by Inger Wolf
"Could Jonna Riise have been the age of the girl in your photos? Let me see them."
He pointed at her laptop. She started it up, opened the container, and pushed it over to him.
"You know this material isn't supposed to leave the station, right?"
She nodded and put on a guilty face.
"All right, let's see it."
"You're not going to enjoy this." She clapped her thigh to invite Pjuske up on her lap. The cat looked at her blankly and hopped up in the windowsill.
"I didn't enjoy seeing Lukas Mørk, either. And I really don't want to see more like him."
* * *
They didn't speak while he viewed the photos. Lisa wondered about him again. Whatever he felt as he went through the frightening material, he showed no sign of it bothering him.
After a few minutes, she said, "Could it be Jonna Riise? I can't really tell."
"It's not impossible. The girl's hair is blonde. Lighter than Jonna's, if I remember right. But the quality of the photos isn't great, and most people's hair darkens with age."
"You can read it in the report, but the photos came from pedophiles caught thirty-two years ago," she explained. "Things were different back then; everything went slower. It was before the internet’s three A's, anonymity, acceptance, and access. Pedophiles had a harder time finding others with the same interests. But the police did sniff out a group of twenty people from several countries in Europe. They met up and exchanged photos, or mailed them to each other. No Danes were arrested, but they suspected the photos came from here."
"But if it has something to do with our case, what does it mean?" Trokic said. "If Jonna Riise's parents produced child pornography, of course we'll try to charge them, but what’s the connection with Lukas? There's no sign of sexual abuse or any sexual motive."
"Maybe the people who took the photos are still active; maybe they kidnapped Lukas with that in mind, but something went wrong. There's something else too. I talked to my old boss just before I came over; he mentioned new photos in circulation that resemble these. I'll have a look at them, but he says the resemblance is striking. Either the same people took them, or we have a copycat."
"Where do they come from?"
She told him about the couple in Odense. Trokic frowned and patted his head.
"Not a bad theory," he said, "but the Riise parents moved out of the country. We can track them down, but they're old now, old old. And what about the fires and Lukas's burns? I can't see how it all fits together. And if Lukas has been photographed, will anyone distribute them? Wouldn't it be too risky? The boy’s photo is in all the papers."
Lisa bit a broken fingernail off. "That's true. Even pedophiles have a type of conscience, if you can call it that. In fact, some of them don't want to abuse children; they live in celibacy, and a lot of them stick to child pornography and never actually force a child. I'm sure most of them don't want anything to do with photos of a child who was killed afterward. Money plays a big part in all this, or at least the photos’ trade value. They're not worth much if they can't be sold in volume."
"So, let's go back out there." Trokic pushed the laptop over to her. "I want to compare the two clocks. And if they are identical, she'll have to explain where she got it."
"We have to be discreet," Lisa said. "If she picks up on what this is about, we're going to have to find out how she's involved. So she doesn't say anything to the wrong people. Important evidence could disappear in no time."
"We'll go out there now; you get to do the talking."
"But it's…" She looked at her watch.
"Are you doing anything?"
"No, but–"
He repeated one of his favorite lines. "Maybe you have a life, but I don't."
Chapter Forty-Five
Jonna Riise had apparently been correcting school papers; a neat pile of Danish essays lay on the table, and she wore square reading glasses and was holding a black felt pen in her hand. The room was as tidy as before, and the two oldest kids sat on the sofa, watching some sort of reality TV program. Lisa guessed the youngest daughter had been put to bed, given the late hour. Jonna shut off the TV, but the two boys showed no sign of leaving the room. Lisa wanted to turn and take a good look at the grandfather clock, but that would stick out. Instead, she studied Jonna: was she the girl in the photo? It wasn't impossible.
* * *
"How's the investigation going?" Jonna asked after they all sat down.
"Could we speak in private?" Lisa said.
She had agreed to do most of the talking since Trokic felt the interview required a certain level of cunning. He relaxed in his chair and tried to look friendly.
"Mathias and Frederick, would you please go to your room?" Jonna said.
The two boys looked sorely disappointed as they trudged off.
"We're here because we found out you're the sister of a boy who died under suspicious circumstances a long time ago. Is that correct?"
If the question surprised Jonna, she hid it well. "Yes, but that was over thirty years ago. And there wasn't anything suspicious about it. Eigil was depressed, and he took his own life. But I really can't see what that has to–"
"When two deaths resemble each other to a certain degree, we have to follow up on it. We spoke to the man who reported your parents. He believed they were responsible for Eigil's death. Do you know anything about that?"
"Is that fool still saying that? Gabriel is completely unreliable; just look at his record."
"We have. We're just interested in hearing your opinion. Your parents live in Spain now, right?"
Lisa was surprised when Jonna began sniffling, and soon big teardrops began falling, leaving broad streaks in her makeup.
"Yes, they live close to Malaga. Now listen, I've had to live with this business about Eigil my entire life. I can't at all see where you're going with this. As far as Gabriel is concerned, he's an absolutely disgusting man. And he still lives around here; it wouldn't surprise me one bit if he's responsible for Lukas's death."
"The man can't get around without a walker," Trokic pointed out.
"He what?" She laid her head back and laughed. "I saw him outside the supermarket yesterday. Without a walker. And he had no trouble walking to his car and getting inside and driving away."
They all let that hang in the air for a moment.
"We'll look into that, of course," Trokic said. "In the meantime…would you tell us again what you were doing the afternoon Lukas disappeared? That was Thursday, January 4, between two and six in the afternoon."
She stopped crying and stared at Trokic in amazement. Lisa did the same. Did he believe she had something to do with the killing?
"So what, now I'm a suspect? Shouldn't you be asking Gabriel Jensen instead? I guess I'm lucky, I can tell you what I was doing most of the time. I did student evaluations in the teachers’ lounge at school until three, that's in Malling, then I drove over to visit my friend Christine, she lives on Guldsmedsgade. We bought invitations for Frederick's confirmation. I told you all this."
"Guldsmedsgade in Århus?" Lisa said.
"Of course. There is no Guldsmedsgade here in Mårslet."
"What time did you show up at your friend's place?"
"About three thirty. I know she can confirm it. She'd just got home from work herself. Later, we had a cup of coffee at Cross Café, and then I came home. I got back about six; all the kids were home. Then the three of them helped look for Lukas, as you've been told."
She leaned back in the sofa with a hint of a satisfied smile and looked deliberately at
Lisa, then at Trokic. Lisa didn't care for that. No doubt her friend would be able to confirm her alibi, but something about this woman's aloof arrogance struck her as forced. She needed to ask about the grandfather clock, but it had to seem like an innocent question. She decided to take a friendlier approach.
"So, you'll be holding a confirmation soon? I can imagine there's a lot of planning involved."
"
A lot, and I have to keep it secret from him, too. Luckily, he's with Thomas every afternoon. But that means everything has to be just like at Thomas's. And that's expensive."
"And Thomas is?"
"Frederick's classmate. His best friend. His parents are lawyers. They have an enormous house on the other side of town, worth six million." She seemed proud that her son was in with the right crowd.
Lisa tried to sound sympathetic. "I'm sure that's how it is at that age; kids don't want to be on the outside. You have a lot of old furniture around, I see. Old family pieces?"
"Most of them, yes."
"My grandparents had a clock like that one over there. We got a really nice price for it."
Now, she had a good excuse to turn and study the grandfather clock. She already had a mental picture of its shape, the gray-blue color, the gold painted lines. The Roman numerals and embellishments. The more she stared at it, the more she believed it was the same clock.
"It might be worth quite a bit, but luckily, I don't need to sell it for the time being. I inherited it from my mother; it has sentimental value."
She smiled broadly. If she was the girl in the photo, would she be so loyal to her parents? And would she cover for them if they were at it again? Lisa caught Trokic's eye as they stood to leave. It was worth thinking about. She recalled him asking about her alibi. Could Jonna be involved in this evil?
Chapter Forty-Six
Wednesday, January 10
The meteorologists had finally predicted a change in the weather. Warmer temperatures with a possibility of sleet and freezing rain. Looks like they're right, Trokic thought the next morning. He virtually risked his life navigating the streets to reach the police station. Everything got a quick coat of ice, including the fallen snow and drifts. A magical world of glass, he thought as he settled in his office and looked out over the city.
In his mind's eye, he still saw the photos Lisa had shown him yesterday. One single glance was enough for him to truly understand why she'd left NITEC. Day after day of studying those photos, searching every pixel in thousands of images to ferret out the illegalities, while also having to reconcile herself to the fact that this evil was spreading–it had to have taken its toll on her.
Trokic knew a little about the mentality of pedophiles, the way they justified themselves. Until recently, Danish pedophiles had maintained a website where, under the cover of freedom of speech, they laid out their arguments. They called it a love of children, and they referred back to history to justify reinstating this "cultural enrichment."
The call came just after he'd poured his first cup of coffee. A woman was gasping for breath; she sounded shaken as she spit out a stream of incoherent sentences.
"Hold on, stop, not so fast. Take it from the start; tell me what this is all about." Trokic set his cup to the side.
The woman sighed heavily, which seemed to calm her down. "My name is Hjørdis Vang Jørgensen. From Mårslet. We read about Lukas in the newspaper, and now my son Stefan, he thinks it has something to do with some older boys who pick on kids here in town. He showed me several video clips on the net and wrote down where you can find them. I looked at them myself to see if he was right. It's a bunch of short videos taken on a phone, somebody hitting young kids."
"Could I speak to Stefan myself?"
He heard some mumbling on the other end for a few seconds, then the voice of a young boy came on. Trokic introduced himself again.
"We need to know a little bit more about the videos your mother says you found. Can you tell us how you found them?"
After a few moments of silence, the boy stammered, "I know some places on the net…I mean, places where people upload videos from their phones…"
Trokic ransacked his memory for some way to relate to this boy's world, but he came up empty. His own childhood in the projects had been tough in its own way, but at least this form of exposure through media hadn't been possible. "What kind of clips are we talking about? Something violent?"
"No, all kinds of stuff. But also some with violence."
The boy spoke faintly, almost in a whisper.
"Like on YouTube?" Trokic said.
"Yeah, but these are from another place called videoglobe.net. It works the same way, though. You send in videos or phone clips, and other people can see them. But then one day, several months ago, I saw there was someone here in town with phone clips."
"But why do you think they're from Mårslet?"
"The third clip I saw, there was a car with a Danish license plate. But then I noticed the face of a kid I've seen before."
"And you didn't tell anyone about it?"
"No. But when I heard about that boy dying, I got to thinking about the clips."
In the background, Trokic heard the mother sniffling. He had a feeling there was more to the story.
"I might as well tell you," Stefan mumbled, as if he didn't at all want to tell Trokic. "We've been talking a lot about doing some crazy things and filming it in school. First, it was just some stunts 'cause somebody saw Jackass, but then–"
In the background, his mother asked what that was.
"It’s a film about these guys who do a bunch of crazy stuff," Stefan said.
"It's an MTV series that was expanded into a few films," Trokic said without knowing whether she could hear him. "About some men who perform some insane stunts. Several kids from around the world have died trying to imitate them. But, okay, go on, Stefan, what else?"
"But then somebody saw this happy slapping on TV," Stefan continued as if he suddenly wanted to get everything out. "Most of us thought it was sick. But then some of us thought it was fun and thought up this idea of how we could film it. It wasn't just with people; there were also animals. And…well, it was like, the more we talked about it, the less creepy it sounded. It…got technical. We talked about how we can get it on the net and get as many people as possible to see it."
Trokic felt like shaking the boy through the phone. To him, happy slapping was a form of extreme pathological self-realization meant to draw people’s attention. A brutal way to breach norms, a threat to everyone's sense of security. Society could exist because people knew that someone on a train or out on a street wouldn't suddenly turn around and beat your head in for no reason. And the only way to stop things like this was to set examples. Unfortunately, happy slapping had progressed from tentative slaps on the face to assaults and even homicide.
Suddenly, despite his warm sweater, he was freezing. Could there be photos of Lukas circulating on the net? If so, he didn't want to see them. The scratch marks on Lukas's neck they'd found during the autopsy had said it all. The boy had fought and suffered. And actually seeing it would be nearly unbearable.
Trokic could barely hide his anger. "If you're involved in this, I hope you'll tell us everything you know. You did the right thing in calling us, but I have a feeling there might be more on your conscience. Where can I find these clips?"
The boy sighed before giving the information to Trokic.
* * *
Stefan ran into his room and slammed the door. He didn't want his mother to see his tears. She'd kept asking questions after he hung up and left it to the friendly-sounding policeman to take care of the video clip. He'd sent an anonymous letter, hoping it was enough. But it hadn't stopped. Several really bad clips had been put out on the net. Variations and improvements, and every time he thought: oh, my God, here it comes. A clip with Lukas.
Then suddenly he realized he was crying because he was relieved. Because he'd done the right thing and never, never again would he hurt that little girl in kindergarten, the one he and Tobias had beat up on while filming it. Not her, or anyone else.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lisa opened the browser and typed in the first of the links on the slip of paper Trokic had given her. Something inside her hoped the boy was wrong. Her throat was dry, and thoughts were flying around in her head. Trokic pulled a chair up beside her at the computer table and set his coffee
cup beside hers. It was a relief to have someone else there. It had been ages since her heart had pounded like it did now; she was scared of what she would find. The fact was, you never knew. You thought you were sure; you thought you'd seen the very, very worst, and then it popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
She looked out the window and saw drops of water sparkling in the dim light from the office. For the first time in over a week, the ice was melting.
"I can't really get used to this brave new world where everything has to be filmed," Trokic said.
"It's nothing new; it's just that there are more opportunities now," Lisa said. "In fact, a large percentage of serial killers take their cameras along when they do their work. That way they can freeze the moment and live it again and again. And it's easier to do, just push a button on their phone, it's in their pocket anyway. We shouldn't be surprised. I mean, the whole world shared photos of Saddam being killed. It's so cynical."
"But there's a difference. This isn't just to immortalize the moment; it's also about sharing it with the world. About achieving recognition. And that's addictive."
Lisa nodded. For once, she agreed with her boss. What happens when an entire generation grows up with reality TV, where notoriety is more important than performance? Where people become famous because of, or at least despite, their negative qualities? She didn't like that trend.
"I really hope this doesn't lead to a clip with Lukas," she confessed. "Just the thought of it being out there."
"Let's see what our fifteen-year-old Stefan has found for us."
She clicked Enter. A website with a media player opened with a clip entitled LetMeIntroduceYou1. She started it, and immediately a well-known face appeared.
* * *
The last clip had ended two minutes ago, about as long as it had taken to play, and neither one of them had said a word. She couldn't shake the chills from watching the short clip. No sound had been recorded, but that didn't lessen the impact. Children being beaten, pushed, their arms twisted. Punched in the face. Even from a distance, the terror on the children's faces was unmistakable.
