by Inger Wolf
"What's he like?"
"Christoffer? Very thoughtful. Very intelligent. Very ambitious. Sort of a rebel."
Her face softened as she spoke about her little brother.
Lisa took the color photo out of Trokic's hand and studied the missing researcher. There was something hippie-like about him. Someone you might see on a beach in the evening with a surfboard, standing around a campfire. Not a person she would have connected with laboratories and scientists. His hair was longish and medium-blond, his blue eyes smiled as he flirted with the camera. He wore an armband, the type used at festivals and outdoor concerts. There was something wild about him. A damn handsome man, she thought.
"I have to ask you," Trokic said, "do you think he's capable of a crime like this?"
Elise Holm stared at him in disbelief, as if he'd just placed a Martian on the table in front of her. "No way."
The two officers looked at each other. "Okay," Lisa said, "but do you have any idea why he didn't return after the conference?"
The woman shook her head. "His work took him there once in a while, of course, and some of his old schoolmates and colleagues live over there. But other than that, he had no ties."
"Do you know what the conference in Montréal was about?"
"Only that it was a big event, he was so much looking forward to it. He was going to present his book."
Lisa perked up, brushed a stray lock off her pale face. "The report didn't mention that. What's the book?"
"It's called The Chemical Zone."
"I thought I'd seen his name before. Anna Kiehl had the book." She turned to Trokic. "The book her friend brought back Saturday evening and stuck in her mailbox. It's about psychopharmaceuticals, right?"
Elise nodded again. "That was partly what he was going to talk about over there. He's very much conflicted with regards to the use of antidepressants in psychiatric treatment. On the one hand, he has the results of research, his own and that of others around the world—"
"Research at the hospital?"
"Yes, precisely. On the other hand, he's worried about it, the side effects, the long-term effects. His book deals with the two sides of the issue. He tried to present the results of his research and the latest knowledge, both pro and con, in layman's terms."
Lisa checked her watch and showed it to Trokic. "Meeting at one o'clock." They were supposed to go through the initial results from the forensic pathologist.
"I know. Just one last thing." He glanced at his notepad. "Since he does research in such things, have you ever heard him mention a pharmaceutical company called Procticon?"
The woman shook her head. "Not that I can recall."
Trokic downed the rest of his coffee, stuck a chocolate cookie in his pocket (Lisa noticed that and gave him a dirty look), and asked Elise Holm to contact them if she heard from her brother or if she thought of anything else. She followed them outside.
"Will you tell him to call me if you hear from him? It seems to me the police generally aren't good at keeping people informed. I had a break-in last weekend, and I've heard nothing about it. In fact, it was strange, nothing was taken. Maybe that's why they don't seem to care about it."
"They do care, definitely," Lisa said. "But right now, there's a lot going on. And, of course, we'll let you know if we hear from your brother."
"Tell him to call me."
"We will. This is a beautiful place you have here. Do you breed horses?"
"Yes. I have about twenty at the moment. It's not a good business, though. Christoffer likes to come out here once in a while. We ride for most of the day." She smiled to herself.
Trokic sped up as they entered the entrance ramp to the freeway. He was happy to be back behind the wheel. "We didn't get much out of her."
"Maybe we should focus more on finding Tony Hansen. There's something about him, I just know it."
Trokic stepped on it. He was frustrated; they were all working their asses off, and they had to set priorities. At the same time, a decree sent down from on high proclaimed that all their overtime had to be used in time off before the end of the year. An absolutely insane decision that made any planning impossible. "Can you search for Christoffer Holm's name in what's been deleted on her computer?"
"Of course. I'll do it the second I get back to her computer."
"There's not a whole lot more we can do right now."
His phone vibrated, danced around between the two front seats. "Grab that, would you?"
She listened for a moment then laid the phone back down. "Agersund. He wants to know where the hell we are and to remember about the meeting. We're ready to reconstruct her last day."
Chapter Nineteen
One more person squeezed his way into the office, and Jasper had to sit on the floor to make room. Trokic caught sight of an officer in his mid-thirties and broke into a big smile—the first time Lisa had seen that happen. She guessed he was from MCI.
"Zdravo! Jacob!" He laid the autopsy report down on the table. "Haven't seen you for several months. When was it?"
The blond man, Detective Jacob Hvid, seemed reserved, perhaps even shy, as he came over and gave Trokic a friendly clap on the shoulder. He wore light jeans and a white hoodie. The number "12" was printed on the front. Streetwear.
"Agersund brought me in. It must be three or four months ago. You probably don't remember because you're repressing how I totally destroyed you in chess."
Hvid had spent the morning familiarizing himself with the case by going over all the documents, talking to Jasper and the techs, and visiting the crime scene. "I suppose you've already thought about the ritual angle? The forest, the hemlock, the way the body was arranged. A beautiful place. This country is filled with crazies, Satanists, God knows what other kinds of alternative lifeforms."
He leaned forward. "We were over in Sweden last spring, Gothenburg, they had a bizarre homicide too. They nabbed the killer in June. Absolute psychotic. He'd sacrificed a young woman to Ydun. You know, the Nordic goddess of youth. Besides cutting her open from head to toe, he stuffed an apple in her mouth to give her eternal youth. He thought he was doing her a favor, if you—"
"Not to disagree with you," Lisa said, smiling at him cautiously. "But all this symbolism could be a smokescreen for something much more ordinary. And we have a suspect who's been sentenced for—"
"Have we looked at this ritual angle?" Agersund said, eying Trokic. "And have you checked everything out, the psychiatric wards, paroles and so on?"
"Give us more bodies and we'll check Mars out too," Trokic said, defensive now. "We found a symbol written in her calendar; it could have some connection with a religion. So, yeah, a ritual might be involved, but it's hard to tell. The victim worked with tribal societies in Central Africa. What I mean is…it could mean anything. Christoffer Holm is much more interesting, in my opinion."
"Let me take a look at it," Jacob said. "Maybe I've seen it before; I know most of the new religions like the back of my hand."
"I'll make sure you get a copy," Trokic said. He clapped him on the shoulder. Lisa couldn't help but stare at him; for a moment, she'd seen an entirely different side of the man. A side capable of being truly happy.
"Great to see you," Trokic added.
Jacob smiled. "Same here."
Trokic wrote some things on the large whiteboard, and gradually, from the information supplied by the pathologist and techs, they began to get a grip on Anna's background and where she'd been the last day of her life.
She was twenty-seven and had grown up in the city with both of her parents. Her childhood had apparently been normal, and she'd been politically active as a teenager, left-wing. Had behaved like most teenagers. After high school, she enrolled in the Institute of Anthropology and Ethnology. There she met her first boyfriend, Poul, and they had a child, Peter. The relationship quickly fell apart, and Poul moved out. She'd adapted smoothly to her new status as a single mom and alternated between work and studies.
Her relationship wit
h her parents became strained, and they seldom saw each other, especially after the parents moved farther away. Many of her friends and acquaintances lived across the country because of their education, and only a few were up to date on what she was doing.
People found her reserved at first, but usually, she opened up relatively quickly. No one had anything bad to say about her work ethic. She was a good mother who spent a lot of time with her son. And whenever possible, she took him to work with her. Even at the university. Several people mentioned her sunny disposition and that she loved practical jokes. No one had seen or heard much from her lately, and when they did, she was short with them and seemed a bit blue.
It had been difficult to track her exact movements on the last day of her life. Apparently, it had been quite normal. She and her son had been seen late that morning at a playground about half a kilometer from home; Anna had said hello to two people from her apartment building, a woman and her daughter. A receipt found in her kitchen drawer showed that she'd bought milk at a gas station kiosk at eleven thirty-four.
They were back home by one because Anna had called her mother and apologized for a minor argument the evening before. After that, according to her mother, she presumably wrote an article for an anthropological publication. The pathologist reported that her last meal was lasagna and ice cream and that she had eaten around six. Peter had been put to bed immediately after.
At around seven, she left the apartment to run. It hadn't been possible to determine precisely which trails she took, but she was killed on the west side of Ørneredevej, relatively deep into the forest. She'd been defiled—the semen—and her throat had been cut from behind with one quick stroke. Or vice versa. They weren't sure about the sequence. She had died immediately.
The techs had determined that she'd been dragged through the forest immediately after, leaving a trail of blood to where she was found.
Agersund slammed his pen down on the desk. "What about the kid?"
"What about him?" Trokic narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe we should let one of the girls have a go at him, see if we can get something. If someone's been in the apartment—"
"Listen, the psychologist and the doctor both say no to pressuring him to talk. He's nearly catatonic, and the doctor can't say what might happen. They both say we have to wait."
"Can't they be overruled?"
Trokic's stomach felt heavy as lead. "He's only three years old, he's just lost his mother, doesn't even know his father. His grandparents say he hasn't said a word since he walked inside their door."
"You can't be serious," Lisa added.
Agersund squirmed. "But what if—"
"If you want that child questioned, you'll have to fucking do it yourself and take the consequences," Trokic said.
The silence was awkward. "Okay, okay," their boss finally said.
It was dark by the time Trokic drove home through the city. It was like a journey through his past, when he was a cop on a beat, where split lips, vomit, vulgarity, and lousy explanations were all part of the drunken mosaic of his workday. The low moaning in public bathrooms, used needles lying around, broken mirrors, hashish dens. A forest of buildings, symmetry, and chaos that shielded the degradation he'd lived around most of his life.
The city seemed jittery now. The meeting that afternoon nagged at him. Something didn't jibe, and what had gone on in the apartment, who had the stoned neighbor seen so late that night? And how did the researcher, Christoffer Holm, fit into the picture?
Chapter Twenty
Finally, Lisa was back at Anna Kiehl's computer, after satisfying Agersund's appetite for reports and answering phone calls. Finally, she thought. She turned on the computer and started up the recovery program. Christoffer Holm's name hadn't been mentioned in any of the emails she'd already found, but they'd been a couple, and surely he was there somewhere. She typed his name in and waited. Four results. The first one:
From: “Christoffer”
Subject:
Date: Fri, 18 Jun 14:22:46
Roman>
style=3D’font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:Times Roman> Yes, you're right. But
what the hell should I do. There's no time for
this.
Roman>
style=3D’font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:Times Roman’> Call you tomorrow,
okay?
*********** End of Cluster ***********
It could be about anything. For now, it wasn't important. She clicked on the next result, which only showed his address surrounded by code. She had no idea where it came from. On to the next one. Another email. No date. This had more substance to it. What she got out of it was: "Don't think any more about it. I'll take care of it. I bitterly regret even considering it. But now I have to get myself out of it. If this goes on, I'll have to get a new phone number. Let's just forget about it for now. See you later. Hugs, Christoffer"
She stared at the words, trying to imagine what had made him think about changing his phone number. It had to be something significant. Was someone harassing him?
She clicked on the final result. No date there either. "Yeah, it's no problem. I'll take it over to Elise. It's not because I don't want to leave it with you—I just think it's so stupid. I'll pick you up later. Did I tell you that brochures have been printed for the book? They look fantastic. I'm looking forward to taking them along to the conference.
Again, no context. She needed more. It just didn't make sense. She clicked her tongue in annoyance and turned on the printer to print the results out. She racked her brain to find other ways of getting more out of the computer; there had to be fragments she couldn't locate because the To/From had been overwritten. If she had some keywords.
Jasper came in and plopped down on the chair beside her. "I've been thinking, how hard is it to do what you're doing here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Mmm, well, the thing is, a few weeks ago, I sold my old laptop to a student."
"Not very many people know you can even do this. But if you do know about it, it's not all that hard."
"It's an IT student."
She snorted. "Then I hope you don't have anything too indecent for anyone to see. And that the guy you sold it to isn't all that curious," she added, teasing him now.
The young officer blushed. "But I reformatted the hard drive. No one can find anything, can they?"
"That depends on how curious he is. Reformatting a drive isn't enough. The only thing you're really doing is telling the system that you're not using these data areas anymore, that it's okay to overwrite them. It's not actually deleting the data."
"So, what should I have done?"
"Well, unless you wanted to use a magnet or a big hammer on the hard drive, you should have gotten some of the serious programs that delete data."
"That's a little too much."
"Yeah. He probably won't look at it. Luckily, there aren't many people who want to bother with things like that. You have to know what you're looking for, too. Like in this situation. You don't have any ideas about words for a search, do you?"
"Try Montréal. Or The Chemical Zone. Or Procticon."
She typed all that into the search bar and clicked on it. "Nada. Damn."
"Not everyone is so into email."
"I suppose…"
"How about ducking out for a beer?"
Lisa closed the computer and sighed. "Yeah, what the heck. Maybe alcohol can get my brain cells functioning."
Chapter Twenty-One
A few days ago, he'd seen an advertisement hanging at the Central Station for a cell phone. Three-foot high red letters—Get a Life. He'd felt offended, strangely so. If a "life" meant some existence outside working hours, then he sure as hell
didn't have one. Though he didn't regret it. And so what if it really was the pleasure of solving a criminal sudoku that got him out of bed every morning? It was enough for him. Now, he was home at eight-thirty, though, with enough time to digest the day's information while having a bite to eat. He opened the refrigerator door with high expectations. White shelves stared back at him. Empty shelves except for two cans of beer and a chunk of Turkish sausage. He'd been sure there was garlic lamb left over from Friday, but now he remembered eating the last of it for lunch yesterday. After a moment, he grabbed the sausage and a frying pan to sauté it in. Tomorrow, he'd ask Jacob if he wanted to come over for a decent goulash one of these days. Though he enjoyed being alone, he was pleased to have guests, too. There were two sides to the solitude he'd chosen for himself. He needed a place to sort things out, but he had yet to meet the woman who understood that. They quickly became jealous of where he chose to retreat, and they wanted either to be a part of that place—which he found intimidating—or to get him away from it. Neither of the two options had a happy ending. And yet, once in a while, the house felt empty. He pulled out a Joe Satriani CD; the power chords in a live version of “Time” rattled the walls. He imagined he could hear the space around the guitar. He smiled to himself. It felt like standing in the ocean and letting a wave ram into him.
Five minutes later, he was ready for a limited coffee-table meal of Turkish sausage with ketchup and a slice of bread, together with a stack of papers he'd brought home.
Milan. He was the reason Trokic had transferred to the Criminal Investigations Department. He and his little brother, Mirko, had been friends with Milan, a carpenter who'd lived in an old house down the street. When Trokic began visiting Croatia as a teenager, the three of them had hung out together, with an eye for the same girls. None of them could have predicted what Milan was hiding, least of all Trokic. When Mirko had a car accident, it was Milan who spent the most time with him at the hospital, entertaining him, bringing him books. And Milan had made sure that Mirko's car was repaired and ready to go when he left the hospital. It was important to Trokic, who was in Denmark at the time, that Milan was there. He was a favorite with all of Trokic's family because of his generosity and willingness to help as a carpenter. But then came the war, and Milan wanted to serve his country, Croatia, even though he'd never shown any animosity to Serbs or interest in politics. They'd simply never talked about it when they were together.
