Slowly We Die Read online

  An accidental slip of a blade...

  A tragic incident on the operating table leaves a patient damaged for life and leads a young surgeon to abandon his profession as a physician... Now, years later, a series of senseless, gruesome murders are rocking the same medical community.

  Then murderous revenge...

  The weapon? A surgical scalpel. But who exactly is preying on these victims? And why? What does this grisly pattern reveal? And who will be the one to stop it? Special prosecutor Jana Berzelius, who has her own dark secrets to hide, is in charge of the investigation. What she can’t know, until she is finally closing in on the murderer, is just how her own mother’s recent death is intimately connected.

  This intricately plotted and relentlessly suspenseful medical thriller keeps everyone guessing until the bitter end.

  Praise for International Bestselling Author Emelie Schepp

  On Marked for Life

  “A stellar first in a crime trilogy.... Schepp couples an insightful look at the personal and professional lives of her characters with an unflinching multi-layered plot loaded with surprises.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “A fast-paced thriller with a good blend of police procedural, the draw of a ninja-strong female lead, and enough adrenaline to make a good night’s sleep a near impossibility.”

  —Booklist

  “Move over, Jo Nesbø.”

  —Fort Worth Star-Telegram

  “Intriguing.... The challenging, multi-layered heroine makes it worth the read.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An exceptional novel.... The author has done a great job with the characters, and readers will want to continue reading this trilogy to see how these cliff-hangers are going to play out.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “One mind-blowing thriller.... It will keep readers guessing and thirsty for more.”

  —Manhattan Book Review

  On Marked for Revenge

  “In Swedish author Schepp’s outstanding second novel,

  [she] sure-handedly brings her characters to unhappy life in a police procedural that lays bare the most sordid aspects of immigrant-related crime.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Emelie Schepp is rapidly securing her place as the master of the ensemble police procedural novel.... Make time to read Marked for Revenge in one sitting. The pages just fly by.”

  —Bookreporter

  Also by Emelie Schepp

  Marked for Life

  Marked for Revenge

  SLOWLY WE DIE

  Emelie Schepp

  To Dad

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  THE WOMAN OPENED her eyes and looked straight up at me. Her hands began clawing desperately at the air, as if she’d just realized what was about to happen.

  I could see her surprise, her confusion, and I whispered to her that there was no alternative, that it was too late, she had already seen too much in the back of the ambulance.

  She should have kept her eyes closed, shouldn’t have looked around with her meddling gaze, shouldn’t have seen me take the ring.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, pressing my hands against her nose and mouth, “but what would you do if you were me?”

  She didn’t answer. How could she?

  She struggled again to pull her face away from me, making one last desperate attempt. Her thin body thrashed up and down on the stretcher. She tried to grab my hands, but instead her fingers just pulled at my arms with increasing panic. Her nails tore at my skin, but I didn’t stop. I pressed harder. Harder.

  She tried to scream, and I heard a gurgling sound. She couldn’t keep it up any longer; her strength began to wane, and she blinked a few times without any tears falling.

  And then, finally, it came. The awareness. This was the end. Her brain let go of all other thoughts, taking in the reality—crystal clear and horrifying.

  There was no sound, only a tiny gasp as she surrendered, as her body finally relaxed and became completely still.

  I took my hand away from her mouth and listened to the silence. I smiled. It felt so simple, so undeniable, so complete.

  This was a deviation from the plan, yes, but nevertheless it was a beginning. I was filled with excited anticipation, with revenge.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Wednesday

  PHILIP ENGSTRÖM LEANED against the black kitchen counter at the ambulance station in Norrköping. Cool spring air wafted in through an open window. He reached for the cup in the coffee machine, wrapped his fingers around it and enjoyed its warmth. Then he walked through the room, sank down onto one of the sofas and took a couple of sips before putting the cup on the nearby coffee table.

  He had one hour left before his overnight ambulance shift ended. He had to fight a strong desire to close his eyes and drift off, if only for a few minutes.

  He knew that he shouldn’t give in to his exhaustion; he needed to pull himself together after the shift’s stressful events, but he couldn’t help himself. He nodded off and was dragged down into sleep where he dreamed of a whirling, rushing waterfall. Then he heard someone yell, and he jerked himself awake, his hands fumbling over the table and knocking over his coffee cup.

  “Philip!”

  “Hi, Sandra,” he said, drowsily.

  Sandra Gustafsson stood six feet from him, one hand on her hip. Her hair was blond and her eyes the same green as their work clothes. She was the newest paramedic, the most recent in a series of recruits. She was in her early twenties, competent, worked hard and seemed to care about her colleagues.

  “Still tired?” she asked.

  “Not one bit,” Philip said, getting up and wiping the coffee from the table with a wad of paper towels before sitting back down on the couch.

  She looked at him as he attempted to stifle a yawn, then went to the coffee machine, picked up two cups and filled them.

  He couldn’t resist smiling when she held one out to him. He took a quick sip and glanced at his watch.

  “Time to go home soon,” she said.

  “Yep,” he said.

  “Do you want to talk before you go?”

  She sat in the armchair across from him. Her body was trim and fit.

  “About what?”

  “About the patient who died.”

>   “No. Why would I want to do that?” he said, taking another sip of coffee, still feeling drowsy and thinking that he really should start taking better care of himself. The nature of his work meant his sleep was often broken, and as a result he didn’t sleep enough. He knew he needed more than an hour or so here or there.

  “It was an unusual situation,” she said.

  “It was your everyday heart attack. What is there to talk about?”

  “The patient could have survived.”

  “But she didn’t, okay?” Philip listened to the hum from the coffee machine as he thought about the woman who had died on his shift. He noticed his hands trembling.

  “I’m just wondering how you feel about it all,” she said.

  “Sandra,” he said, putting his mug on the table. “I know you’re just trying to be supportive, but that psychology nonsense doesn’t work on me.”

  “So you don’t want to talk?”

  “No. I already said so.”

  “I just thought...”

  “What did you think? That we would sit in a circle and hug each other? Should we all put on our comfiest pajamas, too?”

  “According to protocol...”

  “Let it go. I’ve worked as an ambulance nurse here for five years. I know exactly what the protocol is.”

  “Then you also know it’s not okay to fall asleep on a call.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “Just think if someone found out?” she whispered.

  “No one will find out,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it falls under work confidentiality.”

  “What?”

  He looked around, checking that no one was within earshot.

  “You heard what I said.”

  “What the hell, it can’t be like that!” she said.

  Philip met her gaze. “Why not?”

  “You’re not sane,” she said. “You’re completely...”

  “I know it sounds strange.”

  “Strange? It sounds wrong...”

  He looked at the door and thought about how much he wanted to leave work right this very moment. He wanted to feel the calm, hear the silence, above all be rid of Sandra.

  “I’m sorry, Philip. I can’t let it go. You’re the one who messed up, not me.”

  “I never mess up, just so you know. And that’s not why the patient died.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Philip stared at her as he raked his hand through his hair and took a deep breath to calm himself.

  “Okay,” he said after a long moment. “This is what we’ll do. If, contrary to my expectations, anyone finds out that I happened to fall asleep briefly on a call, I promise I’ll report myself.”

  “What about me, if that happens?”

  “You can blame everything on me. Claim you were afraid to say anything because you were new on the job and all of that. Make it all my fault.”

  She just looked at him.

  “Do we have a deal?” he said.

  “Yes, this one time,” she said, quietly. “But you should really get a handle on things. One more incident and I’ll report you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, leaning forward and laying a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  “I know,” he said, getting up.

  * * *

  Prosecutor Jana Berzelius sat on one of the chairs in the broadcast studio with her legs crossed. She was waiting for her turn to be interviewed by Richard Hansen, the host of the morning program for Channel P4 Östergötland on Swedish Radio.

  When she saw Hansen’s signal, she walked silently to the seat opposite him and put a pair of headphones on. She listened as Hansen smoothly changed topics and announced that next up was Norrköping lead prosecutor Jana Berzelius, here to talk about a rise in criminal gang activity.

  “Extortion, robbery and violent attacks with hammers, knives and automatic weapons. Gang violence continues to increase. Jana Berzelius, you’ve been the lead investigator in many cases of serious organized crime here in Norrköping for many years. What do you think is the reason for the increased violence we’re seeing?”

  Jana cleared her throat. “First of all, we have to remember that we’re talking about the number of reported crimes, that an increase in crime, statistically speaking, isn’t the same thing as an actual increase in crime...”

  “You’re saying that the numbers lie?”

  “What we can see is that gang violence all over Sweden is increasing, at the same time as violence in society in general is decreasing.”

  “And what is causing the increased gang violence?”

  “There are a number of possible explanations,” she said.

  “Name a few.”

  She leaned forward. “You already named the most important ones in your introduction, and I can only agree that increased access to firearms along with an increase in social and economic segregation are contributing factors in this context.”

  “As you know, we’ve been tracking the criminal gangs in Norrköping,” Hansen said, looking down at the papers in front of him. “Our stories about gang activities regarding the illegal trafficking of weapons, narcotics and people are our most-followed stories. It has been a year since that coverage originally appeared, and there’s hardly been any improvement in this area. Very few jail sentences have been handed down, few cases have even ended up at trial and many people are saying that the Swedish legal system is failing. Should we be concerned?”

  “There is always a risk of error in the criminal justice system, which in unfortunate cases can lead to wrongful convictions or even a failure to convict.”

  “Can a biased prosecutor pose such a risk?”

  “Yes, just as much as manipulated police reports, misleading expert witnesses or false testimony. No one, not even a prosecutor such as myself, can deny that these are the dangers that sometimes result in wrongful convictions,” Jana said.

  “And what do you think about those voices calling for harsher sentencing for violent crimes, for example?”

  “We can’t prove that harsher sentencing results in fewer crimes. However...”

  “In the United States, they have prioritized stricter sentencing, and it has resulted in—” Hansen said.

  “But we’re talking about Sweden. Norrköping, specifically,” Jana clarified.

  Hansen looked down at his papers again. “Stricter sentencing is an important objective of the opposition’s legal policy.”

  “The foremost duty of criminal policy should be to work for increased opportunities for crime prevention.”

  Hansen looked up at her and said, “In so-called Policegate, police brass and businessmen have been accused of interfering with justice, accepting bribes and smuggling narcotics, and they will very likely receive long prison sentences, if convicted.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “From what I understand, Policegate is both complicated and unusual. Besides the obviously reckless elements of violent crime, this is also about a state-appointed official of the highest level who abused his authority, and very gravely so.”

  “You’re referring to National Police Commissioner Anders Wester,” Jana said. “But we don’t have the whole story yet, and not all of the suspects have been questioned...”

  “That’s true, but you can’t deny that harsh sentences are needed in such a unique circumstance, to set a precedent for how seriously our society views this type of crime, can you? This is about our trust in the police force.”

  “I can’t comment on that case,” Jana said.

  “But don’t you agree that the penal system is a way for society to see how seriously different offenses are taken?” Hansen said.

  “Yes, but as I said, there is no proof that harsher sentences result in fewer crimes, in
the short term at least.”

  “If I understand you correctly, you think that, instead, we should invest more resources in policies that focus on prevention, and this is the only way to lower crime?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And what has led you to this conclusion?”

  Jana looked him straight in the eye.

  “Experience.”

  * * *

  Nurse Mattias Bohed was walking through Ward 11 at Vrinnevi Hospital with his colleague Sofia Olsson. Outside Room 38 sat a high-security guard named Andreas Hedberg, his back straight and hands folded. As the two nurses approached, Hedberg smiled shyly in Sofia’s direction and stood to unlock the door.

  Once they had entered the room, Hedberg closed the door behind them and locked them in.

  Murder suspect Danilo Peña had been receiving care in this private room, with a security guard stationed outside the door around the clock. Mattias didn’t know much more about the patient than what he had read online—that the guy was a criminal who had been mixed up in what had come to be called Policegate. He was suspected of having killed several Thai girls caught up in drug trafficking. The nursing staff that had been handpicked to take care of him had received a strict warning: absolutely no one was allowed to be alone with the patient in the room.

  “Did someone forget to turn off the light?” Sofia asked when she saw that the lamp near the bed was on.

  “No,” Mattias said. “I don’t think so.”

  The private room was small and, aside from the usual medical equipment and monitors, contained only a bed, a nightstand and a chair.

  Sofia took out a small glass bottle and swirled it carefully before drawing the fluid into a syringe.

  “Oh, by the way, you heard that the patient woke up yesterday, right?” she asked.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, smiling.

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “No, I just want you to be careful.”

  The patient lay quietly in the bed, except for the rhythmic motion of his chest as it rose and fell with every breath. He was flat on his back with his eyes closed, a heart monitor attached to his chest and arms tucked under the blanket.