The Bucket List Read online

  When it had come to the Bureau’s start-up capital for the new life, John had been more compliant. To Brodwick’s surprise, John accepted the first offer without even attempting to negotiate. When they had gotten down to the practicalities around transferring John’s existing assets, his boss realized why. John had large cash balances and plenty of stocks and other securities that would need to be transferred to his new identity without leaving any traces.

  Brodwick looked just as surprised as John had been at the reading of the will after his dad died, when the lawyer told him he was the sole heir to more than twenty million dollars.

  The bodega on the Lower East Side hadn’t been worth much when the old man had taken it over at the end of the nineties. But during the financial crisis, he had managed to buy the building and expand the business until it took up the whole ground floor. He’d rented out the apartments on the three floors above.

  At the same time, the neighborhood had shed its skin, making way for bearded hipsters with expensive tastes. Real estate prices had ballooned, resulting in a fortune beyond John’s wildest dreams when his dad had finally sold it all.

  Yet he had spent his final years in solitude in that run-down apartment a stone’s throw from the store. If he had been tight with his money before, it got worse after the sale. Without the business to manage, he had slipped into depression—with the heaviest cloud the fear of losing his assets.

  That day at the lawyer’s office with the view of lower Manhattan, John had decided never to let himself be paralyzed by money. That very afternoon, he had bought his first tailored suit and a pair of shoes at Corthay and made an appointment to view an apartment in Hudson Square.

  Brodwick hadn’t asked any questions about where his money had come from—he merely noted it would be a challenge for the accountants at the Bureau to transfer such significant sums to a new identity abroad. But it would be taken care of. Just like everything else John wanted, so it seemed. He couldn’t help enjoying the situation. Brodwick had been transformed into a genie in a lamp.

  When night fell, John switched on the reading lamp and propped the sketch pad up on his crossed legs in bed. He liked the calm that descended on the hospital at this time of day. There were fewer people running up and down the corridors and not as many phones and alarms going off.

  He looked at the sketch depicting the house where Magnus Aglin’s party had taken place. On the roof, he had positioned four gothic letters that formed the name MAJA, as an aide-memoire about the mysterious friend the police had never managed to identify. At the gable end of the house was a clock, the hands of which showed twelve—the time Emelie had left the party to meet someone. Beneath the clock he had written a question mark, followed by Mr./Ms. X to remind himself that this person was unidentified. The strange tattoo on Emelie’s forearm was there too: the squares with the ticks telling everyone that the most important things she wanted to do in life had already been done.

  He reached for the pencil case on the nightstand and opened the lid. Using one of the softer pencils, he drew the shape of a rock and then switched to a harder pencil to mark the police’s findings: a heart for the blood and a penis for the semen. But when he came to visualize the prime suspect—the young man whose DNA matched the semen—he ground to a halt. He switched pencils yet again and ran his thumb over the lead tip. Yet he still felt unable to put it to paper. He just couldn’t.

  John closed the sketch pad and put the pencil case back on the nightstand. Maybe it would be easier to continue with his investigation piece if he read the interview transcripts. He filled his lungs with air and closed his eyes briefly. Then he turned the laptop back on and forced himself into the account of the first conversation led by Detective Inspector Anton Lundberg and Detective Sergeant Bernt Primer.

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR LUNDBERG: Do you know a girl named Emelie Bjurwall?

  INTERVIEWEE NERMAN: No.

  LUNDBERG: Okay. But you know who she is?

  NERMAN: Yes, I guess so. Everyone does.

  LUNDBERG: Why don’t you tell us what you know about her, Billy?

  NERMAN: I don’t know anything except that her mom is filthy rich.

  LUNDBERG: Why is her mom so rich?

  NERMAN: She owns those clothes stores—AckWe.

  LUNDBERG: Yes, that’s right. You know quite a bit, really, don’t you Billy? Did you hang out with Emelie?

  NERMAN: No, I said I didn’t know her.

  LUNDBERG: But you would like to hang out with her?

  NERMAN: What the hell do you mean?

  LUNDBERG: Take it easy, Billy. I don’t want to upset you. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this.

  NERMAN: Get to the bottom of what?

  LUNDBERG: Well, your relationship with Emelie.

  NERMAN: But I don’t know her! Why are you asking so many questions about her?

  LUNDBERG: Where were you on Friday night a week or so ago? The fourteenth of August?

  NERMAN: [inaudible]

  LUNDBERG: Say that again. The recording can’t pick it up if you move the chair at the same time.

  NERMAN: I was at home, alone. My mom was working the night shift.

  LUNDBERG: Did you go out at any point during the evening?

  NERMAN: No.

  LUNDBERG: And you didn’t meet Emelie Bjurwall?

  NERMAN: How fucking dense are you? No, I didn’t meet anyone!

  LUNDBERG: So you weren’t on the promontory at Tynäs that Friday night?

  NERMAN: What the hell are you talking about? No.

  LUNDBERG: You’re absolutely certain?

  NERMAN: Yes, I’m certain. I’ve never been to Tynäs.

  LUNDBERG: Not ever?

  NERMAN: No, never.

  LUNDBERG: Do you know what, Billy? I think you’re lying.

  NERMAN: What?

  LUNDBERG: I think you were at Tynäs last Friday night and that you either met Emelie Bjurwall there or that you went there together.

  NERMAN: I’ve never met her. What the hell is this about?

  LUNDBERG: Do you know why you’re here?

  NERMAN: No, I don’t know. Is it about that thing at the party? If it is, then let me tell you that fat bitch is lying. I didn’t do anything—she was up for it.

  John stopped reading and clicked through the folders on the computer. What incident was Billy Nerman referring to? At first, John thought it was something that had happened at Magnus Aglin’s party on the night of Emelie’s disappearance. But after searching for a while, he found the answer. The incident Billy was alluding to had taken place a year or so earlier. It was documented in a closed investigation like so many others John had encountered during his law enforcement career.

  The scenario: a party filled with drunk teenagers. A girl drinks too much and falls asleep on a sofa upstairs. Three boys decide to have a little fun. They pull down her top and take photos of her breasts. One kid goes further than the others. He has sex with her, but the girl wakes up and pushes him off.

  Two weeks later she reports the boy—Billy Nerman—to the police for rape. He is questioned by the police and tells his version of events. The girl was drunk but hadn’t fallen asleep. She was up for it and consented. The story is backed up by his friends and the investigation is closed due to lack of evidence before it even reaches the prosecutor’s desk.

  John analyzed what bearing the incident had on the Emelie Bjurwall case. Billy’s actions were despicable, but did that make him a more plausible culprit in the Emelie case? The answer was probably. If the girl was telling the truth, it at least demonstrated that he was capable of crossing lines that most other men wouldn’t. John angled the reading lamp so it didn’t create a glare on the computer screen and continued reading the interrogation.

  LUNDBERG: Forget about what happened at the party. This is about something more serious. We’ve found traces of blood on the rocks at the tip of the promontory in Tynäs. Emelie Bjurwall’s blood. And right by that we found semen. We took a DNA sample from you and compa
red your DNA with the semen. And we got a match. So, you see, Billy—we found your semen next to Emelie’s blood. And you’re saying you’ve never been there. You must understand why I’m confused.

  [SILENCE]

  DETECTIVE SERGEANT PRIMER: Aren’t you going to say anything, Billy?

  NERMAN: [inaudible]

  LUNDBERG: Could you speak up, please?

  NERMAN: I didn’t do anything.

  LUNDBERG: I know this must be tough for you. But believe me when I say that it’ll feel much better if you tell us where Emelie is now.

  [SILENCE]

  NERMAN: I don’t fucking get what you want …

  PRIMER: What is it you don’t understand? How you came to rape her? How everything could go so wrong? Because it was a mistake, right? Or had you decided to do it a long time ago?

  NERMAN: No.

  PRIMER: Okay, so you made your mind up when you met up with her Friday night?

  [SILENCE]

  LUNDBERG: Where’s Emelie now?

  NERMAN: I’ve never met her! And I don’t know where she is! Are you deaf or something?

  PRIMER: I don’t know what you think you’ll gain from sitting here and telling us lies. We know it was you. How could your semen end up next to her blood if it wasn’t you? Can you explain that?

  NERMAN: No.

  LUNDBERG: You can’t undo it. But if you tell us where Emelie is, it’ll be better. That’s the chance you have now to make things right. I’ve met so many people like you, Billy—and they all feel better once they’ve come clean.

  NERMAN: Fucking moron.

  LUNDBERG: The interview subject is pointing his finger at the interviewer, so I think we’ll take a short break. Give you a while to think about what we’ve talked about, Billy. The interview has been interrupted at 10:42.

  So far, the policemen had followed standard procedure, John thought to himself. They had gotten Billy to deny that he’d been at the crime scene, before presenting evidence that exposed the lie. When he then stuck to his story, they put pressure on him to confess through subtle nudges, and promises that he would feel better afterward. It wasn’t uncommon for suspects to deny the crime at first. On the contrary, it was a natural human instinct. Over the years as a homicide detective in New York City, John had developed a certain skepticism toward suspects who confessed to everything too quickly. They were usually scapegoats who were confessing to others’ crimes.

  LUNDBERG: Resuming the interview with Billy Nerman. The time is 11:15. Have you had some time to think about what we talked about earlier?

  NERMAN: Yes.

  LUNDBERG: Is there anything you’d like to tell us?

  NERMAN: I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to add. I didn’t do anything.

  PRIMER: Do I have this right? You claim you were at home alone the night Emelie Bjurwall disappeared. You didn’t meet her?

  NERMAN: No.

  PRIMER: But how is it that your semen was on the rocks next to her blood? Can you explain that to me?

  NERMAN: Someone must have put it there. How the hell should I know?

  PRIMER: You think someone planted your semen on the rock?

  NERMAN: I don’t fucking know!

  PRIMER: Had you had sexual intercourse with anyone who might have been able to obtain your semen?

  NERMAN: What?

  PRIMER: It’s a simple question—did you sleep with anyone before Emelie’s disappearance?

  NERMAN: No, I didn’t!

  PRIMER: In that case I find it very hard to see how someone could have planted it.

  [SILENCE]

  LUNDBERG: Billy, all we want to know is where the girl is. If you tell us that, we’ll take a long break. You can get something to eat and drink. It’ll feel better if you talk to us.

  [SILENCE]

  PRIMER: Evidence doesn’t lie. There isn’t anyone on earth who believes what you’re saying. Your only chance is to tell us exactly what happened. It’ll help you in your trial.

  NERMAN: [inaudible]

  LUNDBERG: Do you understand what we’re saying? This is serious. I want you to tell me where the girl is.

  NERMAN: I’m done! I’m gonna sue you for harassment!

  John read the later interviews. The investigators’ frustration had grown each time, and he could see why. The transcripts were near duplicates with just minor variations. The threats if he stayed quiet were increased, and the rewards if he talked became more generous. But Billy had stuck to his story and continued to proclaim his innocence. The only thing that had happened was that he had changed his mind about not having legal representation. From the second day onward, he had had a public defender in his interviews. But that hadn’t changed the answers to the questions.

  He clicked on a photo of Billy Nerman that had been taken just after he was arrested. It showed a morose young man who was staring into the camera with that ballsy I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude that you only had when you were under twenty. He searched for similarities, but soon realized they looked pretty different. Billy’s skin was much darker and his face rounder than John’s own. The eyes were different too. While John’s were a greenish brown, the ones in the photo were decidedly dark brown. The hair, on the other hand, was strikingly similar. The unruly black curls were identical to his own before he had shaved them off.

  John tried to remember his brother and summoned up a disparate collage of images in his head. The two of them on a playground that time Billy fell off the swing and hit his knee so hard that they had to go to the hospital. A birthday party where Mom had forced them to wear ugly matching shirts with lions on them. And the brown cord sofa where they used to curl up and hide under a blanket when their parents were fighting. John had held his hands over his little brother’s ears so that he wouldn’t be scared by all the shouting.

  John was twelve when they had separated—Billy just eight. He didn’t remember much about the end. Just that Mom had admitted to having an affair with one of Dad’s friends. Billy hadn’t really understood what half brother meant, but John did. They had the same mother, but different fathers. That meant they weren’t whole brothers—just half.

  On the final evening in the house, they had sat together under the blanket on the sofa and eaten popcorn, even though they weren’t allowed to. In the morning, his brother had stood in the hallway, his face suffused with emotion, shouting that he wanted to come with them to the airport. He had clung to John’s sleeve so that he was dragged toward the door, making the rug crumple up like an accordion.

  “Pull yourself together, Billy!” his dad’s voice had rumbled as he forced his hand away. “The plane won’t wait. We have to go.”

  He had finished the sentence in English while glancing into the kitchen. Mom had still been sitting at the table. She had taken an ostentatious drag on her cigarette to indicate that she had no intention whatsoever of taking responsibility for the chaos she had caused.

  Over the following years, there had been no phone calls or letters. Not even a postcard on birthdays. John guessed that his mother had tried to reach him in the periods when she felt better, but that his father had thrown everything away. Maybe John should have sought her and his brother out when he had got older and could make his own decisions, but he had felt a certain reluctance. Life had moved on and he hadn’t wanted to ruin things by stirring up old shit. “We look forward, John. Not backward,” had been one of his father’s catchphrases during his kitchen-table sermons.

  But then Billy had been arrested. John had recently been hired by the NYPD and at the time he was still living at home with Dad. It had been hard to find his own apartment in New York. He had seen an article about the incident purely by chance, when he had been on the Aftonbladet website, trying to keep his Swedish alive.

  John had done a double take when he realized that the missing girl lived in Tynäs by Hammarö. During his lunch break, he had Googled the case to find out who the suspect was. He had found a thread on the Flashback forum and almost fallen off his chair when he
saw the name Billy Nerman. That evening, he had told his dad, but his father didn’t want to listen.

  “That’s not our concern,” he had said, disappearing off to the bodega’s cash register.

  A week later, they had been forced to discuss it again. A padded envelope addressed to John had landed on the doormat. He had opened it and found a flash drive inside with the same content that he had received in the hospital just a few days ago—large chunks of the preliminary investigation against his half brother.

  Just like now, his mother had enclosed a letter. She had begged and pleaded with him and his father to help Billy. She knew he was innocent, but he would still be put away if no one did anything. He came from the wrong side of the tracks and the police already seemed to have made up their minds.

  John remembered that he had hidden the letter and waited until the next day before showing it to his dad. It had been a Friday and they had been celebrating the weekend with beer and peanuts in their favorite armchairs by the window. John had known his father didn’t like it when he talked about their time in Sweden, but he thought this time was different: Billy was really in a tough spot.

  John had suggested they book tickets to go to Sweden and do what they could to help him. When all was said and done, Billy was family and they had to help family.

  The reaction had not been the one he was hoping for. His father had put down his beer so hard the foam had surged out of the neck of the bottle. Billy was no goddamn part of this family. He was the child of a whore without a drop of Dad’s blood in him. Billy’s mother had created that monster herself and Dad wasn’t going to clean up her mess. Nor was John. He had to think about himself. About his life in New York and his career with the police department. What did he think would happen if it came out that he had a brother in Sweden who raped and murdered young women? He would be put on patrols in the worst neighborhoods until he could no longer handle the sneers and left the force. Once and for all, John had to get it into his head that Sweden was a closed book. As far as his dad was concerned, someone could drop a bomb on that godforsaken socialist hellhole.