The Bucket List Read online

  When as an adult he had joined Homicide in New York City, he found a way of using his drawing skills as part of his job. He secretly started to make what he called “investigation pieces.” His rules for these pieces of art were simple: one sheet of paper per investigation, and only significant things could be committed to paper. It could be words, symbols, drawings … The freedom to visualize the case any way he wanted, and the limited space, helped him refine his thoughts.

  Naturally, he had eventually been caught with a pencil in his hand late one night in the police precinct. It hadn’t been long before John was nicknamed Picasso. But the digs had petered out once the other cops saw that the investigation pieces were useful. Eventually, they became a natural, accepted part of John’s working methods for a case. When he left New York, the guys had framed some of them as a going-away present. They had been decent about it and picked cases that had been solved and the perpetrator convicted.

  Given the extent of the Swedish investigation file he had been sent, he was grateful for the pad and pencils on the bedside table. They would be needed in order to distinguish what mattered from what didn’t, as he dug deeper into the material ten years after the fact.

  On the third day after Emelie Bjurwall’s disappearance, the case had taken an unexpected turn. The investigators had found traces of blood on a rock by the water. The police no longer believed she had disappeared of her own volition, which had initially been their theory. It was easily adopted, given the girl’s turbulent backstory and the fact that she had taken cocaine on the night in question.

  Suicide also became a less plausible scenario the longer they went without finding a body. The police had dragged the water off the Tynäs promontory, without any results. The wind and current also meant that a body would have drifted back to shore.

  The rock where they had made their finding was situated just five hundred meters from the house where Magnus Aglin had thrown his party. John went gone through all eighty-six pictures from the scene. A long string of rocks along the water’s edge. Some were flat and smooth, others taller and more jagged. John guessed that during the summer months it was a popular place for sunbathers who wanted to avoid the bigger beaches.

  The blood residue had been found just two or three meters from the water, and according to the lab report it belonged to Emelie Bjurwall. It wasn’t just the blood that had interested the investigators, but also its volume. The attacker—or nature—had rinsed most of it away, but the size of the remaining stain allowed them to estimate that the girl had lost almost a liter of blood.

  It was impossible for that much blood to have come solely from the wound on her forearm that was visible in the Facebook photo. Everything indicated that someone had taken Emelie Bjurwall against her will and might even have killed her.

  Twenty-four hours after the blood was analyzed, the next piece of surprising news had arrived from the laboratory in Linköping. John understood from the investigative material that the Forensics team had continued to search the area with a fine-tooth comb. Pretty soon, they had found a number of smaller stains close to Emelie’s blood. These had taken longer to analyze, but when the answer came, it sent the investigation in another new direction.

  They had found semen on the rock.

  The discovery was completely counter to the police’s latest theory that someone had kidnapped Emelie to get at her family’s money. Sexual violence was very rare in connection with abductions. Maybe the daughter of billionaire Sissela Bjurwall had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had walked into the path of a rapist.

  Reading between the terse lines in the reports, John sensed the investigators’ intense interest in the finding. Semen was forensic evidence that could tie a suspect to the scene of the crime. If the perpetrator had a previous conviction, he would be in the police DNA database and all they had to do was bring him in.

  They ran the search but were disappointed. No hits. John wondered how many profanities had echoed around the walls of the police station in Karlstad that day. Few investigators wanted to do more work than necessary on a case. They wanted to wrap it up quickly—above all for the sake of the victim’s loved ones, but also to ensure they looked efficient in the eyes of their bosses and the general public.

  John read on and noted that the Swedish police followed the same procedures as the Americans. A comprehensive DNA check of all local residents and other men in Emelie’s social circle was initiated immediately. He got the feeling that every single police officer in Värmland had been somehow involved in the investigation during this period. However, the witness statements, the interviews, and reports were primarily signed by the same people: a handful of detectives who had formed the core of the investigation.

  He scrolled through the folders. The laptop became warm and the fan began to whirr noisily. The battery was hot against his thighs through the thin blanket and he had to put the laptop down for a while.

  He sank back into the pillow and put his arm over his face to shield his eyes. There were two things that didn’t fit with the theory of a sexual crime committed by an unknown assailant.

  One: the mysterious meeting.

  Magnus Aglin, who had thrown the party, had told the police that Emelie left the house to meet someone. The investigators had expended considerable time trying to find this someone without success. This might have been because the person was the perpetrator, or because they simply didn’t want to admit to meeting Emelie at that time of day. Of course, it was possible that Magnus had been lying and that the person didn’t exist. Whichever of these options was true, none of them supported the scenario of an unknown assailant.

  Two: the tattoo.

  Was it possible that it was pure chance Emelie had carved a tick into the final square and publicly posted the photo on Facebook just before being attacked by a rapist? It wasn’t completely impossible, but it sounded like too much of a coincidence to satisfy John. There remained the possibility that it was the attacker who had carved the tick and uploaded the photo. In that case, it was no regular sex crime. There was something else to it—another motive where sex was just one component and Emelie was not a randomly selected victim.

  John reached for the laptop again and pulled up the picture. He clicked on the shortcut to switch to full screen and let the pale forearm fill the monitor from edge to edge. Three squares, two tattooed ticks, and the final one carved into the skin with the contours of a fresh wound. A bucket list—if the girl’s own words were to be believed. But exactly which goals in life had Emelie Bjurwall achieved at such a young age? John felt intuitively that the photo contained an enigma and that if he stared at it long enough the answer might appear.

  John had fallen asleep while reading the Swedish investigation files and only woke up when Trevor returned. The wheels squeaked as the nurse rolled him back into the room. The angle of the bed meant John could see his colleague’s face. It was familiar but also different. Gone was the sly mouth, always ready to laugh. The twinkle in his eye had been replaced by bleak emptiness.

  It wasn’t Trevor.

  It was Abaeze.

  The distance between his neighbor’s two personas was perhaps not so great. The darkness lay within both of them.

  “She’s changed her mind,” he said. “What happened at the port is too much for her.”

  His voice was dry and matter-of-fact, as if he were submitting an intelligence report to Brodwick.

  “She wants a divorce. She thinks the Nigerians will find me and she doesn’t want to put our kid at risk.”

  “But surely you’ll get to see your daughter again?” said John.

  “No. She wants me to relinquish custody.”

  12

  KARLSTAD, 2009

  During his forty-eight years of life, Heimer had never previously had anything to do with the police. He hadn’t even been inside a police station except on the few occasions he had renewed his passport. He wondered how common that was. Most people surely encountered law enforc
ement every now and then. Break-ins, damage, and pub brawls were in the papers every day. But Heimer had avoided it all. It probably had something to do with the area he lived in. Crime rarely made it as far as Tynäs. At any rate, not the sort of crime that involved violence and bloodshed.

  The room he and Sissela were in was on the second floor of the police station, with a view down onto Infanterigatan. Her father wanted to come with them, but they both agreed it was best if he stayed home. The metal-framed table in front of them had a greenish sheet of laminate glued onto its wooden surface. The brown plastic chairs seemed to have been designed to be easily stacked rather than to be sat on comfortably.

  Detective Sergeant Bernt Primer stuck his head around the door and offered to get them coffee. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer; there was just another interview they needed to wrap up first. Before Heimer had time to decline, Sissela replied that they would like two cups, with milk. Primer vanished, probably toward the coffee machine Heimer had seen in the corridor earlier. It had a sticker attached to it that said “Warning: cop coffee.”

  Sissela adjusted her skirt for the umpteenth time and looked worried. Gorbachev—or Anton Lundberg, the actual name of the head of the investigation, as Heimer had learned—had called that morning and asked them to come to the police station. New information had emerged. What it was, he hadn’t wanted to discuss on the phone.

  Heimer thought back to the last time they had met the head of the investigation, the man with the birthmark on his forehead. It had been at their home, around a week ago. He had thought Sissela would break down when the detective had spoken bluntly about their finding on the rocks—the large amount of blood from their daughter. Instead, she had fallen silent and disappeared into her own thoughts.

  Then the questions had followed in rapid succession: ordered, logical, and unsentimental. Gorbachev—it was impossible to think of him as having another name—had come to grips with who he was dealing with and had stopped wrapping his answers in tissue paper. The police were working on the basis that this was not a voluntary disappearance. Semen had been found next to the blood residue, which indicated that Emelie had been the victim of a sex crime and that the perpetrator had taken her from the scene.

  Primer, who had also been present during the conversation, had looked grave as he’d opened the bag and taken out a DNA testing kit. He had explained that the police were taking samples from all men in the area. Just routine.

  Heimer had struggled to stay calm. What sort of routine gave the police the right to imply he’d had sex with his own daughter? Sissela had noticed which way the wind was blowing and had discreetly put her hand on his forearm, as if trying to transfer a little of her own superhuman calm to him.

  Eventually, he had given in and opened his mouth for the cotton swab. He had felt Primer scrape it against the inside of his cheek to capture enough saliva. Then the detective had put the sample in a transparent container and put the lid on.

  Only when the policemen had left the house had Sissela allowed herself to fall apart. Heimer had led her into the bedroom and sat next to her until she fell asleep with one hand in his and the other clasped tightly around her pillow. The fact that she had needed him had suppressed Heimer’s own anxiety—for the time being at least.

  The scrape of the chair leg as Sissela stood up brought him back to the dreary room in the police station, where even the plastic flower in the window looked like it needed watering.

  “It’s more bad news—I can feel it,” she said, after doing a circuit of the table. “Otherwise, why wouldn’t that Primer man look me in the eye?”

  “I don’t know. But if it is bad news, I don’t think they’d keep us waiting.”

  Sissela sighed.

  “How on earth can it take twenty minutes to get two cups of coffee?”

  It was rare that she showed her frustration. But when she did, it was always in situations like this, when her patience was being tested.

  When the detective finally returned, he was followed by the head of the investigation. The coffee seemed to have been forgotten, and he was grateful not to have to drink it given the sticker on the machine.

  Gorbachev greeted them and Heimer did his best not to stare at the birthmark. The head of the investigation was more neatly dressed today than on previous occasions, in dark chinos and a contrasting jacket without any wear on the elbows—as if he had prepared for meeting Sissela Bjurwall.

  “We’ve got a match on the semen we found by the blood residue,” he said. “It matches a DNA sample we took during the investigation.”

  The interview, Heimer thought to himself. It must have been that person that the detectives had been talking to. The pressure on his chest returned and he felt faintly nauseated. He scanned the room for a wastepaper basket in case he needed to throw up, but he couldn’t see one.

  “Who is it?” said Sissela.

  “A nineteen-year-old. His name is Billy Nerman. We arrested him just before I called you.”

  “Has he said anything about …” Sissela swallowed a couple of times before she continued. “… anything about Emelie?”

  “No, he says he doesn’t know what happened to her and that he’s never been to that end of Tynäs.”

  “But how’s that possible? It’s his semen?”

  “Yes.”

  “But then he must have been there, mustn’t he? He must know where she is now?”

  Sissela had raised her voice and then covered her face with her hands. It was all too much for her. Gorbachev leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the laminated surface and making the table wobble slightly.

  “We’ve only questioned him on a preliminary basis, and we’ll continue shortly,” he said. “But first I wanted to find out if you know anything about Billy Nerman. Is he someone Emelie spent time with?”

  “I’ve never heard the name. Have you?” said Sissela, turning to Heimer.

  “No, never.”

  “Do you think you could look at a photograph? It’s important for us to find out whether he knew your daughter, and if so, how.”

  Sissela nodded slowly, and after a discreet glance from the head of the investigation, Primer opened the folder he had placed on the table. The photo showed a young man with a neutral driver’s license–appropriate expression.

  “He’s Black,” said Heimer with surprise in his voice that he was unable to conceal.

  “Yes, he’s Black,” said Primer, as if repeating the comment made it less loaded.

  Heimer examined the photo carefully. He tried to push away the nausea that kept welling up. Instead he focused on whether he had seen the young man before. He had always had a good memory for faces and if their paths had crossed he would have remembered it. He didn’t meet that many Black men. But his memory bank was blank.

  “He’s not from Tynäs, I take it?” said Sissela.

  In other circumstances, Heimer would have laughed at the question. The man in the photo would shock the living daylights out of the ladies in the Hämptons.

  “He lives outside of Skoghall,” Gorbachev replied.

  Sissela pushed the photo back across the table—it was clear she didn’t want to look at it anymore. Primer understood and put it back in the folder, which he then closed.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of any more assistance,” she said, getting up.

  Heimer was grateful that his wife was so clearly showing that the meeting was over. He didn’t know how much longer he could have stayed in that airless room without bringing his breakfast back up.

  Primer escorted them to the stairs. Heimer saw that the entrance to the corridor on the opposite side of the building had more security. The windows were reinforced and there were several keycard readers by the door. He looked in and saw that a red light was illuminated above one of the rooms. Perhaps that was where he was—the boy whose semen had been found on the rock. Gorbachev and Primer would go back to grilling him and Heimer had no idea what he would say. That realization made him
quicken his pace down the stairs. He needed fresh air.

  13

  BALTIMORE, 2019

  John had guessed right about the FBI’s decision. Far too many resources and the reputations of people with bigger salaries than Brodwick’s had been invested in the operation against the Nigerian drug cartel. The absence of a star witness from the trial had to be avoided. If the price was bending the Bureau rules for witness protection, then when all was said and done it wasn’t that high a price.

  John could almost hear the conversation that had taken place in a windowless conference room at headquarters in Washington, where he assumed the issue had been raised. What’s the worst that might happen? The agent is killed in a country far away across the Atlantic. What the hell. It was his own choice. The most important thing is getting a conviction and showing the taxpayers they’re getting their money’s worth.

  Brodwick returned to the hospital the next day. He brought a long contract in which John confirmed that he had chosen his destination of his own free will and that the Bureau had discouraged him. If his boss felt defeated, there was no sign of it. In order to survive in the upper stratosphere of the FBI, you needed Teflon skin. No shit could stick. John knew that Brodwick had his sights on a corner office in Washington.

  From his new position of strength, John made the final demand that would guarantee his cooperation during the trial—the crucial piece of the puzzle that he needed if he was going to help his mother. He wanted Brodwick to get him a job in county CID in Karlstad, with a position on the cold case team. The new identity would consequently need a Swedish police ID and an appropriate résumé for the job. Brodwick hadn’t protested. HQ had put its foot down and it would be career suicide not to give the witness what he wanted.