“You could say that. I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I . . . I’m not qualified . . . am I? . . . I’m not a detective. I’m not a shrink. I studied to be a teacher . . . not a psychologist or a psychiatrist . . . or a detective like you.”
Sohlberg’s had never felt as frustrated by a suspect’s answers. It was time to throw her another curve ball to keep her off balance. He shrugged and said:
“Fru Haugen . . . you are not trained as a psychologist . . . psychiatrist . . . or detective. But you are trained as a teacher. Is that why you taught Karl Haugen sign language?”
For the second time Sohlberg saw a dark and sharp look of worry or anger cross the soft almost chubby peaches-and-cream complected face of Agnes Haugen.
Her silence triggered another Sohlberg inquiry. “Fru Haugen . . . why did you teach sign language to a boy who was not deaf or hearing impaired?”
“My husband and I thought it would be a good learning experience that would prepare Karl for school . . . and increase his learning capacity. Some parents have their children learn music at an early age for the same reasons. We just happened to pick sign language.”
Sohlberg had finally caught her in a lie. Gunnar Haugen and everyone else had e-mails and other documents showing that Agnes Haugen was the only person who had decided to teach sign language to Karl. The lie would be useful in a prosecution. Therefore Sohlberg did not ask the follow-up question that he desperately wanted to ask Agnes Haugen as to whether she had in fact taught sign language to her stepson so that they could communicate in secret without anyone else knowing what she was telling the boy.
Sohlberg stared at Agnes Haugen. He switched his line of questioning back to the timeline to keep her off balance. “Fru Haugen . . . let’s go back to the timeline for your whereabouts on June fourth. . . . Exactly where did you go from twelve-twenty when you left the gym to two o’clock when your husband saw you in the house after he came back from buying his lunch?”
“From twelve-twenty to two o’clock? . . . I’m sure that I was driving around . . . trying to get my baby to sleep.”
The clever evasion irked Sohlberg. “You’re sure you were driving around? . . . I need you to be more than sure.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
Sohlberg wondered if she meant that was the best she could do as far as lying and misleading. The double meaning of her response was not lost on Sohlberg. He frowned and said:
“Fru Haugen . . . where did you drive around?”
“I don’t remember. It was all a blur that day. I just drove around to calm down my baby daughter.”
“Your husband says that he’s never ever seen you driving around to calm the baby or get the baby to sleep.”
“He doesn’t know much . . . he’s too busy . . . too wrapped up in his work to notice these things at home. He manages a large department at Nokia. . . . By the way . . . have you asked my husband where he was at that time?”
“We have . . . it turns out that several closed circuit cameras caught him not just buying his lunch that day but also driving to and from the store.”
“I’m sure Detective that you will find plenty of video evidence that will show exactly where I was during those one-and-a-half hours if you work hard at it . . . and treat me just like my husband.”
“Rest assured I will . . . but first you must tell me where you went around driving . . . did you go to downtown Oslo? . . . Or downtown Lillehammer? . . . Did you drive in the city or a small town . . . or into a rural area . . . maybe Lake Bogstad?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Maybe you drove north a couple of hundred miles to Trondheim?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or maybe you drove down south a couple of hundred miles towards Copenhagen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or did you drive a couple of hundred miles out to Stockholm?”
“I don’t know.”
“Alright. But don’t say that I didn’t try to help you Fru Haugen.”
“How? . . . How would you help me?”
“I gave you a chance . . . to give me the information that would send your husband to prison. But you decided to play coy with me. You thought I’d come running after your lies and half-truths if you dangled some small piece of information in front of me. Big mistake.”
“Big nothing. . . . I saw that you Mister Big Detective had already made up your mind. There was nothing I could say. I know your type. You’re the kind of man that makes people lie . . . you ask questions that you know will get lies for answers.”
“You should’ve tried telling the truth for once Fru Haugen.”
“I know men like you . . . you manipulate women with your questions . . . your innuendos.”
“You have anything else to say?”
“No. Not to you. Ever.”
“Fine. Stand up Fru Haugen. You are under arrest. Constable Wangelin . . . please handcuff her.”
Three hours later at 12 Hammersborggata Chief Inspector Sohlberg and Constable Wangelin sat down in an interview room with a much more subdued Agnes Haugen.
Like most middle class suspects Agnes Haugen had been humbled if not humiliated by the fingerprinting and the mug shots and the obligatory strip search and the regulation jumpsuit. At Sohlberg’s instructions the guards kept him informed of all of the abuse and insults and taunts and threats of hardened ex-con female prisoners who wanted a piece of the woman arrested for kidnaping the little boy Karl Haugen.
Sohlberg studied Agnes Haugen as gently and carefully as a man inspects a rattlesnake at close range.
“What do you want?” said Agnes Haugen with contempt. “I told you Mister Detective that I would never tell you anything about the case. Never. I want my lawyer.”
“Fru Haugen . . . I’m not here to ask you questions or listen to you. You are here to listen and listen good to what I’m going to say.”
“I want my lawyer.”
“He’s on his way. But first you will hear me out.”
Agnes Haugen crossed her arms and hummed a ditty.
“Fru Haugen . . . you made several mistakes . . . mistakes that will defeat your ultimate plan of framing your husband for your criminal acts . . . which include the kidnaping and murder of Karl Haugen.”
“You’re a disgusting imbecile . . . a moron with a badge.”
“Maybe. But you brilliantly planned the kidnaping and murder of that innocent little boy months if not years in advance. Your problem was choosing the wrong accomplice.”
Chapter 15/Femten
INTERROGATION OF OLAV TVIET AND
INTERROGATION OF DANICA KNUTSEN,
AFTERNOON OF 1 YEAR AND 28 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY, FRIDAY, JUNE 4
Everyone on the top floor of 12 Hammersborggata felt the frenzied activity that was typical of a major case drawing to a close. Sohlberg sent out five teams of two detectives each to gather evidence at the Haugen residence and at the school and at the condominium of Danica Knutsen. A harried and exhausted Wangelin coordinated the incoming and outgoing telephone calls and text messages. A secretary ordered sandwiches and beer.
“Ah . . . perfect,” said Sohlberg as he picked up four egg salad sandwiches from a tray of gargantuan open-faced sandwiches that older Norwegians favor. “I miss these sandwiches. I can’t think of many other countries where they make open-faced sandwiches. Aren’t you having any?”
Wangelin smiled and shook her head. “I’m having a salad.”
Sohlberg felt old and old-fashioned upon realizing that Wangelin and the younger detectives had ordered salad bowls from a nearby health food store. “I should’ve had a salad like you.”
Sohlberg and Wangelin ate silently together in his cubicle office. He devoured his four sandwiches in less than 10 minutes but he did not touch the beer.
Wangelin twice started to say something but she immediately stopped herself. Sohlberg felt that she wanted to ask him why he never drank a
ny alcohol—an oddity for a senior detective. Or perhaps she wanted to warn him of the increased risk of heart attack from his four egg salad sandwiches. Either way Sohlberg felt more than ever like the proverbial odd fish out of water in his own country. He looked forward to returning to America with Fru Sohlberg.
A few minutes after two o’clock Sohlberg and Wangelin took the elevator down to the third floor to interview 43-year-old Olav Tveit. The man had called headquarters the day before and insisted on speaking with the detective in charge of the Karl Haugen case.
Unlike other detectives who ignored or turned away potential witnesses Sohlberg was always accessible to talk with anyone who wanted to discuss a case with him. Of course this led to many bizarre interviews with unhinged citizens who claimed to be psychics or that aliens from outer space had committed certain crimes. Sohlberg had nevertheless gleaned many valuable tips and evidence from walk-in interviews.
The modestly dressed man shambled into the room with a defeated and sad air. He reminded Sohlberg of drastically diminished men who retain the smidgen of dignity that is just enough to avoid suicide or a murderous rampage. Wangelin made the obligatory introductions and legal statements after turning on the video and microphones.
“I’m here,” said Olav Tveit, “because I should have told you . . . about some information . . . I had it a year ago when you people were investigating the Karl Haugen case. I don’t know why I withheld it . . . I was unemployed . . . depressed . . . I wasn’t thinking straight . . . I needed time to think about everything that had happened.”
“What information?” said Sohlberg. He tried not to sound too excited about the proffered information.
“I dated Danica Knutsen for three years . . . we met at the gym . . . she used to be full of energy . . . she was mostly vegetarian and ran marathons and used to compete in iron-man contests with fifty miles of swimming and running and bicycling.
“She was smart . . . full of curiosity about the world . . . and very very honest. But about eighteen or maybe nineteen months ago . . . her personality completely changed after she lost her job as a receptionist at a downtown law firm.
“She bragged that she’d get a job in two weeks . . . of course that never happened. I mean . . . who over age forty finds a good job in today’s economy? . . . After three weeks she went on unemployment . . . she grew obsessed over finding ways to get the most welfare benefits . . . she soon refused to leave her apartment . . . or look for a job . . . or keep her diet . . . or do any exercise.”
Although Wangelin appeared bored Sohlberg certainly was not. The information fit perfectly with the background check on Danica Knutsen and the resulting psychological profile that Sohlberg had drawn up for the woman that he felt was the key to solving the case. Sohlberg nodded and said:
“Would it be fair to say that she was depressed?”
“Yes! . . . By all means. She started making poor decisions.”
“Like what?” said Sohlberg who moved closer to the edge of his seat.
“She quit taking classes at a cooking school . . . she was preparing for a new career. I joined the same school after I lost my reporter job in a round of layoffs at Aftenposten about the same time that she lost her job.
“We needed to get new careers that would pay decent salaries. I was stunned when she quit. I reminded her that the school guaranteed placement at a good job . . . I begged her to come back to school but she would not.”
Sohlberg felt sympathy for the man before him. He wondered what he would do if he was unemployed and struggling to find a new career. A chill went down Sohlberg’s spine—he realized that he could never work at anything other than as a police detective.
“Thank you Herr Tveit,” said Sohlberg with genuine gratitude, “for sharing this information. . . . Every detail no matter how seemingly trivial is important. Anything else?”
“Danica seemed obsessed with living in extremes . . . she went from a strict vegetarian to round-the-clock overeating on ice cream and cakes. . . . She used to exercise all day long and spend a lot of time running marathons and then suddenly she does nothing all day long except sit in front of the television for weeks and weeks. . . . Or she’d get involved in projects that only wasted her time and energy . . . projects that would never help her find a new job or get a new career started.
“I lent her a lot of money that I badly needed myself . . . I asked her not to but she went ahead and she ran and got elected to the unpaid position of president at her condominium association where she wasted forty or more hours each week on stupid squabbles and trivial decisions. . . .
“She then decided she’d become an organic gardener even though she doesn’t own any land and has no funds to rent or buy any land on which to grow organic produce. . . . She refused to get any old job to pay me back my loans . . . instead she took this unpaid internship . . . it required her to work more than forty hours a week at an organic farm . . . the internship was basically unpaid slave labor at the organic farm.”
“What organic farm?”
“Anabel’s Organic Farm . . . owned by that restaurant chef who’s on television . . . she writes all those organic food cookbooks . . . the farm’s out near Lake Bogstad . . . just west of Holmenkollen.”
Sohlberg nodded. The farm was less than two miles from Karl’s school and it had come up in the background investigation that Sohlberg had ordered of Danica Knutsen. Earlier that day at five in the morning Sohlberg had dispatched a team of detectives and crime scene investigators and a canine unit to the organic farm to gather evidence and search for Karl’s body.
“Did she mention anything else about the organic farm Herr Tveit?”
“Not really.”
“What did she tell you about Agnes Haugen?”
“Well that’s the strange thing. She never mentioned Agnes while we were together those three years . . . even though it now seems that those two are very very good friends according to what I’ve read in the newspapers . . . I was stunned when I read that Danica had literally moved in to live full-time at the Haugen residence for fifty-two days after Karl Haugen’s disappearance.”
“She never mentioned Agnes Haugen?. . . Think carefully before you answer.”
Olav Tveit frowned and then said:
“Maybe once or twice after she first met Agnes Haugen at the gym . . . that was a month or so after Danica and I started dating.”
“What did Frøken Knutsen say?”
“Just that she had met this redhead at the gym who worked out a lot and wanted to be a world champion bodybuilder. She also mentioned that Agnes Haugen had ridiculously large breast implants. We laughed about that quite a bit since a lot of the men at the gym used to ogle at Agnes working out in very tight t-shirts.”
“Did they see each other socially outside of the gym?”
“No. At least not the first couple of years after they met. But they got much closer when Danica lost her job . . . that’s when I noticed changes to Danica’s personality and outlook . . . all of the sudden she hated men . . . men were controlling good-for-nothing abusers of women.
“Danica went around repeating whatever Agnes spouted . . . like saying that women should stick it to men and make sure men suffer for dominating women. I’m pretty sure that Agnes tried getting Danica to think she was a lesbian or bi-sexual or at the very least that she has lesbian tendencies that she needs to explore.”
“Do you think that Agnes and Danica had an affair or physical relationship?”
“I . . . I . . . I’m not sure. I don’t think so.
“I saw right through Agnes’s brainwashing campaign. I warned Danica when I found out that Agnes had taken Danica to lesbian bars and left her with lesbian magazines and feminist books.
“I was amazed at how quickly Danica started repeating and believing a lot of poisonous garbage that Agnes planted inside her head. I think that Agnes Haugen played on Danica’s insecurities and Danica’s need to be loved unconditionally now that she started losing her athl
etic looks.”
Sohlberg nodded and wondered when was the last time that he had come across someone as manipulative and cunning as Agnes Haugen.
Olav Tveit shook his head and moaned. “Agnes Haugen destroyed my relationship with Danica.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I was forced out of a very good relationship with Danica soon after Agnes got close to Danica. You see . . . we had even spoken of marriage. That became impossible when Danica told me she was not going to pay back my loan.”
“Why not?”
“Because Agnes told her that I should’ve gotten the loan down in writing . . . and that since I did not do that then it meant that I intended to give her the money as a gift. In other words . . . I tricked Danica into believing it was a gift and that now I’d be able to force her to do whatever I wanted by claiming the gift was a loan.”
Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries) Page 24
