Death Angels (42 page)

“Local blacks are afraid to go there.”

“Right.”

“And she thinks it was Bolger?”

“Yes, but I’m going to reserve judgment until we can arrange a real lineup.”

“And suddenly they’ll all look the same to her.”

Silence at the other end of the line. The static was like fragments of Macdonald’s thoughts, crystallized in the emptiness of space.

“How’s the interrogation going?” Macdonald asked.

“He’s not talking. When he opens up a little, he claims he can’t remember. He’s had a lot to say about amnesia the past few days.”

“It’s not so unusual for a murder suspect to say he can’t remember.”

“I have my doubts. Deep down I know for sure, but I still have my doubts. Maybe it’s time for someone to take over the investigation who’s more capable. Or at least less emotionally involved.” He heard his own breathing in the receiver. “I’ve talked with Skogome, the forensic psychologist. He’s working on a profile of Bolger.”

“I have a lot of respect for those guys.”

“So do I.”

“As you know, people can feign amnesia to avoid confessing.”

“Yes.”

“Or it can be for real. That would make things a bit tougher for us, wouldn’t it? We’d find ourselves in unknown territory.”

Winter didn’t respond.

“Am I right, Erik?”

“He’s never going to confess under interrogation. I know what he’s like, and he’s simply not going to do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I also know what his motive was.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I’ve thought through it, finished writing.”

“Writing?”

“My story.”

Macdonald waited, but Winter had nothing more to say. Macdonald was breathing heavily, and it sounded to Winter like he’d caught cold in the middle of the British spring.

“How are things with Frankie?” Winter asked.

“He’ll never let himself get drawn into something that endangers his own safety.”

“But what’s he looking for? Remember all that stuff he had to say about torture scenes?”

“I couldn’t tell you. He left a message for me this morning. I called back but he was out.”

“Maybe he’s found something.”

“Frankie? You never know.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Depends on what you mean by trust.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Frankie may be black, but his soul is white as snow.”

“Would he appreciate that comparison?”

“Of course not. Would you? I’ll call you right away if he comes up with anything you need to know.”

“Great.”

“Going back to Bolger’s memory problems—according to the statistics I’ve seen, 30 percent of the most violent criminals claim they can’t remember what happened.”

“The numbers are about the same here in Sweden.”

“We do lots of simulations, and it seems they have a naïve hope of holding on to their innocence.”

“Exactly.”

Winter knew that memory lapses needed to be taken seriously. If you wanted to get as close to the truth as possible, they had to be acknowledged and diagnosed. It was called dissociative amnesia. “But many offenders with amnesia have had mental problems at some point in their lives,” he said to Macdonald.

He had just spoken to an expert about it. Amnesia might be limited to the point at which the actual crime was committed. Or it could involve a personality change and loss of identity for several days. Or a split personality.

Winter had a moment of terror during their conversation. He had given the expert the photograph and handwritten material from Bolger’s apartment, and they’d discussed possible connections.

The expert explained that one cause of genuine amnesia was trauma or profound, emotionally charged conflict earlier in life.

Committing a crime was accompanied by strong feelings and extreme stress.

Criminals don’t generally exhibit any anxiety about their amnesia.

Bolger didn’t exhibit any anxiety. He alternated between indifference and scorn, his eyes darkening as he insisted he was doing his best to remember. He carried himself as if he were asleep.

But there were clear indications of feigned amnesia. Winter had read what the researchers said about it—how you had to be on your guard if the amnesia started right after the crime, or if it varied from one interrogation session to the next.

That’s the way it was with Bolger. No two sessions were the same. But he was now certain that he wouldn’t be able to remember what happened even if he had more time or more clues to help him out.

It’s like permafrost that covers the whole world, Winter thought. Only a huge explosion in the brain can save us and rescue the victims from the scourge of their assailants’ willful ignorance.

“You still there?” Macdonald asked.

“I’m still here.”

“No turning back, then.”

“It’s our only chance.”

“Do you know how much it’s going to cost?”

“Money is no object for me.”

“I forgot about that.”

Winter was scouring his brain for one particular event, and if he could remember what it was, the answer would be there. Everything would be over.

How many hours had he devoted to thinking about the past? The early years, when he and Bolger had spent so much time together . . .

What had it been like?

There was the rivalry. He hadn’t thought about it much at the time, but it was always there. And he had always turned out to be right. Or he had won the game, which perhaps was the same thing.

He surrounded himself with silence that night. The intermittent cries of the city were his only link to the years he had spent there, beyond the balcony.

Bolger had been briefly committed for mental problems. It had all been hush-hush. His father was like barbed wire coiled round and round the family secrets.

Bolger had always walked one step behind him and slightly to the side, and Winter had rarely turned around. How must that have felt?

Was that an oversimplification? Maybe that’s what he was looking for—the simple, unadorned truth.

They give you funny looks at police headquarters, he thought. Unless it’s the phantoms in your brain making you imagine things.

His conjuring might be a reconstruction of events, another caper of the phantoms, but he could follow the signs of the last few months backward like a thin but unbreakable thread. A series of messages, clues.

There had been words, fragments of music, as if Bolger had planned the whole scenario far in advance: if you’re so brilliant, pal, here’s something to get your mental juices going. Winter was starting to see the pattern.

His friend had challenged him. Was that the word for it? There was an unspoken plea in everything Bolger did, explicit but coming from another place—one step behind him and slightly to the side.

Bolger had known Winter would go to London, could read his intentions. Nothing that he had said was a matter of chance. It was all in the story, the one Winter had thought he was writing.

Maybe you’ve spent your days and nights dreaming, he thought. This could all be an illusion. Everything is unfounded, a misunderstanding. There’s no concrete reason to hope that our efforts have succeeded, that we’ve found the real murderer.

Do you want to be right or wrong?

Winter tried to persuade himself that it wasn’t about him, that it was something bigger. You could be anyone—a pawn in his fury to commit deeds so terrible that no hand can undo them.

Another memory emerged. His memories were like a photo album and a diary lying open side by side. Something had happened to Bolger, but he couldn’t recall what it was.

There were two days left before they would have to release Bolger, unless something else happened in the interim.

He splashed water on his face and fell into a dreamless sleep.

THEY TOOK BOLGER DOWN TO THE SECOND FLOOR. WINTER FELT
like his throat had been stitched shut.

Bolger bumped against the wall of the corridor. He looked at Winter, his pupils nonexistent. Then he spoke to him like a hiking companion on their way down to the shore. He said they could be friends again once all this was over.

Outside the lineup room, Bolger said something nobody understood and bumped against the wall again. The hair on the back of Winter’s neck was cold from sweat. His revolver chafed under his arm. Bolger started to rock back and forth on his heels, the sway extending to his whole body. The guards tightened their grip.

The door opened. Winter caught sight of a ponytail and leather jacket, but Macdonald ignored him and followed Bolger’s every move. The guards led Bolger sideways through the doorway.

Macdonald walked slowly toward Bolger and stopped when he was six inches away. Winter noticed they were exactly the same height.

The April sun through the window blended with a floor lamp in the middle of the room, the light softer than in the corridor. Seven decoys stood along one of the walls opposite a horizontal one-way mirror.

A growl rose from Bolger’s throat. He shook, and the muscles of his forearms tensed. Everything was frozen in the eternal now.

Winter walked out of the lineup room and into the area on the other side of the mirror.

The bed was in the far corner, the wheels locked in place. It looked like one of the old-fashioned cots hospitals once used, but it was designed to take aboard present-day aircraft.

The face peeked out like a black mask against the pillowcase and gauze.

Winter had never seen him in real life, only in photos.

Christian’s eyes shone as he stared into the lineup room. He seemed to be straining to raise his bandaged arm, which followed the contours of his body on the bed.

He moved his head back and forth, echoing Bolger’s gestures a few minutes earlier. He gazed at Bolger as a ghost inspects his murderer and finally nodded.

Winter walked up to Christian and listened to his soft voice. All doubt vanished.

Winter returned to the lineup room. The decoys were still there, but he was blind to them. Bolger looked at Winter, then nodded at the mirror. He’s nodding at both of us, Winter thought. He knows who’s behind the mirror. He isn’t rocking back and forth anymore.

What did you expect? Winter thought. That he would start trembling and frothing at the mouth when he realized what was happening?

Winter closed his eyes and imagined Bolger lunging forward and dragging the guards behind him with a horrific display of strength.

When he opened his eyes again, Bolger stood there quietly as if in meditation. Nobody was touching him. He was staring at Winter now. There was a clarity to his gaze that Winter hadn’t seen since they’d first brought him in.

“It’s not over, and it never will be,” Bolger said, and his eyes clouded over again.

They were sitting in Winter’s office. All his sweating had cooled him down. Macdonald’s face was pale and drawn, his cheekbones stark.

“I thought we had lost him for good,” Winter said.

“Hmm.”

“He’s still on this side of madness, but it was a close call.” He lit a cigarillo. His hands trembled slightly, still reverberating from the day’s events. “He said it’s never going to end.” The smoke curled toward the ceiling.

“I know what he means.”

“You do?”

“At least part of it.”

Winter took another puff but tasted nothing.

“Remember how disappointed you were when you had to let Vikingsson go?” Macdonald asked. “Or even before that, when he gave you all that bullshit about poaching?”

“Yes.”

“He’s still on the loose.”

The blood drained from Winter’s face.

“Think about the photo collage you found in his apartment.”

“Please cut to the chase, Steve.”