A Nearly Normal Family Read online

  “Based on the new forensic evidence that has emerged in the investigation, I hold that the level of suspicion against Stella Sandell has risen.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Stella. It was so awful that she was sitting there, just a few meters away from me, and I still couldn’t talk to her. All I wanted was to hug my little girl.

  According to the lab results, the footprint the crime-scene technicians had secured next to the site of the murder came from the same kind of shoe that Stella was wearing when she was apprehended. It was not possible, however, to determine whether the print had come from Stella’s shoe in particular.

  The crime-scene analysis had also indicated clear traces of capsaicin on the victim’s body, which likely meant that Christopher Olsen had been sprayed with pepper spray.

  “Several of Stella’s colleagues have revealed during questioning that Stella always carried a can of pepper spray in her purse,” the prosecutor said.

  That seemed preposterous. Why would Stella walk around with pepper spray?

  Moreover, Jansdotter explained, the police technicians had secured a great many traces left by Stella in Christopher Olsen’s apartment on Pilegatan. Strands of hair, flakes of skin, and clothing fibers.

  “Stella has been unable to explain these discoveries. Furthermore, she has not provided any cohesive account of her activities during the night of the murder.”

  Ulrika had my hand in a tight grip, but I didn’t dare look at her.

  The prosecutor said that they were still awaiting information from the medical examiner in order to map out the sequence of events in detail.

  It felt like watching a TV show being filmed. Despite my wife’s legal career, I’ve only ever visited a courtroom a few times, and in those instances, too, I felt like I was at some sort of performance, something taking place on a stage before an audience, something that would be over at a given time. Sort of like a wedding or a funeral. It’s not until you’re personally involved in the story that it stops being theater. When it’s about your own life. Your family.

  “The investigators have also discovered evidence on Christopher Olsen’s computer,” the prosecutor said, paging through a stack of documents. “Here we have a great number of chat conversations between Olsen and Stella Sandell. Conversations indicating that Stella and Christopher knew one another and likely had an intimate relationship.”

  I felt ill. Horrible images flashed through my mind.

  Blomberg hardly raised a single objection when he took the floor, and with that the judge stated that the court would deliberate. This time, the security personnel followed Stella straight down to the underworld. There was a passage that led from the courtroom down to the basement of the jail, and the door closed behind them without a backwards glance from Stella.

  “Why doesn’t she say something?” I said to Ulrika. “Why…? Why is she just letting them do this?”

  It almost appeared that Stella was buying everything that was said. As if she were merely part of the act.

  “There’s not much she can do,” Ulrika said. “She’s probably as shocked as we are.”

  I didn’t even want to consider any other alternative.

  After just ten minutes we were summoned back into the courtroom and the judge declared that the court had decided to detain Stella with probable cause on suspicion of homicide.

  * * *

  We headed straight for Michael Blomberg’s office on Klostergatan. The celebrity lawyer walked across the groaning hardwood floors with heavy steps and a wild expression.

  “It’s scandalous how worthless this investigation is. Both Jansdotter and the police seem to have blinders on; all they can see is Stella.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything in court?” I asked.

  Blomberg stopped short.

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned to Ulrika, as if she were the one with opinions, not me.

  “Why are you just accepting this?” I said. “Shouldn’t you be protesting? She has an alibi! Why didn’t you say anything about her alibi?”

  Blomberg waved dismissively.

  “That wouldn’t be of any use right now. There’s too much circumstantial evidence against Stella, and the ME hasn’t determined an exact time frame for the murder yet.”

  “But the witness,” I said. “My Sennevall. She heard fighting outside her window around one o’clock.”

  Blomberg looked at Ulrika.

  “Well, that’s true,” my wife said. “What have you learned about this Sennevall woman, Michael?”

  Blomberg sank down at his desk.

  “She might not be the most competent witness. My Sennevall lives her life in a window. Literally. She only goes out to buy groceries or see her therapist; otherwise she sits there spying on her neighbors. She’s totally in the know about what goes on in the neighborhood.”

  “That sounds like a really good witness,” I said.

  “Not really—this girl is the very definition of mental illness. She has every phobia and neurosis you’ve ever heard of.”

  I could just about have predicted as much.

  “But that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  Both Blomberg and Ulrika squirmed.

  “You might not think so,” said Blomberg.

  “What about Olsen’s ex-girlfriend?” Ulrika asked. “Have you dug up anything more on her?”

  Dug up? I didn’t like the sound of that. I associated it with gossip and slander, bad journalism in celebrity magazines. As if we wanted to find a scapegoat at any cost.

  “I think we should put all our money on the ex-girlfriend,” said Blomberg. “Linda Lokind.”

  “Is that her name?”

  Blomberg snapped up a piece of paper from his desk to check.

  “Yes. Linda Lokind, of Tullgatan 10.”

  “Have you spoken with her?” Ulrika wondered.

  “She’s not exactly a chatterbox. She says she’s already told the police and the prosecutor everything, but no one believes her. I’ve tried to get a copy of that statement, but it seems to be stamped confidential. But I’m sure we’ll sort that out. We’ll have to go through the court instead.”

  “How long is that going to take?” I asked.

  Blomberg clicked his pen.

  “Calm down now,” Ulrika said, patting my arm.

  “Calm down? What do you mean, calm down? If this Lokind has a motive, it ought to be in everyone’s best interest to interrogate her! Aren’t the police supposed to work ‘broadly and objectively’?”

  “The police have interrogated her,” Blomberg said, tossing his pen on the desk. “For information.”

  “Evidently that’s not enough,” I said. “And when can we see Stella? We need to talk to our daughter!”

  I was halfway out of my chair.

  “Stella is on full restrictions,” Blomberg said. “She’s only allowed to speak to me.”

  “She’s only eighteen,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, age doesn’t matter,” Blomberg replied.

  “She’s a child!”

  I didn’t mean to shout. It just happened. I could feel my pulse in my fists and Ulrika took a firm grasp on my wrist.

  “Not according to the law,” Blomberg said cautiously.

  “I don’t care about the law. I want to see my daughter!”

  My ears were ringing. Even the bearlike Blomberg looked a bit frightened as I yanked myself away from Ulrika’s clutches and flew out of my chair.

  “Make sure that Stella tells the police everything. No more secrets or nasty surprises. Innocent people don’t lie.”

  24

  I hadn’t told Stella that I was planning to visit during confirmation camp. Maybe that was stupid of me. Of course I should have mentioned it, but to me it was an obvious thing to do. I was the pastor of one of the organizing congregations, the camp had been launched on my initiative—naturally I wanted to visit the youngsters.

  When I arrived at the camp, the confirmands had just fi
nished grilling hotdogs. Several of them had changed into swimwear; some were up to their waists in the water, shivering; others were jumping in from the dock. The two female camp counselors were watching from under a tree, while Robin was splashing around in the lake, his hair wet, a delighted grin on his face.

  I lingered up on the grassy slope for a while. It was like standing in front of a piece of art. The happiness and fellowship painted the scene in the loveliest of colors.

  The kids didn’t have time for me. Several of Stella’s classmates said hello, but most of them barely noticed my arrival.

  I walked down to the counselors under the tree and shook their hands. They told me everything was going fantastically well. The group was wonderful to work with, and there had already been a number of interesting and openhearted conversations.

  None of them mentioned Stella, which I took to mean that she, too, was behaving herself. I had already made up my mind not to worry, but now that it became clear to me that nothing had gone wrong, I noticed relief washing through my body.

  But things changed when Stella realized I was there.

  She came wading out of the lake with her wet hair hanging in thick ropes. Once on the beach, she wrapped a towel around her body.

  When she caught sight of me, her eyes went dark.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m just checking in on everyone.”

  I attempted a gentle smile.

  “Let me be!”

  She vanished up the hill with flip-flops slapping.

  * * *

  Robin convinced me to stay for dinner. There was a separate room where we could sit and Stella wouldn’t have to see me.

  The cooks at the camp were truly skilled, and the food was exquisite. After dinner I asked if it would be okay to stick around for a while. I would soon be heading for home, but there were a few things I needed to prepare before services the next day.

  “Of course,” Robin said.

  After a few hours of obligatory socializing, it was pleasant to be alone with just my computer and my own thoughts. I’m a fairly social person, but at heart I would probably consider myself an introvert. I’ve always held privacy to be holy, even within my own family. The right to one’s own space in life is, to me, as important as the opportunity to open up and speak about everything. I think it’s been a frequent help to Ulrika and me that we’ve always had the chance to retreat and have some alone time. A requirement to constantly share everything can so easily become stifling. It’s often said that people are herd animals, but we mustn’t forget that we have the need for solitude as well.

  As I completed my preparations, dusk began to steal over the lake. Time had flown by, and my undertakings had been more demanding than I’d expected. And since Ulrika was working in Stockholm, there was no real reason for me to rush home. All that remained was to bid farewell to Robin. I was hoping to avoid Stella to keep from annoying her even further. It was largely thanks to Robin that the camp was having such success once again, there was no denying it. I was so pleased that everything had gone well. A great weight had lifted from my chest, and I enjoyed every crisp breath on my way across the courtyard.

  The camp was held at a conference retreat center that was made up of three separate long buildings. The main building contained the dining room, kitchen, and common room; directly across the courtyard was the dormitory. Not far off, partially hidden behind the trunks of tall beeches, was the smallest building, where the counselors slept when they weren’t on night duty.

  The confirmands appeared to be enjoying free time. Some were out on the lawn, but most of them were keeping to the dormitory.

  “Have you seen Robin?” I asked one of the female counselors.

  “I think he went to the counselors’ cabin.”

  I hurried through the small grove of trees. The teens’ laughter echoed off the evening sky.

  I approached the door and knocked. There was no response. Perhaps Robin was on the toilet? Or in the shower? I tried the handle, but the door was locked. Surely he hadn’t fallen asleep?

  I rounded the corner of the building and peered through the window, but all I saw was an empty bed. With little hope, I moved on to the next window. The curtain was down, but I could see faint light coming from inside thanks to a small gap. Robin must be sleeping. I leaned forward to knock but was startled as I realized I could see straight into the room through the gap. There, in the dark, sat two people who were staring at each other in panic.

  That brief glimpse was all it took. Three years have passed, and I can still evoke that unpleasant image whenever I want. Presumably it will never go away.

  The image of Robin and Stella scrambling to get their clothing back in place.

  25

  By Thursday morning, Stella had spent five nights under lock and key. I pictured her on a dirty bed in a cramped, dark jail cell and my heart ached. During breakfast I paced back and forth across the kitchen, harping on all my worries.

  “Stop that,” Ulrika said. “Dwelling won’t help.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “I’m going to work,” she said. “Maybe that would make you feel better too.”

  It would at least help me think about something else. I reported myself healthy again over the phone and walked over to the church hall. September is like Advent for this university town. After the summer lull, the streets are full of giddy students trying to find their way, confused, consumed with putting their identities on display. Wobbling cyclists everywhere, GPS voices in their pockets, twenty-year-olds with answers to all of life’s difficult questions in their leather briefcases or Fjällräven backpacks. Lund never recovers until October, when the worst of the coquetry has settled, after people have exchanged saliva during orientation and the very strangest of newcomers have been reabsorbed back into their hometowns. This is the downside to a university town as much as it is its charm. To be invaded, each autumn, by fresh dreamers and do-gooders, to shed its skin for a few weeks of Indian summer before the leaves fall. Love it or hate it, you never quite get used to it.

  My colleagues were in the church-hall kitchen and their voices carried into the entryway as I hung up my coat.

  “I was shocked at first, but when I gave it some thought, well…”

  “She’s always had a terrible temper.”

  It was impossible not to hear what they were saying.

  “They haven’t set limits. There’s only one language a girl like Stella understands.”

  “Ulrika and Adam have been too tolerant.”

  I stood stock-still in the entryway, taking in their words.

  “Of course it’s not Stella’s fault,” said Monika, one of the deacons. “She’s only a child, or at least a teenager.”

  They were silent for a moment. I closed my eyes and felt myself slowly rising from the ground and floating. Then they went on:

  “Stella’s seen a psychiatrist before, you know.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “She’s always had some sort of mental health issue. Even as a little girl, there was something different about her.”

  Silence again. Someone coughed.

  I like my colleagues. I have always depended upon them, always felt their trust and love. Ever since I started with this congregation, large parts of the operation have undergone positive changes, and I’m sure most people would agree that is largely to my credit. I was so unprepared to be slandered in this manner that it was as if my mind went numb. Like a zombie, I walked straight into the kitchen and joined them at the table.

  “Why … Adam!” Monika exclaimed.

  Five pairs of eyes stared at me, huge and mute, as if they had just witnessed the second coming of the Lord.

  “You’re not supposed to be at work, are you?” they chorused.

  “I have a wedding this afternoon.”

  “But we assigned Otto to that,” said Anita, our administrator.

  “Didn’t you see that I reported mysel
f healthy again?”

  She blushed.

  “We didn’t think you…”

  I examined each of them, one by one, and waited for someone to make excuses, but all that came out were broken sentences.

  At last Monika stood up and took my arm. She has been with the congregation since the days of Saint Ansgar—she’s the glue that holds us all together, the rock we all cling to in every situation.

  “Come,” she said, leading me slowly down the corridor as my brain continued to run on idle.

  We sat down across from each other in the low easy chairs in her office. Monika placed her ring-adorned hands on my knees and leaned forward with her gentle cat eyes.

  “Where do you think we went wrong, Monika?”

  She took me by the elbows and shook her head slowly.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “God has a purpose. Something we haven’t discovered yet.”

  Part of me wanted to tell Monika and God to go to hell, but luckily I came to my senses and thanked her for her concern instead.

  “Now go home and get some proper rest. Take care of Ulrika,” Monika said, hugging me. “I’ll be praying for you two. And for Stella.”

  In that moment her words felt so petty. Almost fake.

  But I do wish I had followed Monika’s advice.

  * * *

  There was too much crawling around under my skin. My thoughts seemed to take shape behind a thick curtain of fog, and my heart was scratching at my ribs like a terrier. My body was telling me to run, to keep from congealing into a single painful present, so I ran—or walked, at least—mile after mile until my back was soaked with sweat.

  I walked all the way downtown, and as I left City Park I wondered how everything would have turned out if we’d reported Robin to the police. He had raped Stella, and we had let him get away with it. What signals had that sent to our daughter? What sort of parents were we?

  My pulse was pounding indignantly in my neck, and my muscles were twitching. I sped up as I passed the dog park at Södra Esplanaden.