Chapter 4 Women Who Hate Men
A/N – All right, this is hot off the press. Sorry if I gave anyone false hope when I posted this last night and took it down, but I wanted to add a bit more to the chapter. Probably contains errors and some discrepancies in style. It is a bit shorter than the others, but hopefully you still find it decent.
January 7th
The doorbell to a fifth floor Östermalm penthouse rung persistently just after eleven, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings and marble flooring loud enough to wake the napping Dr. Peter Teleborian. His monitoring bracelet's red light pulsed a steady beat; the transmitter sending GPS coordinates every seventeen seconds to a Svensk Polis computer. He had free reign of the building and even the sidewalk around it if he kept within five feet of it, but no more. Teleborian had already tested it once.
He thought his bracelet had gone off again; the damn thing had done it more than once when he was perfectly well off in his own home. But that would be accompanied by a very loud squealing that could only be remedied by re-entering the bracelet's boundaries. As part of his agreement to house arrest instead of jail, his entire penthouse was void of electronics except for a single built-in landline.
Through the peephole he could see a young woman with a Green Bay Packers beanie pulled down low over long, golden hair. A black Jansen bag slung over one shoulder and she was wearing dark, wraparound sunglasses. He cracked the door open by five inches.
"You have the wr-" He had just turned to run when a riot baton flew in an arc, cracking against his jaw. Four neat droplets of blood flew from the tip onto the white walls as Lieve collapsed the baton and threw it in the water bottle compartment of the bag. She gave Teleborian a kick as he tried to crawl towards the kitchen phone, pressing her boot firmly into his back to keep him from scrambling to the phone.
Teleborian tried to speak through his broken jaw, but all that came out a gurgle. He tried to scream out as a strip of duct tape was clamped firmly over his mouth. Lieve admonished him with the wag of a finger before closing the door to the hall.
If John needs to travel 28 kilometers in 30 minutes, how fast does John have to drive?
Salander clicked E for 56.
The attendance at a five-day festival triples each day. If the festival opened on Thursday with 345 visitors, how many were in attendance on Sunday?
A. 9,315
The addition of descriptive details to the basic information serves to - the book by producing a fuller account.
D. Enrich.*
Out of 120 questions, Salander had done only 34. The test was easy, but it was so fucking tedious that every few questions she found a new way to distract herself. She thought of annoying Blomkvist while he sat mindlessly in front of the TV with questions on grammar, but she figured that even if she managed to get that entire section wrong, she could still get the other 89 questions right. She had the fucking Internet at her fingertips for God's sake.
After another half hour and 6 questions, Salander got bored yet again and decided to log into the Svensk Polis website. No new evidence logged in the case of Blomkvist's apartment, but it wasn't a surprise. She would like to know what had been used, but the arson specialists were still working on that aspect of the investigation. Salander suspected a fertilizer bomb. Those were easy enough to make and would easily put a hole in a small space like Bellmansgatan.
Suddenly Salander had the itch to fuck with the certain someone who was the reason why she was taking a Compulsory Education Evaluation twelve years after she was supposed to. With a few simple keystrokes she was into the Sex Offenders Registry, watching every step Teleborian wasn't taking. Fucker must be asleep. Time for a wake up call!
Within fifteen minutes of fiddling with the system, she had the entire registry staff on high alert that Teleborian had ventured out of the set parameters. Since November she had set it off eight times and each time she had the same burly police women that had kindly goose walked her around the courthouse sent to investigate. She would have to find new ways to torture him once he was sentenced, but it would all come in good time.
She reopened the CEE window. Identify the sentence error: Illiteracy is an enormous problem. It effects millions of people worldwide and is an impediment to social progress. No error.
She sat there staring at the screen. "What's the difference between effect and affect?"
"Affect is normally a verb and effect is normally a noun."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
He sighed. "What's the context?"
She read him the question.
"It's affect, then." Salander clicked C before moving on to a basic algebra question, Blomkvist getting up to shoulder check.
"Try reading the grammar ones out loud. If a part sounds off, pick it. Works just about every time."
"Thank-" The sound of a Wi-Fi hit off Blomkvist's computer went off at the exact moment the Sex Offender Registry window went down. "What the fuck?"
"Grammar question?"
She shook her head and pointed at the Registry window. "No. It just went on the fritz right when your computer logged on." She back traced to the Svensk Polis page, but it was still in perfect working order and the evidence log had not been compromised.
Salander checked the coordinates. The Wi-Fi address came from the same building as Teleborian, but was registered to a coffee kiosk on the opposite side from the apartment entrance. The Wi-Fi disconnected a minute later, but the person still continued to peruse through the draft of Dag Svensson's article had been piecing together. It completely puzzled her, but with a quick check out the window, she was almost sad that she didn't see smoke rising from the general Östermalm area. It would have been completely justified in Salander's opinion, but perhaps a little too painless.
Within the Sex Offender Registry, there was a group of individuals whose sole jobs were to monitor those who were limited to the confines of their homes. When a flashing alert noted them to a breach of boundaries by Peter Teleborian, it was like being greeted by an old friend. Teleborian was a repeat offender; today was the ninth time since mid-November that the old bastard had wandered outside of his apartment building.
Aaron Jakobson dialed the landline to Teleborian's residence. He didn't feel like sending anyone out unnecessarily and would rather first verify that it had not been one of the technical glitches that had been popping up with the older bracelets. He waited eleven rings before hanging up. Strangely when he pulled up the locator map, Teleborian was supposedly in his kitchen. It completely perplexed Jakobson, but he chose to send out two officers just to check. It was possible that he had wandered off and then came back on the premises. God knows how stir crazy he would get if he were stuck in his own home after five months.
But he was in no rush. He patiently waited another half hour for Anya and Dana to come off of their lunch break. They had consistently been the ones to make these sorts of visits to Teleborian and were well accustomed to his complaints about his supposed rights infringement and chose to ignore him like a champ. He should be thankful that he hadn't been put in jail to await his sentence; Jakobson was certain the others would kill him before his first court date.
Anya and Dana were less than thrilled about being sent out to Òstermalm to check up on the quack-doctor in his posh little penthouse once more. Every single time they did a check, Teleborian would pathetically claim he'd been sleeping or in the shower. They wondered if he thought they bought his little excuses. Anya knocked on the door, listening for the echo of footsteps. When no sound could be heard, she tried the handle of the door. Unlocked. Even Anya didn't think someone so cocksure as Teleborian would leave his front door unlocked.
Drawing her sidearm, Anya inched the door open. The first thing she saw was four neat droplets of oxidized blood on the otherwise immaculate walls.
Bublanski stood in the off the kitchen, staring at the sight before him. Fifty-eight year old Peter Teleborian dangled naked three inches above the floor with an electrical cord for a noose fixed firmly to his neck. His hands and ankles were bound. A large depression on the side of his skull had split open and blood dripped almost theatrically from the wound. However, that was not the worst of the carnage Bublanski could see. Three horizontal slices had been made with a boning knife, his intestines spilling out. He also seemed to have been castrated.
To Bublanski it looked as if he had been strung up and his flailing had done him in when he kicked the bar stool out from under himself. Holmberg had once again skated through the muck, leaving rusty-bronze trails of blood throughout the kitchen. The coroner was wrapping up, holding up a long thermometer for taking liver temperatures.
"Fresh?"
"Very. I think Anya just missed out on him."
Holmberg slipped on a clean pair of booties before following a smaller drip trail further into the penthouse where marble turned to carpeting. Bublanski followed him to what was a decently sized bathroom off of what looked like an office. Holmberg snapped a few quick photos of the blood droplets on the sink and tub before taking several samples. Leading away from the bathroom were soft footprints heading towards the master bedroom. In the laundry hamper was an olive-green jacket and a pair of black jeans that did not belong to a fifty-eight year old man.
Walking through the apartment, Bublanski was beginning to come to terms with the sequence of events. At some point, Teleborian had answered his front door and had in one way or another been overpowered by someone much smaller than him, possibly with some sort of blunt weapon that had depressed his skull. He fell to the floor, dripping blood from his head and was either dragged or crawled down the hall. At that point he must have been incapacitated long enough to be strung up and placed in a sitting position on a bar stool. Then the fun began for whoever had killed him. Teleborian began to struggle and knocked himself off the stool, lynching himself.
Bublanski returned to the kitchen where the coroner was just having Teleborian cut down from the ceiling. On the counter he again noticed the large boning knife. The handle was stainless steel and he could see the many prints the killer had left. Forensics would have a field day, but the abundance of evidence was almost too good to be true. He shrugged the thought off. He would just have to wait and see how all this would turn out.
Modig had just entered the apartment carrying two cups of coffee, pausing at the sight of the disemboweled psychiatrist being placed in a vinyl bag for transport. It was enough for her to calmly place the cups on the counter. Next to it she noticed something peculiar. She called Holmberg out of the bathroom and Bublanski looked over her shoulder.
"What do you make of this?"
Encased in a glob of gore was a single blonde hair.
Holmberg fumbled for a small evidence capsule in his breast pocket. "I see an excellent DNA source."
"Bag the contents of the laundry hamper as well. It looks like the killer had a spare set of clothes and left the bloodied ones here before walking out." He turned to Modig, "What's the time window we're working with?"
"At eleven forty-seven, Teleborian's ankle bracelet went off. When Aaron Jakobson checked the whereabouts of the bracelet Teleborian was in the kitchen but wouldn't answer the phone when Jakobson called in. Officers Anya Byquist and Dana Klassen arrived on scene and found him at twelve twenty-three."
"Call Jakobson and ask him to analyze every step Teleborian took in the last four hours. With any luck we'll get a damn accurate time of death." He turned to Holmber. "Anything out of place, Jerker?"
"Except for the electrical cord used to string him and the kitchen knife everything looks undisturbed. Seeing the way he was found I don't think-"
Modig jumped in. "How was he found?"
Holmberg turned his camera back on, flicking through pictures until he found the right ones. Modig couldn't hide the disgust on her face.
"As I was saying, because of the…condition the body was in, I highly doubt robbery was a motive or even afterthought in this case. I wouldn't be surprised if the ankle bracelet scared the killer off mid shower."
"It makes noise?"
"Very loudly, I might add. It's one of the older ones so it makes sure you know someone is wearing it."
"The building entrance has security cameras. I want the tapes pulled. So far we've established we're looking for a blonde woman, hair hanging at or just below the shoulders wearing an olive green jacket and black jeans." Bublanski turned to Holmberg. "Jerker, if I dismiss you now, how fast can you get me DNA and fingerprints?"
"DNA, two days if I stick it at the front of the line and someone doesn't do the same. Fingerprints I can have processed in a few hours."
"Get to it then."
When Holmberg was out the door with the more vital pieces of evidence, Modig turned to Bublanski. "Second murder in a week. Stockholm is practically falling apart at the seams."
"I know. Forensics still hasn't verified what the explosive components were in the Bellmansgatan bombing. I'm particularly concerned that Blomkvist's laptop wasn't found."
"There is the possibility that he has it with him."
"There is but that's assuming he took his laptop with him wherever he went, which on New Years Eve I highly doubt."
"Bellmansgatan doesn't have a camera in it, does it?"
Bublanski thought long and hard for a minute. "Not the main entrance. I believe the overhead walkway that leads up to the apartment does."
"Call Jerker?"
"Please." Bublanski grabbed his cup of coffee from off the counter before taking the elevator to the first floor. He waved to the security camera before ringing up the landlord.
Jerker Holmberg was the epitome of multitasking. Two hours after leaving the scene, he was parked in front of his computer, clicking through frame-by-frame stills of the Östermalm security camera. On his second screen he was chatting with Jakobson over Teleborian's movement in the hours before he was murdered. The hair found at the scene had just begun its two-day journey through processing.
At ten thirty-three a couple had entered the Linnégatan building. Twenty minutes later a man in a business suit took the back stairs. It wasn't until ten fifty-one that Holmberg saw anything interesting. A woman wearing a beanie with long blond hair walked in, carrying a black Jansport backpack. The tape was black and white, but Holmberg would bet his retirement that her jacket was olive green. She turned around briefly before summoning an elevator and heading up. Her eyes were hidden behind wraparound Oakley's.
Fast-forward forty-seven minutes later, a woman with blonde hair tied in a back ponytail and wearing a dark blue UCLA hoodie could be seen coming out of the elevator carrying a black backpack. This time she was not wearing sunglasses and Holmberg guessed she had blue eyes. She could essential match the description of half the twenty-something women in Sweden. He sent the stills of the woman's face to Bublanski.
Combined with Jakobson's report on Teleborian's positioning and the security tapes, Holmberg narrowed down the estimated TOD to sometime between eleven eleven and eleven twenty-eight. It would have given the killer enough time to make herself presentable before either walking out or being spooked out by Teleborian's bracelet.
Satisfied his security tape work was done, he went to go check up on the fingerprints. A hit had been registered, but the person had come back listed as 'Out of Country.' But Holmberg wasn't the type to give up so easily. He extended the search parameters into the Europol database. It would take longer than Bublanski would like, but in circumstances of the unknown such as this, it was better than empty hands. When a hit came back less than forty-five minutes later though, he was amazed. He wrung up Bublanski.
"Prints got a hit off of an expat."
"Go on."
"In 2003 a misdemeanor charge was filed in Belgium to then twenty-three year old Lieve Petersen. Besides the freaky dark brown eyes, I don't really see much of a resemblance to the security footage." Holmberg squinted at the small license printout. "Height and weight seem pretty accurate, though."
"Great. Listen, I'm driving to Bellmansgatan to check a security tape. Forward myself and Sonja the license photo, then get ahold of the transport authority."
"Aye-aye, Bubble."
Just as the sun began to set, Lieve Petersen stepped into the Rygerfjord Hostel docked along Söder Mälarstrand. For the flash of a Swedish ID registered in the name of Eli Laastad and 450 krona, she was a modest single room on the hostel boat. With a small bottle of dish soap, she slowly stripped away the blonde hair dye she had put in three days prior. It wasn't safe anymore. With a bit of pure acetone the hair extensions were also gone leaving behind auburn, shoulder length hair.
The boat had no Wi-Fi, but she was content to just open up Blomkvist's laptop to skim through the notes for Dag Svensson's book. Teleborian hadn't been included in it, which was a shame. She pulled out the napkin she'd written on at the McDonald's, crossing out the top name. When she was done, she slipped the laptop into the drawer under the bed and made her way to the hostel lounge. She stopped in the doorway outside the hall, the evening news reporting the suspicious death of Dr. Teleborian.
She resisted the urge to laugh. She thought she had made it quite clear what had happened to him. Suddenly her license was on the screen and the urge to laugh was gone. The picture was seven years old, but was still pretty damn accurate. Petersen slowly backed down the hall away from the lounge to her room, rethinking her strategy while in Stockholm.
An hour later, Petersen once again slipped out her room. She'd seen a motorcycle out front with the helmet placed on the handlebars with a balaclava tucked inside. She bet it would still be there. Pulling it out of the helmet, she stuffed it in the pocket of a windbreaker she'd grabbed out of airport lost baggage store at Bromma. In the dark no one would notice her as she walked to the Slussen T-bana.
For once, Salander wasn't waiting for her and she could board in peace.
By five Salander had had enough of Blomkvist's overly helpful nature and slipped out of the apartment with her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. She had discovered the hard way that Blomkvist was a bored eater and had near-snglehandedly emptied the entire fridge. Subsequently, she contemplated the effectiveness of putting a lock on the fridge when she stepped out into the minus two degree weather.
At the junction of Götgatan and Svartensgatan, she turned south towards Greenpeace and Millennium. The code had not been changed and the TV was turned to the evening news.
Christer Malm looked up from his computer as she walked by. "Oh it's you."
Salander paid him no attention as she climbed the stairs to Blomkvist and Berger's shared loft office. His work laptop roared to life when she booted it up along side of her laptop. It took four tries to figure out his password, Pernilla1986. With the five o clock news playing in the background, she took meticulous inventory of what was and wasn't on his work computer. It looked as if he'd done a good job at keeping them both updated, but the work computer had a few more additions to the Dag Svennson book. Most notably, Blomkvist had made quite the list of names and addresses of the offenders that Dag was planning to expose.
She opened up some of the more recent files. On 1/1/2007, Blomkvist created a file labeled C.S. What are you up to Kalle Blomkvist?
There were six documents in total. Three were titles to the Zalachenko properties had inherited. There was an ER report dated for 1997 as well as a student visa denial to the Netherlands. Finally there was a file of twenty-three heavily blacked out pages with the heading Camilla N. Sjölander.
It seemed Kalle Fucking Blomkvist just couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. She wasn't going to let him get away with this. Clicking all of the documents, she sent them to the printer downstairs. When she got home she would be sure to shove each and every paper down his throat.
A chair scraped on the wood floor downstairs, the sound soon followed by footfalls up the loft steps.
"Salander, isn't it?"
She didn't respond, just continuing to click through C.S. Go away.
"There's something on the news concerning Dr. Teleborian that I thought you might be interested in." She looked up at him sharply and he seemed to take a slight step back. When she didn't immediately get up, Malm shrugged and turned around. The back door clicked behind him, leaving Salander alone. She plugged her computer in to start copying his hard drive over before sliding down the bannister to the main room.
Malm had left the TV on, but the news had skipped over to report by a very busty woman about the freakish weather much of Sweden had been experiencing. Salander paid no mind to this either, contenting herself to raid the Millennium fridge, deciding on a green apple. The ticker tape passed by with little information of interest and after a while, Salander almost thought that Malm had been pulling her leg. It wasn't until twenty minutes of sitting in at Malm's empty desk that a report from the Ministry of Justice popped up.
'At approximately twelve thirty this afternoon, a routine check led to the discovery of Dr. Peter Teleborian dead in his apartment. His death has been ruled that of a homicide, but the official cause of death is currently pending.' The prosecutor held up a black and white surveillance camera image. 'This woman has been placed at the scene of the crime and has been identified as 27-year-old Lieve Petersen. The suspect is described as 150 centimeters tall, weighing approximately 50 kilos with dark brown eyes and naturally auburn hair that was last seen dyed blonde. As always it is being advised to contact police if sighted as the suspect has been declared as armed and extremely dangerous.'
The apple core rolled off the tip of her fingers as she watched the report. The conclusion of the press conference was followed by a suspect recap, showing a recent surveillance photo along side of what looked to be either a driver's license or a passport photo.
Teleborian is dead.
A smile spread across her face and she was sure she looked every bit the raving lunatic his 'evaluations' suggested. But that hadn't mattered in months. The tides had been reversed so spectacularly in the last few months. She had gone from incompetent to citizen just as fast as he had gone from revered psychiatrist to reviled pedophile.
Teleborian is dead.
The thought that her longstanding tormentor was more liberating that she could have imagined, but Salander wanted proof. The printer was still chugging along, so she took the opportunity to race up to the loft and skim through the evidence database. Unlike the Bellmansgatan bombing, this case had a treasure-trove of documentation and evidence. And pictures.
The carnage was a macabre cross between Gottfried Vanger's methods of mutilation and Salander's own brand of revenge. His face had been bashed to the point of or near unconsciousness and his abdomen was reduced to a bloody, filleted mess of intestines and gore. The report also claimed that he'd been castrated, but Salander couldn't visually verify with the angle the photos had been taken at. She just wished she hadn't activated his ankle bracelet and let the bastard rot for a few days.
The printer had stopped groaning and Salander went to retrieve the file printout that was immediately shoved into her laptop bag. She looked at Blomkvist's and shoved it in along with hers. It wasn't something planned, but if it kept him out of the fridge and away from her computer, she'd drag his whole fucking office back to Fiskargatan with her.
Sometime after seven, Blomkvist could hear the sounds of a struggle as the door to Fiskargatan opened.
"No, no, NO!" Something dark suddenly zipped by Blomkvist's leg. "Fuck." Salander slammed the door behind her with a booted foot, chasing after the damn cat as fast as she could carry a 20-pound laptop bag and several boxes.
Blomkvist walked up and grabbed the top box, a 12 pack of beer. He eyed it. "Sapporo?"
Salander dropped the boxes on the kitchen island, opening one of the smaller boxes and offering it to him. "Cat bait." In it was an assortment of about twenty different varieties of sushi from Mizamoto's down the street. Blomkvist was completely dumbfounded; he'd rarely seen Salander eat anything that didn't involve microwaving. She turned her back to him, rattling through the kitchen drawers for a churchkey before carrying a box and two more beers off to the living room.
The cat was curled up in the warm spot Blomkvist had left when Salander sat down on the extreme left of it. She didn't know whose cat it was, but it had somehow managed to follow her up most of Svartensgatan and slip through the front door to Fiskargatan. The cat reminded her of the one in Hedestad, up until Martin Fucking Vanger butchered it and stuck its head on her saddle.
The cat eyed Blomkvist's box as he plopped down in the center of the couch. Salander took note but said nothing, turning the TV on. The news was just finishing, but the press conference was being recapped. Blomkvist frowned at the screen.
"Is all this in celebration of that?" He motioned to the TV.
"Partially." Blomkvist expected no less from her.
"And the other part?"
Salander shrugged, setting her empty bottle on the coffee table with a clunk that sent the cat skittering off towards the master bedroom. It wasn't until another beer later that the cat began t inch closer and closer to the box, seeing as its primary owner had significantly lowered her defenses. Blomkvist watched the staring competition that ensued, thoroughly amused.
The cat lowered its head experimentally to the box. There were three pieces left and Salander didn't feel like finishing them off.
She shoved the box towards the cat, popping open another bottle of beer. "Fine, you win."
After a while of just staring at the TV blankly, Salander stood and walked into the kitchen, opening up her laptop. No new hits. Salander wasn't accustomed to the degree of helplessness that this case presented. Whoever had demoed the apartment was obviously not an amateur at this type of shit. She wracked her slightly muddled brain. Maybe she was dealing with an organization? A ragtag group of the Section that hadn't been shut down?
She didn't feel that was likely. No doubt that some stragglers from the Section had survived, but Salander doubted they'd have any interest in Dag Svennson's book on sex trafficking. It seemed that Dag Svennson's book was the key. Nothing else held the bastard's attention longer than the book.
She scratched absently at one of her newer tattoos, unbuttoning the collar of her shirt slightly to relieve some of the irritation it was causing as she read through some of the more frequently viewed files on Blomkvist's laptop. She placed several monitors on those specific files, mostly involving civil servants and police members paying for the services of under aged girls. Sick fuck.
Salander left the half empty bottle on the counter before dragging her laptop and its bag into the living room. The cat was nowhere to be found when she dropped down on the couch next to Blomkvist.
Blomkvist watched intently as she hammered away on the computer and opened a map of greater Stockholm. Like the other few maps on the dining room table, it quickly became a pincushion with each and every hit being meticulously plotted. The sleeve of her shirt sagged slightly, the collar opening just enough for him to see yet another new tattoo with a very aggravated appearance.
"Where do you normally get your tattoos done?" His hand wandered to the opened collar of her Henley, fingers gently skimming the slightly raised edges of the tiny 0's and 1's that dotted her shoulder.
"Church of Steel."
"Are they sanitary?"
Lisbeth's head snapped up, hatred suddenly burning in her eyes, but Blomkvist did not retract his hand, a peculiar look spreading across his face.
'Do you know that your obsessive body modifications can lead HIV and Hepatitis?'
"Yes.'
'Then you won't have any problems if I forbid you as your guardian from getting anymore piercings or tattoos, now will you?
She looked at Blomkvist, her rage dying down instantly. Blomkvist wasn't Bjurman. There were no ulterior motives to his words and his eyes were filled with quiet concern. Lisbeth hated it.
A hand waved in her face. "Lisbeth?"
"It's just a mild reaction. It'll be gone in another week." Her gaze was planted firmly on the floor.
Blomkvist didn't look convinced, but changed the subject. It was always futile to argue. "What is the tattoo of?"
Something you would never understand. She shrugged before pulling the shirt over her head, revealing a faded black tank and an intricate binary coded wasp that extended all the way down to her elbow. It had taken months for her artist to create an adequate form for the tattoo, but when it was finished it was truly one of a kind.
"I get the wasp, but what does the binary stand for?" His fingers skimmed the outer edges of the wasp's jaws.
She gave him a lopsided smile, but said nothing as she got up and walked to the master, pushing the cat off her pillow. She'd kick it out in the morning.
This is the binary code: 01001100 01100001 01110111 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101100 01101001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01100010 01110111 01100101 01100010 01110011 00101100 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101001 01100011 01101000 00100000 01101101 01100001 01111001 00100000 01100011 01100001 01110100 01100011 01101000 00100000 01110011 01101101 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100110 01101100 01101001 01100101 01110011 00101100 00100000 01100010 01110101 01110100 00100000 01101100 01100101 01110100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 01110000 01110011 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01101000 01101111 01110010 01101110 01100101 01110100 01110011 00100000 01100010 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01110010 01101111 01110101 01100111 01101000 00101110.
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