The Butterfly House

by Katrine Engberg

  “You said you were more scared now than you were when you were being strangled.” She stroked his cheek with a tender fingertip. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Did I say that?” Jeppe was struggling to keep his eyes open and tried hard to focus on her. “I guess I was just babbling. Let’s go to bed. It’s finally over.”

  * * *

  MARIE BIRCH ZIGZAGGED across Sankt Annæ Square between flowerbeds, wet benches, and bicycles. The streetlamps cast their light on the asphalt making the parked cars look like overgrown LEGO blocks in metallic grays and blacks. At the front door she looked to both sides before she rang the discreet doorbell and was buzzed in. She had dressed for the occasion as best she could and looked, she hoped, more like a privileged, rebellious high school student than a homeless person.

  The door to the clinic was locked, so she knocked, and he answered right away. She was expected. Still, his face tightened when he saw her standing in the doorway.

  “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

  “Yeah, you would have liked that. You’re not getting off that easily I’m afraid.”

  Peter Demant stepped aside and closed the door behind her after a long look into the empty stairwell. Marie strolled through the empty reception area into his office and hopped up onto his glossy desk, her legs dangling. He came in, his eyes like a panther circling its prey, dignified, intense, and cautious.

  “Most people would have asked me long ago why I wanted to meet. But I guess you don’t have to? You know why we’re here, that there can only be one reason.”

  He stopped a few yards away from her. She could almost see his brain cells spinning. How much did she know?

  Marie smiled at him assertively to show that the answer was everything.

  “What do you want? Money?” He spoke through his teeth, his dark gaze still focused intently on her. Marie wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Do I look like someone who’s interested in money, Peter? All I want is justice, honesty, for things to come out into the open. That’s the only chance Isak and I have of a future. You should just be happy that you still have a life to hold on to.”

  Peter took a couple of steps toward the window behind the desk, ending up diagonally behind Marie. She resisted the temptation to turn around, refusing to show that she was afraid of him.

  “Regardless of who killed Rita and the others,” he said, speaking slowly and tentatively, “the individual in question must be deeply disturbed.”

  “Yes, he must be sick in the head. Sad that he wasn’t helped in time. Don’t you agree with me? What is your professional evaluation?” She could sense his confusion as a mass of quivering energy he radiated without being aware of it.

  “I’m sure the killer will be examined mentally by the police’s expert psychologists and will probably turn out to be—”

  “Oh yeah, right: the murderer was a psychopath. Like always. Then he should be medicated, right?” Marie calmly turned to face Peter, who was standing by the display cases with the dead butterflies. “Which medication would you give him?”

  He stood frozen for several seconds. Then he shook his head.

  “I don’t understand what this conversation is about. And honestly I’m getting a little tired of it.…”

  “Oh, really?” Marie smiled in fake empathy. “Well, let me try to explain: I’m here to ask why you used us, the four residents at Butterfly House, for your medical experiment.”

  “Cut it out, Marie. I have never, ever—”

  She stopped his protest with a look of disapproval that made it clear she wasn’t taking any of his bullshit.

  “Was it the money? What do you get for unofficially testing new antipsychotics that aren’t approved yet? A million kroner? Two? Ten? Not ringing any bells yet?”

  His face revealed nothing.

  “The worst part is that you, of all people, understand what you’ve done. Gambled with the lives of four young people. You observed and cataloged our hallucinations and psychoses as if we were lab rats.” Marie scrunched up her eyes. “Pernille couldn’t take it. The medicine was what made her kill herself. You pushed her over the edge.”

  “You think I conducted experiments on you guys for some chump change? Do you have any idea how much money I make?”

  “No, I’m sure you’re right, the money wasn’t the main appeal. You probably viewed it as a part of your research. If you want to be the psychiatrist who cracks the code and finds a drug to treat self-injurious behavior, then you would also have to find out what the negative consequences are, experiment with the side effects. Blow on the sick flame that burns inside us, who aren’t normal.” She put the last word in air quotes. “Because you really want to be the one who solves the mystery, right? You want to be famous.”

  Peter held up both hands.

  “You’re clearly still blending imagination and reality. I can only recommend, strongly, that you get treatment as soon as possible.”

  Marie hopped down from the desk and walked over to him.

  “Do you want to hear something really funny: for a long time I thought Isak was the one who had gone too far that night at Butterfly House. I was scared that he had killed Kim.”

  She heard Peter inhale and hold his breath in, not quite a gasp, but almost.

  “Yes, it’s shocking, I know. Luckily it’s also wrong. Isak didn’t kill Kim.” She raised her hand and pointed her index finger straight at him. “You did!”

  His face didn’t change, but she knew that he never displayed anything he didn’t want to, never let down his guard.

  “Isak knew it. He saw you guys argue that night and heard Kim’s threats about reporting you to the Patient Safety Authority and ruining your reputation. He saw you holding Kim’s head under until he wasn’t breathing anymore. But he knew that no one would believe him.”

  Peter cocked his head to the side. He was making ready for the therapist talk.

  “Marie, I’m genuinely sorry to see that you still suffer from delusions. The years on the streets have not been good for your sense of reality.”

  “Save me your crap, Peter,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know there’s no way to prove it, but it’s still true. We both know that. I only regret that the fountain killer didn’t get to you before they arrested him.”

  “Isak would have made a great courtroom witness,” Peter scoffed snidely.

  “Luckily he doesn’t have to.”

  The sharp light from the streetlight outside the window hit Peter diagonally from behind, making his dark eyes recede right into his skull.

  “What do you mean?”

  It was her turn to smile.

  “Those digital journals, which your sweet receptionist put online for you so you can see them from home and do your research. So clever! The results of your tests, notes about adverse events and side effects. But, dear Peter, anything that’s online can be hacked, no matter how password protected or encrypted it is. I have a good friend who lives underground, literally, and he accessed the whole thing.”

  Peter’s eyes glowed in the dark.

  Marie turned her back on him and started to leave. In the doorway she turned around.

  “The files were sent a few minutes ago as PDFs to the police, the Patient Safety Authority, and all the daily papers in the country. I suspect that there will be aspects of the treatment you gave Kenny, Isak, and me—and especially Pernille—that will be hard for you to explain. Maybe I can’t get you thrown in the slammer for Kim’s murder, but I might be able to put an end to your career, your precious career.”

  She held up her two middle fingers to the dark silhouette by the window.

  “Nice butterflies, by the way.”

  Then she went back out into the rain.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14

  CHAPTER 26

  The ampoules lay in plastic boxes, next to disposable syringes, sterile wipes, and sharps containers. Analgesics, betablockers, and diuretics, all properly sealed in clear bags and
cardboard boxes. Saturday morning at a little past seven, Trine Bremen stood in front of the unlocked medication cupboard in the cardiac arrhythmia ward, zoning out.

  Her shift was supposed to have been over at 11:00 p.m., but someone had called in sick at the last minute and had forced her to work the whole night shift, too. She looked at her watch; she had been at work for almost sixteen hours now. Her feet were aching and her neck was stiff. Trine gathered up the ampoules she needed into the pocket of her white scrubs, yawned, and locked the cupboard behind her.

  The head-scarfed cleaning lady pushed her cart down the hallway and Trine skirted around her with the medicine clenched in her sweaty hand hidden in her pocket. In the staff restroom she filled the disposable syringe, drawing three ampoules of ajmaline up, then flicking it to make sure there were no air bubbles. Not that it mattered. She unlocked the door with the syringe hidden in her pocket, full and ready.

  In front of room eight she cast a discreet glance in both directions before pushing the door open and stepping into the darkness. She approached the bed, watching the old man, who was sleeping on his back with his mouth slightly open. Gray, wrinkled, and wizened, his body had long since served its purpose. Now it was just a vessel for a tired, troubled soul longing to be set free. Trine could see it in his eyes. She carefully lifted the syringe out of her pocket and connected it to the patient’s central line.

  He moved slightly, as if his sleeping conscience sensed her presence. Trine patted him tenderly on the hand. Then she pushed the plunger to the bottom.

  She tucked the syringe into the waistband of her trousers while she curiously regarded the sleeping man. The seconds ticked away, she counted seven, and then finally something happened. The patient gasped for air and grabbed his chest, his forehead instantly beading over with sweat. His eyes were still closed, and he seemed to go straight from sleeping to unconscious. Trine watched him. After the first minute the survival rate dropped at a rate of about 7 to 100 percent per minute. She didn’t want it to be too easy. Not until he showed the first bluish signs of cyanosis did she activate the code alarm.

  When her colleagues pushed open the door to the room, Trine was already performing CPR on the patient, working hard, flushed and zealous.

  “Cardiac arrest!” she yelled. “We need the defibrillator and the meds from the crash cart now!”

  “Step away from the patient!” Dr. Dyring’s normally friendly voice hit her like a whiplash. A second later she was shoved aside by Jette and two other coworkers who clustered around the bed in a flurry of activity.

  “It’s my alarm,” Trine protested. “I found the patient.…”

  An orderly grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the hallway. The door to the room closed, and Trine stood alone with the alarm ringing in her ears. She had been thrown out.

  Her mind sprinted in an attempt to comprehend what had just happened. It couldn’t be her skills they were questioning.

  Trine quickly walked down the hall to the staff bathroom and locked herself in. She pulled the disposable syringe out of the waistband of her pants, wrapped it in toilet paper and tossed the bundle into the bottom of the trash can. Then she went back toward room eight.

  The door was still closed.

  She walked past it, forcing herself to count ten paces, and then turn around. Walked past it again, alternating between rage and fear.

  Detached yells could be heard through the door. Trine stayed put.

  The door to room eight opened, and a nurse came out. Her lips were drawn tight and she walked past Trine without seeing her.

  “Is he okay?”

  The question hung in the air, unanswered. Well, that crossed the line! Not even answering.

  Dr. Dyring emerged from the room and stopped in front of Trine. He looked down at his hands, which he was rubbing with hand sanitizer.

  “Trine, could you please join me in my office. Right away.”

  “Did he survive? Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on?” The unfair treatment stuck in Trine’s throat, making her voice tremble.

  The doctor regarded her with the face of a disappointed teacher and started down the hall. Trine resisted the urge to smash something heavy into the back of his old, bald head and followed him to his cool, impersonal office.

  “I think we’d better sit down.”

  The doctor looked like he might be coming down with something. The skin on his face resembled day-old sushi that had lost its color and shine. The situation was clearly extremely unpleasant to him.

  “We lost the patient. He couldn’t be saved.”

  Trine’s chin fell to her chest and she sighed unhappily. Shook her head to show how difficult this bad news was to understand.

  “You shouldn’t have thrown me out. I could have saved him. Why did you throw me out?”

  “We’ve been keeping a bit of an eye on you,” he said, clearing his throat ominously. “There has been a noticeable uptick in these types of cardiac arrests while you’ve been on duty. Did you know that?”

  “Is it Jette who’s spreading rumors about me?”

  “It’s irrelevant who—”

  “I knew that bitch was going around saying bad things behind my back. She has wanted to get rid of me from day one, but that she would stoop so low as to accuse me of…” Trine couldn’t hold back the sob that crumpled up her face like a child’s. “I’m taking this to the nurses’ union! This is workplace harassment.”

  That made him waver; it was obvious. He was about to say something, but caught himself, weighing his words. Before he had a chance to speak, there was a knock on the door and Jette walked in.

  “Got a hit, it was in the trash can in the bathroom.” Jette tossed the disposable syringe and the empty ampoules onto Dr. Dyring’s desk.

  Trine instinctively reached for them, but Jette’s gloved hand stopped her.

  “Best not to touch.”

  Trine pulled back, folding her arms across her chest and looking sourly to the side as Jette peeled off her gloves.

  “Ajmaline, fifty milligrams times three. The syringe is still wet. I suggest we call the police.”

  The doctor watched her without responding and a moment arose there in the office, a withheld breath, where time became elastic and hyperreal, like in the seconds before a diver hits the water. It occurred to Trine that this was a hole in reality, and that she could stand up and disappear before everything went back to normal, run down the hallway, light as a feather, flying, sailing over the worn linoleum, past beds and somber fates, out into the world, away. She almost managed to stand, preparing to set off, when the doctor spoke and the sand in the hourglass began to flow again.

  “Do you know anything about these ampoules?”

  “No!” Trine shook her head. “I have no idea where those are from.”

  “I hope you understand that we’re going to have to suspend you. The police will need to decide what happens from here. Please remain seated here until they arrive. Jette, will you stay and keep Trine company until then?” Dr. Dyring stood up. “Unfortunately I need to go contact the next of kin.”

  He looked pained, eyeing Trine for a very long time, as if she was supposed to be able to help him.

  Trine returned his gaze unblinking.

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF the key in the lock usually brought Jeppe’s mother to the door, but today she must have been practically waiting to pounce, because when he let himself into the apartment on Nørre Allé, she was standing right behind the door.

  “Fuck!” Jeppe blurted out and then tried to get his heart back where it was supposed to be. “Sorry, Mom, you startled me. Why are you standing there?”

  “Where have you been?”

  Jeppe took off his raincoat and hung it on a hook. Were they really going to do this again?

  “I’m coming from headquarters. We’ve been questioning the murderer who killed three people this week. We found him. The case is closed.”

  His mother pulled her bathrobe tighter
around her neck, as if Jeppe had let in a draft.

  “I mean last night, Jeppe. Where were you? Couldn’t you have called?”

  The morning’s triumph began to wane. But for once Jeppe was fairly well rested. He spotted the dark circles under her eyes and was able to deduce that she, on the other hand, had not slept… because of him.

  That thought made him ill at ease, and he shrugged defeatedly and went to the kitchen to hide it from her. She was equipped with a set of antennae that captured every mood change, and he hadn’t had his breakfast yet—a bad combination that had proven fertile ground for conflict multiple times in the past.

  Jeppe had left Sara’s place early that morning and gone straight to work to question Simon Hartvig. That had been pretty horrible on its own. Simon confessed briefly, but refused to answer any questions and now stood accused of triple homicide plus attempted homicide. His confession was supported by the technical evidence and the autopsy results: The scarificator had his fingerprints on it and traces of several different blood types. There were rain gear and rain boots in his staff locker at Ward U8 that also tested positive in the crime scene investigators’ blood tests. And in his apartment they found a large collection of antique medical devices. They had their guy.

  Jeppe had been patted on the back by his colleagues and praised by the superintendent, who magnanimously urged him to go home and enjoy the weekend. Now his mother’s attempts to make him feel guilty threatened to overshadow the rosy-fingered dawn.

  “I need something to eat,” Jeppe said, cutting himself a slice of bread. He filled the electric kettle and poured instant coffee into two cups. “Have a seat, Mom, please.”

  She sat down and graciously accepted the cup of coffee he placed in front of her.

  “What’s all this about?” he asked.

  “I just think you could have—”

  “Mom, I’m a grown man, who moved away from home more than twenty years ago.” He placed his hand over hers. “You don’t need to know where I’m sleeping, even if I’m borrowing your guest room at the moment. You call me eight times a day.…” Jeppe drank some coffee and worked to suppress the irritation that was growing with every word he said. “You know this doesn’t work, Mom. What’s wrong?”