said.
“Wow.”
“That’s as many as we could scrape together.”
“I meant that’s a lot,” Halders said. “I’m impressed.”
Winter looked at him but said nothing. Fredrik was starting to have increasingly obvious problems with his attitude. Is that how it is to grow old? To step across the magical crest at forty and slowly slide downhill?
“How many of us are going to be working with our fellow officers?” Bergenhem asked.
“What do you mean?” Carlberg said.
“The little party the guys over at investigations had,” Helander said.
“Can’t they investigate that themselves?” Halders asked.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Janne Möllerström asked.
“Investigation . . . investigations department.”
“Cool it, Fredrik,” Winter said.
“You and Börjesson handle the party animals,” Ringmar said to Bergenhem.
“Some of them are doubtless a little tired,” Bergenhem said.
“They’re not the only ones,” Helander added.
Everyone in the room—all twenty-four of them—suddenly thought of the upcoming weekend. Many of them would have planned the season’s big crayfish party for later that evening or Saturday night. Would they have the energy to have a good time? Would they even make it home? How much overtime was the brass ready to give them?
“Tired? Who’s tired?” Winter said, and yawned and waved auf Wiedersehen to the group. There was a tie-up at the door as everyone tried to get out at the same time.
Winter took the stairs up to forensics and went in through the double doors that protected the department from unwanted visitors.
He was let through. Immediately to the right was the laboratory section—the evidence lab with two employees, a firearms examiner, and a chemist to analyze narcotics and clothing and do the chemical processing of fingerprints.
A few men were sitting in the new coffee room. The National Center for Forensic Science had come through with a substantial sum of money for the department just minutes before the premises were to be deemed inadequate. Beier was able to refurbish and expand the single lab into a rough lab, where materials were brought in; a room for clothing and fiber analysis; a chemistry and toxicology lab; the trace evidence lab that Winter had just walked past; a fingerprint lab; and an isolation room, since they didn’t want to put the clothes from the victim and suspect in the same room.
Impressive, Winter thought. He hadn’t been here for a while. Beier came striding down the corridor. “Want some coffee?”
“You bet.”
They walked back down the corridor, and Beier shut the door behind them.
“What should we start with?” he asked.
“The car.”
“That’s some blurry footage.”
“But it is a Ford?”
“We think so.”
“Escort CLX?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“Could you see anything more of the driver?”
“Jensen is sitting with it now, trying to peer through the blur, but he’s not very optimistic, nor am I.”
“Can you tell whether it’s a man?”
Beier threw out his arms. “You can’t always tell even when the pictures are sharp.”
Winter drummed his fingers on the desktop. “And one more big question: the plate number.”
“We may have found something there,” Beier said. “Three letters. HEL or HEI .”
“How sure is that?”
Beier threw out his arms again. “We’ll keep at it,” he said. “But in the meantime you can get to work on these, if you’ve got the manpower.” He poured out the coffee, and Winter drank without registering its taste.
“We know that this car may have been in the vicinity of the dump site when the body was left there,” Winter said.
“That’s right,” Beier said.
“That’s something to go on.”
“All you have to do is track down all the Ford Escorts in the city. Or the country.”
“All the CLXs.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, but that’s where I’m gonna start. That case I worked on last spring, in London—my
“Wow.”
“That’s as many as we could scrape together.”
“I meant that’s a lot,” Halders said. “I’m impressed.”
Winter looked at him but said nothing. Fredrik was starting to have increasingly obvious problems with his attitude. Is that how it is to grow old? To step across the magical crest at forty and slowly slide downhill?
“How many of us are going to be working with our fellow officers?” Bergenhem asked.
“What do you mean?” Carlberg said.
“The little party the guys over at investigations had,” Helander said.
“Can’t they investigate that themselves?” Halders asked.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Janne Möllerström asked.
“Investigation . . . investigations department.”
“Cool it, Fredrik,” Winter said.
“You and Börjesson handle the party animals,” Ringmar said to Bergenhem.
“Some of them are doubtless a little tired,” Bergenhem said.
“They’re not the only ones,” Helander added.
Everyone in the room—all twenty-four of them—suddenly thought of the upcoming weekend. Many of them would have planned the season’s big crayfish party for later that evening or Saturday night. Would they have the energy to have a good time? Would they even make it home? How much overtime was the brass ready to give them?
“Tired? Who’s tired?” Winter said, and yawned and waved auf Wiedersehen to the group. There was a tie-up at the door as everyone tried to get out at the same time.
Winter took the stairs up to forensics and went in through the double doors that protected the department from unwanted visitors.
He was let through. Immediately to the right was the laboratory section—the evidence lab with two employees, a firearms examiner, and a chemist to analyze narcotics and clothing and do the chemical processing of fingerprints.
A few men were sitting in the new coffee room. The National Center for Forensic Science had come through with a substantial sum of money for the department just minutes before the premises were to be deemed inadequate. Beier was able to refurbish and expand the single lab into a rough lab, where materials were brought in; a room for clothing and fiber analysis; a chemistry and toxicology lab; the trace evidence lab that Winter had just walked past; a fingerprint lab; and an isolation room, since they didn’t want to put the clothes from the victim and suspect in the same room.
Impressive, Winter thought. He hadn’t been here for a while. Beier came striding down the corridor. “Want some coffee?”
“You bet.”
They walked back down the corridor, and Beier shut the door behind them.
“What should we start with?” he asked.
“The car.”
“That’s some blurry footage.”
“But it is a Ford?”
“We think so.”
“Escort CLX?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“Could you see anything more of the driver?”
“Jensen is sitting with it now, trying to peer through the blur, but he’s not very optimistic, nor am I.”
“Can you tell whether it’s a man?”
Beier threw out his arms. “You can’t always tell even when the pictures are sharp.”
Winter drummed his fingers on the desktop. “And one more big question: the plate number.”
“We may have found something there,” Beier said. “Three letters. HEL or HEI .”
“How sure is that?”
Beier threw out his arms again. “We’ll keep at it,” he said. “But in the meantime you can get to work on these, if you’ve got the manpower.” He poured out the coffee, and Winter drank without registering its taste.
“We know that this car may have been in the vicinity of the dump site when the body was left there,” Winter said.
“That’s right,” Beier said.
“That’s something to go on.”
“All you have to do is track down all the Ford Escorts in the city. Or the country.”
“All the CLXs.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, but that’s where I’m gonna start. That case I worked on last spring, in London—my
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