The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [23]
Steven was a great guy, but Jacob thought they should see something of the world before they settled down.
So he had given them a trip to Rome as a Christmas present.
They were murdered the day before they were due to return to New York.
Jacob took a deep breath and found himself back in the narrow cell at the hostel.
The shrieking kids on the beach had vanished.
He sank onto the lower bunk with Kimmy’s picture in his lap.
He had identified her dead body in the cold room of a mortuary on the outskirts of Rome on New Year’s Day, the first day of what had been the very worst year of his life.
This year.
He picked up his pistol and put the muzzle in his mouth, just as he had done so many nights before, tasting the powder and metal, taking comfort from the idea that there could be an end to this. One slight movement of his finger and his desperate loss and longing would be over.
But not yet. Not until he found her murderers.
Chapter 31
Monday, June 14
THE PAPER AFTONPOSTEN WAS STUCK in a downward sales and readership spiral that was probably hopeless. In an attempt to break it, the management was making increasing use of unusual and risky innovations. Usually they failed.
On other occasions everyone busted their butt to get things moving.
This was one of those days.
Dessie had parked herself at her desk with the first edition that day.
Aftonposten had filled practically the whole paper with the Dalarö murders.
The front-page headline was “Butchered by the Postcard Killers.” The photo that dominated the paper was a beautiful picture of the two young Germans. Claudia Schmidt and Rolf Hetger were in each other’s arms, laughing happily toward the camera.
Dessie leafed through to the paper’s heavyweight news spread, pages 6 and 7. “Death in the Archipelago” was the dramatic headline.
And the picture editors had chosen one of her shots of the yellow wooden house.
It came out quite well, actually, with the contradiction between the idyllic veranda and the heavily clouded sky.
She ran her eyes over the text. It was written by Susanna Gröning, one of the paper’s star female reporters.
Page 8 had an updated run-through of the killings around Europe, with maps and graphics.
Page 9 was written by Alexander Andersson under the heading “Postcard Killers — Vicious Murderers Killing for Kicks.”
Andersson referred to “anonymous sources close to the investigation” who claimed to have “a clear picture of the killers.”
The Postcard Killers were at least two men, seriously deranged, probably with PTSD, according to the sources. They killed purely for pleasure, and they enjoyed seeing people suffer. The extent of the violence indicated that at least one of the men was very well built and extremely strong. Seeing as the victims were usually well-off tourists, the motive was similar to that of terrorism: the killings were an attack on Western lifestyles.
Dessie read the text twice with growing astonishment, and finally, anger and disgust.
Then she got up and went over to the news desk. The group around Forsberg were laughing loudly at something as she approached.
“Alexander,” she said, holding up page 9. “Where did you get this from?”
The reporter raised an eyebrow and smiled her way.
“Are you after my sources?”
“No need,” Dessie said. “They’re completely worthless.”
Alexander Andersson’s smile died and he stood up. Dessie felt all the men looking at her. They expected her to get her ass kicked now, didn’t they?
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “There’s nothing in the investigation to suggest terrorism or killing for kicks. Quite the opposite.”
“And you know that, do you, just because they sent you a postcard?”
Several of the men laughed and waited for more from Andersson. Dessie felt the blood rush to her face.
“This article is completely wrong, I know that much. If you really have got a source, they must be several miles from the center of the investigation.”
Forsberg stood up and took hold of