by Inger Wolf
It was also a way to establish a type of security, she thought. In many ways, she was comfortable with that, and she sensed that Jacob felt the same way. In the end, it was their shared values and sense of humor that bound them together.
Practically speaking, there was a big question mark, however. Jacob still had his job and life and apartment in Copenhagen, while she had the same in Århus. One of them would have to sacrifice if they were going to build something permanent together. And they both had a job they loved. Jacob with MCI, the Mobile Crime Investigation Unit, and Lisa in Department A. Lisa had also been conscious of her fertility curve sloping downward for a number of years. In other words, her nesting hormones were buzzing around inside; even a Pampers commercial could make her perk up. Most of her girlfriends had children several years old, and a few of the daughters were even teenagers. Menstruating, potential birth-giving females who could very well crank out a few kids before she did, which would shove her up a notch into potential grandmotherdom at the tender age of thirty-five. It didn't exactly make her feel young. Jacob, a practical man, was not going even to discuss children as long as they weren’t living together.
She went into the bathroom, pulled off her socks, and threw them in the dirty clothes basket under the table. She stuck a foot into the lambskin slipper on the bathroom scales. Her apartment on Frederiksgade, conveniently close to the station, was old, and the floor was cold all year round. Suddenly, she felt something tickling her toe, and she screamed and kicked the slipper off. When she leaned over to take a look, an enormous spider crawled out and shot across the bathroom floor. Lisa screamed again and ran out of the bathroom.
"Fuck it," Flossy said from its perch. Thanks to Nanna, Lisa's seventeen-year-old niece, the bird had an amazing vocabulary of vulgarity.
"You can say that again," she said. She stroked the bird's green feathers. The bird liked that. She sat down on the sofa and scraped out some of yesterday's popcorn from a bowl. While waiting for Jacob, she ran the day’s events over in her mind.
Lukas seemed to have been a normal, happy boy, with no problems at school. Nothing pointed to sexual abuse inside or outside the home, nor was there any sign of it in connection with his killing, yet Lisa couldn't shake the thought that it was involved. She emptied her glass and leaned her head back on the soft pillows. Maybe she could catch a few winks before Jacob made it back.
* * *
She started when the front door slammed. She'd only been asleep a moment, dreaming about something disturbing. Several fluttering, colorful images just beyond her grasp now. For some reason, her grandfather hovered in her thoughts. She checked her watch. A quarter to twelve. Surely, it didn't take that long for two orders of Chinese? Nevertheless, he was holding a plastic sack from their usual supplier.
"Where have you been?" She realized at once that she sounded like an interrogator.
"At the station. Copenhagen heard I was over here, and they put me on the case. A few others are coming tomorrow morning."
Lisa sat up. He looked cute with snow in his short, spiky blond hair, but he seemed pensive, oddly distant. An expression she'd never seen before, one that worried her; had talking about the case at the station bothered him so much?
"Who did you talk to?"
"Daniel."
"Can't you just stick around here forever?" She smiled, yet she had the feeling there was something he wasn't telling her.
"Agersund doesn't want us working together," he reminded her. "One of us would have to transfer to another department. Do you want to?"
"No. Or maybe I might think about it."
"But you want food, right?"
"Yes."
"And me?"
"Yeah, that too."
He smiled slyly and set the sack on the kitchen counter. "So, what do you want most, me or the Chinese?"
"How about both?"
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her carefully. "We just have to decide in what order."
* * *
Suddenly, Lisa was wide awake. They'd made love and eaten, and she'd fallen asleep on the couch while he watched The Jackal on TV. She'd had the same dream as earlier that evening. This time, though, she managed to hold onto the images. The grayish-blue grandfather clock belonging to Jonna Riise, the teacher they'd spoken with the day before at Skellegården. Her living room closed in on Lisa; the clock ticked noisily. Her stomach froze; something about that clock filled her with dread. Jacob was sleeping beside her; the TV spat out a series of commercials. She tried to recall someone else with a similar clock, but no one came to mind. Her grandparents had owned a grandfather clock, but it was brown with red trim. Though, in some ways, it resembled Riise's. Could it be a fragment in her unconscious, triggering the memory of her grandfather, who'd been lying in the living room when he died from lung cancer? Possibly, but that didn't feel quite right. She shivered and snuggled in next to Jacob.
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday, January 7
After a five-minute drive, they were a half kilometer south of Mårslet. They'd driven up a small gravel driveway to an old three-winged farmhouse. The local constable's old gray Toyota spun to a stop in front of the small red residential wing, his back wheels churning out gravel from underneath the snow. The sun shone for a moment, presenting the idyllic scene in front of them. The snow reflected the sunlight, and for a moment, Trokic took in the warmth and the world of light piercing his eyes.
"Looks like the snowplow doesn't make it all the way out here," he said after he stepped out of the car. His sneakers immediately found a drift and disappeared. Cold snow fell into his socks. He should have dressed for tramping around in the country. Or at least for the winter weather. Like the tall, gray-haired constable, who wore a heavy green down coat, military boots, a knitted scarf, and gloves.
"Tom and Bente Jensen live here with their three kids," Olesen said. "I called them earlier, they said they wouldn't be home, they’re at a silver anniversary party, but they said go ahead, take a look around."
"What now?" Trokic asked. He tried to kick as much snow out of his sneakers as possible.
"Come on around back; I'll show you."
Trokic followed him, trudging through the snow and across the parking lot, behind a white-washed barn with a mossy roof. He smelled what he thought was cowshit, though he wasn't sure. It came from a steaming manure pile thirty meters to his left. Chains rattled and hooves scraped inside the barn. Trokic hoped they weren't going in there. When he was eight, on a school trip to the country, he'd been bitten by a black and white mottled cow, and ever since his enthusiasm for four-legged farm animals had been microscopic. It hadn't helped when the farmer accused him of imagining it. Cows don't bite, he'd said. Ever. But that cow had.
The silence was broken by a sudden snort.
"What kind of animals do they have?"
"A few horses and cows."
"What color are the cows?"
"Black and white, far as I remember." The constable stared oddly at him. "But they're only Tom's hobby. Let’s go out back."
* * *
Behind the stable lay several fields and the scattered remains of a building surrounded by tall trees. A few withered leaves rattled in the breeze. Trokic gazed out at the bleak landscape; for a moment it reminded him of the charred ruins in Krajina, the repulsive destructiveness of it. But this wasn't war. In spite of all the snowdrifts, you could see the foundation, some old rusty equipment, and several charred wooden posts–more charcoal than wood.
"This here’s what's left of Tom's barn," Olesen said. "It burned down a month and a half ago. It's one of the four fires we've had the past six months. The latest one."
"And the others?"
"A playhouse, a scooter, and a shed. In that order. This here's the only big building that's been hit."
Trokic felt the snow melting in his shoes. One of the black and white creatures behind him started bellowing. "You think it's arson?"
"I do. I'm sure it is. We've never ha
d anything like this in all my time around here. That's why I requested help in investigating this case. But then nobody thought it was a paragraph 180; nobody's life had been in danger, and the barn wasn't worth much, so nobody felt it was worth the man-hours it would take to investigate. I had to drop it."
Trokic crossed the bleak field to the barn twenty meters away. It was burned to the ground; there was no other way to put it. Olesen trudged along behind him.
"And there's no chance it was the kids out playing with fire in Daddy's hay? That might not be something you want to admit. Then there's the question of insurance."
"They were gone that weekend, the whole family. It wasn't them."
"Okay. You have any idea what time of day the fire was set?"
Olesen picked up a piece of charred wood out of the snow and studied it a moment. Shiny black, a half meter long. Part of a stud, Trokic guessed.
"All the fires were set in the daytime or early evening when nobody was home. While they were all in school and at work. So whoever did it knew they weren’t home."
"And there wasn’t anyone else who could help some way?"
"Well, seeing as the National Police's fire experts were unavailable, I had a few firemen come out and take a look at the barn here one afternoon. I thought they might have an idea how the fire was set. These guys have seen a thing or two in their time."
"Did they find anything?"
Olesen shook his head and pulled up the collar of his coat. "No, but they both did say it was probably started there where that little bit of the barn's still standing, where they stored hay, and if it was dry, it wouldn't take much to get the fire going. And when fire takes hold of an old piece of crap like this, it's gone before you know it."
"Playhouse, scooter, shed, barn. A bigger target every time, with one exception. You don't happen to know anyone here in town who likes to play with matches?"
"I checked that out first thing, if there were any pyromaniacs registered or just out of prison, but no such luck."
"Usually, arson covers up some other crime or vandalism," Trokic pointed out. "Especially by kids who are bored or just want to harass somebody. But because of this case with Lukas, we need to take these fires seriously. It's too bad they weren't investigated; it leaves us without any forensic evidence that might have helped."
"Yeah, I'm not the only one who’s pointed that out. The press has been talking about it lately, so maybe the next time there's a fire, we can get it investigated."
They gazed in silence a few moments at what was left of the barn. The constable kicked another charred post. Trokic glanced around the area. He had very little experience with arsonists, but he imagined they weren't particularly smart. And they probably drank while setting fires, and loved all the commotion they caused. "So the paper wrote about the fires?"
"Yeah, it’s been mentioned several times in the Stiften, why?"
"If it is a pyromaniac, maybe watching is half the pleasure for him. Watching it get put out, and then reading about it the paper."
Suddenly, as if he’d just thought of something, he fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. He held the pack out to Olesen, who shook his head.
"If there's another fire," Trokic said, "make sure you're there when the firemen come. The arsonist might still be around. Meanwhile, I want a copy of all your reports on the fires."
"You got it."
Trokic's phone rang.
"Someone here wants to speak to you. He's from Lukas's club." Lisa sounded fresh as a daisy. Maybe, like Trokic, she was happy that Jacob had been assigned to the case. Too bad Agersund wouldn’t let them work together. Trokic didn't see any problems with it.
"Can't any of you talk to him?"
"No, he specifically asked for you."
He sighed. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Ask him to wait."
He hung up and turned to the constable. "You think there might be more fires we don't know about that haven't been reported?"
"It's not impossible. Fires in trash cans, dumpsters, places where people get rid of their trash. A lot of people might think somebody emptied an ashtray with a cigarette still burning or something. Just a harmless accident. And people remember when they read in the paper about a fire getting started out of carelessness, or a short-circuit in an appliance, things like that."
"Lukas was close to a fire, at least we know that, and since it can't be any of the fires you've mentioned, there must be one we haven't heard about yet. The question is, where the hell is it?"
Chapter Twenty
Agersund knocked on the door to Lisa's office. He looked beat. One eye was a bit off-center and bloodshot, and he'd nicked himself in two places while shaving. But his blue shirt was ironed, and it almost looked okay with his brown pants.
"You wanted to talk about Amsterdam?"
"Yes." Quickly, she gauged her boss as he closed the door behind him. He’d already put on his friendly face, a mask that disguised a firm determination. Her hopes took a dive. Three months earlier, when he told her about the seminar, she'd been thrilled. An introductory course for European police in criminology and profiling. Two days, two sessions each day, in Amsterdam. It was meant to lay the groundwork for a possible longer course. The seminar would be led by two former FBI employees from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. In other words, a trip to the fascinating Dutch capital to learn something. In her mind, she'd jumped for joy; she could already see herself in the middle of an important international event. Not to mention all the shopping she could do in that intriguing city.
But now, the situation was different. She'd fought for her position in the Homicide Department, scuffled with the same zeal as a sparrow among blackbirds at a bird feeder. She didn't want to risk her career getting sidetracked.
She watched as Agersund waved the papers in his big hand. The seminar papers.
"I don't think it's smart to send me to Amsterdam right in the middle of the Lukas Mørk investigation."
Agersund put on a fatherly expression followed by a weak smile. He folded his hands over the papers. "I understand you don't want to leave right now. It's extremely unfortunate, too. But I want you to go anyway. I was going to talk to you about it yesterday, but then we got busy."
She stared at him with a mixture of skepticism and disbelief, then she threw her gum in the trash and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. She had to come up with some argument, something to convince him. "But why me? Can't you send someone else?"
"To be eligible, you need at least three years' experience in a criminal division, plus some experience in vice. So I called them up a while back and talked to them about what the seminar would cover. It's not for the faint of heart. You don't have much experience with homicide crime scenes, but not many of the others here do either. And you're used to working with sex crimes, photographic material, you notice details. You’re number one on my list. Of course, I considered Trokic, but you know him, he hates hearing about psychology and putting things in boxes and all that. Plus, I need him here to head up the investigation."
"To tell you the truth, I feel about the same as Trokic, that profiling is a bit controversial. I mean, whether or not the FBI profiles are really useful, it's not a sure thing."
"In my opinion, they're valuable. Otherwise, they wouldn't use them. Don't you have any coffee in here?"
Lisa turned and found a cup on a shelf and filled it up for him. Then she opened her drawer and brought out a few cubes of sugar. You learned a thing or two with time. Like how the boss is a sugar fiend, and it's best to have everything ready for him.
She waited until he started downing his coffeed sugar. "From what I understand, their profiling has only led to one arrest in all the time they've used it. And several times it might even have led them off the scent."
"I think you're simplifying things a little too much. It's not an either-or thing."
"But don't you remember the Boston Strangler case in the 60s? I read about that one. A
whole panel of psychiatrists announced they were after two killers, not one, and one of them was homosexual, both of them were teachers. They assumed the sexuality of the killers was damaged by a traumatic childhood, with an absent father and a domineering mother. And it turned out to be a single killer, a man who worked construction, and he was straight, married, and had two kids. When he was growing up, his father had been domineering and his mother weak. It couldn't have been more wrong. And can we even use it in Denmark?"
Agersund smiled. "That was long before profiling became more of a science. It's more history than anything."
He took a sip of coffee and studied his nails. Clean nails, almost embarrassingly so. "All right, listen. In the first place, nobody expects you to come back and be able to piece together a precise profile every time somebody gets killed. I'm just interested in being up on what's happening internationally in this area. And I trust your ability to sort through the information and use what's helpful and toss the rest. In the second place, I've already paid for it. And I mean paid, more than I want to think about. You're going, and that's it."
He leaned back in his chair and eyed her. "The FBI has, in fact, also conducted a lot of studies on several of their abundant supply of killers. And no matter which way you look at it, it's given them considerable insight into how these sick people think. Maybe it won't lead us straight to a killer every time, but it might help us focus on what to look for. You're going to be glad I sent you. Trust me."
Lisa fired a last shot, even though she knew it was hopeless. "Yes, but with all due respect, even that's something you have to be careful with."
Agersund threw the pile of brochures on the desk in front of her. "Don't be so prejudiced against the Americans. You'll find what you can use."
She couldn't help thinking there was something behind all this. Agersund constantly griped about their razor-thin budget and things like the prices of lab examinations. And their computers were close to becoming museum pieces. They had to fight for every little purchase. And a seminar like this had to cost a fortune, not to mention travel expenses and hotel. What was it exactly he expected from her?
