hypnotist the lars kepler

hypnotist
the
lars kepler
translated from the swedish by ann long
sarah crichton books
farrar, straus and giroux  new york
In Greek mythology, the god Hypnos is a winged boy with poppy seeds
in his hand. His name means “sleep.” He is the twin brother of Thanatos,
death, and the son of night and darkness.
The term hypnosiswas !rst used in its modern sense in 1843 by the
Scottish surgeon James Braid. He used this term to describe a sleeplike
state of both acute awareness and great receptiveness.
Even today, opinions vary with regard to the usefulness, reliability,
and dangers of hypnosis. This lingering ambivalence is presumably owing to the fact that the techniques of hypnosis have been exploited by
con men, stage performers, and secret services all over the world.
From a purely technical point of view, it is easy to place a person in
a hypnotic state. The dif!culty lies in controlling the course of events,
guiding the patient, and interpreting and making use of the results. Only
through considerable experience and skill is it possible to master deep
hypnosis fully. There are only a handful of recognized doctors in the
world who have truly mastered deep hypnosis.
Like !re, just like !re. Those were the !rst words the boy uttered under
hypnosis. Despite life- threatening injuries— innumerable knife wounds
to his face, legs, torso, back, the soles of his feet, the back of his neck,
and his head— the boy had been put into a state of deep hypnosis in an
attempt to see what had happened with his own eyes.
“I’m trying to blink,” he mumbled. “I go into the kitchen, but it isn’t
right; there’s a crackling noise between the chairs and a bright red !re is
spreading across the "oor.”
They’d thought he was dead when they found him among the other
bodies in the terraced house. He’d lost a great deal of blood, gone into a
state of shock, and hadn’t regained consciousness until seven hours later.
He was the only surviving witness.
Detective  Joona  Linna  was  certain  that  the  boy  would  be  able  to
provide valuable information, possibly even identify the killer.
But if the other circumstances had not been so exceptional, it would
never even have occurred to anyone to turn to a hypnotist.
1
tuesday, december 8 : early morning
Erik Maria Bark is yanked reluctantly from his dream when the telephone
rings. Before he is fully awake, he hears himself say with a smile, “Balloons
and streamers.”
His heart is pounding from the sudden awakening. Erik has no idea
what he meant by these words. The dream is completely gone, as if he
had never had it.
He fumbles to !nd the ringing phone, creeping out of the bedroom
with it and closing the door behind him to avoid waking Simone. A detective named Joona Linna asks if he is suf!ciently awake to absorb important
information. His thoughts are still tumbling down into the dark empty
space after his dream as he listens.
“I’ve heard you’re very skilled in the treatment of acute trauma,” says
Linna.
“Yes,” says Erik.
He swallows a painkiller as he listens. The detective explains that he
needs to question a !fteen- year- old boy who has witnessed a double murder and been seriously injured himself. During the night he was moved
from  the  neurological  unit  in  Huddinge  to  the  neurosurgical  unit  at
Karolinska University Hospital in Solna.
“What’s his condition?” Erik asks.
6  lars kepler
The detective rapidly summarizes the patient’s status, concluding,
“He hasn’t been stabilized. He’s in circulatory shock and unconscious.”
“Who’s the doctor in charge?” asks Erik.
“Daniella Richards.”
“She’s extremely capable. I’m sure she can—”
“She was the one who asked me to call you. She needs your help. It’s
urgent.”
When Erik returns to the bedroom to get his clothes, Simone is lying
on her back, looking at him with a strange, empty expression. A strip of
light from the streetlamp is shining in between the blinds.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“Police . . . a detective . . . I didn’t catch his name.”
“What’s it about?”
“I have to go to the hospital,” he replies. “They need some help with
a boy.”
“What time is it, anyway?” She looks at the alarm clock and closes
her eyes. He notices the stripes on her freckled shoulders from the creased
sheets.
“Sleep now, Sixan,” he whispers, calling her by her nickname.
Carrying his clothes from the room, Erik dresses quickly in the hall.
He catches the "ash of a shining blade of steel behind him and turns to
see that his son has hung his ice skates on the handle of the front door
so he won’t forget them. Despite his hurry, Erik !nds the protectors in
the closet and slides them over the sharp blades.
It’s three o’clock in the morning when Erik gets into his car. Snow falls
slowly from the black sky. There is not a breath of wind, and the heavy "akes
settle sleepily on the empty street. He turns the key in the ignition, and the
music pours in like a soft wave: Miles Davis, “Kind of Blue.”
He drives the short distance through the sleeping city, out of Luntmakargatan, along Sveavägen to Norrtull. He catches a glimpse of the waters of Brunnsviken, a large, dark opening behind the snowfall. He slows
as he enters the enormous medical complex, maneuvering between Astrid Lindgren’s understaffed hospital and maternity unit, past the radiology and psychiatry departments, to park in his usual place outside the
neurosurgical unit. There are only a few cars in the visitors’ lot. The glow
of the streetlamps is re"ected in the windows of the tall buildings, and
7  the hypnotist
blackbirds rustle through the branches of the trees in the darkness. Usually you hear the roar of the superhighway from here, Erik thinks, but not
at this time of night.
He inserts his pass card, keys in the six- digit code, enters the lobby,
takes the elevator to the !fth "oor, and walks down the hall. The blue
vinyl "oors shine like ice, and the corridor smells of antiseptic. Only now
does he become aware of his fatigue, following the sudden surge of adrenaline brought on by the call. It had been such a good sleep, he still feels
a pleasant aftertaste.
He thinks over what the detective told him on the telephone: a boy
is admitted to the hospital, bleeding from cuts all over his body, sweating;
he doesn’t want to lie down, is restless and extremely thirsty. An attempt
is made to question him, but his condition rapidly deteriorates. His level
of consciousness declines while at the same time his heart begins to race,
and Daniella Richards, the doctor in charge, makes the correct decision
not to let the police speak to the patient.
Two uniformed cops are standing outside the door of ward N18; Erik
senses a certain unease "it across their faces as he approaches. Maybe
they’re just tired, he thinks, as he stops in front of them and identi!es
himself. They glance at his ID, press a button, and the door swings open
with a hum.
Daniella Richards is making notes on a chart when Erik walks in. As
he greets her, he notices the tense lines around her mouth, the muted
stress in her movements.
“Have some coffee,” she says.
“Do we have time?” asks Erik.
“I’ve got the bleed in the liver under control,” she replies.
A  man  of  about  forty- !ve,  dressed  in  jeans  and  a  black  jacket,  is
thumping the coffee machine. He has tousled blond hair, and his lips
are serious, clamped !rmly together. Erik thinks maybe this is Daniella’s
husband, Magnus. He has never met him; he has only seen a photograph
in her of!ce.
“Is that your husband?” he asks, waving his hand in the direction of
the man.
“What?” She looks both amused and surprised.
“I thought maybe Magnus had come with you.”
“No,” she says, with a laugh.
8  lars kepler
“I don’t believe you,” teases Erik, starting to walk toward the man.
“I’m going to ask him.”
Daniella’s cell phone rings and, still laughing, she "ips it open, saying,
“Stop it, Erik,” before answering, “Daniella Richards.” She listens but
hears nothing. “Hello?” She waits a few seconds, then shrugs. “Aloha!”
she says ironically and "ips the phone shut.
Erik has walked over to the blond man. The coffee machine is whirring and hissing. “Have some coffee,” says the man, trying to hand Erik
a mug.
“No, thanks.”
The man smiles, revealing small dimples in his cheeks, and takes a sip
himself. “Delicious,” he says, trying once again to force a mug on Erik.
“I don’t want any.”
The  man  takes  another  sip,  studying  Erik.  “Could  I  borrow  your
phone?” he asks suddenly. “If that’s okay. I left mine in the car.”
“And now you want to borrow mine?” Erik asks stif"y.
The blond man nods and looks at him with pale eyes as gray as polished granite.
“You can borrow mine again,” says Daniella, who has come up behind
Erik.
He takes the phone, looks at it, then glances up at her. “I promise
you’ll get it back,” he says.
“You’re the only one who’s using it anyway,” she jokes.
He laughs and moves away.
“He mustbe your husband,” says Erik.
“Well, a girl can dream,” she says with a smile, glancing back at the
lanky fellow.
Suddenly she looks very tired. She’s been rubbing her eyes; a smudge
of silver- gray eyeliner smears her cheek.
“Shall I have a look at the patient?” asks Erik.
“Please.” She nods.
“As I’m here anyway,” he hastens to add.
“Erik, I really do want your opinion, I’m not at all sure about this one.”
2
tuesday, december 8 : early morning
Daniella Richards opens the heavy door and he follows her into a warm
recovery room leading off the operating theater. A slender boy is lying on
the bed. Despite his injuries, he has an attractive face. Two nurses work
to dress his wounds: there are hundreds of them, cuts and stab wounds all
over his body, on the soles of his feet, on his chest and stomach, on the
back of his neck, on the top of his scalp, on his face.
His pulse is weak but very rapid, his lips are as gray as aluminum, he
is sweating, and his eyes are tightly closed. His nose looks as if it is broken. Beneath the skin, a bleed is spreading like a dark cloud from his
throat and down over his chest.
Daniella begins to run through the different stages in the boy’s treatment so far but is silenced by a sudden knock at the door. It’s the blond
man again; he waves to them through the glass pane.
“OK,” says Erik. “If he isn’t Magnus, who the hell is that guy?”
Daniella takes his arm and guides him from the recovery room. The
blond man has returned to his post by the hissing coffee machine.
“A large cappuccino,” he says to Erik. “You might need one before
you meet the of!cer who was !rst on the scene.”
Only now does Erik realize that the blond man is the detective who
woke him up less than an hour ago. His drawl was not as noticeable on
the telephone, or maybe Erik was just too sleepy to register it.
10  lars kepler
“Why would I want to meet him?”
“So you’ll understand why I need to question—”
Joona Linna falls silent as Daniella’s mobile starts to ring. He takes it
out of his pocket and glances at the display, ignoring her outstretched
hand.
“It’s probably for him anyway,” mutters Daniella.
“Yes,” Joona is saying. “No, I want him here. . . . OK, but I don’t give
a  damn  about  that.”  The  detective  is  smiling  as  he  listens  to  his  colleague’s objections. “Although I havenoticed something,” he chips in.
The person on the other end is yelling.
“I’m doing this my way,” Joona says calmly, and ends the conversation. He hands the phone back to Daniella with a silent nod of thanks.
“I have to question this patient,” he explains, in a serious tone.
“I’m sorry,” says Erik. “My assessment is the same as Dr. Richards’.”
“When will he be able to talk to me?” asks Joona.
“Not while he’s in shock.”
“I knew you’d say that,” says Joona quietly.
“The situation is still extremely critical,” explains Daniella. “His pleural sack is damaged, the small intestine, the liver, and—”
A policeman wearing a dirty uniform comes in, his expression uneasy. Joona waves, walks over, and shakes his hand. He says something
in a low voice, and the police of!cer wipes his mouth and glances apprehensively at the doctors.
“I know you probably don’t want to talk about this right now,” says
Joona. “But it could be very useful for the doctors to know the circumstances.”
“Well,” says the police of!cer, clearing his throat feebly, “we hear on
the radio that a janitor’s found a dead man in the toilet at the playing !eld
in Tumba. Our patrol car ’s already on Huddingevägen, so all we need to
do is turn and head up toward the lake. We !gured it was an overdose,
you  know?  Jan,  my  partner,  he  goes  inside  while  I  talk  to  the  janitor.
Turns  out  to  be  something  else  altogether.  Jan  comes  out  of  the  locker
room; his face is completely white. He doesn’t even want me to go in
there. So much blood, he says three times, and then he just sits down on
the steps. . . .”
The police of!cer falls silent, sits in a chair, and stares straight ahead.
the hypnotist11
“Can you go on?” asks Joona.
“Yes. . . . The ambulance shows up, the dead man is identi!ed, and
it’s my responsibility to inform the next of kin. We’re a bit short- staffed,
so I have to go alone. My boss says she doesn’t want to let Jan go out in
this state; you can understand why.”
Erik glances at the clock.
“You have time to listen to this,” says Joona.
The  police  of!cer  goes  on,  his  eyes  lowered.  “The  deceased  is  a
teacher at the high school in Tumba, and he lives in that development
up by the ridge. I rang the bell three or four times, but nobody answered.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I went around the whole block and
shined my "ashlight through a window at the back of the house.” The
police of!cer stops, his mouth trembling, and begins to scrape at the arm
of the chair with his !ngernail.
“Please go on,” says Joona.
“Do I have to? I mean, I . . . I . . .”
“You found the boy, the mother, and a little girl aged !ve. The boy,
Josef, was the only one who was still alive.”
“Although I didn’t think . . .” He falls silent, his face ashen.
Joona relents. “Thank you for coming, Erland.”
The police of!cer nods quickly and gets up, runs his hand over his
dirty jacket in confusion, and hurries out of the room.
“They had all been attacked with a knife,” Joona Linna says. “It must
have been sheer chaos in there. The bodies were . . . they were in a terrible  state.  They’d  been  kicked  and  beaten.  They’d  been  stabbed,  of
course, multiple times, and the little girl . . . she had been cut in half.
The lower part of her body from the waist down was in the armchair in
front of the TV.”
His composure !nally seems to give. He stops for a moment, staring
at Erik before regaining his calm manner. “My feeling is that the killer
knew the father was at the playing !eld. There had been a soccer match;
he was a referee. The killer waited until he was alone before murdering
him; then he started hacking up the body— in a particularly aggressive
way— before going to the house to kill the rest of the family.”
“It happened in that order?” asks Erik.
“In my opinion,” replies the detective.
12  lars kepler
Erik can feel his hand shaking as he rubs his mouth. Father, mother,
son, daughter, he thinks very slowly, before meeting Joona Linna’s gaze.
“The perpetrator wanted to eliminate the entire family.”
Joona raises his eyebrows. “That’s exactly it. . . . A child is still out
there, the big sister. She’s twenty- three. We think it’s possible the killer
is after her as well. That’s why we want to question the witness as soon as
possible.”
“I’ll go in and carry out a detailed examination,” says Erik.
Joona nods.
“But we can’t risk the patient’s life by—”
“I understand that. It’s just that the longer it takes before we have
something to go on, the longer the killer has to look for the sister.”
Now Erik nods.
“Why don’t you locate the sister, warn her?”
“We haven’t found her yet. She isn’t in her apartment in Sundbyberg, or at her boyfriend’s.”
“Perhaps you should examine the scene of the crime,” says Daniella.
“That’s already under way.”
“Why don’t you go over there and tell them to get a move on?” she
says, irritably.
“It’s not going to yield anything anyway,” says the detective. “We’re
going to !nd the DNA of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people in
both places, all mixed up together.”
“I’ll go in a moment and see the patient,” says Erik.
Joona meets his gaze and nods. “If I could ask just a couple of questions. That might be all that’s needed to save his sister.”
3
tuesday, december 8 : early morning
Erik Maria Bark returns to the patient. Standing in front of the bed, he
studies the pale, damaged face; the shallow breathing; the frozen gray lips.
Erik says the boy’s name, and something passes painfully across the face.
“Josef,” he says once again, quietly. “My name is Erik Maria Bark. I’m
a doctor, and I’m going to examine you. You can nod if you like, if you
understand what I’m saying.”
The boy is lying completely still, his stomach moving in time with
his short breaths. Erik is convinced that the boy understands his words,
but the level of consciousness abruptly drops. Contact is broken.
When Erik leaves the room half an hour later, both Daniella and the
detective look at him expectantly. Erik shakes his head.
“He’s our only witness,” Joona repeats. “Someone has killed his father, his mother, and his little sister. The same person is almost certainly
on the way to his older sister right now.”
“We know that,” Daniella snaps.
Erik raises a hand to stop the bickering. “We understand it’s important to talk to him. But it’s simply not possible. We can’t just give him a
shake and tell him his whole family is dead.”
“What about hypnosis?” says Joona, almost offhandedly.
14  lars kepler
Silence falls in the room.
“No,” Erik whispers to himself.
“Wouldn’t hypnosis work?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Erik replies.
“How could that be? You yourself were a famous hypnotist. The best,
I heard.”
“I was a fake,” says Erik.
“That’s not what I think,” says Joona. “And this is an emergency.”
Daniella "ushes and, smiling inwardly, studies the "oor.
“I can’t,” says Erik.
“I’m actually the person responsible for the patient,” says Daniella,
raising her voice, “and I’m not particularly keen on letting him be hypnotized.”
“But if it wasn’t dangerous for the patient, in your judgment?” asks
Joona.
Erik now realizes that the detective has been thinking of hypnosis as
a possible shortcut right from the start. Joona Linna has asked him to
come to the hospital purely to convince him to hypnotize the patient,
not because he is an expert in treating acute shock and trauma.
“I promised myself I would never use hypnosis again,” says Erik.
“OK,  I  understand,”  says  Joona.  “I  had  heard  you  were  the  best,
but . . . I have to respect your decision.”
“I’m sorry,” says Erik. He looks at the patient through the window in
the door and turns to Daniella. “Has he been given desmopressin?”
“No, I thought I’d wait awhile,” she replies.
“Why?”
“The risk of thromboembolic complications.”
“I’ve been following the debate, but I don’t agree with the concerns;
I give my son desmopressin all the time,” says Erik.
“How is Benjamin doing? He must be, what, !fteen now?”
“Fourteen,” says Erik.
Joona gets up laboriously from his chair. “I’d be grateful if you could
recommend another hypnotist,” he says.
“We don’t even know if the patient is going to regain consciousness,”
replies Daniella.
“But I’d like to try.”
the hypnotist15
“And he does have to be conscious in order to be hypnotized,” she
says, pursing her mouth slightly.
“He was listening when Erik was talking to him,” says Joona.
“I don’t think so,” she murmurs.
Erik disagrees. “He could de!nitely hear me.”
“We could save his sister,” Joona goes on.
“I’m going home now,” says Erik quietly. “Give the patient desmopressin and think about trying the pressure chamber.”
As  he  walks  toward  the  elevator,  Erik  slides  out  of  his  white  coat.
There are a few people in the lobby now. The doors have been unlocked;
the sky has lightened a little. As he pulls out of the parking lot he reaches
for the little wooden box he carries with him, garishly decorated with a
parrot and a smiling South Seas native. Without taking his eyes off the
road  he "ips  open  the  lid,  picks  out  three  tablets,  and  swallows  them
quickly. He needs to get a couple of hours of sleep yet this morning, before waking Benjamin and giving him his injection.
4
tuesday, december 8 : early morning
Seven and a half hours earlier, a janitor by the name of Karim Muhammed arrived at the Rödstuhage sports center. The time was 8:50 p.m.
Cleaning the locker rooms was his last job for the day. He parked his
Volkswagen bus in the parking lot not far from a red Toyota. The soccer
!eld itself was dark, the "oodlights atop the tall pylons surrounding it
long since extinguished, but a light was still on in the men’s locker room.
The  janitor  retrieved  the  smallest  cart  from  the  rear  of  the  van  and
pushed it toward the low wooden building. Reaching it, he was slightly
surprised  to !nd  the  door  unlocked.  He  knocked,  got  no  reply,  and
pushed the door open. Only after he had propped it with a plastic wedge
did he spot the blood.
When police of!cers Jan Eriksson and Erland Björkander arrived at
the scene, Eriksson went straight to the locker room, leaving Björkander
to question Karim Muhammed. At !rst, Eriksson thought he heard the
victim moaning, but after turning him over the police of!cer realized this
was impossible. The victim had been mutilated and partially dismembered. The right arm was missing, and the torso had been hacked at so
badly it looked like a bowl full of bloody entrails.
Soon afterward, the ambulance arrived, as did Detective Superintendent Lillemor Blom. A wallet left at the scene identi!ed the victim as
Anders Ek, a teacher of physics and chemistry at the Tumba high school,
the hypnotist17
married to Katja Ek, a librarian at the main library in Huddinge. They
lived in a row house at Gärdesvägen 8 and had two children living at
home, Lisa and Josef.
Superintendent Blom sent Björkander to notify the victim’s family
while she reviewed Eriksson’s report and cordoned off the crime scene,
both inside and outside.
Björkander parked at the house in Tumba and rang the doorbell. When
no one answered he went around to the back of the row of houses, switched
on his "ashlight, and shined it through a rear window, illuminating a
bedroom. Inside, a large pool of blood had saturated the carpet, with
long ragged stripes leading from it and through the door, as if someone
had been dragged from where they’d fallen. A child’s pair of glasses lay in
the doorway. Without radioing for reinforcements, Erland Björkander
forced  the  balcony  door  and  went  in,  his  gun  drawn.  Searching  the
house, he discovered the three victims. He did not immediately realize
that the boy was still alive. While hastily radioing for backup and an ambulance, he mistakenly used a channel covering the entire Stockholm
district.
“Oh my God!” he cried out. “They’ve been slaughtered. . . . Children
have been slaughtered. . . . I don’t know what to do. I’m all alone, and
they’re all dead.”
5
monday, december 7 : evening
Joona Linna was in his car on Drottningholmsvägen when he heard the
call  at  22:10.  A  police  of!cer  was  screaming  that  children  had  been
slaughtered, he was alone in the house, the mother was dead, they were
all dead. A little while later he was radioing from outside the house and,
calmer now, he explained that Superintendent Lillemor Blom had sent
him to the house on Gärdesvägen alone. Björkander suddenly mumbled
that this was the wrong channel and stopped speaking.
In the sudden quiet, Joona Linna listened to the rhythmic thumping
of the windshield wipers as they scraped drops of water from the glass.
He thought about his father, who had had no backup. No police of!cer
should have to do something like this on his own. Irritated at the lack of
leadership out in Tumba, he pulled over to the side of the road; after a
moment, he sighed, got out his mobile, and asked to be put through to
Lillemor Blom.
Lillemor Blom and Joona had been classmates at the police training
academy. After completing her placements, she had married a colleague
in the Reconnaissance Division and two years later they had a son. Although it was his legal right, the father never took his paid paternity leave;
his choice meant a !nancial loss for the family as it held up Lillemor’s
career progression, and eventually he left her for a younger of!cer who
had just !nished her training.
the hypnotist19
Joona identi!ed himself when Lillemor answered. He hurried through
the usual civilities and then explained what he had heard on the radio.
“We’re short- staffed, Joona,” she explained. “And in my judgment—”
“That’s irrelevant. And your judgment was way off the mark.”
“You’re not listening,” she said.
“I am, but—”
“Well, then, listen to me!”
“You’re not even allowed to send your ex-husband to a crime scene
alone,” Joona went on.
“Are you !nished?”
After a short silence, Lillemor explained that Erland Björkander had
only been dispatched to inform the family; he had decided on his own
to enter the house without calling for backup.
Joona apologized. Several times. Then, mainly to be polite, asked
what had happened out in Tumba.
Lillemor described the scene Erland Björkander had reported: pools
and trails of blood, bloody hand- and footprints, bodies and body parts,
knives and cutlery thrown on the kitchen "oor. She told him that Anders
Ek, whom she assumed had been killed following the attack on his family, was known to Social Services for his gambling addiction. While his
of!cial debts had been written off, he still owed money to some serious
local criminal types. And now a loan enforcer had murdered him and
his family. Lillemor described the condition of Anders Ek. The murderer
had started to hack his body to pieces; a hunting knife and a severed arm
had been found in the locker room showers. She repeated several times
that they were short of staff and the examination of the crime scenes
would have to wait.
“I’m coming over there,” said Joona.
“But why?” she said in surprise.
“I want to have a look.”
“Now?”
“If you don’t mind,” he replied.
“Great,” she said, in a way that made him think she meant it.
6
monday, december 7 : evening
Fourteen minutes later, Joona Linna pulled up at the Rödstuhage sports
center, parking a few spots from a Volkswagen bus with the logo johansson’s proxy care emblazoned on the side. It was dark out, and snow-"akes  whirled  around  in  the  biting  wind.  The  police  had  already
cordoned off the area.
Joona gazed across the deserted soccer !eld. All of a sudden, an eerie
noise— vibrating, humming— kicked on. Off to his left, Joona could hear
shuf"ing sounds and quick footsteps. Turning around, he could make
out two black silhouettes walking in the high grass along the fence. The
humming escalated— and then abruptly stopped. Spotlights encircling
the soccer !eld exploded with light, "ooding the center, while casting
the surrounding area in even more impenetrable winter darkness.
The  two !gures  in  the  distance  were  uniformed  policemen.  One
walked quickly, then stopped and vomited. He steadied himself against
the fence. His colleague caught up with him and placed a comforting
hand on his back, speaking soothingly.
Joona continued on toward the locker rooms. Flashes of light from
cameras burst through the propped- open door, and the forensic technicians had laid out stepping blocks around the entrance so as not to contaminate  any  prints  during  their  initial  crime  scene  investigation.  An
older colleague stood guard out front. His eyes were heavy with fatigue,
the hypnotist21
and  his  voice  was  subdued.  “Don’t  go  in  if  you’re  afraid  of  having
nightmares.”
“I’m done with dreaming,” Joona replied.
A strong scent of stale sweat, urine, and fresh blood permeated the
air. The forensic technicians were taking pictures in the shower, their
white "ashes  bouncing  off  the  tiles,  giving  the  entire  locker  room  a
strange pulsating feel.
Blood dripped from above.
Joona clenched his jaw as he studied the badly mauled body on the
"oor between the wooden benches and the dented lockers. A thin- haired,
middle- aged man with graying stubble.
Blood  was  everywhere— on  the "oor,  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 "ash re"ected on the
white tiles and caught the blade of a hunting knife on the "oor.
A squeegee 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, Band-Aids, and a bottle of shower gel.
A severed arm lay by the "oor 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 !nd 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
the hypnotist23
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  ghostlike  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 !nd 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 sandbox. Joona headed up the front steps, turned on
his "ashlight, opened the door, and walked into the hallway. The dark
rooms were !lled with silent fear. Just a few steps in and the adrenaline
was pumping through him so hard, it felt like his chest would explode.
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Purposefully, Joona registered it all, absorbing every horri!c 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 "oor. 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 "ow 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 likely believed he had succeeded.
8
monday, december 7 : night
Joona Linna stepped out into the cold wind, over the shivering black-andyellow 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 !fteen- 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
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lack of oxygen could taint the blood and damage the heart, lungs, liver,
kidneys.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No.”
“It’s urgent that I get a chance to interview him.”
“Detective, my patient is hanging on by his !ngernails. If he survives
his injuries at all, it won’t be possible to interview him for several weeks.”
“He’s the sole eyewitness to a multiple murder,” said Joona. “Is there
anything you can do?”
“The only person who might possibly be able to hasten the boy’s recovery is Erik Maria Bark.”
“The hypnotist?” asked Joona.
She gave a big smile, blushing slightly. “Don’t call him that if you
want his help. He’s our leading expert in the treatment of shock and
trauma.”
“Do you have any objections if I ask him to come in?”
“On the contrary. I’ve been considering it myself,” she said.
Joona searched in his pocket for his phone, realized he had left it in
the car, and asked if he could borrow Daniella’s. After outlining the situation to Erik Maria Bark, he called Susanne Granat at Social Services
and explained that he was hoping to be able to talk to Josef Ek soon.
Susanne Granat knew all about the family. The Eks were on their register, she said, because of the father’s gambling addiction, and because
they had had dealings with the daughter three years ago.
“With the daughter?” asked Joona.
“The older daughter,” explained Susanne.
“So there is a third child?” Joona asked impatiently.
“Yes, her name is Evelyn.”
Joona ended the conversation and immediately called his colleagues
in the Reconnaissance Division to ask them to track down Evelyn Ek.
He emphasized repeatedly that it was urgent, that she risked being killed.
But then he added it was also possible that she was dangerous, that she
could actually have been involved in the triple homicide in Tumba.
9
tuesday, december 8 : morning
Detective Joona Linna orders a large sandwich to go, with Parmesan,
Bresaola, and sun- dried tomatoes, from the little breakfast bar called Il
Caffè on Bergsgatan. The café has just opened, and the girl who takes
his order has not yet had time to unpack the warm bread from the large
brown bags in which it’s been delivered from the bakery.
Having inspected the crime scenes in Tumba late the night before,
and in the middle of the night visited the hospital in Solna and spoken
to the two doctors Daniella Richards and Erik Maria Bark, he had called
Reconnaissance once more. “Have you found Evelyn?” he’d asked.
“No.”
“You realize we have to !nd her before the murderer does.”
“We’re trying, but—”
“Try harder,” Joona had growled. “Maybe we can save a life.”
Now, after three hours of sleep, Joona gazes out the steamed- up window,
waiting for his breakfast. Sleet is falling on the town hall. The food arrives. Joona grabs a pen on the glass counter, signs the credit slip, and
hurries out.
The sleet intensi!es as he makes his way along Bergsgatan, the warm
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sandwich in one hand and his indoor hockey stick and gym bag in the
other.
“We’re playing Recon Tuesday night,” Joona had told his colleague
Benny Rubin. “We have no chance. They’re going to kill us.”
The National CID indoor hockey team loses whenever they play the
local police, the traf!c police, the maritime police, the national special
intervention squad, the SWAT team, or Recon. But it gives them a good
excuse to drown their sorrows together in the pub, as they like to say,
afterward.
Joona has no idea as he walks alongside police headquarters and past
the big entrance doors that he will neither play hockey nor go to the pub
this Tuesday. Someone has scrawled a swastika on the entrance sign to the
courtroom. He strides on toward the Kronoberg holding cells and watches
the tall gate close silently behind a car. Snow"akes are melting on the
big window of the guardroom. Joona walks past the police swimming
pool and cuts across the yard toward the gabled end of the vast complex.
The  façade  resembles  dark  copper,  burnished  but  underwater.  Flags
droop wetly from their poles. Hurrying between two metal plinths and
beneath the high frosted glass roof, Joona stamps the snow off his shoes
and swings open the doors to the National Police Board.
The central administrative authority in Sweden, the National Police
Board is made up of the National Criminal Investigation Department,
the Security Service, the Police Training Academy, and the National
Forensic Laboratory. The National CID is Sweden’s only central operational police body, with the responsibility for dealing with serious crime
on a national and international level. For nine years, Joona Linna has
worked here as a detective.
Joona walks along the corridor, taking off his cap and shaking it at his
side, glancing in passing at the notices on the bulletin board about yoga
classes, somebody who’s trying to sell a camper, information from the
trade union, and scheduling changes for the shooting club. The "oor,
which was mopped before the snowstorm began, is already soiled with
bootprints and dried, muddy slush.
The door of Benny Rubin’s of!ce is ajar. A sixty- year- old man with a
gray mustache and wrinkled, sun- damaged skin, he is involved in the
work around communication headquarters and the changeover to Rakel,
the hypnotist29
the new radio system. He sits at his computer with a cigarette behind his
ear, typing with agonizing slowness.
“I’ve got eyes in the back of my head,” he says, all of a sudden.
“Maybe that explains why you’re such a lousy typist,” jokes Joona.
Benny’s latest !nd is an advertising poster for the airline SAS: a fairly
exotic young woman in a minute bikini suggestively sipping some kind of
fruit- garnished cocktail from a straw. Benny was so incensed by the ban
on calendars featuring pinup girls that most people thought he was going
to resign, but instead he has devoted himself to a silent and stubborn
protest for many years. Technically, nothing forbids the display of advertisements  for  airlines,  pictures  of  ice  princesses  with  their  legs  spread
wide apart, lithe and "exible yoga instructors, or ads for underwear from
H&M. On the !rst day of each month, Benny changes what he has on
the wall. The variety of ways that he avoids the ban is dazzling. Joona
remembers a poster of the short- distance runner Gail Devers, in tight
shorts, and a daring lithograph by the artist Egon Schiele that depicted a
red- haired woman sitting with her legs apart in a pair of "uffy bloomers.
Moving on, Joona stops to say hello to his assistant, Anja Larsson.
She sits at the computer with her mouth half open, her round face wearing an expression of such concentration that he decides not to disturb
her. Instead, he hangs up his wet coat just inside the door of his of!ce,
switches on the Advent star in the window, and glances quickly through
his  in- box:  a  message  about  the  working  environment,  a  suggestion
about low- energy lightbulbs, an inquiry from the prosecutor’s of!ce, and
an invitation from Human Resources to a Christmas meal at Skansen.
Joona leaves his of!ce, goes into the meeting room, and sits in his
usual place to unwrap his sandwich and eat.
Petter Näslund stops in the corridor, laughs smugly, and leans on the
doorframe with his back to the meeting room. A muscular, balding man
of about thirty- !ve, Petter is a detective with a position of special responsibility and Joona’s immediate boss. Everyone knows that Joona is eminently more quali!ed than Petter. But they know, too, that he is also
singularly disinterested in administrative duties and the rat race involved
in climbing the ranks.
For several years Petter has been "irting with Magdalena Ronander
without noticing her troubled expression and constant attempts to switch
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to a more businesslike tone. Magdalena has been a detective in the Reconnaissance Division for four years, and she intends to complete her
legal training before she turns thirty.
Lowering his voice suggestively, Petter questions Magdalena about
her choice of service weapon, wondering aloud how often she changes
the  barrel  because  the  grooves  have  become  too  worn.  Ignoring  his
coarse innuendoes, she tells him she keeps a careful note of the number
of shots !red.
“But you like the big rough ones, don’t you?” says Petter.
“No, not at all, I use the Glock Seventeen,” she replies, “because
it  can  cope  with  a  lot  of  the  defense  team’s  nine- millimeter  ammunition.”
“Don’t you use the Czech?”
“Yes, but I prefer the M39B,” she says !rmly, moving around him to
enter the meeting room. He follows, and they both sit and greet Joona.
“And you can get the Glock with gunpowder gas ejectors next to the sight,”
she continues. “It reduces the recoil a hell of a lot, and you can get the
next shot in much more quickly.”
“What does our Moomintroll think?” asks Petter, with a nod in Joona’s
direction.
Joona smiles sweetly and !xes his icily clear gray eyes on them. “I
think it doesn’t make any difference. I think other elements decide the
outcome,” he says.
“So you don’t need to be able to shoot.” Petter grins.
“Joona is a good shot,” says Magdalena.
“Good at everything.” Petter sighs.
Magdalena ignores Petter and turns to Joona instead. “The biggest
advantage with the compensated Glock is that the gunpowder gas can’t
be seen from the barrel when it’s dark.”
“Quite right,” says Joona.
Wearing a pleased expression, she opens her black leather case and
begins  lea!ng  through  her  papers.  Benny  comes  in,  sits  down,  looks
around at everyone, slams the palm of his hand down on the table, then
smiles broadly when Magdalena "ashes at him in irritation.
“I took the case out in Tumba,” Joona starts.
“That’s got nothing to do with us,” says Petter.
“I think we could be dealing with a serial killer here, or at least—”
the hypnotist31
“Just leave it, for God’s sake!” Benny interrupts, looking Joona in the
eye and slapping the table again.
“It  was  somebody  settling  a  score,”  Petter  goes  on.  “Loans,  debts,
gambling. . . .”
“A gambling addict,” Benny says.
“Very well known at Solvalla. The local sharks were into him for a lot
of money, and he ended up paying for it,” says Petter, bringing the matter to a close.
In the silence that follows, Joona drinks some water and !nishes the
last of his sandwich. “I’ve got a feeling about this case,” he says quietly.
“Then you need to ask for a transfer,” says Petter with a smile. “This
has nothing to do with the National CID.”
“I think it has.”
“If you want the case, you’ll have to go and join the local force in
Tumba,” says Petter.
“I intend to investigate these murders,” says Joona calmly.
“That’s for me to decide,” replies Petter.
Yngve Svensson comes in and sits down. His hair is slicked back with
gel, he has blue- gray rings under his eyes and reddish stubble, and, as
always, he’s in a creased black suit.
“Yngwie,” Benny says happily.
Not only is Yngve Svensson in charge of the analytical section but
he’s also one of the leading experts on organized crime in the country.
“Yngve, what do you think about this business in Tumba?” asks Petter.
“You’ve just been having a look at it, haven’t you?”
“Strictly a local matter,” he says. “A loan enforcer goes to the house to
collect. Normally, the father would have been home, but he’d stepped in
to referee a soccer match at the last minute. The enforcer is presumably
high, both speed and Rohypnol, I’d say; he’s unbalanced, he’s stressed,
something sets him off, so he attacks the family with some kind of SWAT
knife to try and !nd out where the father is. They tell him the truth, but
he goes completely nuts anyway and kills them all before he goes off to
the playing !eld.”
Petter sneers. He gulps some water, belches into his hand, and turns
to Joona. “What have you got to say about that?”
“If it wasn’t completely wrong it might be quite impressive,” says Joona.
“What’s wrong with it?” asks Yngve aggressively.
32  lars kepler
“The murderer killed the father !rst,” Joona says calmly. “Then he
went over to the house and killed the rest of the family.”
“In which case it’s hardly likely to be a case of debt collection,” says
Magdalena Ronander.
“We’ll just have to see what the postmortem shows,” Yngve mutters.
“It’ll show I’m right,” says Joona.
“Idiot.” Yngve sighs, tucking two plugs of snuff under his top lip.
“Joona, I’m not giving you this case,” says Petter.
“I realize that.” He sighs and gets up from the table.
“Where  do  you  think  you’re  going?  We’ve  got  a  meeting,”  says
Petter.
“I’m going to talk to Carlos.”
“Not about this.”
“Yes, about this,” says Joona, leaving the room.
“Get back in here,” shouts Petter, “or I’ll have to—”
Joona doesn’t hear what Petter will have to do; he simply closes the
door calmly behind him and moves along the hall, saying hello to Anja,
who peers over her computer screen with a quizzical expression.
“Aren’t you in a meeting?” she asks.
“I am,” he says, continuing toward the elevator.
10
tuesday, december 8 : morning
On the !fth "oor is the National Police Board’s meeting room and central of!ce, and this is also where Carlos Eliasson, the head of the National
CID, is based. The of!ce door is ajar, but as usual it is more closed than
open, as if to discourage casual visitors.
“Come in, come in, come in,” says Carlos. An expression made up
of equal parts anxiety and pleasure "ickers across his face when Joona
walks in. “I’m just going to feed my babies,” he says, tapping the edge of
his aquarium. Smiling, he sprinkles !sh food into the water and watches
the !sh swim  to  the  surface.  “There  now,”  he  whispers.  He  shows  the
smallest paradise !sh, Nikita, which way to go, then turns back to Joona.
“The  Murder  Squad  asked  if  you  could  take  a  look  at  the  killing  in
Dalarna.”
“They  can  solve  that  one  themselves,”  replies  Joona.  “Anyway,  I
haven’t got time.”
He  sits  down  directly  opposite  Carlos.  There  is  a  pleasant  aroma
of leather and wood in the room. The sun shines playfully through the
aquarium,  casting  dancing  beams  of  undulant  refracted  light  on  the
walls.
“I want the Tumba case,” he says, coming straight to the point.
A troubled expression takes over Carlos’s wrinkled, amiable face for
a moment. He passes a hand through his thinning hair. “Petter Näslund
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rang me just now, and he’s right, this isn’t a matter for the National CID,”
he says carefully.
“I think it is,” insists Joona.
“Only if the debt collection is linked to some kind of wider organized crime, Joona.”
“This wasn’t about collecting a debt.”
“Oh, no?”
“The murderer attacked the father !rst. Then he went to the house
to kill the family. His plan from the outset was to murder the entire family. He’s going to !nd the older daughter, and he’s going to !nd the boy.
If he survives.”
Carlos glances brie"y at his aquarium, as if he were afraid the !sh
might hear something unpleasant. “I see,” he says. “And how do you know
this?”
“Because of the footprints in the blood at both scenes.”
“What do you mean?”
Joona  leans  forward. “There  were  footprints  all  over  the  place,  of
course, and I haven’t measured anything, but I got the impression that
the footsteps in the locker room were . . . well, more lively, and the ones
in the house were more tired.”
“Here we go,” says Carlos wearily. “This is where you start complicating everything.”
“But I’m right,” replies Joona.
Carlos shakes his head. “I don’t think you are, not this time.”
“Yes, I am.”
Carlos turns. “Joona Linna is the most stubborn individual I’ve ever
come across,” he tells his !sh.
“Why back down when I know I’m right?”
“I can’t go over Petter’s head and give you the case on the strength of
a hunch,” Carlos explains.
“Yes, you can.”
“Everybody thinks this was about gambling debts.”
“You too?” asks Joona.
“I do, actually.”
“The  footprints  were  more  lively  in  the  locker  room  because  the
man was murdered !rst,” insists Joona.
“You never give up, do you?” asks Carlos.
the hypnotist35
Joona shrugs his shoulders and smiles.
“I’d better ring and speak to the path lab myself,” mutters Carlos,
picking up the telephone.
“They’ll tell you I’m right,” says Joona.
Joona Linna knows he is a stubborn person; he needs this stubbornness
to carry on. He cannot give up. Cannot. Long before Joona’s life changed
to the core, before it was shattered into pieces, he lost his father.
Maybe that’s when it all began.
Joona’s father, Yrjö Linna, was a patrolling policeman in the district
of Märsta. One day in 1979 he happened to be on the old Uppsalavägen
a little way north of the Löwenström hospital when Central Control got
a call and sent him to Hammarbyvägen in Upplands Väsby. A neighbor
had called the police and said the Olsson kids were being beaten again.
Sweden had just become the !rst country to introduce a ban on the
corporal punishment of children, and the police had been instructed to
take the new law seriously. Yrjö Linna drove to the apartment house and
pulled up outside the door, where he waited for his partner. After a few
minutes the partner called; he was in a line at Mama’s Hot Dog Stand,
and besides, he said, he thought a man should have the right to show who
was boss sometimes.
Yrjö Linna never was one to talk much. He knew regulations dictated that there should always be two of!cers present at an incident of
this kind, but he said nothing, although he was well aware that he had
the right to expect support. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to look
like a coward, and he couldn’t wait. So, alone, Yrjö Linna mounted the
stairs to the third "oor and rang the doorbell.
A little girl with frightened eyes opened the door. He told her to stay
on the landing, but she shook her head and ran into the apartment. Yrjö
Linna followed her and walked into the living room. The girl banged on
the door leading to the balcony. Yrjö saw that there was a little boy out
there, wearing only a diaper. He looked about two years old. Yrjö hurried
across the room to let the child in, and that was why he noticed the
drunken man just a little too late. He was sitting in complete silence on
the sofa just inside the door, his face turned toward the balcony. Yrjö
had to use both hands to undo the catch and turn the handle. It was only
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when he heard the click of the shotgun that Yrjö froze. The shot sent a
total of thirty- six small lead pellets straight into his spine and killed him
almost instantly.
Eleven- year- old Joona and his mother, Ritva, moved from the bright
apartment in the center of Märsta to his aunt’s three- room place in Fredhäll in Stockholm. After graduating from high school, he applied to the
police training academy. He still thinks about the friends in his group
quite often: strolling together across the vast lawns, the lull before they
were sent out on placements, the early years as junior of!cers. Joona
Linna has done his share of desk work. He has redirected traf!c after
road accidents and for the Stockholm Marathon; been embarrassed by
football hooligans harassing his female colleagues with their deafening
songs on the underground; found dead heroin addicts with rotting sores;
helped  ambulance  crews  with  vomiting  drunks;  talked  to  prostitutes
shaking with withdrawal symptoms, to those with AIDS, to those who
are afraid; he has met hundreds of men who have abused their partners
and children, always following the same pattern (drunk but controlled
and deliberate, with the radio on full volume and the blinds closed); he
has stopped speeding and drunken drivers, con!scated weapons, drugs,
and homemade booze. Once, while off from work with lumbago and
out walking to avoid stiffening up, he’d seen a skinhead grab a Muslim
woman’s breast outside the school in Klastorp. His back aching, he’d
chased  the  skinhead  along  by  the  water,  right  through  the  park,  past
Smedsudden, up onto the Västerbro bridge, across the water, and past
Långholmen to Södermalm, !nally catching up with him by the traf!c
lights on Högalidsgatan.
Without any real intention of building a career, he has moved up the
ranks. He could join the National Murder Squad, but he refuses. He
likes complex tasks, and he never gives up, but Joona Linna has no interest whatsoever in any form of command.
Now Joona sits listening as Carlos Eliasson talks to Professor Nils “The
Needle” Åhlén, chief medical of!cer at the pathology lab in Stockholm.
“No, I just need to know which was the !rst crime scene,” says Carlos; then he listens for a while. “I realize that, I do realize that . . . but in
your judgment so far, what do you think?”
the hypnotist37
Joona leans back in his chair, running his !ngers through his messy
blond hair. So far he does not feel any tiredness from the long night in
Tumba  and  at  Karolinska  Hospital.  He  watches  as  Carlos’s  face  grows
redder and redder. Joona can hear The Needle drone faintly on the other
end of the line. When the voice stops, Carlos simply nods and hangs up
without saying goodbye.
“They . . . they—”
“They  have  established  that  the  father  was  killed !rst,”  supplies
Joona.
Carlos nods.
“What did I tell you?” Joona beams.
Carlos looks down at his desk and clears his throat. “OK, you’re leading the preliminary investigation,” he says. “The Tumba case is yours.”
“First of all, I want to hear one thing,” says Joona. “Who was right?
Who was right, you or me?”
“You!” yells Carlos. “For God’s sake, Joona, what is it with you? Yeah,
you were right— as usual!”
Joona hides a smile behind his hand as he gets up.
Suddenly he turns grave. “Reconnaissance hasn’t been able to track
down Evelyn Ek. She could be anywhere. I don’t know what we’re going
to do if we can’t get permission to talk to the boy. Too much time will
pass, and it’ll be too late when we !nd her.”
“You want to interrogate the wounded boy?” Carlos asks.
“I have no choice.”
“Have you spoken to the prosecutor?”
“I have no intention of handing over the preliminary investigation
until I have a suspect,” says Joona.
“That’s not what I meant,” says Carlos. “I just think it’s a good idea to
have the prosecutor on your side if you’re going to talk to a boy who is so
badly injured.”
Joona is halfway out the door. “OK, that makes sense. You’re a wise
man. I’ll give Jens a call,” he says.
11
tuesday, december 8 : morning
Erik Maria Bark arrives home from Karolinska Hospital. As he quietly
lets himself in, he thinks about the young victim lying there and the
policeman so eager to question him. Erik likes Detective Joona Linna,
despite his attempt to get Erik to break his promise never to use hypnosis
again. Maybe it’s the detective’s open and honest anxiety about the safety
of the older sister that makes him so likable. Presumably somebody is
looking for her right now.
Erik is very tired. The tablets have begun to take effect; his eyes are
heavy and sore; sleep is on the way. He opens the bedroom door and
looks at Simone. The light from the hallway covers her like a scratched
pane of glass. Three hours have passed since he left her here, and Simone has now taken over all the space in the bed. Resting on her stomach, she lies there heavily. The bedclothes are down by her feet, her
nightgown has worked its way up around her waist, and she has goose
bumps on her arms and shoulders. Erik pulls the covers over her carefully. She murmurs something and curls up; he sits down and strokes her
ankle, and she moves slightly.
“I’m going for a shower,” he says, but he leans back against the headboard, overwhelmed by fatigue.
“What  was  the  name  of  the  police  of!cer?”  she  asks,  slurring  her
words.
the hypnotist39
Before he has time to answer, he !nds himself at the park in Observatorielunden. He is digging in the sand in the playground and !nds a
yellow stone, as round as an egg, as big as a pumpkin. He scrapes at it with
his hands and sees the outline of a relief on the side, a jagged row of
teeth. When he turns the heavy stone over he sees that it is the skull of a
dinosaur.
Suddenly, Simone is screaming. “Fuck you!”
He gives a start and realizes that he has fallen asleep and begun to
dream. The strong pills have sent him to sleep in the middle of the conversation. He tries to smile and meets Simone’s chilly gaze.
“Sixan? What is it?”
“Has it started again?” she asks.
“What?”
“What?” she repeats crossly. “Who’s Daniella?”
“Daniella?”
“You promised. You made a promise, Erik,” she says. “I trusted you,
I was actually stupid enough to trust—”
“What  are  you  talking  about?  Daniella  Richards  is  a  colleague  at
Karolinska. What’s she got to do with anything?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“This is actually getting ridiculous,” he says, and despite her clear
anger he feels a smile spreading involuntarily across his face. He is so
tired.
“Do you think this is funny?” she asks. “I’ve sometimes thought . . . I
even believed I could forget what happened.”
Erik nods off for a few seconds, but he can still hear what she’s saying.
“It might be best if we separate,” whispers Simone.
He snaps awake at this. “Nothing has happened between me and
Daniella.”
“That doesn’t really matter,” she says wearily.
“Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it matter? You want to separate because of something I did ten years ago?”
“Something?”
“I was drunk, Simone. Drunk, and—”
“I don’t want to listen. I know all about it. I . . . Fuck it! I don’t want to
do this, I’m not a jealous person, but I amloyal and I expect loyalty in
return.”
40  lars kepler
“I’ve never let you down since, and I’ll never—”
“Prove it to me. I need proof.”
“You just have to trust me,” he says.
“Yes,”  she  says  with  a  sigh,  and  collecting  a  pillow  and  duvet  she
shuf"es out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
He is breathing heavily. He ought to follow her, not just give up; he
ought to try to calm her down and persuade her to come back to bed, but
right now sleep exerts the stronger in"uence. He can no longer resist it.
He sinks down into the bed; feels the dopamine "ood his system, the tension "ow out of his body as relaxation spreads pleasurably across his face,
his neck and shoulders, down into his toes and the tips of his !ngers. A
heavy, chemical sleep enfolds his consciousness like a "oury cloud.
12
tuesday, december 8 : morning
Erik slowly opens his eyes to the pale light pressing against the curtains.
He rolls over with a grunt and glances at the alarm clock; two hours have
passed. Immediately, his mind begins to replay the images from the night
before: Simone’s angry face as she made her accusations, the boy lying
there with hundreds of black knife wounds covering his glowing body.
Erik thinks of the detective, who seemed convinced that the perpetrator had wanted to murder an entire family: !rst the father, then the
mother, the son, and the daughter.
An  older  daughter  is  out  there  somewhere,  in  extreme  danger,  if
Joona Linna is right.
The telephone on the bedside table begins to ring.
Erik  gets  up,  but  instead  of  answering  he  opens  the  curtains  and
peers across at the façade of the building opposite, trying to gather his
thoughts.  The  dust  glazing  the  windowpanes  is  clearly  visible  in  the
morning sunshine.
Simone has already left for the gallery. He doesn’t understand her
outburst, why she was talking about Daniella. He wonders if it’s about
something else altogether: the drugs, maybe. He knows he’s very close to
a serious dependency on them, but he has to sleep. All the night shifts at
the hospital have ruined his ability to sleep naturally. Without pills he
42  lars kepler
would go under, he thinks. He reaches for the alarm clock but manages
to knock it on the "oor instead.
The telephone stops, but is silent for only a little while before it starts
ringing again.
He considers going into Benjamin’s room and lying down beside his
son, waking him gently, asking if he’s been dreaming about anything.
He picks up the telephone and answers.
“Hi, it’s Daniella Richards.”
“Are you still at the hospital? It’s a quarter past eight.”
“I know. I’m exhausted.”
“Go home.”
“No chance,” says Daniella calmly. “You have to come back. That
detective is on his way. He seems even more convinced that the perpetrator is after the older sister. He says he has to talk to the boy.”
Erik feels a sudden dark weight behind his eyes. “That’s a bad idea,
given his condition.”
“I know. But what about the sister?” she interrupts him. “I’m considering giving the detective the go- ahead to question Josef.”
“It’s your patient. If you think he can cope with it,” says Erik.
“Cope? Of course he can’t cope with it. His condition is critical. His
family has been murdered, and he’ll !nd out about it under questioning
from a policeman. But I can’t just sit and wait. I don’t want to let the
police at him, but there’s no doubt that his sister is in danger.”
“It’s your call,” Erik says again.
“A murderer is looking for his older sister!” Daniella breaks in, raising her voice.
“Presumably.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m in such a state about this,” she says.
“Maybe because it isn’t too late. Something could actually be done. I mean,
it isn’t often the case, but this time we could save a girl before she—”
“What do you want from me?” asks Erik.
“You have to come in and do what you’re good at.”
Erik  pauses,  then  answers  carefully.  “I  can  talk  to  the  boy  about
what’s happened when he’s feeling a little better.”
“That’s  not  what  I  mean.  I  want  you  to  hypnotize  him,”  she  says
seriously.
“No.”
the hypnotist43
“It’s the only way.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“But there’s nobody as good as you.”
“I don’t even have permission to practice hypnosis at Karolinska.”
“I can arrange that.”
“Daniella,”  Erik  says,  “I’ve  promised  never  to  hypnotize  anyone
again.”
“Can’t you just come in?”
There is silence for a little while; then Erik asks, “Is he conscious?”
“He soon will be.”
He can hear the rushing sound of his own breathing through the
telephone.
“If you won’t hypnotize the boy, I’m going to let the police see him.”
She ends the call.
Erik stands there holding the receiver in his trembling hand. The
weight behind his eyes is rolling in toward his brain. He opens the drawer
of the bedside table. The wooden box with the parrot and the native on
it isn’t there. He must have left it in the car.
The  apartment  is "ooded  with  sunlight  as  he  walks  through  to  wake
Benjamin.
The boy is sleeping with his mouth open. His face is pale and he
looks exhausted, despite a full night’s sleep.
“Benni?”
Benjamin opens his sleep- drenched eyes and looks at him as if he
were a complete stranger, before he smiles the smile that has remained
the same ever since he was born.
“It’s Tuesday. Time to wake up.”
Benjamin sits up yawning, scratches his head, then looks at the cell
phone hanging around his neck. It’s the !rst thing he does every morning: he checks whether he’s missed any messages during the night. Erik
takes out the yellow bag with a puma on it, which contains the factor
concentrate desmopressin, acetyl spirit, sterile cannulas, compresses, surgical tape, painkillers.
“Now or at breakfast?”
Benjamin shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
44  lars kepler
Erik quickly swabs his son’s skinny arm, turns it toward the light coming through the window, feels the softness of the muscle, taps the syringe,
and carefully pushes the cannula beneath the skin. As the syringe slowly
empties, Benjamin taps away at his cell phone with his free hand.
“Shit, my battery’s almost gone,” he says, then lies back as his father
holds a compress to his arm to stop any bleeding.
Gently Erik bends his son’s legs backward and forward; then he exercises the slender knee joints and massages the feet and toes. “How does
it feel?” he asks, keeping his eyes !xed on his son’s face.
Benjamin grimaces. “Same as usual.”
“Do you want a painkiller?”
Benjamin shakes his head, and Erik suddenly "ashes on the unconscious witness, the boy with all those knife wounds. Perhaps the murderer is looking for the older daughter right now.
“Dad? What is it?”
Erik meets Benjamin’s gaze. “I’ll drive you to school if you like,” he
says.
“What for?”
13
tuesday, december 8 : morning
The rush- hour traf!c rumbles slowly along. Benjamin is sitting next to
his father, the stop- and- go progress of the car making him feel drowsy.
He gives a big yawn and feels a soft warmth still lingering in his body
after the night’s sleep. He thinks about the fact that his father is in a hurry
but that he still takes the time to drive him to school. Benjamin smiles
to himself. It’s always been this way, he thinks: when Dad’s involved in
something awful at the hospital, he gets worried that something’s going
to happen to me.
“Oh, no!” Erik says suddenly. “We forgot the ice skates.”
“Right.”
“We’ll go back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” says Benjamin.
Erik tries switching lanes, but another car stops him from cutting in.
Forced back, he almost collides with a sanitation truck.
“We’ve got time to turn around and—”
“Just, like, forget the skates. I couldn’t care less,” says Benjamin, his
voice rising.
Erik glances at him in surprise. “I thought you liked skating.”
Benjamin doesn’t know what to say. He can’t stand being interrogated, doesn’t want to lie. He turns away to look out the window.
“Don’t you?” asks Erik.
46  lars kepler
“What?”
“Like skating?”
“Why would I?” Benjamin mutters. “It’s boring.”
“We bought you brand new—”
Benjamin’s only reply is a sigh.
“OK,” says Erik. “Forget the skates.” He concentrates on the traf!c
for a moment. “So skating is boring. Playing chess is boring. Watching
TV is boring. What do you actually enjoy?”
“Don’t know,” Benjamin says.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Movies?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Erik smiles.
“Yes,” replies Benjamin.
“I’ve  seen  you  watch  three  or  four  movies  in  a  night,”  says  Erik
cheerily.
“So what?”
Erik goes on, still smiling. “I wonder how many movies you could
get through if you really liked watching them. If you lovedmovies.”
“Give me a break.” Despite himself, Benjamin smiles.
“Maybe you’d need two TVs, zipping through them all on fast forward.”
Erik laughs and places his hand on his son’s knee. Benjamin allows it to
remain there.
Suddenly they hear a muf"ed bang, and in the sky a pale blue star
appears, with descending smoke- colored points.
“Funny time for !reworks,” says Benjamin.
“What?” asks his father.
“Look,” says Benjamin, pointing.
A star of smoke hangs in the sky. For some reason, Benjamin can see
Aida in front of him, and his stomach contracts at once; he feels warm
inside. Last Friday they sat close together in silence on the sofa in her
narrow living room out in Sundbyberg, watching the !lm Elephantwhile
her younger brother played with Pokémon cards on the "oor, talking to
himself.
the hypnotist47
As Erik is parking outside the school, Benjamin suddenly spots Aida.
She’s standing on the other side of the fence waiting for him. When she
catches sight of him she waves. Benjamin grabs his bag and, sliding out
the car door, says, “ ’Bye, Dad. Thanks for the lift.”
“Love you,” says Erik quietly.
Benjamin nods.
“Want to watch a movie tonight?” asks Erik.
“Whatever.”
“Is that Aida?” asks Erik.
“Yes,” says Benjamin, almost without making a sound.
“I’d like to say hello to her,” says Erik, climbing out of the car.
“What for?”
They  walk  across  to  Aida.  Benjamin  hardly  dares  to  look  at  her;
he  feels  like  a  kid.  He  doesn’t  want  her  to  think  he  needs  his  father
to approve of her or anything. He doesn’t care what his father thinks. Aida
looks nervous; her eyes dart from son to father. Before Benjamin has time
to say anything by way of explanation, Erik sticks out his hand.
“Hi, there.”
Aida shakes his hand warily. Benjamin sees his father take in her tattoos: there’s a swastika on her throat, with a little Star of David next to it.
She’s painted her eyes black, her hair is done up in two childish braids,
and she wears a black leather jacket and a wide black net skirt.
“I’m Erik, Benjamin’s dad.”
“Aida.”
Her voice is high and weak. Benjamin blushes and looks nervously
at Aida, then down at the ground.
“Are you a Nazi?” asks Erik.
“Are you?” she retorts.
“No.”
“Me neither,” she says, brie"y meeting his eyes.
“Why have you got a—”
“No reason. I’m nothing. I’m just—”
Benjamin breaks in, his heart pounding with embarrassment over his
father. “She was hanging out with these people a few years ago,” he says
loudly. “But she thought they were idiots, and—”
“You don’t need to explain,” Aida interrupts, annoyed.
He doesn’t speak for a moment.
48  lars kepler
“I . . . I just think it’s brave to admit when you’ve made a mistake,” he
says eventually.
“Yes, but I would interpret it as an ongoing lack of insight not to have
it removed,” says Erik.
“Just leave it!” shouts Benjamin. “You don’t know anything about her!”
Aida simply turns and walks away. Benjamin hurries after her.
“Sorry,” he pants. “Dad can be so embarrassing.”
“He’s right, though, isn’t he?” she asks.
“No,” replies Benjamin feebly.
“I think maybe he is,” she says, half smiling as she takes his hand in
hers.
sarah crichton books
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2009 by Lars Kepler
Translation copyright © 2011 by Ann Long
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
Originally published in 2009 by Albert Bonniers Förlag, Sweden, as Hypnotisören
Published in the United States by Sarah Crichton Books / Farrar, Straus and Giroux
First American edition, 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data
Kepler, Lars.
  [Hypnotisören. English]
The hypnotist / Lars Kepler ; translated from the Swedish. — 1st ed.
 p. cm.
ISBN 978- 0- 374- 17395- 1 (alk. paper)
1.Boys— Fiction.  2. Murder victims— Fiction.  3. Children of murder victims—
Fiction.  4. Hypnotists— Fiction.  5. Murderers— Identi,cation— Fiction. 
I.Long, Ann.  II. Title.
 PT9877.21.E65H9613 2011
 833'.92— dc22
Designed by Abby Kagan
www.fsgbooks.com
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