Enemy of the State Page 19

  “Not as far as I know,” Modin said. “But I don’t think anyone ever established a connection. After Palme’s death, the tax case was likely classified.”

  “Either this is just coincidence and thus a false lead,” Julia said, “or it’s disinformation planted by the murderers.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The real murderers could have stolen the documents to pin the blame on those who would benefit if the document disappears.”

  “Who would benefit?” Axman asked, although he knew.

  “A right wing group that didn’t want the case to be tried in court, so that Palme would continue to look like a tax evader,” Modin explained.

  “Exactly. Nobody would be stupid enough to steal documents—documents pointing straight at you, no less—and murder the Prime Minister the very same night. Sure looks like a decoy arranged by the real murderers. And that would suggest that a group of people was behind the murder. A group with the resources to manipulate the data system of the state. No way Christer Pettersson did any of this, “ Julia said laughing. “It’s too advanced an operation to break into a court of law and delete things from its database. I think this is the work of insiders, analysts—intelligence analysts, perhaps.”

  “I can show you one more thing,” Modin said grabbing Julia’s laptop and pressing the keys. “Listen to what the head of the Security Service at the time, P.G. Näss is saying here.” He read aloud from the screen: “Either it’s a question of a lone lunatic who had incredible good luck, or there was a very large team behind the murder.”

  “Maybe Christer Pettersson enjoyed an incredible amount of good luck,” Axman said, laughing out loud.

  Modin checked the investigative commission report again, then searched within the document for the Harvard Affair. He found something and turned the laptop so everyone could read.

  On March 13th, 1986, the company responsible for the computer system DAFA announced that a delete transaction, i.e. an erasure, had taken place at 18:23 hours on February 28th. On that same day, the county court investigated who had checked out on flextime after that point in time. On March 14th, 1986 DAFA confirmed that the delete transaction at 18:23 was in reference to the Olof Palme tax case. Furthermore, the DAFA reported that the computer in question at the County Court had been switched off at 16:00 on February 28th and had been switched on again between 18:23 and 18:30.

  “Look, this confirms that someone entered the County Court after closing time on that Friday evening and deleted Olof Palme’s tax case.”

  “As I see it,” Julia said after reading, “this means that the deletion at the County Court a few hours before the murder is linked to the murder itself. It also means that a professional organization, not merely a gang of thugs or lawless ultra-right extremists, is involved. This is an assassination that was carefully and methodically planned beforehand. But this analysis does, of course, assume that the deletion really does have something to do with the murder.”

  “Ninety-nine percent probability statistically,” Axman said. “Coincidences do occur… occasionally. So we can’t be 100 percent sure.”

  “Eighty percent would do for me,” Modin said. “I have read the Palme dossier and what I read makes sense. It is a job from inside the intelligence community. I really think so and I’m going to prove it.”

  “The way I see it,” Axman said, “the deletion of the tax records is not foolproof evidence. People make mistakes even with legal data. However, the fact that this mistake occurred just four to five hours before the murder, and suspiciously after office hours on a Friday night, makes the mathematician in me think that it is likely not a coincidence. I wonder why this wasn’t followed up. This looks to me like an expressway leading directly to the heart of the murder.”

  “A little more coffee,” Julia said. “It’s going to be a long night, I can see.”

  Number 3: Christer Pettersson

  CHAPTER 41

  BLACK ISLAND, MAY 7, MIDNIGHT

  “We tend to forget a lot of information immediately after an event. Even during the first hour we forget a great deal, then the forgetfulness evens out. […] It is incredibly important to return to the first police interviews, to use these as a baseline, because we add information and do not remember exactly once some time has passed.”

  (Interview with memory researcher Sven Åke Christianson,

  in: An Ice Cold Wind passed Through Sweden,

  Lars Borgnäs)

  “‘You can see which one is an alcoholic. It’s number 3 (Christer Pettersson). […] It’s number 3, he fits my description.’ […] She added that number 9 and 11 also had traits that matched her description, but not as closely as with number 3.”

  (Memorandum describing the police lineup with Lisbet Palme, December 14, 1988)

  “Apparently there was one person that warned about the pending assassination of the Swedish Prime Minister,” Modin said.

  It was midnight. The next day was about to begin and it was still raining. The strong winds coming in from the sea shook the small cottage on the cliffs. The sound of the wind penetrated the walls. But indoors, it was warm and cozy. The open fire was blazing away and the room was filled with the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon buns that Julia had heated up in the microwave.

  “Listen here,” Modin continued with his fingers on the laptop. “A 40-year-old man, Anders Larsson, left a letter for Olof Palme at the reception desk of the Cabinet Office. A copy of this letter arrived at the reception desk of the Foreign Ministry and the Foreign Minister’s personal office a week before the murder. The letter contained three words: Olof Palme dead. Anders Larsson had heard about plans to kill Palme from an acquaintance, a second-hand bookshop owner in central Stockholm. The second-hand bookshop owner refused to reveal his source to the Palme investigation because it would put his own life at risk. And listen to this.” Modin continued summarizing from the screen. “On August 1, 1989, three years after the murder, the owner of the bookshop was found dead on the floor of his bookshop. He had suffered a heart attack, only 43 years old. It’s all in the official Palme investigation.”

  “Okay, that’s remarkable,” Julia said. “I mean the fact that someone knew that Olof Palme was going to die. But then again, how often does the Cabinet Office receive warnings about the impending death of the Swedish Prime Minister? Can’t blame them for not doing anything.”

  Modin liked Julia’s intervention. They exchanged glances, and she continued her questioning.

  “What did Palme’s widow say about the murderer?”

  Modin browsed the documents on the laptop.

  “Of the eighteen witnesses at the murder site and along the escape route, there were fourteen who said that the murderer had a dark, knee-length coat that was flapping. Four others were less sure. So it is, let see… about 78 percent sure that the murderer wore a dark colored coat. One single person, and that was Palme’s widow, said that he wore a blue quilted jacket. One, out of eighteen! And damn it, only that blue quilted jacket turned up in all the media reports. What is the likelihood of it being a blue quilted jacket, Axman?”

  “Five and a half percent.”

  “What exactly did Palme’s widow say about the clothes?”

  “She said the man wore a slightly bulky, navy blue, quilted jacket and no cap on his head,” Modin answered. “She saw the murderer’s hair. It was dark. Furthermore, she said that all of this gave the murderer a fit and agile look, as if he was in good physical shape.”

  “Well, the murderer ran up all those steps from the murder site below to Malmskillnadsgatan Street above,” Julia said. “There are 89 steps! And he continued to run down David Bagares Street. In good shape indeed, that guy.”

  “Christer Pettersson was an alcoholic. A physical wreck. Not one to routinely go on the Stairmaster to stay fit. The murderer could have made a run for it in any direction. So why did he choose the hardest escape route and ran up all those steps onto the street above? It would have been more logical t
o run down into the subway station a few yards away, or to take flight down the main artery, Sveavägen Street itself. Pettersson was drunk that evening. We know that much. And one further point,” Modin continued, “if the murderer, as the majority of the witnesses say, wore a dark coat, dark trousers, and maybe a peaked cap, Christer Pettersson would have been in disguise that night. Christer Pettersson always wore jeans and a jacket or a sweater. Never a cap, never a coat. Did he suddenly dress differently on February 28? The chain of evidence laid out by the prosecution about a spontaneous and random act on the part of the murderer would crumble to pieces.”

  “Fuck, this really is weird,” Axman said. He leaned gently back on the couch. His eyes were large and glazed. “I’ve always assumed it was Christer Pettersson who murdered Palme. Everybody said so, especially in the police force. You’re giving me doubts.”

  “Why have you assumed it was Christer Pettersson?” Modin said.

  “Well, he was found guilty in court, wasn’t he?”

  “The court only consisted of two lawyers; the rest were lay assessors,” Modin replied. “And they were not unanimous about the verdict. Guess which of these people found him guilty.”

  “Don’t say it was only the lay assessors?”

  “Yup. These assessors were political appointees, people with no formal legal training. The two lawyers pleaded for acquittal. They thought that the testimony of Palme’s widow rested on too many questionable sources. They pointed out that she easily might have mistaken things. After all, she picked out Christer Pettersson in the lineup two years and ten months after the murder. Can you remember the face of the parking attendant that gave you a ticket two years ago? And none of the other seventeen witnesses pointed at Pettersson. If it had been an ordinary cab driver and not Palme’s widow who picked out Pettersson, how do you think the City Court would have reacted?”

  “Did the counsel for the defense file an appeal against the verdict?” Axman asked.

  “Yes, the case went up to the Supreme Court.”

  “And?”

  “He was acquitted. In retrospect, many lawyers claimed that Pettersson should never have been charged in the first place. The whole case rested on the lineup debacle. No further evidence was ever produced.”

  “Debacle? Did Palme’s widow make mistakes? Why didn’t the Supreme Court believe her identification?” Axman asked.

  Modin had to browse for a while at the information on the laptop.

  “I have something here. Listen! In court, Lisbet Palme said that she was one hundred percent sure that Christer Pettersson was the murderer and that he had acted alone. We know that. Now listen to this.”

  Julia and Axman leaned forward as if wishing to hear better, see more, or feel companionship.

  “Lisbet Palme said in court that she had been trained professionally in the art of observation and to make factual observations without analyzing first. And that at the scene of the crime her attention was at its peak,” Modin said, looking up from the screen.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m getting at,” Axman said. “She was a psychologist and pointed out Pettersson when confronted with him. It’s credible. She was, after all, the closest person at the crime site.”

  “Sure, she was the closest alright,” Modin said. “But listen carefully. In the interview right after the murder,” Modin began as he ran his finger swiftly over the touchpad, “she said she saw two perpetrators and then recognized them from before. She thought they were from a separatist terror organization in what was then still Yugoslavia, the Ustasha. That’s what she said!”

  “Oh, come on,” Axman said. “Are you kidding? I’ve heard that the police put words in her mouth when she said that she saw two perpetrators.”

  “That’s true, but what really happened? The nationwide alert right after the murder was looking for two hitmen from the Croatian Ustasha. Here’s what one of the police officers, Officer Rimborn, said. Again, he pointed the screen in a way that Julia and Axman could read comfortably.

  I’m sure, Lisbet Palme said there were two assailants and that it was likely to have been those same two men that she had seen outside their residence in the Old Town of Stockholm. These pieces of information formed the basis for the nationwide alert broadcast. I still think that the information in this broadcast was correct. It is based totally on what she first said to me, and what someone sees in a moment of shock is often accurate.”

  “Two assailants,” Julia said. “That’s one for the books. So, she saw two men and she saw them immediately after the murder. And the information was broadcast nationwide. You can’t dismiss that just like that, no way. She saw two assailants!” Julia started to scratch her upper arm frenetically. “So why did she later change her mind?”

  “I don’t get it,” Axman said. “Are you saying there were two assailants?”

  “Well, in her first interview she talks about her powers of observation at their peak and says that she saw two attackers, people she had also seen hanging around their residence in the Old Town. Don’t you get it?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Axman said with his mouth open.

  “When she pointed out Christer Pettersson later, she was just plain wrong,” Julia said, “or maybe she just wanted to have a scapegoat to stop all speculations about her husband’s death. Either way, her testimony is of no value, just as the Supreme Court pointed out. Hell, Christer Pettersson, may God be with you and bless you. Only Lisbet knows what’s true.”

  “Look at this paragraph,” Modin said, rather hoarsely and scrolled at the laptop.

  “A witness, a psychologist by the name of Sven-Åke Christianson, had Mrs. Palme’s testimony double-checked by sending the videotape to the U.S. for examination.”

  “And?” Axman said.

  “133 students at the University of Washington received the same preliminary information that Lisbet Palme had been given from Hans Holmér before she pointed out Pettersson in the police lineup, namely that the perpetrator walked in a strange way, similar to that of an alcoholic. Now listen carefully. Out of that group of students, no less than 74 percent chose Christer Pettersson, without having been provided with any further information. Simply because unconsciously they were looking for someone who might be an alcoholic. Seventy-fucking-four percent. What a scandal!”

  An awkward silence beleaguered Julia’s house. Not even the wind disturbed the silence.

  “I just know that this is a conspiracy of some sort,” Modin said. “There were over forty witnesses who saw men with walkie-talkies along the route the couple took on the day of the murder. This was before cell phones, mind you. The investigators received 179 tips of this kind; that is written in black and white in the report the commission published. These witnesses can’t all be wrong. The people who saw men with walkie-talkies were ordinary sober Swedes, and they saw them from close distance in various places near the murder site. People with walkie-talkies points to a group of people trying to coordinate something, in other words, a highly developed conspiracy team.”

  Modin ran his hand over his crew cut and blinked a few times.

  “And look at this!” He clicked to page 397 of the SOU 1999:88 report. “Can you see the picture?” Modin asked and continued to read out slowly as if it meant everything: “That same evening, a photographer heard a conversation over police radio that went like this:

  “Hello, up there. How’s things.”

  “It’s damned cold. Prime Minister shot.”

  The wind and rain could be heard hammering against the roof tiles. The storm was pounding the house directly above them. Modin caught the glances of his companions as he looked at them over the laptop screen.

  “We’ve got the unsolved murder of a Prime Minister, and no one gives a shit,” he said. “It surely doesn’t need something like this to make a patriot out of you.” Much to his own surprise, Modin was visibly shaken. “I need a drink. Julia, do you have any of the strong stuff up here?”

  “Take it easy, Modin. It’
s getting late.” Julia clearly saw the tears welling up in his eyes and put her arm round his shoulders to comfort him.

  “Maybe it’s time for bed,” she said. She had never thought that the case would have such an emotional effect on Modin.

  “One more thing,” Axman said. “Has the murder weapon, a magnum revolver, ever been found? I know that tremendous amounts of resources went toward trying to find it.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it,” Modin said. “The investigation found and test fired every conceivable revolver except for one. A revolver that was reported stolen around the time of the murder.”

  “But couldn’t that be the murder weapon?” Axman said, his eyes bloodshot by now.

  “Well,” Modin said. “They have test fired some 500 magnum revolvers. What are the odds that this is the one they’re looking for? Slim to none, I would say; one in 500, which happens to be the number of Magnums there are said to have been in Sweden in 1986. My guess is that the murder weapon is an unknown non-registered weapon, owned by some secret operative in a secret organization like the Department of Special Ops. That’s my theory.”

  “Well, it sure is beginning to sound plausible,” Axman conceded. “Christer Pettersson had no reason to kill Palme. Has anyone ever speculated about motive?”

  “I dare say the motive is offshore right here,” Modin said in a shaky voice. “At a depth of around 700 feet.”

  “SOSUS?”

  “Now you got it, Axman,” Julia said.

  CHAPTER 42

  STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, MAY 7

  Ewa Bergman opened the door to her apartment.

  “Matti Svensson from the Norrtelje News,” the man introduced himself.

  He was too early. She was still wearing her bathrobe and it made her feel uncomfortable. But then again, Svensson wasn’t exactly ready for a fashion show, either. In fact, he looked like shit: thin, sunken brown eyes, and greasy, grayish brown hair with dandruff. He was wearing a creased Loden coat, dark grey pants, and worn, unpolished, brown shoes. He wasn’t quite dressed for the season—spring was in the air, the weather was warm, and people were walking around in shorts.