indulgent look.

"It's not rocket science," he said. "I think I've worked out what they do when they pick their contacts."

Dessie wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Everything about this was so creepy and unreal.

"What?"

"They buy the local papers the day they decide to set to work. The paper, and the reporter, with the biggest crime news that day is the one they pick as their contact."

Dessie blinked several times.

"Burglar Bengt," she said. "My interview with Burglar Bengt was on the front page of Aftonposten on Thursday."

Jacob Kanon looked out at the sea.

"But how could you know?" she said. "That bit about ambition and education?"