exit wound reveals that he was between one eighty and one eighty-five. The suspect is one eighty-three.”
Jesus. He thought of the boy he had seen by the visitors’ room door. It seemed like only yesterday when they used to wrestle each other and Oleg had barely reached up to Harry’s chest.
She walked back into the kitchen. Pointed to the wall beside a greasy stove.
“The bullets went in here and here, as you can see. Which is consistent with the second shot following the first quite quickly as the victim fell. The initial bullet punctured a lung, the second passed through the top of his chest, nicking a shoulder blade. The victim—”
“Gusto Hanssen,” Harry said.
Beate stopped. Looked at him. Nodded. “Gusto Hanssen did not die at once. His fingerprints were in the pool of blood and there was blood on his clothes, showing that he moved after he fell. But it can’t have taken long.”
“I see. And what …?” Harry ran a hand over his face. He would have to try to get a few hours’ sleep. “What ties Oleg to the murder?”
“Two people called the police at three minutes to nine saying they had heard what might have been gunshots coming from the building. One lived on Møllergata, across the intersection, the other just opposite here.”
Harry squinted through the grimy window looking out onto Hausmanns Gate. “Not bad, being able to hear from one building to another in the very center of the city.”
“Don’t forget it was July. Warm evening. All the windows are open. Summer vacations, barely any traffic. The neighbors had been trying to get the police to close this nest, so the threshold for reporting noise was low, one might say. The officer in the Ops Room told them to stay calm and asked them to keep an eye on the building until patrol cars arrived. The uniforms were alerted at once. Two cars arrived at twenty past nine and took up position while waiting for the cavalry.”
“Delta?”
“Always takes the guys some time to don helmets and armor. Then the patrol cars were informed by Ops that the neighbors had seen a boy leaving by the front door and walking around the building, down toward the Akerselva. So two officers went down to the river, and there they found …”
She paused until she received an almost imperceptible nod from Harry.
“Oleg. He didn’t resist—he was so doped up he hardly knew what he was doing. We found gunshot residue on his right hand and arm.”
“Murder weapon?”
“Since it’s an unusual caliber, a nine-by-eighteen-millimeter Makarov, there are not many alternatives.”
“Well, the Makarov is the favorite gun for organized crime in former Soviet countries. And the Fort-12, which is used by the police in Ukraine. Plus a couple more.”
“True. We found the empty cartridges on the floor with powder residue. The Makarov powder has a different mix of saltpeter and sulfur, and they also use a bit of spirit, like in sulfurless powder. Thechemical compound of the powder on the empty cartridge and around the entry wound matched the residue on Oleg’s hand.”
“Mm. And the weapon?”
“Hasn’t been recovered. We had divers and teams searching in and around the river, with no success. That doesn’t mean the gun isn’t there, with all the mud and sludge … well, you know.”
“I know.”
“Two of the guys who lived here said that Oleg was flashing a pistol and boasting it was the type the Russian mafia used. Neither of them is gun-savvy, but after being shown pictures of about a hundred guns, both are supposed to have picked out an Odessa. And it uses, as you probably know …”
Harry nodded. Makarov, nine by eighteen millimeter. It was unmistakable. The first time he had seen an Odessa, he had been reminded of the futuristic-looking pistol on the cover of
Foo Fighters
, one of many CDs that had ended up with Rakel and Oleg.
“And I assume they’re rock-solid witnesses with only a tiny little drug problem?”
Beate didn’t answer. She
Jesus. He thought of the boy he had seen by the visitors’ room door. It seemed like only yesterday when they used to wrestle each other and Oleg had barely reached up to Harry’s chest.
She walked back into the kitchen. Pointed to the wall beside a greasy stove.
“The bullets went in here and here, as you can see. Which is consistent with the second shot following the first quite quickly as the victim fell. The initial bullet punctured a lung, the second passed through the top of his chest, nicking a shoulder blade. The victim—”
“Gusto Hanssen,” Harry said.
Beate stopped. Looked at him. Nodded. “Gusto Hanssen did not die at once. His fingerprints were in the pool of blood and there was blood on his clothes, showing that he moved after he fell. But it can’t have taken long.”
“I see. And what …?” Harry ran a hand over his face. He would have to try to get a few hours’ sleep. “What ties Oleg to the murder?”
“Two people called the police at three minutes to nine saying they had heard what might have been gunshots coming from the building. One lived on Møllergata, across the intersection, the other just opposite here.”
Harry squinted through the grimy window looking out onto Hausmanns Gate. “Not bad, being able to hear from one building to another in the very center of the city.”
“Don’t forget it was July. Warm evening. All the windows are open. Summer vacations, barely any traffic. The neighbors had been trying to get the police to close this nest, so the threshold for reporting noise was low, one might say. The officer in the Ops Room told them to stay calm and asked them to keep an eye on the building until patrol cars arrived. The uniforms were alerted at once. Two cars arrived at twenty past nine and took up position while waiting for the cavalry.”
“Delta?”
“Always takes the guys some time to don helmets and armor. Then the patrol cars were informed by Ops that the neighbors had seen a boy leaving by the front door and walking around the building, down toward the Akerselva. So two officers went down to the river, and there they found …”
She paused until she received an almost imperceptible nod from Harry.
“Oleg. He didn’t resist—he was so doped up he hardly knew what he was doing. We found gunshot residue on his right hand and arm.”
“Murder weapon?”
“Since it’s an unusual caliber, a nine-by-eighteen-millimeter Makarov, there are not many alternatives.”
“Well, the Makarov is the favorite gun for organized crime in former Soviet countries. And the Fort-12, which is used by the police in Ukraine. Plus a couple more.”
“True. We found the empty cartridges on the floor with powder residue. The Makarov powder has a different mix of saltpeter and sulfur, and they also use a bit of spirit, like in sulfurless powder. Thechemical compound of the powder on the empty cartridge and around the entry wound matched the residue on Oleg’s hand.”
“Mm. And the weapon?”
“Hasn’t been recovered. We had divers and teams searching in and around the river, with no success. That doesn’t mean the gun isn’t there, with all the mud and sludge … well, you know.”
“I know.”
“Two of the guys who lived here said that Oleg was flashing a pistol and boasting it was the type the Russian mafia used. Neither of them is gun-savvy, but after being shown pictures of about a hundred guns, both are supposed to have picked out an Odessa. And it uses, as you probably know …”
Harry nodded. Makarov, nine by eighteen millimeter. It was unmistakable. The first time he had seen an Odessa, he had been reminded of the futuristic-looking pistol on the cover of
Foo Fighters
, one of many CDs that had ended up with Rakel and Oleg.
“And I assume they’re rock-solid witnesses with only a tiny little drug problem?”
Beate didn’t answer. She
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