CELL 8 (41 page)
He took out what was left in the bag. A thin hemp string. A small lump of tallow that had a powerful odor. A few steps toward the stony beach, he ripped the paper bag to pieces and threw them into the water before turning back.
He stopped beneath one of the tree’s solid lower branches. He hunkered down and rubbed the smelly lump of tallow onto the hemp string, from one end to the other until it shone like silver. The rooks would see it. The rooks would smell it. He had tried it before and knew that it worked.
He would use his left hand. When he then fell, his left arm would end up in such a twisted position that it would be impossible for anyone to imagine it was suicide.
Every movement as he’d rehearsed it.
He tied one end of the sticky twine loosely around his left wrist, threw the rest over the branch and made sure that it would hang down near his head. He switched the gun from his right-hand coat pocket to his left hand, then, in the same hand, caught the end of the string that was hanging loose.
He had murdered Edward Finnigan’s only child.
He had now made sure that a reporter knew that he was going to tell Edward Finnigan the truth today.
There was a motive.
A forensic investigation would later find traces of him in Edward Finnigan’s house, confirm that the weapon that had been fired was registered to Edward Finnigan, and had his fingerprints on it, confirm that the traces of blood and skin found on him were those of Edward Finnigan.
It was hard to aim at his right temple with his left hand loosely tied in the string, but if he didn’t blink, and if he turned his cheek just slightly closer, then he was sure he’d succeed.
The shot scared the hundred or so crows that were sitting in the tree above the person who fell to the ground. They lifted, circled, cawed in agitation, then returned after a couple of minutes. Whatever it was that was gleaming down there, and that smelled of tallow, had shortly after enticed all of them down to the ground. It took about half an hour, and when they had eaten the short, thin hemp string, they went back and sat on the leafless branches.
They weren’t particularly bothered by the person who was lying there dead, shot in the head with a pistol that would later be found a few yards from his body.
IT WAS SUMMER OUT THERE, BUT IT COULDN’T BE SEEN FROM THE LONG
corridor of cells on Death Row in Marcusville prison; the only visible sign was a strip of bright sunlight that found its way in through the narrow window up by the ceiling. Michael Oken had worked there for only nine weeks and had already gotten into the habit of walking down the hard concrete twice a day and looking carefully into each cell, to get to know who was where and to demonstrate that the change in senior corrections officer meant continued discipline, maintaining control.
He often stopped for a while in front of one of them, a cell that had once been empty for a long time, about halfway down. The prisoner on the bunk in the confined space was the only one he had never heard say a word; he was always lying down, always staring at the ceiling, and it was hard to tell whether he was awake or unconscious.
And today, just like any other. The large body on its back, face to the ceiling and slightly turned from the corridor. The orange coveralls with DR on the leg. Michael Oken looked at him for a while, wished that he would turn around and start to talk, there was so much that he wanted to know.
A deranged man who had killed Oken’s predecessor, execution style, one bullet in the temple, who had also been the governor’s closest adviser.
Michael Oken sighed, they all had their stories, but that one, he would love to hear that one.
CELL
8
IS A NOVEL
.
The characters in the book are therefore fictitious.
Not even Ewert Grens, whom we like so much, is one of us. So how could any of the others be?
Marcusville doesn’t exist either.
And we knowingly took certain liberties with the historical timeline and other facts in the service of the story. For instance, the state of Ohio is not responsible for two of the executions described in this book—one by electric chair and one by lethal injection—as neither John Meyer Frey nor his neighbor, Marv Williams, ever existed. Indeed, the last execution by electrocution in Ohio took place in 1963, decades before Marv was executed.
And all the stuff about
retribution
—the fact that Swedish and American, as well as other international politicians, might seek to limit the pursuit of a solution to increasingly serious crimes and clothe it with simple rhetoric about the victims’ right to retribution—is possibly also just a figment of the authors’ imagination.
A big thank-you to Johnnie, Tim, Cynth, Andy, and Ron for your indispensable help.
Black Bob, because you fooled them all.
Lasse Lagergren for your medical knowledge, Jan Stålhamre for your knowledge about police work, and Lars-Åke Pettersson for your knowledge about Kronoberg detention facility.
Fia Svensson for your countless hours on the first reading, proofreading, and all the other sorts of reading that we didn’t know existed.
Niclas Breimar, Ewa Eiman, Mikael Nyman, and Vanja Svensson for particularly wise observations.
Our literary agent, Niclas Salomonsson, and his crew at Salomonsson Agency for always giving us energy.
And of course our UK editorial team, Georgina Difford, Liz Hatherell, Richard Arcus, Judith Colleran, and the rest of the Quercus family.
And a special thanks to Jon Riley, our publisher.
Anders Roslund and Börge Hellström
S
TOCKHOLM
, 2011