“I don’t intend to give you my name,” he says, but relents, having little choice, and opens the door. We all step in and look around. Seven young men are in a well-furnished and spotless home. A bay window looks out on the river and beyond. There is no television. Only well-stocked bookcases.
He sits down. The other young men are equally well-groomed. Only one stands out, because of his size. He’s bigger than Sweetness. The only clues that these men are neo-Nazis are their skinhead haircuts. They’re all seated around a coffee table covered with cups and saucers and a plate of cookies. A large Waffen SS flag dominates one wall. I walk over and look at it.
“That’s a family heirloom,” the young man says. “My great-grandfather served in SS Viking and brought it home from the war. In case you don’t know, SS ‘Viking’ was the 5th Heavy Panzer Division, recruited from foreign troops. A number of Finns served in it with distinction.”
“We’re off to a bad start,” I say. “I only want to ask you a few questions and we’ll be on our way.”
“First, it’s extremely discourteous for you to walk around my home with your shoes on. I would request that you remove them, except you won’t be staying. Come back when you have a warrant.”
I sigh. “There are a number of things we could discuss, such as trafficking in heroin, but I’m investigating a murder and I’m not interested in your criminal activities at the moment. But I could become interested.”
“Warrant,” he says.
I cross the room and examine his bookshelves. No pop fiction to be seen. He reads philosophers with related beliefs: Heidegger, Descartes, Hobbes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Kant, Hegel, John Stuart Mill, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Ayn Rand, Plato, Aristotle. He’s educated in philosophy, but the education isn’t wellrounded.
I say, “It’s up to the judgment of an investigating officer to proceed without a warrant if a crime is imminent or in progress or causes peril of some sort. The officer must have reasonable cause. I’m told you have narcotics and suspect you have illegal firearms on these premises, and I view this as reasonable cause. We’re going to search this apartment.”
“I have no narcotics and my firearms are registered. I’m in full compliance with the law.”
“What’s your name?” I ask again.
He remains defiant. “Fuck you.”
“What is your name?”
“None of your fucking business.”
I didn’t want it to come to this, but Lisbet S?derlund was murdered, and it pleased people like him. Come mud, shit or blood, he will cooperate. I light a cigarette.
“I don’t allow people to smoke in my home,” he says. “Extinguish your cigarette.”
“OK.” I take a deep drag to heat it up, then grind it out in the dead center of great-grandpa’s flag. It leaves a nasty hole with scorched edges.
He shoots out of his seat, but then freezes, uncertain what to do.
The big man stands. “Jesper,” he says, “I will deal with this.”
He’s about six foot six, upwards of three hundred pounds. His build says he’s a power lifter. “You’ve gone too far,” he says to me. “Your position doesn’t give you the right to disrespect the homes of others and destroy their most precious belongings. I’ll sit my time for assaulting an officer before I’ll stand by and watch this.”
He’s about four yards away from me. I take the silenced Colt out of my pocket and aim it at his chest. In my peripheral vision, I see Sweetness take a swig from his flask.
“Shoot me, then,” he says, and takes a step toward me.
“Fight me first,” Sweetness says, and gets in between us. It’s Godzilla versus Rodan.
Big Man laughs. “Did you need some liquid courage, little girl?”
“Naw, it just relaxes me,” Sweetness says, and takes a fighter’s stance. He shuffles his feet, fakes, draws a punch from Big Man so his weight is too far forward for him to escape the countershot, then Sweetness splits his left eyebrow open with a jab. There’s a lot of blood. They circle.