Read Online The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Liza Marklund
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Americans, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Police, Police Procedural, Women Journalists, Sweden
Ads: Link
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 Dessie’s arm. “Come.”
Chapter 32
“COME ON,” FORSBERG SAID. “LET’S go through what you’re doing today. In the other room.”
Alexander Andersson took a step toward her.
“If you know so bloody much, why aren’t you writing anything?”
She pulled loose from Forsberg and stared daggers at the reporter.
“I know you might have trouble understanding this,” she said, “but my goal in life really isn’t to get a big-picture byline. I could care less.”
She went back to her desk then, followed by Forsberg.
“You’ve got to be careful with Alexander,” she said to the editor. “He’s faking it.”
“Dessie,” Forsberg said, “listen to me. I’ve got a job for you. Have you read Hugo Bergman’s article on public prosecutor workloads?”
Dessie looked at the news editor and blinked.
“The one we published on Friday?”
“It’s caused a real stink,” Forsberg said, handing her a bundle of printouts. “Call Bergman and get an interview, and check with the different regional prosecutors to see how many cases they’ve actually got at the moment. Can you do that?”
Dessie made no move to take the printouts. She could see Hugo Bergman in her mind’s eye, swaying like a tree outside the Opera Cellar, where she’d left him the night before.
“You’re trying to get me off the murders,” she said. “That’s what this is, right?”
The news chief sat on her desk and lowered his voice.
“Dessie,” he said, “there are people asking why you were sent that postcard. They’re wondering what sort of contacts you’ve got with the underworld.”
She swallowed, couldn’t believe her ears.
“I’m here today only because the police told me to be here,” she said. “I’m supposed to be off Monday and Tuesday. I’m not claiming any kind of copyright on these murders, but if —”
She was
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 Dessie’s arm. “Come.”
Chapter 32
“COME ON,” FORSBERG SAID. “LET’S go through what you’re doing today. In the other room.”
Alexander Andersson took a step toward her.
“If you know so bloody much, why aren’t you writing anything?”
She pulled loose from Forsberg and stared daggers at the reporter.
“I know you might have trouble understanding this,” she said, “but my goal in life really isn’t to get a big-picture byline. I could care less.”
She went back to her desk then, followed by Forsberg.
“You’ve got to be careful with Alexander,” she said to the editor. “He’s faking it.”
“Dessie,” Forsberg said, “listen to me. I’ve got a job for you. Have you read Hugo Bergman’s article on public prosecutor workloads?”
Dessie looked at the news editor and blinked.
“The one we published on Friday?”
“It’s caused a real stink,” Forsberg said, handing her a bundle of printouts. “Call Bergman and get an interview, and check with the different regional prosecutors to see how many cases they’ve actually got at the moment. Can you do that?”
Dessie made no move to take the printouts. She could see Hugo Bergman in her mind’s eye, swaying like a tree outside the Opera Cellar, where she’d left him the night before.
“You’re trying to get me off the murders,” she said. “That’s what this is, right?”
The news chief sat on her desk and lowered his voice.
“Dessie,” he said, “there are people asking why you were sent that postcard. They’re wondering what sort of contacts you’ve got with the underworld.”
She swallowed, couldn’t believe her ears.
“I’m here today only because the police told me to be here,” she said. “I’m supposed to be off Monday and Tuesday. I’m not claiming any kind of copyright on these murders, but if —”
She was
Similar Books
