by Geir Tangen
Far back in his awareness, another, even darker thought had started to stir when he talked with Lotte. Could this have anything to do with the email I received? To start with, he’d dismissed that. It would only disturb the article he had to write, but now that the article was delivered, the thoughts came trickling in.
He was interrupted by editor Johan Øveraas stopping by his workstation. “Look at that, Gudmundsson. Busy at work today. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t time.”
Viljar didn’t bother to turn around and only answered with a little grunt. When Øveraas stood there in silence, he felt compelled to stop his work to see what the burly man wanted this time. Øveraas was smiling. Not ironically, the way he usually did. A genuine smile.
“Two things, Gudmundsson. First I want to apologize for my outburst earlier today. I shouldn’t bawl you out while I’m standing in an open office landscape where other employees overhear what’s being said. That was unprofessional. Now that it happened, I meant every word I said.”
So much for that apology, thought Viljar.
“And the second thing was?”
“Huh?”
“The second thing, Øveraas. You said there were two things.”
“Ah … I must have blanked out. Secondly, I wanted to praise you for the article you just delivered. Extremely well written. Thorough work.”
Johan Øveraas started to go toward his own office, but turned around again after a few steps. “So the police think it’s a homicide?”
“When Lotte Skeisvoll goes so far as to use the phrase ‘suspicious cause of death’ to the media barely an hour after she arrives at the scene, then it must be quite an obvious homicide.”
“Do we know anything else?”
Viljar knew that this was the point where he ought to tell about the email he’d received, but he chose to ignore that. “No more than what’s in the article. We’ll have to see what turns up tomorrow.”
Johan Øveraas stood expectantly and looked searchingly at Viljar, as if he was waiting for something. When Viljar showed no sign of wanting to expand on his answer, he nodded curtly and went on. As the door to the editor’s office closed, Viljar’s hands started shaking. He fished out three sticks of nicotine gum and chewed them frantically until his hands gradually calmed down.
Not long after that, his cell phone vibrated. He picked it up and looked at the display. It said BLOCKED in shining letters. He answered.
“Gudmundsson, Haugesund News.”
“Hi, Viljar. Lotte Skeisvoll here.”
“I see.…”
“Can you come on down to the police station? We need to talk with you.” Lotte’s voice was cool and firm as always.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“You can ask, but you won’t get an answer,” the policewoman said, hanging up before he had an opportunity to protest.
The police building clung firmly to the edge of the pier by the sound. The entry to the white brick building could be mistaken for the entrance to a charming hotel, but the facilities for those who spent the night here were probably a bit more Spartan than in the city’s other overnight accommodations.
Inside the police building, the climate control system was done for the day. It was hot, clammy, and smelled of closed-in sweat. Viljar was sitting alone in what he assumed was a provisional interview room. Maybe this is just an office? The spindle-back chair he was sitting on was hard and angular. He looked around to find the typical “glass wall” where the police could follow what was going on in there from outside. Viljar realized that there were disappointingly few similarities between movie clichés and real life.
The door opened and Lotte Skeisvoll came in with two cups of coffee. She sat down across from him and pushed one paper cup across the table. Viljar raised the cup in a toast.
He turned his attention to the police detective. She was in civilian clothes, but could just as well have been wearing a uniform. A tightly buttoned beige blouse. Just ironed. Black trousers with a crease. Straight posture and a tight face.
Lotte read the formalities on a small digital recorder and then placed it with geometric precision at the origin point of the round table between them. Studied the recorder and waited a moment before throwing out her hands in an inviting gesture to Viljar.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Tell you what? You were the one who brought me in.”
“And you’re the one who sends us emails about impending homicides,” she replied dryly.
“Ah … Now I understand.”
Then it was as Viljar had feared. The police had started to connect the two incidents.
“Do you believe that email has anything to do with the murder of Rita Lothe?”
“We don’t believe anything. And if we believe something, we won’t talk about it to the press. We only tell you what we know. Since we don’t know anything yet, we’re asking you to tell us a little more about this email. When did it arrive? Were there other recipients besides you? What made you assess it as serious enough that you wanted to send it to me personally? Have you received other emails? Who at the newspaper office has been informed about the email? In brief … Tell me.”
Viljar told her to the best of his ability. About the email, about how he thought that this was probably a joke, about the conversation with Ranveig and what they had agreed to do.
“Your editor doesn’t know anything?” Lotte asked with surprise.
“No, not yet, but if any more arrive, yes … Yes, then I’ll have to.…”
Lotte nodded in confirmation. A little gleam of recognition appeared in her eyes. “This means, if I understand you correctly, that there won’t be something about a mentally ill person who has chosen to inform the public about his exploits through Haugesund News in tomorrow’s edition?”
“Not tomorrow, no.”
Viljar wished he could promise that would also apply from here on out, but he knew Johan Øveraas better than that.
“Great. Then we have some time before the wolves are let loose.”
Lotte stopped. Placed a pen with millimeter precision in line with the recorder. Studied it thoroughly before she raised her eyes. Looked at Viljar. Hesitated a moment.
“Why did he send the email to you?” she asked while her gaze kept him from looking in another direction.
Viljar straightened up in the chair. “What do you mean? Why? I have no idea.”
Viljar noticed that the sweat glands under his arms were starting to work in high gear. It felt like he was sitting in a Turkish bungalow with no air-conditioning.
“I mean what I’m asking. Why did he send the email to you?”
“I must disappoint you, Lotte.”
Viljar breathed in calmly before he continued. “I have no idea why he, or she, chose just me. There are many people who want to give me trouble because of things I’ve written about them, but I’m not the one who’s the victim here.”
Lotte studied him a long time. Tried to let the silence bring out more answers. When that didn’t succeed, she continued.
“Great. You say he or she, but isn’t it clear from the email that it’s a man who’s the sender?”
“No. Apart from the fictional name and a Gmail address he or she has created for this purpose, I don’t find anyplace that shows that this is a man.”
“That adds up in a sense, but he uses the phrase ‘I am an honorable man’ right at the start of the email.”
Viljar asked Lotte to wait a moment. Fished out his phone and opened the email program in the Outlook app. The sender had said that it was Viljar who was “an honorable man,” not himself. Viljar was quite sure of that.
The phone pinged just as the email program opened. The little dispute between them soon became insignificant. At the top of Viljar’s in-box was a new email from the same sender. All thoughts that this had been a bad joke were crushed like an annoying beetle under a shoe. He waved Lotte over to his side, and they leaned closer to the phone.
Attn.: Vilja
r Ravn Gudmundsson
I assume that I have your full and total attention this time. You have today been witness to Rita Lothe’s passing. It was not tragic, as it surely will say in the obituary, simply just. Your investigations will undoubtedly confirm this.
We have laws that are supposed to protect us against people who take what they want, and not a bad word shall be said about those who admit their guilt and take their just punishment. It is the others I want to put the spotlight on. Those who even in the hour of judgment avoid punishment and get away. They are the hyenas of society. Cowardly, greedy, and evasive. They deserve the punishment I shall give them. I will be punished myself for my actions. This I will take with head held high when the time comes. Until that happens, people will die by my hand. Guilty people who each in their own way avoided their rightful punishment.
In contemporary Norwegian society, one would think that a woman’s human value was worth more than it actually is, but women’s protection from the law in assault cases is still equal to nil. Very few rapists are punished for their actions. The burden of proof is put on the woman, not on the assailant.
One of these sexual offenders is a man. He is convicted of rape of at least one, and probably several, innocent women. He has a previous record, but not under this section of the law. The punishment will be effectuated tomorrow, Wednesday the 15th of October 2014.
10/14/2014
Stein Åmli
JN3-5
Requiem: Kyrie
I am content. I lie down, check that I have the right position. One that gives me the support I need. Perfect …
Twilight comes creeping in now that evening is here. Heavy, drooping trees block out the light. Suffocate hope. The birds are expectantly quiet. The endless night is waiting. Not for me this time. Someone else is marked. In my mind, there is a shivering sense of peaceful pleasure.
I know that the score is painfully precise down to the slightest detail, but there is always a danger that some quirk or other will slip in and ruin the composition. It hasn’t happened yet, and it was with childish delight I shredded the papers that concerned Rita Lothe a few hours ago.
Now I know that I am capable of completing the masterwork. Lifting her over the railing and letting her go was like releasing a paper airplane from the balcony. I felt an intense happiness when I heard the body hit the asphalt. I actually thought I would feel anxiety, fear, and regret, but it was just happiness. A bubbling, effervescent delight.
For a while I started to get a little nervous that it would take too long before she was found, but when the morning rush set in, it wasn’t long before with some satisfaction I could hear the first sirens heading toward the high-rises.
All that remains in me is a tingling sensation. A numb apathy in my body. For the time being, I am on schedule. I repeat the two admonitions I’ve written in the notebook. “Don’t get too eager” and “Don’t lose focus.” I’ve read so much criminology that I know it’s easy to move ahead too fast when you’ve succeeded the first time, or that you lose focus in exactitude and precision. I feel I’m ready, but I force myself to wait.
The lean-to I’ve made for myself is concealed from the house, the road, and the forest path. I have camouflaged it to the best of my ability, even if strictly speaking that’s not necessary. A hiker would have to go very far off the path to stumble across this hiding place. If it wasn’t for what will happen early tomorrow, I could probably stay hidden until winter without a single confused soul stumbling across it.
From the lean-to it is only a few steps over to the lookout post. From here I have a clear view down to the house, and I see a big enough area of the forest path to have control of people who might be in the vicinity. The dogs are securely chained. In the relevant time frame, there won’t be anyone passing by. Maybe a jogger, but even that is highly improbable at six thirty in the morning.
I take out the gun. Rub the telescopic sight one more time with the cloth. Put it to my eye and look. The white house stands alone down in the hollow. Pretentiously modernistic. Right now, a family of five is living in the house. Tomorrow there will be only four. I hardly give a thought to the children, but I sense that I don’t particularly care.
The slightest problem in the preparations was acquisition of the silencer. Silencers are easy to get ahold of for hunting rifles that are registered. Most hunters have such things these days, because it doesn’t scare off other animals, it dampens the recoil and reduces the spurts of flame, which can be blinding when you see them through a telescopic sight at dusk. The only problem is that you have to turn in the gun to thread the barrel so the silencer can be screwed on. That takes a week.
The gun is my own hunting rifle. A Lakelander 389, standard. There are thousands of them registered by name in Norway, and probably just as many unregistered. Ideally it should have been a completely different rifle, a Märklin rifle with 16 mm Singapore ammunition. But they don’t really exist. Even a master can do faulty research. An insignificant little bump in the road.
The first heavy raindrops let go over me, and I crawl carefully back to the lean-to. Take out the phone and set it to wake me at 5:00.
I’m ready! Everything is ready.…
All that’s left is to wait for the royal stag.
Haugesund Police Station
Tuesday afternoon, October 14, 2014
Lotte scraped the chair backwards, picked it up, and set it neatly against the end of the table. Her gaze glided rapidly over the group.
She quickly went through the dry facts in the case before she picked up the notepad and double-checked that she had covered the most important things.
“Everything I’ve said until now is sorted in the folder in front of you. As you see, it is in chronological order with color codes for follow-up. If you need more detailed information along the way, contact me.”
Someone laughed quietly when he saw the system in the folder; a low-pitched murmur filled the room. Lotte cleared her throat.
“We are quite certain of our case. This was a homicide. Toxicology tests will show that ether and sleeping pills were used mixed with alcohol. We have found traces of both at the crime scene. Other injuries are secondary as a result of the fall.” She looked over at Åse Fruholm, who represented forensics.
Fruholm had been part of the police corps technical unit so long that she was viewed as an institution. Her thin, stringy hair was slicked down in a short, severe hairdo. Frightfully out of date, but in that sense it fit well with the rest of her style. Her wardrobe had a worn, thrift-store cut about it. On the other hand, there was nothing to say about her professional integrity. Her word was law.
Lotte looked up from her notes for a moment before she continued. “As you all know, inhaling ether leads to almost immediate unconsciousness, and the substance was used as an anesthetic in surgery in the past. Maybe you can help me with some supplementary information here, Åse?”
Åse Fruholm cleared her throat as she stood up. Her clothes hung on her as on a spindly scarecrow. When she frowned, her face could be mistaken for a topographical map, a result of decades of chain-smoking. Her voice rasped as she finally started to speak.
“Ether is the common name for the chemical substance diethyl ether. It is a clear fluid with a boiling point of 36.5 degrees Celsius. It has a strong odor and is highly flammable.”
Lotte followed Fruholm’s specifications carefully and made diligent notes on the pad in front of her.
“Inhalation of ether fumes will cause unconsciousness and painlessness, also generally known as anesthesia. Ether fumes produce a relatively stable anesthesia, and can be given, with reasonable safety, even under primitive conditions.”
Police Chief Arnstein Guldbrandsen shook his head and threw out his hands. “Where the heck did this guy get ahold of ether?”
Åse Fruholm smiled at Lotte, as if the two shared a secret, rolled her eyes a little, and cleared her throat lightly before she answered.
“At a pharmacy, Guldbrandsen. It�
�s sold over the counter in half-liter bottles.”
Arnstein Guldbrandsen loosened his tie, something he almost never did of his own free will. He looked thunderstruck. “The pharmacy sells it over the counter? Why in the world do they do that? What in the name of God would people do with an anesthetic in their medicine cabinet?”
Åse smiled indulgently at the police chief. “Butterflies, Arnstein. Entomologists use it to anesthetize butterflies and other insects that they catch. So with the use of larger quantities, they can do the same with people,” she added.
Åse Fruholm sat down again, and Lotte took the floor.
“We have to check the pharmacies in town. There can’t possibly be too many people who’ve bought that sort of thing. I’ll put a constable on that task after the meeting is over. Now, however, there is something quite different that’s burning here.”
She pushed her bangs behind her ear and made a brief pause to prepare herself to break the news to the rest of the team.
“So, Rita Lothe was killed, but what you don’t know yet, is that we were warned in advance.”
Lotte registered some raised eyebrows before she continued.
“Yesterday morning, the journalist Viljar Ravn Gudmundsson at Haugesund News received an email from a person who calls himself Stein Åmli. The name is an alias. The person in question maintained in the email that he will execute an unknown number of individuals who in his opinion have performed criminal acts without being punished for them. Gudmundsson didn’t take this too seriously, and we didn’t either until we checked on Rita Lothe’s past.”
Lotte made a theatrical pause to be certain that she formulated herself correctly. She raised her eyes from the tabletop, straightened her blouse, and tried to find a point over the heads of the others that she could focus on. She had learned that useful trick at a course in speech and debate techniques.
