Chapter 10 chapter Ten

If you really want to get caught, kill the cops. This rule applies everywhere, especially in Sweden.Sweden's criminal history is full of unsolved murders, but none of them involved police killings. Whenever a co-worker is killed, the police seem to be helping with cases.The usual complaints about lack of manpower, shortage of assistance, etc. suddenly disappeared. They can quickly mobilize hundreds of manpower to investigate a case that is usually handled by three or four people at most. Those who break ground on the head of the police will definitely be brought to justice in the end.Not because the general public, like Britain or a socialist country, supports the people's nannies who defend law and order, but because the private army of police chiefs suddenly know what they want, and what's more, they want it very urgently. .

Martin Baker stood on Riegeling Street, enjoying the morning refreshment. He was not carrying a gun, but in the right pocket of his coat was a letter from the Police Department, a copy of a recent sociological study he had seen on his desk only yesterday. The police have a hard time with sociologists—particularly since they have begun doing a lot of research on police activities and attitudes in recent years—and their reports have always been viewed with great skepticism by top police officers.Maybe those Gao Gong found that it is difficult to make themselves stand just by labeling those who engage in sociology as communists or saboteurs.

There is nothing sociologists can't do!Inspector Malm had only recently burst out with swearing.Malm was Martin Baker's chief. Maybe Malm was right.Sociologists have all kinds of ideas. For example, they claim that as long as the score reaches the passing mark, you can enter the police academy, and the average IQ of Stockholm police officers has dropped to ninety-three. "Nonsense!" Malm yelled angrily, "It's total nonsense! No matter how low our IQ is, we won't be worse than the police in New York!" Malm has just returned from an inspection tour in the United States.

The report in Martin Baker's pocket made several interesting new findings, confirming that policing is not necessarily more dangerous than other professions, and that many other professions are actually more risky than being a police officer.The jobs of construction workers and loggers are much higher, not to mention stevedores, taxi drivers or housewives. But it is generally believed that the police work is extremely dangerous and hard, and the salary is low.Yes, people do, but that's because other professions don't play as high-profile a role as the police and have to go through ups and downs every day.

The numbers in the report are plentiful, like the number of officers injured compared to the number of people abused by the police every year, the former is insignificant, and so on. This situation is not only seen in Stockholm. Taking New York as an example, an average of seven police officers die on duty every year, two taxi drivers per month, one housewife per week, and one unemployed person per day. Nothing is to be respected for these nasty sociologists.A group of Swedish sociologists even criticized the British police, saying that because the British police did not have guns, they did not incite violence like the police in other countries, so they should not be too complacent.Even the Danish authorities have discovered this fact, so the police are only allowed to carry guns in exceptional circumstances.

But the situation in Stockholm is different. When Martin Baker looked at Nieman's body yesterday, he suddenly began to think about this research report. Now that he was thinking about the report again, Martin Baker found that the conclusions of the study were quite correct, and what was even more absurd was that he felt that those conclusions were somehow related to the murder case he was currently taking over. Being a policeman is not dangerous. In fact, it is the policeman who can cause danger. Not long ago, he saw the body of a policeman who was massacred. Martin Baker noticed that the corners of his mouth began to twitch, and for a moment he wanted to sit on the steps of the Rue Rigeling and laugh out loud.The whole thing is just ridiculous.

It occurred to him that he'd better go home and get the gun. He hasn't aimed for over a year. An empty taxi pulls up from Stiller Square. He waved the car over. The yellow taxis are painted with black stripes on both sides. According to the previous regulations, all taxis in Stockholm had to be painted black, which was only recently relaxed.Martin Baker got into the seat next to the driver. "Number 8 Corman Street," he said. As soon as he had finished speaking, Martin Baker recognized the driver, the type of policeman who drives around to make extra money after get off work.It was pure coincidence that Martin Baker would recognize him.He had seen two dumb cops outside Grand Central a few days earlier, taking a young drunk driver from calm to rage, and eventually the two were out of control too.The driver in front of him is one of the two stupid policemen.

He was about twenty-five years old and extremely garrulous. This person is probably naturally talkative, and his job does not allow him to complain, so he confides everything to the guests in the car. A Sanitation Department sweeper temporarily blocked their way, and the part-time patrolman looked anxiously at a movie poster. It was Richard Attenborough's "Number 10 Rillington Street." ""Number 10 Rillington Street"?" he said, "what's so interesting about this fragment, it's not that you kill me, I kill you, it's miserable, a bunch of bad luck, it's very boring."

Martin Baker nodded.The constable evidently did not recognize the officer, thought his nod in agreement, and then continued eloquently: "You know, all these problems are caused by Yaqun foreigners." Martin Baker was silent. "However, you can't overturn a boat with one pole. It's not right to do that. For example, the person driving this car with me is a Portuguese." "Oh?" "Yeah, you won't find a better guy anywhere than him. He works hard and is honest, and he's a good driver! Do you know why?" Martin Baker shook his head. "Hey, because he drove tanks in Africa for four years. There was a war in Portugal called Angola, where people fought to the death for freedom, but Sweden didn't know anything. This guy, the one I just said, At least hundreds of Communists were killed in four years. You can really see the iron-like discipline of soldiers in him. He does his work meticulously for you and makes more money than anyone I know. Even if you meet Drunk Finns don’t lose a penny. There are more and more homeless people on social welfare.”

Fortunately, the car stopped outside the building where Martin Baker lived. He asked the driver to wait and let him go upstairs to the apartment. The 7.65mm Walter was in a locked drawer of the desk, and the magazines were in a locked drawer in another room.He fitted the magazine to the gun, stuffed another box of magazines in the right pocket of his coat, and rummaged for five minutes before finding the shoulder holster for the gun in a pile of old ties and T-shirts in the closet. Martin Baker was back on the street, where the chatty patrolman was leaning against the yellow cab, humming happily.He politely opened the door and sat in the driver's seat. He was about to speak and continue, but was interrupted by Martin Baker.

"Thirty-seven Kings Island Street, please," he said. "But there's—" "That's right, it's the Criminal Division, please go to Skebang Street." The driver's face turned red, and he didn't dare to say a word along the way. Let him say what he wants, thought Martin Baker.No matter how bad Stockholm is, he still loves this city deeply.This moment may be the most beautiful time of the day in this city. The morning sun shines on the Stoman River, the water surface is soothing and calm, and the dense population and clutter of the city cannot be felt at all.When he was young—until recently, in fact—he could swim in the river. An old freight steamer with tall straight exhaust pipes and black masts on the main mast stands by the city docks.You don't see much of that stuff these days.An early morning ferry sailed across the water with little spray on its bow.Martin Baker noticed that the chimney was blackened and the name next to it was covered with white paint, but he could still read "Descartes Five". "Do you want a receipt?" the driver asked outside the police station. "Yes, Thanks." Martin Baker went to the Homicide Squad office, looked at some documents, made a few phone calls, and wrote something. An hour later, he compiled a summary of Nieman's life, which began as follows: What environment? Martin Baker knows the answer. In the late 1950s, the Stockholm police were reorganized and began to adopt a new leadership style and a new ethos. Militarized thinking was no longer fashionable and reactionary ideas were no longer precious.The changes in the headquarters have more or less affected the jurisdiction. Promotions will no longer be automatically rotated. Some old practices have also disappeared in the atmosphere of rising democratic consciousness. Many people's careers have come to an end because of this, and they can't see where the future lies. Nieman is one of them. one. Martin Beck feels that the first half of the 1960s was an extremely bright period in the history of Stockholm's police administration.Everything seems to be progressing, rigidity and factionalism are expected to be replaced by sound judgments, recruitment is increasing, and even the relationship with the public is improving.However, after nationalization in 1965, this good atmosphere was interrupted. Since then, the beauty has disappeared, and all well-intentioned proposals have been shelved. For Nieman, however, it was too late. It had been almost seven years since he last took charge of the precinct. At that time, his job content was mainly civil defense work. His ability to maintain discipline was well-respected, and the police often had to turn to this expert for advice during the large demonstrations of the late 1960s. Martin Baker scratched his neck, looking at the few lines of notes he had written. He picked up a ballpoint pen and wrote: Martin Baker read it back and forth, and looked at the clock. It was six fifty-eight. I don't know how Lehn's side is going.