“We know from eyewitnesses and circumstantial evidence that Agnes Haugen returned that same day in the afternoon to the dead end at Orreveien where she was seen parking her husband’s white pickup truck . . . she walked into the forest that afternoon from about twelve thirty to one thirty. We also know that at the same time Danica Knutsen . . . having been duped by Agnes Haugen . . . used Agnes Haugen’s cell phone so as to create an electronic alibi for Agnes Haugen.
“Agnes Haugen claimed that she spent most of the morning and early afternoon driving around town to pick up medicines and to calm down her sick baby daughter. Her claim was a half-truth that she used to cause confusion around the fact that she brazenly returned to the pond that afternoon so she could move Karl Haugen’s body to his permanent grave.
“Using previously gathered bark and twigs and leaves Agnes Haugen did a superb job in expertly hiding the boy’s body in the cracked trunk of a fir tree. The crack begins almost three feet above the ground and it measures four feet in length . . . and one foot across . . . with a depth of almost two feet. No one could see the crack.
“Cadaver dogs and canine tracking units were not brought out to sniff the area around the pond because huge areas were already being searched at the time . . . areas where Agnes Haugen sent investigators and search-and-rescue teams on wild goosechases as a result of her false and misleading statements to investigators that her stepson might have gone exploring in those areas when in fact the boy was afraid of being alone or in the woods. She also claimed that the boy may have left school thinking that he’d perhaps meet with his father and explore the woods but the factual record conclusively shows that Gunnar Haugen never had time to go on excursions with his son.”
Gunnar Haugen cast his eyes down in shame and regret.
Thorsen cleared his throat and continued reading out of Sohlberg’s report. “Insects and wild animals and the elements destroyed any evidence that may have been on or in or near Karl Haugen’s body. The exact cause of death will probably never be determined because of the extreme decomposition of the boy’s small body after more than one year in the forest. The forensic team will probably find more bones. The forensic team has already collected one of Karl’s front teeth and a small bone chip probably from his shoulder bone from inside the tree trunk.”
Gunnar Haugen raised his hand and said, “How did you know that my son was in that tree?”
Commissioner Thorsen blushed. “I . . . I . . . I’ll let my assistant Chief Inspector Sohlberg answer. . . .”
“Well,” said Sohlbergh, “from the very beginning I was bothered by the fact that Agnes Haugen forced Karl to study the red-eye tree frog for his science fair project. Why should she care so much about his science fair exhibition?
“I was always curious as to why she forced him to study frogs when he only liked to study icebergs. I was even more curious about the frogs when I observed that everything that Agnes Haugen ever said or did was for one purpose only . . . to benefit her . . . and usually at someone else’s expense.”
“That’s the truth,” said Gunnar Haugen barely above a whisper.
“I also got interested in the area around the pond after I discovered that we had already interviewed a witness . . . an old man . . . who had seen some strange comings and goings by a white pickup truck that matched the one owned by you Herr Haugen. That’s when I decided to focus on that area . . . especially after a Google satellite map search by Constable Wangelin revealed that there was a small pond on Dag Svendsen’s property.”
“Dag? . . . Who?” said a devastated Gunnar Haugen.
“He’s a lonely old man who lives where Orreveien becomes a dead end . . . he saw your wife park your pickup truck there for half an hour at nine in the morning right after the science fair and later that afternoon . . . from about twelve thirty to one forty-five.
“I went to visit Herr Svendsen the day after we arrested you Herr Haugen. I spent two hours with the old man. We spoke about everything under the sun and that long talk turned out to be critical. He informed me that the pond is surrounded by a lot of trees that have split or cracked trunks. Herr Svendsen made the off-hand comment that children like to hide in the ‘kid caves’ . . . as he calls the hollow trunks. That’s when I got the idea that your son’s body was probably hidden in one of those trees near the dead end.”
“Isn’t the dead end at Orreveien near the school?” asked Gunnar Haugen’s lawyer.
“Yes,” said Sohlberg. “That’s where Agnes murdered and hid Karl . . . less than a quarter mile from the school.”
“She’s a sneaky one,” observed Thorsen. “She hid everything so well.”
“Yes,” said Sohlberg. “That’s typical of the most brilliant criminals . . . they operate right under our noses. That’s what makes them so hard to identify and catch.”
“That woman,” said Gunnar Haugen in a weak pitiful voice. “She destroyed me!”
“That might be Herr Haugen,” said Sohlberg with his eyes solemn and mournful. “Just don’t forget . . . a man can be destroyed but not defeated.”
Gunnar Haugen nodded. But he didn’t seem to really understand what Sohlberg was telling him. Haugen was a broken man. The lawyer asked more questions.
Sohlberg took a few steps back and left the room. He looked forward to spending the evening with Fru Sohlberg. He was grateful that he had a loving home to go to that evening because Sohlberg knew that no amount of money or success could buy a happy marriage or a loyal spouse.
“I’m done . . . finished,” said Sohlberg to his wife on the cell phone as soon as he left the ground floor lobby of 12 Hammersborggata.
He walked out into the street with a spring to his step. The burden of the little boy’s sad life and death lifted temporarily off his shoulders. Of course the burden would return from time to time and weigh Sohlberg down. The dead always came back to him. He remembered all of the homicide victims whose cases he had worked on. Even if strangers to Sohlberg the dead and gone visited him in the labyrinths of his mind.
“Solve the case?”
“Yes. It’s time to go home and leave Norway.”
EPILOGUE: HOMEWARD BOUND
Karl Haugen heard barking. A puppy ran up to him. He played and kissed the dog which licked his cheeks. Karl felt much more happy than he had in a long long time. He suddenly realized that his father and mother wanted him to stay where he was playing with the dog.
A man and a woman who seemed kind and familiar came up to him and said:
“Karl . . . are you ready to go back home?”
He looked at the endless beautiful fields of incredible sun-drenched flowers and he laughed when his puppy ran off to play in the distance. He finally had the puppy that he had wanted for so long.
Karl ran after the puppy and finally entered the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind of God.
THE AUTHOR
Jens Amundsen is the pen name of an attorney whose literary anonymity protects him and his clients from the powers that be.
THE PUBLISHER
Nynorsk Forlag stays true to its roots as an independent publisher bringing the best of Nordic crime novels to the public. From its humble beginnings as an underground press, the company intentionally remains small so as to stay focused on its authors and readers.
[sample chapter]
WHITE DEATH IN TROMSØ: AN INSPECTOR HAROLD SOHLBERG MYSTERY
by
JENS AMUNDSEN
Published simultaneously in the USA and Norway.
Copyright (c) 2011 by Nynorsk Forlag.
Translation copyright (c) 2011 by Nynorsk Forlag.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Chief Inspector Sohlberg investigates a mass grave near Tromsø, the most northern city of Norway, just 1,242 miles from the North Pole. He uncovers more than nine murdered victims in a suspenseful investigation that involves the ultimate threat to Western civilization.
Ch. 1/Én
MORNING OF THE DAY, TUESDAY, JULY 6
Only 1242 miles s
eparate Tromsø from the North Pole. The same amount of miles separate Alaska’s Prudhoe Bay from the North Pole. Tromsø however is much warmer and more hospitable to human life than Prudhoe Bay thanks to the Gulf Current which brings warm waters to Norway all the way from the sunny hot climes of Florida and the Caribbean. But geography like the stars is not at fault for human events.
“I’ve never seen so many bodies,” said Constable Lars Rasch of the Troms politidistrikt. He did not exaggerate. Rasch had never even seen one single homicide victim during his five years as a policeman in the northernmost city of Norway. He stared at the row of frozen bodies buried in the permafrost.
“Look like sardines in a can . . . don’t they Rasch?”
The constable said nothing. Instead he looked in disgust at Per Moen the owner of the fish shack that had become the tomb for nine corpses. Rasch turned his gaze upon the sea. The morning’s storm had washed the sky and the ocean and the islands in depressing shades of gray that seemed to merge into one mournful salute to the dead.
“Hey Rasch . . . how soon can you move the stiffs out? . . . I need to have a place to store my stock out here. It’ll cost me a fortune if I have to move my inventory elsewhere. . . . I imagine I’ll be compensated for my building getting torn apart to get these popsicles out of here . . . no?”
Rasch grunted. He had always heard and now knew for a fact that Moen was a man obsessed by one thing only—the bottom line.
“Look . . . we’ll discuss this later.”
“No. Now. Let’s talk now. I don’t want your people ripping up my land when they dig up the stiffs. I swear I’ll sue the police if you don’t put everything back to the way it used to be. This might just ruin my fishing operations if you keep blocking me from access to my land and fish shack and dock.
“Rasch . . . don’t you understand?
“I need this shack to keep my fish cold in the permafrost below . . . I can’t afford refrigeration. My great-grandfather found this spot . . . and now you’re going to ruin me! . . . I swear I’ll sue for millions and get you fired if I’m not allowed back in tomorrow.”
“Do whatever you need to do. But right now you need to leave this crime scene.”
“Hey Rasch you little jerk . . . ever since you joined the police you’ve been acting like you’re a real big man in town. I remember when you went to school with my little brother and he used to beat the daylights out of you.”
“Are you leaving or not?”
“Alright . . . alright. Save the tough guy looks for someone else.”
Rasch sighed as soon as he was alone. He knew that he too would soon have to leave the area that he had cordoned off in police tape. Forensics promised him they’d be over to start processing the shack within the hour. He wanted to but decided against ripping up the rest of the wood floor planks that he and Moen had pulled up.
One of the corpses caught Rasch’s attention. A large white towel covered a barefoot man. The blood-soaked frozen-stiff towel read:
WELCOME TO TROMSØ!
Constable Rasch could not help thinking that Tromsø had turned out not to have been all that hospitable or welcoming to the nine bodies that he had found shot point-blank in the back of the head and buried quite unceremoniously under Moen’s fish shack in a remote location on the island of Reinøya.
“Let’s see,” said Rasch to himself, “if I can get the old city slicker out here.”
The constable took out his cell phone and dialed his boss who was at headquarters just 30 miles south of him. While Rasch dialed he noticed what appeared to be a square booklet next to one of the bodies.
~ ~ ~
“What . . . nine bodies?” said Chief Inspector Fredrik Waldemar Hvoslef of the Troms politidistrikt. “Shot in the head? . . . Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Constable Rasch while he stared at the nine corpses. “All of the bodies have one hole in the back of the head . . . and big exit wounds in the front or the top of their heads.”
“Arrange for the autopsies . . . call in forensic services to help you.”
“I already did. Aren’t you coming?”
“I . . . I can’t,” said Chief Inspector Hvoslef. He did not like leaving his comfortable and warm offices at 122 Grønnegata in downtown Tromsø. Nor did he want to travel on a small boat to the crime scene because he easily got seasick. In fact Hvoslef a transplant from Oslo rarely left the small island of Tromsøya where most of the city was located.
“You can’t?”
Hvoslef could almost hear the contempt on the other side of the telephone call. The constable seemed to ignore the fact that Tromsø sits 186 miles north of the Arctic Circle. In Hvoslef’s mind this cruel geographical fact meant that he faced imminent death year-round if he left the city limits to venture into the Arctic wastelands. Even during the summer months Chief Inspector Hvoself felt threatened by the vast empty wilderness that surrounded him.
“Sir . . . I think you need to come out here. I found a passport and an Interpol badge next to one of the bodies.”
“What?”
“Yes . . . the pictures on the badge and passport match the dead man’s face perfectly.”
“Where’s the passport from?”
“Russia.”
Chief Inspector Hvoslef realized that he’d have to venture out of his warm safety zone. He absolutely hated the outdoors with a passion especially in the Arctic police district that he had been assigned to three years ago. He was obsessed with the idea of his freezing to death in the Land of White Death. But he had no choice.
“Sir? . . . Can you hear me?”
“Yes! . . . I’ll be over there.”
~ ~ ~
“I told you not to get involved.”
“It’s done. Besides . . . I had to. What do you think? . . . That I could just walk away?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not me.”
“Since when are you . . . a poaching thief . . . such a moral and upstanding citizen?”
“Enough.”
“You steal cod and halibut and salmon . . . other men’s catch for a living. I told you to stay away from Moen’s place. He’s always suspected you.”
“Stop.”
“This will bring us trouble. Big trouble.”
“Enough.”
“They will find out it was you.”
He looked out to the sea and scanned the horizon. His blue eyes burned with Viking vigor. “No one will find us.”
“They will find us.”
“Enough.”
“You’ll see . . . you can’t stop this. I can’t believe you got us into such a mess. This is not good. We’re in big big trouble.”
He shook his head and started planning how to ambush and kill anyone who landed on his island.
~ ~ ~
Seasickness tormented Chief Inspector Hvoslef. Nausea continued to plague him even two hours after he had landed on the northwest shores of the island of Reinøya.
Constable Rasch leaned over and said, “Are you okay?”
Without any conviction Hvoslef nodded and weakly said, “Yes.”
The austere cliff-scraped landscape and the odd-shaped mountains and the thin and sporadic green plants and brush served as grim reminders to Hvoslef that this was indeed the Land of White Death and that he must return to town as soon as possible. Nearby clumps of spindly Downy Birch seemed ominous if not cruel hoaxes in comparison to the lush Scandinavian forests that grew south of the Arctic Circle. Shrieking seagulls added a dirge that promised death or madness.
Hvoslef’s discomfort increased even more when he saw Leif Jørgensen the Third approach him.
“Chief Inspector,” said the 68-year-old doctor, “what have we here?”
“Nine dead men. Shot execution-style in the back of the head.”
Hvoslef went on to give the doctor a brief summary of the investigation thus far. He intensely disliked the medical examiner who had an imperial air of intellectual superiority.
Except for Hvoslef
everyone in Tromsø felt that Jørgensen’s arrogance was well-earned because the doctor was the third generation of Leif Jørgensens MDs who had served as highly-respected medical examiners of Troms County.
Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries) Page 26
