The Murder of Harriet Krohn

by Karin Fossum

  “But, hospital?” Charlo stammers. He’s filled with anxiety again. He’s got a thousand questions. He’s never been in the hospital before. He’s never had anything wrong with him, never injured himself.

  “We need some specialist help,” the doctor says. “You mustn’t alarm yourself unduly.”

  “But,” says a fraught Charlo, “I’ve got a daughter, and I’ve got to collect her from school. She’s got to go to the stables; we’ve got a horse. He needs tending daily. I work at the riding center myself as a handyman. I’m needed there every day.”

  The doctor nods evenly. “I’ll give you a sick note, of course. As I say, it’ll take a couple of days. I think we ought to get to the bottom of this now. Don’t you agree?”

  Charlo nods disconsolately. “Yes, of course. But what more can you tell me? Have you got any theories? I mean, do you recognize this?”

  The doctor is silent for a few moments. He takes his eyes off the screen and looks at Charlo. “It wouldn’t be right for me to start speculating,” he says. “I’ll leave that to the specialists. You’ll be in the best of hands.”

  “But neurology?” Charlo blurts out. “Why there, exactly?”

  “We can’t be certain it’s neurological,” he says quickly, “but we’ve got to begin somewhere. Try to keep calm. You’re doing the sensible thing.”

  Charlo waits while the doctor writes out a referral. He sits studying his hands, occasionally glancing around the consulting room. He catches sight of a wall chart of the human body, with all the bones and muscles and sinews depicted. It’s quite a machine, he thinks. It’s a wonder it works as well as it does, year after year. Hardly surprising that once in a while something goes a little wonky. Perhaps it won’t be serious. But the idea of going into the hospital is an impossible one for him. He feels small. He thinks about Inga Lill and of all that she had to endure. The doctor finishes. He asks if Charlo is in any pain, if he needs any medication. He says he doesn’t. They shake hands. The doctor wishes him the best of luck. Charlo steals out of the office and stands in the street breathing in the fresh air. It all seems unreal to him. He walks and feels as fit as a fiddle. All his muscles are working, his skeleton thoroughly up to the job. At three o’clock, he picks up Julie outside the school.

  She looks at him with troubled eyes.

  “Neurological?”

  She’s frightened by the word, too. Medical would have been better, Charlo thinks. Less ominous.

  “Can you get a bus to the stables?” he asks. “It’s just for a couple of days, and then I promise I’ll be back again.”

  She nods and looks at him solemnly. “You needn’t worry about me,” she says calmly. “I’ll find a way.”

  He drives, thoughts buzzing in his head. Now, he thinks, when everything was working out so well. Now, when there’s order and happiness and work, this threatening cloud appears and throws a dark shadow over it all. He tries to shake it off. His hands clutch the steering wheel hard, and once again he has the feeling of being perfectly healthy.

  “We’ll miss you,” Julie says, “even if it is only for a couple of days. Møller is so used to you doing everything for him. He sings your praises—d’you realize that?”

  Charlo nods contentedly. “You know what?” he says, “I love that feeling of being indispensable. I’d forgotten how good it is.”

  After that they say no more. The landscape glides past. He sees the apple trees blossoming white and pink, and the grass is bright green between the patches of wet snow. Could it be that all this will be taken away from him? He doesn’t often think about death. Now he sees everything in vivid relief: the lofty sun, the deep blue sky. The hum of the engine, Julie’s breathing. He feels so alive. Yes, it will be taken from me, he realizes, because all people die. But it won’t happen yet. I’ve earned some good years with Julie. He gives her a sidelong glance. It’s us two against the rest, he thinks. We are strong. We’ll make it.

  A week later he’s standing outside the hospital with a small overnight bag in his hand. The bag contains pajamas, a toothbrush, and slippers. Washing things, some underwear, and a book. He feels a little cold and confused. It’s a bit like standing at the frontier of a foreign country, a country whose customs and language you don’t know. He can see the outline of a wheelchair inside the door. People are going in and out of the building. He steps through the wide entrance and asks his way to the Department of Neurology. Even saying the word makes him go cold. The term is redolent of mystery and horror. The woman at the desk gives him directions, and he walks toward the elevator. Is there pain and indignity in store? Lack of experience makes him feel uncomfortable. Eventually he finds the place he’s supposed to be and seats himself in a comfortable chair.

  First he has to answer a whole host of questions. They’re put to him by an experienced nurse. No, he’s never been in the hospital. No, he isn’t allergic to anything and doesn’t take any medicine. No, he isn’t aware of any special hereditary conditions in his family. The nurse takes her time; there’s no end to the things she needs to know. He answers as best he can. He racks his brain and tells the truth. Then she shows him to his bed, which is in a double room. Both beds are unoccupied. He puts his bag down and goes to the window. He’s on the tenth floor and has a panorama of the whole town. He turns and looks at his bed again. Are they expecting him to get into it? He’s only just got up. He sits in a chair by the window and takes in the magnificent view.

  The room is large and there’s a lot of equipment above the beds, equipment he can’t even begin to understand. Eventually he goes to his bed anyway, pulls off his clothes, and puts on his pajamas. Creeps in under the crisply folded duvet. It feels strange lying there like that. He’s well after all; nothing is troubling him now. Only his thoughts. He lets them wander freely, because he can’t be bothered to channel them.

  An hour later, he’s fetched by a nurse. He follows her, half-clothed. It’s been a long time since he’s displayed his body to anyone, and he’s no spring chicken anymore. He feels terribly embarrassed. Feels that everything about him is wrong, the balding head, the hanging stomach. But the nurse is young and pretty. She’s courteous and friendly. Yet he’s well aware that he’s only one of many. She’s certainly not interested in him or his destiny, not really. She’s careful and vigilant and pleasant while doing her duty. In the end, he withdraws into himself. He just wants the time to pass so that he can get it over with and go home again, to Julie. To that fragile, free life of his. They say nothing as they work except there, that’s done, now you’re finished, Mr. Torp. You can go back to your room.

  He goes back to his room and gets into bed again. Registers that an elderly man is sleeping in the other bed. He picks up his book and starts reading, realizing that he’s hungry. Presumably now they’re in the office looking at my results, he thinks. Standing there with furrowed brows as they nod at each other and agree. He doesn’t know what they’re agreeing about. He can’t concentrate on his book, so he lays it aside. He lies there looking out of the window at the cloud formations.

  They keep it up for three days.

  He goes from room to room and lies down for them on couches. He closes his eyes and holds his breath. He follows instructions and cooperates. Answers everything truthfully. He puts himself in their hands. It’s like falling: he doesn’t know where he’s going to end up or what kind of accident awaits him. The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming. They talk among themselves, and he can’t understand what they’re saying. The various machines put the fear of God into him, but none of them hurt. Not until he’s given a lumbar puncture. Out of sheer fright, he concentrates hard on what they ask him to do. Breathe calmly, in and out. It’ll soon be over. It’s going fine, Mr. Torp.

  Now they’ve been through everything. He lies in bed waiting, feeling at their mercy. Afterward he’ll recall this moment. The doctor appears in the door, accompanied by a female nurse. He’s carrying a sheaf of papers. Charlo sits up in bed and feels a slight rushing in his
head. He’s going home at last. His body has been examined in every possible way. Julie is waiting; they’re going out to eat. Everything will be as before, he hopes. His back is sweating.

  “Mr. Torp,” the doctor begins. “We need to have a little chat.”

  He comes over to the bed, bringing a chair with him. Charlo doesn’t know whether his seating himself comfortably like this is a good sign or not. Perhaps he’s simply grabbing the opportunity to take the weight off his feet for a bit, or perhaps what he has to say will take a long time. Or he’s sitting down to emphasize something serious. For there is a sense of gravity in the room now. Charlo glances at the sheaf of documents. That’s his future, that’s his sentence. The nurse remains standing at the foot of the bed. Charlo raises the support and adjusts his pillow. His heart is beating hard under his pajamas.

  “We’ve carried out a number of investigations, and from the results we can say a bit about your problems.”

  “Right.”

  He nods solemnly, clasps his hands, and sits in his bed like an old man.

  “Some diseases are diagnosed primarily by their symptoms. In other words, we don’t always have physical findings.”

  Charlo sits, nodding. He can hear that rushing again. It’s louder now.

  “In your case, we have some findings. And together with other observations, and the symptoms you’ve described yourself, we’re fairly certain about what we’re dealing with. I mean, we have the criteria for a definite diagnosis.”

  Charlo is so nervous that he sits there gaping. He sees the doctor steeling himself, his mouth tightening.

  “Let me put it this way. You’re suffering from a disease of the central nervous system. It’s chronic. I’ll try to explain it so that you’ll understand, because this is quite complicated.”

  Charlo nods and waits.

  “It concerns the myelin sheaths surrounding your nerves. You see, your nerves are covered by something like an insulating material. Or a lining, if you will. And this lining can, in certain cases, be attacked by what we call a sclerosis. Over time, this sclerosis will destroy the lining, and small holes will appear in the tissue. Gradually the tissue will turn hard, rather like scar tissue. We can see this on x-rays. In your case, the myelin sheaths are slightly frayed. This in turn causes the impulses to be delayed. The impulses that cause your arms and legs to move in the manner and at the speed you’re used to.”

  “I see.”

  Charlo drinks in the information. He tries to keep up but feels himself flagging. He can’t see clearly. His head feels dizzy.

  “The results from your spinal fluid also support this theory. You say that you’ve had several clinical attacks, and localization of these also corroborates the theory. You often suffered from colds as a child. And you’ve also had some problems with your sight; that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  He has to strain to form the little word. He feels paralyzed sitting there in bed.

  “Clinical neurological examination has revealed reduced sensitivity in various parts of your body. Only a small amount so far, but this, too, fits in with the pattern of disease we’ve built up. There’s also an indication of reduced neurotransmission. Unfortunately we can do nothing about the tissue that’s already been attacked. It’s impossible to mend. But we can curtail the attacks with medication. If that’s appropriate. It depends on the development of the disease.”

  “The development?”

  Charlo’s mouth goes dry. He doesn’t know what the doctor’s talking about or driving at.

  “This disease is very variable. Just how badly you’ll be affected is impossible to predict. Some people manage extremely well. In fact, only a third or, I should say, a quarter of all patients experience major problems. The prognosis isn’t necessarily that bad. We just have to hope that yours will be a less severe case, and such cases do exist.”

  “But what happens if I get worse? Will I keep falling down?”

  “As I said, I don’t want to make predictions,” the doctor says. “We need time; we must see how it develops.”

  “But could I become paralyzed? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Only in the very worst case. Let’s be positive. There’s no reason for it to happen to you.”

  “But it could happen?”

  “In the worst case, yes. But the odds that you’ll avoid it are considerable.”

  Charlo sweeps a hand over his balding head.

  “So, is there a name for this thing? What is this disease we’re talking about?”

  The doctor lowers his eyes and looks at his papers.

  “The disease is named after what is actually happening to you. Sclerosis in the tissue surrounding the nerves.”

  “Yes?”

  The doctor looks at him earnestly.

  “Multiple sclerosis.”

  Charlo falls back onto his pillow. His eyes dart around the room; it seems to be swimming in front of him. No, he thinks, they’re wrong. People with multiple sclerosis become paralyzed. They end up in wheelchairs. They don’t live all that long. I must get home, he thinks. Julie and I are going out to eat. I can’t just lie here listening to this nonsense.

  “Do you want to call somebody?” the doctor says quietly. He nods toward the phone. It looks as if he wants to leave the room. He has nothing more to say.

  “Multiple sclerosis?” Charlo whispers. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  The doctor glances at the nurse.

  “We’re fairly certain. Your symptoms are typical of the disease. Try to be calm. For all we know, you may have many good years ahead of you.”

  Yes, that’s what he’s always believed. Many good years with Julie and Crazy. His mouth is so dry. He wants to get out of bed. He wants to stand and prove to himself, and to the two people in white, that he’s well and can use his legs. And as long as he’s well, his legs will work. His hands begin to shake uncontrollably. In desperation, he clasps them beneath the duvet.

  “As things are,” the doctor says, “you can go straight home. You must stay in contact with your medical practitioner. He’ll discuss medication and suchlike more closely with you, should you begin to need it.”

  Charlo nods feebly. This must be a bad dream, and he’ll wake up soon. Then they just go, and he’s left lying there alone. The room feels large and cold, so he pulls up the duvet. He wants to hide away from everything. This isn’t happening, he thinks. Why do catastrophes always head my way? He’s so shaken that he feels nauseated. Suddenly he pushes the duvet aside, gets up, and walks across the room to the mirror. He stands staring at himself: his broad face, his gray eyes. Fear has made them lighter. For a while, he stands there immobile, his hands propped on the washbasin. Then he goes back to his bed, packs his few belongings, and dresses. A nurse appears and asks if he needs a taxi. He gives a slight shake of his head. No, he’s got his own car. He doesn’t need help of any kind. He clenches his fists. Feels that he’s on the verge of tears. There’s a pressing at his throat, a stinging under his eyelids. Even so, she stands there watching him with a mild expression. So that he can blurt out his despair if he wants to. Lay his head against her uniform and sob like a child. But he doesn’t do it. He turns his back and hunches his shoulders. Hears her leaving and closing the door. He puts his quilted jacket on and looks around the room. Then, with rapid steps, he makes for the door.

  He gets home and collapses into a chair.

  His bag thumps to the floor. He can’t be bothered to unpack. It can stay there with his slippers and pajamas, reminding him of this awful day. Multiple sclerosis. The words are like a big, slimy insect inside his mouth, and suddenly he retches. There are tears in his eyes. He sits crumpled and despairing in his chair, as he remembers the doctor’s words. Those damned sheaths decaying. It’s unbearable. He imagines his nerves as a network of brittle, worn-out wires that can no longer conduct electricity. From now on, he’ll get slower and weaker. From now on, he’ll find that his legs won’t obey him, and his br
ain will send messages that never arrive. He tells his feet to drum on the floor. They do so without difficulty, and he’s not slow, either. Take it easy now. Don’t cry. The prognosis isn’t that bad. Of course he’ll be one of those who’ll manage the disease well. He’s sure of it. He gets up and takes a few turns around the room. He talks sternly to himself. There are two voices inside him now, arguing.

  Why should you get off more lightly than other people? D’you think you’re invincible?

  Haven’t I been through enough in my miserable life as it is? This is completely unfair. I don’t deserve it.

  You’re forgetting something important. Think about what you’ve done. Consider that.

  So I must be punished now—is that what you mean?

  You’ll have to atone in some way or another. It’s your reckoning we’re talking about, and it doesn’t balance.

  I do Harriet Krohn no good by sitting in a wheelchair.

  Don’t say that. One day you’ll die. The debt must be repaid before that.

  I don’t owe anything. I’ve been unlucky, damn you!

  On an impulse, he goes to the bookcase. He looks at the encyclopedia and pulls out volume eight. He finds the letter M and begins to search. Multiple, multiple personality, and here, multiple sclerosis. His eyes move down the page. Disseminated sclerosis, from the Greek skleros, hard, and Latin disseminare, scatter. A chronic disease of the nervous system, the cause of which, despite intense research, remains unknown. Examination of the brains and spinal cords of patients who have died of multiple sclerosis show a decrease in the myelin layer that surrounds the nerve fibers. There is also an increase in the connective tissue in the brain and spinal cord. This causes scar tissue that is harder than the normal tissue of the central nervous system, and the name of the disease derives from this. These changes are often spread out in the brain and spinal cord, and the term multiple refers to this phenomenon. Many hypotheses have been advanced for the cause of the disease, but none have yet been proven. Infection, especially viral infection, poisoning, lack of certain elements in the diet, allergies, and many other causes have been blamed. The two major theories are that either the disease is caused by a viral infection with a very long latent period that takes years to manifest itself and develops very slowly or the disease is linked to autoimmunity. In other words, the organism has a reaction to its own tissue.