The Last Good Man Page 3

  “Yes, sir.”

  They may have been laughing behind his back as he continued up the stairs. On the way he passed another pair of very young officers wearing bulletproof vests and holding automatic weapons. The world had not become a better place since Niels was admitted to the police academy more than twenty summers ago. On the contrary. He could see it in the eyes of the young officers. Hard, cold, withdrawn.

  “Take it easy, boys. We’ll get home alive, no problem,” Niels whispered as he passed them.

  “Leon?” called one of the officers. “The negotiator is on his way up.”

  Niels knew exactly what Leon stood for. If Leon were forced to choose a motto, it would be: The operation was successful, but the patient died.

  “Is that my friend Damsbo?” Leon called from the landing before Niels came around the corner.

  “I didn’t know you had any friends, Leon.”

  Leon leaped down two steps and looked at Niels in surprise, both hands gripping the small Heckler & Koch automatic. “Bentzon? Where the hell did they dig you up?”

  Niels looked into Leon’s eyes. Dead, gray—a reflection of the typical November weather.

  It had been a long time since Niels last saw Leon. Niels had been on sick leave for the past six months. The stubble on Leon’s face had turned white, and his hairline had receded, leaving behind a whole parking lot full of wrinkles.

  “I thought they were going to send Damsbo.”

  “Damsbo called in sick. Munkholm is on vacation,” replied Niels, pushing the muzzle of the Heckler & Koch away so it was no longer pointed at him.

  “Can you handle this, Bentzon? It’s been a long time, right? Are you still on medication?” A condescending smile appeared on Leon’s lips before he went on. “Isn’t it mostly speeding tickets that you’ve been handing out lately?”

  Niels shook his head, trying to hide the fact that he was out of breath. He pretended that the deep breaths he was taking meant he was thinking about the situation. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “Peter Jansson, twenty-seven years old. He’s armed. A veteran of the Iraq war. Apparently, he even won a medal. Now he’s threatening to kill his whole family. A colleague from the military is on his way here. Maybe he can get Jansson to let the kids go before he pops himself.”

  “Maybe we can even talk him out of popping himself,” replied Niels, giving Leon a hard stare. “What do you say?”

  “When the hell are you going to face facts, Bentzon? Some guys just aren’t worth the money. A prison sentence, disability pension, you name it.”

  Niels ignored Leon’s diatribe. “Anything else, Leon? What do we know about the apartment?”

  “There are two rooms in front. The door opens directly onto the first room. No entry hall. We think he’s in the room on the left. Or in the bedroom in back. Shots were fired. We know there are two children and a wife. Or ex-wife. Or maybe only one kid and a foster child.”

  Niels gave Leon an inquiring look.

  “Yeah, well, the story varies depending on which neighbor you talk to. Are you going in?”

  Niels nodded.

  “Unfortunately, he’s not completely stupid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He knows there’s only one way he can be sure that the negotiator isn’t hiding a weapon or a transmitter.”

  “You’re saying that he wants me to strip?” A deep sigh.

  Leon gave Niels a look of sympathy and nodded. “I understand if you don’t want to do it. We can storm the place instead.”

  “No. That’s okay. I’ve done it before.” Niels unfastened his belt.

  Next summer Niels Bentzon would mark fifteen years with the homicide department—the past ten years as a negotiator, the kind sent in during hostage situations or when someone threatened to kill himself. They were always men. Whenever the stock market took a nosedive and the economists warned of financial crisis, the guns all came out on the table. Niels was constantly surprised to discover how many guns were out there in people’s homes. Handguns from World War II. Hunting rifles and target rifles, none of them with permits.

  “My name is Niels Bentzon. I’m a police officer. I have no clothes on, just as you requested. I’m not carrying a weapon or a transmitter.” Cautiously, Niels pushed open the door. “Can you hear me? My name is Niels. I’m a police officer, and I’m unarmed. I know you’re a soldier, Peter. I know it’s a difficult thing to take somebody else’s life. I’m just here to talk to you.”

  Niels stood motionless in the doorway and listened. Not a word in reply, just the stench of a life that had disintegrated. Slowly, his eyes got used to the dark.

  Off in the distance a Nordvest mongrel was barking. For several seconds Niels had to rely on his sense of smell: cordite. He inadvertently stepped on some cartridge cases. He picked up one of them. It was still warm. Niels was able to make out what had been etched into the bottom of the metal: 9mm. Niels was very familiar with that caliber. Three years ago he’d had the honor of taking a German-made bullet of precisely that caliber in his thigh. Somewhere in the top drawer of Kathrine’s bureau at home, he’d hidden away the slug that the surgeon had dug out of him. A 9mm parabellum. The most popular caliber in the world. The name parabellum came from Latin. Niels had found it in Wikipedia: Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you want peace, prepare for war. That was the motto of the German manufacturer. The Deutsche Waffen und Munitionsfabriken—the company that had supplied ammunition to the German army in the two world wars. And what a splendid peace had resulted.

  Niels put the cartridge case back on the floor, where he’d found it. He stood still, collecting himself. He needed to get rid of the unpleasant memory before he could continue. Otherwise fear would take over. The slightest quaver in his voice could make the hostage-taker nervous. Kathrine. He thought about Kathrine. He had to stop doing that or he wouldn’t be able to continue.

  “Are you okay, Bentzon?” whispered Leon from somewhere behind him.

  “Close the door, Leon,” replied Niels in a harsh voice.

  Leon obeyed. The headlights of cars passing on the street below sent flashes through the windows, and Niels caught sight of his own reflection in the pane. Pale, frightened, naked, and defenseless. He was freezing cold.

  “I’m standing here in your living room, Peter. My name is Niels. I’m waiting for you to talk to me.”

  Niels was calm. Utterly calm. He knew that it might take most of the night to negotiate, but he didn’t usually require that much time. The most important thing in a hostage situation was to find out as much as possible about the hostage-taker in the shortest possible time. To find out something about the human being behind the threats. Only when you saw the real person was there any hope. Leon was an idiot. He saw only the threat. That was why he invariably ended up shooting.

  Niels was looking for traces of the man named Peter in the apartment. The essential details. He looked at the photographs on the refrigerator: Peter with his wife and two children. Underneath the pictures, it said Clara and Sofie, spelled out with magnets. Next to those names it said Peter and Alexandra. Clara—the older daughter—was nearly grown up. Maybe a teenager. Braces and pimples. There was a big age gap between the two girls. Sofie couldn’t be more than six. Blond and delicate. She looked like her father. Clara didn’t look like her mother or her father. Maybe she was the product of a previous marriage. Niels took a deep breath and went back to the living room.

  “Peter? Are Clara and Sofie with you? And Alexandra?”

  “Piss off,” said a firm voice from the back of the apartment. In the same instant Niels’s body gave in to the cold, and he started shaking. Peter wasn’t desperate. He was determined. It was possible to negotiate with desperation; determination was worse. Another deep breath. The battle was not yet lost. Find out what the hostage-taker wants. That was the most important task of a negotiator. And if there’s nothing he wants, help him find something—it doesn’t matter what it is. The point was to make his brain st
art looking forward. Right now Peter’s brain found itself in its last minutes; Niels could hear that in the confident tone of his voice.

  “Did you say something?” asked Niels, trying to play for time.

  No answer.

  Niels looked around. He still didn’t have the one detail that might resolve the situation. Sunflowers covered the wallpaper, big sunflowers from floor to ceiling. There was another smell mixed in with the smell of fear and dog pee. Fresh blood. Niels’s eyes located the source of the smell in the corner, curled up in a position that should have been impossible.

  Alexandra had taken two bullets right in the heart. It was only in movies that anyone would bother to feel for a pulse; in reality, he saw a gaping hole in the heart and a life that had gone to waste. She was staring at Niels with wide-open eyes. Niels could hear the muted sobbing of one of the children.

  “Peter? I’m still here. My name is Niels—”

  A voice interrupted him. “Your name is Niels, and you’re a police officer. I heard you! And I told you to piss off.”

  A deep, decisive voice. Where was it coming from? The bathroom? Why in hell hadn’t Leon found a floor plan?

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Yes, goddammit.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t do that. My job is to stay here until it’s over. No matter what happens. I know you can understand that. You and I, Peter—we both have work that demands we stay, even if it’s impossible.”

  Niels listened. He was still standing next to the body of Alexandra. In her hand she was clutching several pieces of paper. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, and it wasn’t hard to tear the papers out of her hand. Niels stood up; over by the window he made use of the streetlights on Dortheavej. The letter was from the defense department. A discharge. Too many words, covering three pages. Niels quickly scanned what it said. Personal problems . . . unstable . . . unfortunate incidents . . . offer of assistance and retraining. For a few seconds Niels felt that he was caught in a time warp. That he’d crept into the last photograph of the family. He could just imagine the situation: Alexandra found the letter. Peter had been discharged. He provided the family’s only income. Discharged while, at the same time, he was trying to digest all the shit he had seen and done in the service of his country. Niels knew that they never talked about it—the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. They refused to answer the most obvious questions: Did you shoot anyone? Did you kill anyone? They always gave evasive answers. Wasn’t the answer simple? The shots the soldiers fired that ripped apart the veins and arteries and organs of their enemies did almost as much damage to the soul of the shooter.

  Peter had been discharged. He had gone away a real man and come home a wreck. And Alexandra couldn’t handle it. Her first concern was for the children; that was always true of a mother. A soldier shoots, and a mother thinks of her children. Maybe she shouted at him or screamed. Told him he was incompetent, that he’d let them down. And then Peter did what he’d been taught to do: If conflicts cannot be resolved in a peaceful manner, you shoot the enemy. Alexandra had become the enemy.

  Finally.

  Finally, Niels had the detail he could use. He would talk to Peter as a soldier. He would appeal to his sense of honor, his masculinity.

  5

  Murano—Venice

  Early winter—the high season for suicides on the European continent. But this was no suicide. It was revenge. Otherwise the man wouldn’t have used steel wire to hang himself. It wasn’t exactly difficult to find rope on this island, with all of its boat builders.

  Flavio was outside, throwing up into the canal. The widow of the deceased glassblower had long since disappeared. She’d gone up the road to seek comfort from the neighbors. Tommaso could hear her wailing every so often. Outside the house, a microcosm of the island’s inhabitants had gathered. The shop steward from the glassblowing workshop, a monk from the San Lazzaro cloister, a neighbor, and a storekeeper. Tommaso wondered what the storekeeper wanted. Was he hoping to collect payment for the last bill before it was too late? It was unbelievable what the financial crisis had done to men and their self-esteem. And islanders were even more susceptible because of the isolation, the closed society, the rigid roles. No wonder Venice had crept to the top of Italy’s suicide statistics.

  The house was damp and poorly lit, with a low ceiling. Tommaso looked out the window and caught sight of a woman’s face. She was in the process of wolfing down a sandwich. She gave him a guilty look, smiled, and shrugged. She couldn’t help it if she was hungry, even though the glassblower was dead. Tommaso could hear the people talking outside. Especially the shop steward. About all the cheap glass imitations from Asia that were being imported and sold to tourists. It took work away from the locals, everyone who had produced and developed glassblowing into an art down through the ages. It was scandalous!

  Tommaso glanced again at his cell phone. Where the hell were those pictures? The glassblower’s body swayed slightly. Tommaso was afraid the steel wire might not hold him much longer. If the vertebrae in his neck were broken, the wire would soon work through the flesh and slice off the body.

  “Flavio!” shouted Tommaso.

  Flavio appeared in the doorway.

  “I want you to write up the report.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Like hell you can’t. All you have to do is write down what I tell you. You can sit over there with your back turned.”

  Flavio picked up a chair, turned it to face the damp wall, and sat down. The place smelled of soot, as if someone had doused the fire in the hearth with a bucket of water.

  “Ready?”

  Flavio said nothing as he sat there holding his notebook and staring resolutely at the wall.

  Tommaso began with the official part. “We arrived just before two A.M. The call came in from the glassblower’s widow, Antonella Bucati. Are you writing this down?”

  “Yes.”

  There was the siren. At last he heard it. Tommaso listened. The ambulance switched off the siren as it made its way from the lagoon and down along the dilapidated canal. The rattling engine and the monotonous attempts of the waves to break down the half-rotten bulwark announced the arrival of the ambulance several seconds before the medics jumped ashore. The blue lights lit up the room in flashes, reminding Tommaso how dark it was in Venice in the wintertime. The damp seemed to steal the scattered remnants of light from the few buildings still occupied. The rest of Venice was submerged in darkness. Most of the city was owned by Americans and Saudis who came to visit two weeks a year, at most.

  Tommaso caught sight of it the same instant that his cell phone beeped. The black shoes of the hanged man had white heels. Tommaso scratched one of the heels; the white stuff came off easily.

  “Can we take him down?” asked Lorenzo, the ambulance driver. Tommaso had gone to school with him. They’d gotten into a fight once. Lorenzo won.

  “Not yet.”

  “Come on, you’re not going to tell me it was murder, are you?” Lorenzo got ready to cut down the glassblower.

  “Flavio!” yelled Tommaso. “If he touches the body, put the cuffs on him.”

  Lorenzo stomped his foot on the floor in fury.

  “Flashlight?” Tommaso held out his hand.

  Flavio covered his mouth and kept his eyes lowered as he gave Tommaso the flashlight. There was no evidence visible on the floor. And yet. The kitchen floor had been swept clean under the spot where the glassblower hung from the ceiling joist. Unlike the living room, where the floor was filthy. Tommaso’s cell beeped again. He opened the back door. The garden was overgrown. A grapevine reached up several yards in the air. Once, long ago, somebody had tried to make the vine grow around the eaves of the terrace, but had then given up and let it follow the sun instead. Now the vine was creeping along the roof. The light was on in the workshop. Tommaso walked the short distance through the garden and opened the door. In contrast to the rest of the house, the workshop was very neat. Meticulous.

  Ye
t another message appeared on the display of his cell. They were appearing in frantic succession. He didn’t dare look at any of them right now.

  The floor of the workshop was white cement. Tommaso bent down to scratch at the surface. It was porous, as if made of chalk. The same substance was on the glassblower’s heels. He sat down on a chair. Flavio was calling him, but Tommaso pretended not to hear. His first instinct was correct. It wasn’t suicide. It was revenge. The wife’s revenge. The glassblower had been killed out here and then dragged through the workshop, which had left traces of white on the heels of his shoes.

  “What are you doing out here?” asked Flavio.

  Tommaso looked at his colleague standing in the doorway.

  “Are you okay? You’re looking a little under the weather.”

  Tommaso ignored the diagnosis. “We’re going to need the medical examiner. And the tech guys from Veneto.”

  “Why?”

  Tommaso ran his finger along the floor and held it up in the air so Flavio could see how white it was. “If you look close, you’ll see the same stuff on the dead man’s heels.”

  It took a few seconds for Flavio to process this information. “Should we arrest the widow?”

  “That would probably be a good start.”

  Flavio shook his head, looking sad. Tommaso knew exactly what Flavio was experiencing in those seconds. Dismay. The story they were going to hear from the widow over the next few hours would be all about poverty, drunkenness, and lost jobs, domestic violence and island disputes. That was the story of Venice in recent years. A life insurance policy was undoubtedly tucked away somewhere. Or maybe the glassblower’s wife had simply had enough? Flavio called the station and pulled himself together so he could make the necessary arrest. Tommaso took a deep breath. Tonight the world is going to end, he thought. He hardly dared look at the messages on his cell. Four photographs from Giuseppe Locatelli in India. Tommaso got out his reading glasses and studied the first image: the mark on the back of the deceased man. Exactly the same as the others. Then he looked at the closeups.